TOPIC:

Mrs K,

Here is the preface to Moeller's book in which his demise is chronicled by Lt Col R C Boyle, HAC:

On the evening of December 18, 1901, a small force of 214 Mounted Infantry were told off to make a night march and surprise some farms twenty miles away, which were reported to be harbouring the enemy. It was part of a combined movement over a large area, in which Generals Spens and Plumer were taking part.

Of all the operations of war, night attacks are the most difficult and dangerous. Their object is surprise. Surprise necessitates secrecy and noiseless celerity. It is well known that the Boers were marvellously adept in gaining information of any contemplated movement of British troops. On this occasion they were not at fault, and appear to have been as well aware of his intentions as the General himself.

In night attacks there is, moreover, always a danger of panic, due not so much to fear as to the impossibility of detecting friend from foe, and the high state of tension of men's nerves when darkness and stillness combine to make precaution doubly necessary. Columns are liable to become separated and detached, and on more than one occasion have been known to fire into each other in mistake for the enemy. For these reasons it is essential that the officer in command of the advanced guard should be cool and collected, rapid in decision, not prone to panic, and, above all, should enjoy the absolute confidence of his men.

No greater compliment could have been paid to young Moeller than that on this night-march he was given the advanced guard, on whom not only the success of the operations, but the lives of their companions, depended.

In command of about fifty men, Moeller moved off at 11 p.m. In the height of the summer it would doubtless have been a brilliant starlight night, throwing shadows from the kopjes and high hills in the background, which might easily hide a large force of the enemy. A profound stillness, broken only by the tramp of hoofs and champ of bits; orders given in whispers; no talking, and smoking absolutely prohibited. Scouts and flanking parties, with their connecting files covering the advance, guarding from surprise—every precaution taken that experience and common-sense could devise to insure success.

The young officer, proud and exultant in his pride of place, riding with the main body of the advanced guard, keen, alert, and responsive to every sound. The hours passed slowly in the monotony of the long ride: but at length, by early dawn, the farms are in sight, and all is so far well.

The main body closes up: a hurried consultation, the detachment broken up into four groups, a simultaneous charge, and the farms are won. The quarry had flown; information in some mysterious way had cast its shadow before, and only a few Boers, cattle, and Cape carts were captured. But the object of the march had been accomplished, and the party was preparing to return to camp, when a dozen or so of Boers suddenly broke from the concealment of a donga and rode off rapidly to the right. The whole party started off in pursuit, and this seems to have been a well-planned ruse to lead them to destruction. The horses, done up after the night-march, were unequal to the contest, and the Boers easily outpaced them.

Halting on a ridge overlooking a wide track of country, the men dismounted, the heliograph was unpacked in order to open communication with Plumer. The sun was already well above the kopjes, a slight mist rising in the lower levels; all Nature was awakening, another day had dawned—the last to many a lad scarce out of his teens, whose young life was that day to ebb slowly away.

The videttes reported a group of horsemen leisurely advancing from the right front. They were dressed in khaki, many wearing helmets. Glasses were turned on them. Plumer's men, no doubt, was the satisfactory verdict; but, anyhow, British troops extended in squadrons, the officers in front walking their horses. Nearer and nearer came the group, but no cause for suspicion arose in the minds of men or officers. Nearer yet—within speaking distance now—and soon they would be clasping hands, many of the men, no doubt, rising to give them welcome.

Great God of battles and of mercy, what is this! The khaki-clad group leap from their horses and pour a murderous fire at close range upon their unsuspecting victims. Volley after volley is poured on the devoted band before they have time to recover their amazement and consternation.

Their leaders are soon struck down; dazed and giddy, men struggle to rise, only to receive more ghastly wounds; pools of blood trickle through the dry veldt grass as some poor lad sobs himself through the very portals of eternity. A few hurried shots in return, and then a dash for safety. Nothing for it now but flight or surrender.

