Thank you Everhard and Neville. On this day, the following free translation of Commandant S. van Lier’s (Commander of the Volunteers, and Artillery Lieutenant in the ZARP) letter (November, 1900) to his father in Amsterdam, recounting the final days of the battle.
The headquarters of the Executive Council of the South African Republic (ZAR) is currently in Nelspruit. It is, of course, already known that the overwhelming superiority of the enemy drove us from our positions near Dalmanutha (west of Machadodorp). Unfortunately, this is one of the saddest events of this war, and I cannot think of it without becoming sad and nervous. I escaped with my life, this time seriously wounded, though not dangerously, nor even annoyingly. However, some of my best friends, with whom I shared the joys and sorrows of this war, always fighting shoulder to shoulder, fell, wounded, or captured. For four days the enemy had been trying to break through our line. We held the center. The left and right wings were repeatedly attacked furiously, but our commandos held their ground magnificently. We were often able to provide them with good support from our position with our cannon. The cannon fire was tremendous, especially on Sunday, August 26th; it continued until long after sunset. The next day, Commandant Oosthuizen of the Johannesburg Police and I, along with a small group of 60 to 70 men, had again taken up position in a small, isolated kopje, from where we could effectively prevent the enemy from advancing. There were repeated skirmishes. On Monday morning, around 8:30 a.m., the first enemy bomb fell in our position; we saw the enemy making a move on the right flank. Suddenly, the fire on us became intense, and soon we found ourselves the target of six full batteries and five or six Maxin cannons. Over 40 pieces of the heaviest caliber artillery poured down a terrible fire on us. It was as if heaven and earth were about to collapse. The entire kopje shook and trembled; there was a constant rumbling and crashing, fire and dust, smoke and clouds of sand, fragments of bombs and rocks, thousands of small bullets from the Maxims and shrapnel shrouded us in a curtain of misery. Meanwhile, the enemy, between 1,500 and 2,000 men strong, came towards us in a skirmish line in a large semicircle, firing constantly, throwing themselves flat on the ground, getting up again, rushing forward a short distance, firing again, etc.
Yet we remained calm, lying behind boulders, rifles slung over our shoulders, and maintaining heavy rifle fire. We repeatedly forced the enemy to fall back, but the tremendous artillery fire was too good a cover for them. We only had a maxim with us, and it did its job adequately. We held our ground and expected help, but it seemed impossible to support us from our other positions. We had advanced too far.
The enemy came closer and closer, their fire intensified; bullets hissed and whistled past our ears, the bombs roared, and now and then we heard a sigh and a muffled cry from one of our wounded. Every time a lyddite bomb burst in our position, wreaking its terrible havoc with its shells, fragments of iron and steel, and a deafening, deafening cloud of yellow, sulfurous smoke, our brave Lieutenant Pohlmann, despite all the bullets, could be seen walking upright here and there, asking: "Lads, nobody hurt?" "Courage, lads, don't be afraid."
Sergeant Major Biljon, a calm, sturdy fellow with a fine, clear voice, kept shouting: "Stand firm, lads, don't be afraid of bombs, be calm, don't shoot too fast, take aim. In God's name, lads, don't shoot until you're sure of your shot."
Another, Sergeant Van Staden, shouted repeatedly: “Lads, don't be afraid of man, God is with us, trust in Him!
These three people filled us all with a calmness such as I would never have expected.
Alas, all our courage and confidence were of no avail. Early in the battle, our brave commander, Oosthuizen, was lightly wounded by a piece of rock and was put out of action. He was led to a small corral at the foot of the kopje where our horses were kept; but even there he was not safe, for a horse and a gun mule were shot dead in front of him.
We continued fighting. Suddenly, I felt a stabbing pain in my right thigh; a piece of shrapnel had hit me. However, the wound wasn't serious enough to prevent me from fighting. I was kneeling on my right knee; my rifle rested on a small redoubt, built in time and providing fairly good cover. On my left side were large cliffs to protect me from the projectiles fired by a battery on the left. Several lyddite bombs had already fallen nearby, burying me in a rain of dust and sand. Suddenly, it was as if I woke up from a stupor. I was lying on my right side; my head on the ground, my right hand above it, palm up, and on top of it a piece of stone weighing at least 10 pounds. My body was pinned down. I was completely covered by the large boulders that were on my left. My rifle was shattered. Now I remember, at the moment I fired my rifle, a terrible explosion. A lyddite bomb crashed against the cliffs behind which I lay, dropping everything on top of me. I called for help, and two brothers (Bester) helped me out of the crushing, crushing mass of stone. I wasn't seriously injured, but I was completely numb; my skin was yellow. "Young Sergeant Pretorius is dead, and so is old Malan," I heard.
