Blue Shirt and Khaki: A Comparison. James F. J. Archibald

and khaki have stood for order, and, in the main and in the long run, for the largest justice to the largest number.

      The time-honored phrase about the flag and trade is true. But few pause to consider the cost that is paid by the men of the empire who carry the flag forward that trade may follow. When the Queen issued the proclamation of war against the two republics nestled in the heart of South Africa, the world looked on and pitied the little States, and averred that such a war could not last more than a few weeks; but President Krüger said, “If England plants her flag on this land she will pay a price in blood that will stagger humanity.” She has paid that price for more than a year, and the payment is not yet complete. Never before has she paid such cost in the blood of her own sons. This is not the place to discuss the right and wrong of that struggle. Spite of all protests, it became a ghastly fact of history; from apparently impregnable kopjes, and their hillsides that were shambles, the determined English soldiers drive the unawed burghers over the vast veldts, fighting literally from rock to rock.

      British soldiers visiting the U. S. troop-ship Sumner, en route to the Philippines.

      It was my opportunity to be with both the Boer and British armies in South Africa, and to observe the fighting qualities of the men on both sides. After the Boers evacuated Pretoria, and I remained to witness the British operations, I came to agree with Captain Slocum that “Tommy Atkins is a wonder.” He certainly is. During two years spent in Europe I saw the great manœuvres on Salisbury Plain and at Aldershot; I have seen the British soldier on foreign garrison service and in the field; and, last, I have seen him in Africa, confronted by new problems and fighting against modern weapons in the hands of thinking men. From the point of view of this experience I venture to draw certain comparisons and contrasts between him and the American soldier, whose fighting steps I have followed in half a dozen campaigns, against the Indians in the West and also in the war with Spain.

      The system of “crack” regiments in the British army has done much to injure the service of that country, as it has developed the “spit and polish” officer, as he is called in London—an imposing society soldier, useless in war. The men of these regiments are the pick of the nation, but unless there is an exceptional campaign they are not sent out. The Guards are usually ordered to the front long enough to get their medals, and then are sent home. During the last Soudan campaign the battalion of Guards was away from England only a few weeks, and were, as the late war correspondent, G. W. Steevens, said, “packed in ice, shipped to the front, and then shipped back.” During the Boer War the Guards have not had such an easy time, as it was necessary to use the whole army in active operations; and they have proved themselves good fighters when properly officered.

      There is one exception to the rule of pampering the “crack” regiments in the case of the Gordon Highlanders, for they have seen the hardest service of every campaign since the organization of the regiment. Their glory is in fighting rather than in polo and cricket, in campaigning rather than in dancing.

      The sturdy, practical soldiers have a large contempt for the youngster of birth who has received his commission through favoritism, and they never lose an opportunity of expressing it. While in Pretoria after the British occupation, I installed myself in one of the best houses in the city, having commandeered it when the owner, who was a British subject, fled. To make my position more secure I hung out a small American flag, so that I should not be disturbed. When the British entered the capital, General French’s cavalry division occupied the portion of the town in which my borrowed home stood, and I invited two or three of the officers of his staff to share the house with me. Some days after their acceptance an order was issued by the military governor to seize all horses in Pretoria, and a battalion of Guards was detailed to form a line across the city, making a clean sweep of every horse not already in governmental possession. I rode up to my door just as the line struck that vicinity, and the soldiers were leading out some of the horses belonging to the cavalry staff officers living with me. Lieutenant-Colonel Welsh, a thorough soldier, who has learned his profession by hard campaigning, was at the moment expostulating with a stupid officer of the Guards, who was just remarking, “Beastly business, this horse-stealing, but—aw—I have to do it, don’t you know?”

      “Well, you can’t have my horse,” exclaimed Colonel Welsh, with an emphasis that told the Guardsman he was some one of importance.

      That officer screwed his glass into his eye, looked about, and seeing the American flag, turned to Colonel Welsh, who was in full uniform, and said, “Oh, I say—are you the American consul fellow?”

      This was too much for the old soldier, who fairly exploded in his indignation; but his pity for the poor Londoner prompted him to explain, with an amusing manner, that he had the honor of holding the Queen’s commission, and that foreign consuls were not in the habit of wearing the British uniform.

      When the Ninth Infantry marched into Santiago to act as a guard of honor to General Shafter, and to participate in the raising of the flag over the palace, a Spanish officer standing by me on the cathedral steps asked if this was one of our “crack” regiments. I told him it was not, and he looked rather surprised.

      “You don’t mean to say you have any more like this, do you?” he inquired.

      British officers at Malta, watching the setting-up exercises of American soldiers.

      “Why, they are all the same out there in the trenches,” I replied; but he evidently did not believe me, and then I realized that here was a regiment of men the like of whom the Spaniards had never seen, its smallest man taller than their tallest, its horses half a foot taller than theirs, and I ceased to wonder that he thought it a “crack” regiment. The army of the United States, when the Spanish War broke out, was superlative in its personnel. The hard times of a few years before had led hosts of men of exceptionally high grade to apply for enlistment, and of these fine applicants not more than one in ten had been taken; each regiment was a sifted remainder. But in our army it is the rule that if there is one regiment more “crack” than another, that is the one to have the honor of the hardest service.

      In the use of government funds in the field the British army has a great advantage over our own force, for their officers are allowed much more freedom in expenditures for campaigning purposes. It is true that they use much more money in consequence, but in many cases it is essential that an army should have that freedom from red tape which is enjoyed by the British.

      In South Africa every officer who has any occasion to use money is provided with a government check-book; when he wishes to buy stock, provisions, or forage he appraises the value himself and gives a check for the amount, or sometimes pays in gold on the spot. The British army, in consequence, pays the top price for everything; but, as they wish to conciliate the people as much as possible, it is a very good policy.

      On the contrary, when an American officer wishes to buy anything for the government, he is obliged to have its value decided upon by a board, and then the payment is made through the tortuous channels of the paymaster’s department. Innumerable vouchers, receipts, affidavits, and money orders pass back and forth before the party who is selling receives the amount due him.

      The right system is a mean between these two extremes; for the English method is as much too loose as ours is too stringent. The British government pays for its method every month thousands of pounds more than necessary. I watched a remount officer buy horses in Pretoria, and the prices he paid were staggering. The animals had been seized by the government troops, but payment was made to any one who came to the public square and laid claim to a horse. The officer in charge of the work happened to be an exceedingly good-natured and agreeable fellow, who said the people undoubtedly needed the money. He asked each person presenting a claim what he thought his animal worth, and almost invariably paid the full sum demanded, without a word of protest. He paid as high as £60 for animals not worth a third of that amount. It can well be imagined that the stock left in any of the towns by the burghers when they evacuated was not of a very high order, as they all went away mounted in the best possible style, and in many cases leading