Forming the rearguard with his detachment, Lieutenant Moeller was about a quarter of a mile away to the left. In such awful times horses and men alike seek safety in the sympathy of their fellows. It was on this small nucleus of men, still compact and well in hand, that the scattered remnants thundered down and found relief. There were many still within the danger zone, and an attempt was made to rally and cover their retreat.

Men on limping horses, themselves scarce strong enough to keep their saddles, riding a race for life against a cheering and exultant enemy, with all the odds against them. Limping men, shattered in nerve and broken in limb, struggling and floundering in the front until some friendly bullet put an end to their sufferings; others, more fleet of foot, unhorsed, but as yet untouched, taking cover and firing rapidly to check the advance, and again retiring hurriedly to some fresh position. It was a terrible moment, and one calculated to shake the nerves of the stoutest and most experienced. In less time than it takes to describe it, one-fourth of the entire force had been wiped clean off their regimental muster-rolls, and the end was not yet.

There is courage which can bear physical torture with Spartan fortitude; there is courage which can, when necessary, steel itself to witness the sufferings of others with apparent indifference and composure; but in times of disaster, when bullets are whizzing through the air, spitting the ground into miniature furrows, and bolting men are bowled over like rabbits, it requires courage, both moral and physical, of a high order to exercise the cool judgment and rapid decision which alone can save the situation, and even then may fail.

Hang on now, you gallant Yorkshire and Middlesex boys, if you love the honour of your regiment and value the lives of your comrades. Your safety lies in flight, but glory and, alas, death are the rewards of your valour and devotion.

With that sublime faith in his officer, the product of discipline and experience, which is part of Tommy's creed, and which, thank God, is rarely misplaced, the boys hung on. Opening fire so soon as their front was cleared, the onslaught was checked, and many a man owes his life to-day to that gallant stand.

But it could not last—ammunition was getting low; the victorious enemy were vigorously closing on the small group. It was time to be up, and to retire, and that as rapidly as possible. It was at this moment that young Bertie Moeller received the wounds that four days later closed an exceptionally brilliant career. He had come out of the ordeal unscathed, he had shown cool, well-calculated judgment at a moment of intense anxiety and excitement, and his reputation as a leader of men could never hereafter be challenged. He gave the order to mount and gallop. Looking back, he saw to his horror a wounded lad, with his hands up in token of surrender, treacherously shot by Boers. It was more than his pent-up agony could stand. ' You cowards!' he shouted, and, dashing forward, fired his revolver at the assailants. He was immediately surrounded by thirteen or fourteen of the enemy.

Death, yes, but surrender never! Emptying his revolver and charging into their midst, he flung the empty weapon into the face of the nearest, and as they opened fire fell from his horse wounded and bleeding to the ground.

It was only an incident, and there were many such in the last stages of a campaign which a high legal dignitary has described as ' a war that is not a war' whatever that may mean. But these incidents are described and discussed over camp - fires in lonely bivouacs, and become treasured memories to others than those only who witnessed them; they add to the list of actions, already long, which shed lustre on the British arms; they excite the admiration and emulation of faltering spirits in the hours of danger; they are retold to cheer drooping spirits amidst scenes of agony and distress which ever march hand-in-hand with glory; they give an example of courage and devotion which strikes deep down into the souls of men, and makes them better for the striking; they are the answer, if answer be needed, to those who claim that the noble youth of this country lack the qualities of their forbears.

The young officer was carried into camp, and moved next day to Standerton. But his case was hopeless, and on December 23 his struggles were over and his end peace. He was buried with military honours in the small churchyard, surrounded by many of his comrades.

His bones rest in a far-off grave, but his memory lives in the hearts of those who on the field of battle had learnt to appreciate his sterling worth. In many a modest London home, in many a Northern hamlet, there are those who shared his labours, his sufferings and privations, and who love to tell the story of how the gallant Bertie Moeller lived to gain the affection of his comrades, and died the death of a hero and a soldier.