It's true. Pretorius, in particular, touched my heart. An exceptionally strong, handsome, and lively young man, who always spoke lovingly of his girlfriend, whom he was about to marry when he had to go to war.
As I was there, I was unfit for combat, no rifle. It was already three o'clock. When I fell, the enemy was perhaps 200 paces away; a section was already preparing for the assault with bayonets fixed.
I went to Commandant Oosthuizen. Then one after another came to us; wounded men dragged themselves a few steps and fell down beside us, as if they still expected help from us. The moment was critical. None of us thought about it. Oosthuizen grabbed my hand. "My God, Van Lier, what should we do?" Only one thing could save us: occupy a nearby hill to prevent the enemy from bayoneting and give our men a chance to advance. Oosthuizen's horse was shot. Then a struggle broke out between us, to see who would go. He on horseback, which was very dangerous, or I on foot. One for the other. Finally, Oosthuizen ordered me to go to Lieutenant Pohlman and urge him to hold out for a while longer until he managed to obtain a cannon from General Viljoen. He is my superior, so I had to obey. Another one of our men comes, falls down in front of us, but calls out, "Lieutenant Pohlman is dead, shot through the temple." I'll never forget Oosthuizen's face. At the same moment, the artilleryman arrives: "Commander, this is wrong; the enemy is already in our faces." "Shoot, lads, shoot!" comes the command.
Once again the Mausers sounded, and a few shots were fired from our Maxims. But our strength was exhausted.
The artilleryman returns, with a piece from his Maxim. "Commander, I've disabled it."
The enemy is approaching; I see the bayonet points about 40 paces away. Now or never, I thought. "We can't surrender," Oosthuizen's voice sounds awfully rough. "Come on, Flip, come on," I shout. He stood beside his horse, a foot in the stirrup, a hand on its neck.
With lightning speed various thoughts alternated within me.
I no longer had a rifle; my revolver hung on my saddle. I wouldn't surrender to those damned khakis, mercy or not mercy. I turned to my horse. Unfortunately, a bomb exploded among the horses, and I had to leave my splendid horse behind. Escape was now dangerous, because where we were, no more shots were being fired, but now they were being fired over us in the direction of our camp, giving the enemy soldiers an opportunity to charge with bayonet and prevent us from escaping.
I see someone rush past me.
This is an incentive, and I fly out too. My heavy coat hinders me, and I throw that off too. The danger gave me no wings; I could hardly move because of the wounds I sustained. The bombs roar and burst, the enemy shoots at those of us who flee. Suddenly, five bombs burst around me; I feel a blow to my back and fall. On all fours, I crawl forward, frantically, toward the spot where the bombs follow incessantly. I hear my name called and see Sergeant-Major Biljon, unwounded, quick, and powerful. He could have run as fast as a hare; but, ignoring the bullets whistling around him, he comes to me, grabs me under the arm, and trudges forward, step by step. I feel pain in my back and press my hand tightly against it.
He takes me out of danger, and I drag myself toward our camp, hoping to find my kaffir with my cart (a two-wheeled cart pulled by two mules). I can barely carry on. Then I hear another warning shout, followed immediately by shots. The enemy is following us and is close again. I lack the strength to run, and I can't hide behind it, for I fear I won't be able to get up once I'm down. I manage to reach our camp after lying there for an hour. Everything is gone. I continue on and see some of our wagons. I shout and scream, but get no response. A Russian is trying to harness the oxen; the cart breaks down, two oxen break free and drag along a third that has fallen; they follow the road.
The thought struck me instantly: to throw myself onto the fallen ox and let it carry me along, but as I approached, it straightened up, and the noble trio ambled on, only to be met by a young Boer from our commando. The Russian had abandoned the ox cart. The Boer quickly and deftly got everything ready and continued with the cart towards Machadodorp. Fortunately, he heard my call, waited for me, and lifted me onto the cart. How fortunate I felt then! The cart caught the enemy's attention, and bombs flew around us again. The wound was painful; fortunately, one of our mounted men passed by, carrying a saddled horse. He relinquished it to me, and we were then able to hide from the enemy until I reached our ambulance at Dalmanutha.
The next morning, I was visited by Commandant General Botha, General Viljoen, and General Lucas Meier. Although we were forced to yield to the superior numbers, our resistance was praised everywhere, and the foreign attachés, in particular, expressed their amazement.
It's incomprehensible that so many escaped. On our side, of our small group, we know of 9 dead, 43, of whom about 13 were wounded, escaped; the rest, mostly wounded, even the dead, fell into enemy hands; my friend Commandant Oosthuizen was also captured.
The enemy has suffered much, very much, yet continues to press forward. Now, however, we are in impenetrable mountain country; a magnificent, wild landscape; the fighting will continue long and hard; we will not lose heart yet.
