_July 17._--_Tuesday._--Reveillé at six. Our horses are grazing,
harnessed. We are waiting for the Staff to say if this is a good
position. It appears that De Wet retreated in the night, and went
towards Lindley, which will complete the circle of the hunt. Our
sections are separated again. The right, under Lieutenant Lowe, has
gone on with the convoy to Senekal, and we and the 38th Battery (who
have now fresh officers), and most of the brigade, have taken up a
position just under one of the remarkable kopjes I spoke of, and are
told we shall stay here four days. I suppose we are part of some
endeavour to surround De Wet, but the whole operations seem to get
more obscure. He has played this game for months in this part of the
Free State, and is no nearer capture. Thinking over it, one's mental
state during a fight is a strange paradox. I suppose it arises from
the nature of my work, but, speaking for myself at least, I feel no
animosity to any one. Infantry, no doubt, get the lust of battle, but
I don't for my part experience anything like it, though gunners tell
me they do, which is natural. One feels one is taking part in a game
of skill at a dignified distance, and any feeling of hostility is very
impersonal and detached, even when concrete signs of an enemy's
ill-will are paying us noisy visits. The fact is--and I fancy this
applies to all sorts and conditions of private soldiers--in our life
in the field, fighting plays a relatively small part. I doubt if
people at home realize how much in the background are its dangers and
difficulties. The really absorbing things are questions of material
welfare--sordid, physical, unromantic details, which touch you at
every turn. Shall we camp in time to dry my blankets? Biscuit ration
raised from three to three and a half! How can I fill my water-bottle?
Rum to-night! Is there time for a snooze at this halt? Dare I take my
boots off to-night? Is it going to rain? There are always the thousand