They came to a rocky ridge about twenty feet high. They clung to cover,
firing, then rose, and were among the shrill bullets again. A major was
left at the bottom of that ridge, with his pipe in his mouth and a
Mauser bullet through his leg; his company pushed on. Down again, fire
again, up again, and on! Another ridge won and passed--and only a more
hellish hail of bullets beyond it. More men down, more men pushed into
the firing line--more death-piping bullets than ever. The air was a
sieve of them; they beat on the boulders like a million hammers; they
tore the turf like a harrow.

Another ridge crowned, another welcoming, whistling gust of perdition,
more men down, more pushed into the firing line. Half the officers were
down; the men puffed and stumbled on. Another ridge--God! Would this
cursed hill never end? It was sown with bleeding and dead behind; it was
edged with stinging fire before. God! Would it never end? On, and get to
the end of it! And now it was surely the end. The merry bugles rang out
like cock-crow on a fine morning. The pipes shrieked of blood and the
lust of glorious death. Fix bayonets! Staff officers rushed shouting
from the rear, imploring, cajoling, cursing, slamming every man who
could move into the line. Line--but it was a line no longer. It was a
surging wave of men--Devons and Gordons, Manchester and Light Horse all
mixed, inextricably; subalterns commanding regiments, soldiers yelling
advice, officers firing carbines, stumbling, leaping, killing, falling,
all drunk with battle, shoving through hell to the throat of the enemy.
And there beneath our feet was the Boer camp and the last Boers
galloping out of it. There also--thank Heaven, thank Heaven!--were
squadrons of Lancers and Dragoon Guards storming in among them,
shouting, spearing, stamping them into the ground. Cease fire!