We stood on the Newcastle road, north of the town, not far from our first position at the Elands Laagte battle of the Saturday before.

The road is close to the railway there, and I was watching an engine and truck going down with a white-flag flying, bringing back poor Colonel Chisholme's body for burial.

Suddenly on the left from the top of a mountain side beyond a long rocky ridge I saw the orange flash of a big gun.

The next moment came the familiar buzz and scream of a great shell, the crash, the squealing fragments, the dust splashing up all round us as they fell.

I have never seen men and horses gallop faster than in our rapid right-wheel over the open ground towards a Kaffir kraal.