War Scouting

In the words of Baden-Powell, from "Lessons on the 'Varsity of Life."

     For my part, although my life has been to a large extent a series of enjoyments, when I ask myself which bit of it I most enjoyed, memory, without any hesitation, flies back to blazing sunshine on a hot, parched, thorn-scrub plain in Rhodesia, where the only shade from the scorching heat was got by hanging your coat over a little bush, where one’s clothes were in rags, one’s food a small portion of horse and a double handful of flour (which for want of time we usually mixed with water and drank down), and where we were tired and worn out with constant night marching against a crafty savage foe.
     Veldt sores, roughly dressed with a fingerful of grease out of a wagon wheel, adorned our faces and hands.  Our horses were drooping bags of bones, and they were tired, very tired.
     And yet — we were fit and hard, there was new adventure, new excitement or anxiety every day, and we were good tried comrades all.  It was all a glorious care-free adventure.
     And then the nights; those clear frosty nights under the dark overhead vault, with its stars big and brilliant, twinkling humourously and watching you as you creep along in your crafty, silent stalk (with all the possibility of being yourself at the same time stalked).
     You feel your way in the bitter darkness, suspicious of every rock or bush, with all your senses on the strain, eyes, ears and nose, to catch sight, sound or scent of an enemy.
     On you creep, lying low; pausing; creeping again with deadly patience, in a blindfold game of hide and seek. You are alone, dependent wholly on your own Scoutcraft for guidance, for safety, for your life, but above all for not coming back empty-handed.
     Risks? Of course, there are risks. They are the salt that gives the savour to it all. Didn’t my heart go pit-a-pat the first time that the Matabele saw me on foot among hillside boulders.
     But when I found that I could, with my rubber-soled shoes, skip away faster than they could follow, it became a cheerier adventure, which eventually came to be indulged in on nine different occasions.
     But it gave one “an emotion,” as the French would say, when they came after one full-cry, exactly like a pack of hounds running to view.

     The ominous call of their Chiefs to the runners — “Don’t shoot him — catch him with your hands” — was a spur if spur were needed. Just one false step or a twisted ankle would have brought me the same result — a long drawn-out torture before the finishing blow brought merciful ending.
     But for such thoughts as these there was no room in the crowded excitement of the moment. All I know is that memory takes me back there still with the elated feeling that the Scout’s life is a life worth living.
     It is a MAN’S job and I loved it.