“Don’t know about England ’nd the medal, ‘Beauty,’” chirrups a Sydney gunner, “but I know what they’ll give us in Australia if we go back without a fight.”

“P’raps it’ll be a mansion, or a sheep station, or a stud of racehorses,” meekly suggests a tired-looking South Australian, with a derisive twist of his under lip.

“No, they won’t present us with a racing stud,” lisps the gunner, “but, by G——­, they’ll shy chaff enough at us to keep all the bloomin’ horses between ’ere and ‘ell, and the girls will send us a kid’s feedin’ bottle, as a mark of feelin’ and esteem, every Valentine’s Day for ten years to come, because of the glorious name we made for Australia on the bloody fields of war in Africa.”

“Fields o’ war—­fields o’ whisky ’nd watermelons!  Oh, d——­ it!  I’m going ter stop writing ter my girl before she writes ter tell me that a white feather don’t suit a girl’s complexion in Australia.”

He lifts his bugle, and sounds “Feed up” so savagely that the horses strain on their leg ropes and kick themselves into a lather as hot as their riders’ tempers, the long, loose-limbed troopers move off, cursing artistically in their beards at the very thought of the roasting they will get from the witty-tongued, red-lipped girls of Australia, when—­

          They cross the rolling ocean,
          Back from the fields of war,
          To show the British medal
          They got for guarding a store.

          To show the British medal
          On stations, towns, and farms,
          They got for guarding the marmalade,
          Far away from war’s alarms.

          To show the British medal,
          With a blush of angry shame,
          For which they went to risk their lives
          In young Australia’s name.

          To show the British medal,
          With a sneer that’s half a sob,
          Ere they pawn it to their uncle,
          And go and drink the “bob.”

When we received notice to move away from Enslin down the line through Graspan, Belmont, Orange River, to De Aar, our fellows were naturally very wrathful; they had done splendid work for many weeks up that way; they had dug trenches, sunk wells, drilled unceasingly; they had watched the kopjes and scoured the veldt, and all that they were told to do they did like soldiers—­readily and uncomplainingly.  The cold nights and the scorching days, the monotonous drudgery, found them always ready and willing, because they believed that when the order came for a great battle at Magersfontein, or an onward march to Kimberley, they would be in the thick of it.  But for some reason, known only to those who gave the order, they were sent away from the front, and they felt it keenly.  From De Aar they were sent on to Naauwpoort, and from this latter place they were forwarded on to Rensburg.