February 1901 South Africa,
The Boer War " Frankly, I had enjoyed the war", the thrill and enjoyment it brought.
I was 20 years old when I tried to join the British army. Unfortunately, I got rejected, but that never stopped me. I abandoned my studies in Balliol College and Oxford,"I didn't care for school and was determined to fight. I wasn't interested in the reasons for the war. I was only too glad to get into it." So I went under the name Trooper Carton) I pretended to be 25 before getting signed up.
I left for South Africa to serve with the British Army during the Second Boer War. For three years (1899-1902) I marched under that scorching sun, across terrain so dry and dead it crumbled beneath each step. The land was cracked, brittle, barren like the faces of the men beside me."It was a purely selfish adventure. I was obsessed with getting into the fighting and learning what it was all about."
I was young. Stupid.
January 1901 near the Orange River. My first real fight. We were ambushed at sunrise rifles cracking in the wind, bullets snapping past our heads like angry wasps . I dropped behind a rock, not out of fear, but instinct. Then I stood up and fired back, heart pounding like a war drum."The hardship didn't bother me. In fact, I rather enjoyed being shot at."
A man beside me caught one in the throat. Gurgled. Then Dropped. There were no speeches, no grand flags. Just grit and gunpowder and the stench of death in the morning heat.
By August 1904 I served in Somaliland, "They told me I was finished. That I wouldn't return. But I did." The sun there was hotter, the terrain even harsher than Africa's south. We weren't just battling men, we were fighting thirst, exhaustion, and disease. "It is a useless and savage land, and it is madness to throw away British lives there."
We were ambushed outside by a devilish force named "Mad Mullah.". I remember the dust clinging to my uniform, the crack of rifle fire tearing through the air. A bullet slammed into my face, ripping through my cheek and tearing out my left eye. "The loss of an eye is a small price to pay for the experience of war."" I later recalled. "The wound was septic and full of maggots. But I didn't complain. I just wanted to get back in."
They shipped me back to Britain. I was given a glass eye, but it irritated me so much I tore it out and threw it out the train window. I wore a black eye patch from then on. It made things easier.
I was 24. Already half-blind, scarred, and starting to understand something I hadn't grasped at 20.