August 1904 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.
We'd been marching under that damned sun, boots sinking into dry dust, eyes half-shut from exhaustion.
No shade. No water. Just dust that stuck to your throat and the stink of camel sweat. The land was broken and dry cliffs, gullies, thornbushes sharp enough to cut flesh. "It is a useless and savage land, and it is madness to throw away British lives there." Every step felt like marching through Hell.
Then it happened near a place called "Erego", on August 17, 1904.
We were stretched thin, climbing a low ridge. The sun was a curse hanging across the sky. I had just wiped the sweat from my brow when a crack rang out. Then another. Then fifty more.
The "Mullah" had been lying in wait, hidden among the rocks. It was the perfect ambush rifle flaring from the high ground. Shouts in Somali, war cries echoing.
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 remember. "The wound was septic and full of maggots. But I didn't complain. I just wanted to get back in." And to be honest I rather enjoyed it.
In October 1904, They shipped back to Britain due to injuries. I was only 24 and already half-blind, scarred, and starting to understand something I hadn't grasped at 20.