To strike a comparison between the British and the American officer, we do not need to go further into their military career than their first schooling at the government institutions. The fact that the English cadet receives eighteen months’ training, ending with an indifferent examination, while the West Pointer is given four years of the most difficult work, both mental and physical, known to the military world, indicates the whole story.

Yet, up to the time of the breaking out of the war in South Africa, the British officers were generally considered to be at the head of their profession. The colonies were taught to look up to them in everything that pertained to the service; the European and American War Departments considered them models to be studied. But six months’ campaigning against a practical and astute foe proved many of them as clumsy of mind and as inefficient as the officers of King George III. who surrendered to Gates and Washington. The modern British officer has received the pin-prick of active duty against modern fighters; his inflation has vanished.

The exposure was sure to come in his first meeting with a clever enemy. It cannot be expected that a man can become proficient in the art of war after eighteen months’ superficial training, or after a year’s service in the militia. In times of peace he leaves all the duty pertaining to his regiment to his competent non-commissioned staff, and his sole duty has seemed to be to attend social functions, play polo, cricket, or ride steeple-chases. The sergeant-majors knew the work and did it; they attended to the tasks that should have been done by the subaltern officers; and they performed that work so well that the regimental business proceeded in a neat and harmonious manner, for which the officers took the credit. Now comes the time when aptness in society, polo, and cricket does not cut any figure in the problem to be solved. Actual war with a keen-witted enemy stares the gorgeous officers in the face, and they suffer from their own ignorance simply because, with all their personal courage—and there are no braver in the world than some of them—they have not learned their most obvious business.

In days gone by a couple of thousand pounds would purchase a commission in almost any of the Royal regiments; but that practice has been abolished for one that is equally pernicious in its effects. Now, while a man cannot actually purchase a commission in the British army, almost any young man of position who has sufficient income to sustain his social rank can obtain the Royal warrant for the asking. No British officer can support himself on the pay allowed, and he is not expected to do so; it is largely a matter of income whether or no a man receives his commission. An English officer is paid about half as much as an American officer, and his expenses are many times greater. He must support his clubs, and the stables for his polo, driving, and riding stock; even the regimental band must be maintained by a subscription from the officers, which of itself would nearly exhaust his pay, since the British army does not include any but field music in its enlistment. This fact alone would make promotion from the ranks practically impossible, although it is permitted by the army regulations; but the officer’s tale of necessary expenses and subscriptions requires such a large private income that it is absurd for the men in the ranks to dream of rising higher than the non-commissioned staff.

There is no finer man living than the British officer at home; his politeness rivals that of the Latin races, and his hospitality could not be excelled by a Virginian. He entertains in the most lavish manner, and in time of peace he is an ideal soldier, and merits the idolatry society gives him. His garrison duties do not require his attention to the exclusion of any of his pleasures; consequently he has time to devote to his guests, and he entertains them in a superb manner. The regimental messes are the most splendid social institutions of England, and the guest-night of a cavalry or Household regiment is scarcely outdone in brilliancy at the royal court itself.

It was expected, however, that officers who devoted so much time to the honor and appearance of their regiments would at least be proficient in military science; but, when the supreme test arrived, they were found lacking, and what the observer in England took for indifference to the work was in reality ignorance. No one was half so surprised, however, at the ignorance of the British officer as the British officer himself. He was not able to realize that he did not understand his profession; and to this day hundreds of officers do not realize their ignorance, because so many have not yet had the fortune to be brought face to face with a campaign crisis sufficiently grave to show them their own weakness.

It has been a popular idea that the effect of the South African war will be to bind the colonies closer to the mother country. But the ignorance that has been displayed by some of the leaders of the imperial forces is bound to have its effect sooner or later upon the colonial dependencies, which heretofore have looked upon the English officer as a military idol.

For some days after Pretoria was taken, I was much in the company of officers of the Canadian contingent, and their views of the South African situation were refreshingly straightforward and enlightening. I talked with a Toronto captain who wore the ribbon of the Northwest Rebellion, and who had served with Roosevelt in Cuba merely for the fun of fighting, and I asked him what he thought of the whole show. He was a man whose judgment was sound, a man of the kind that we know as the sound business man of this continent—a character with prestige almost unknown in England.

“Well,” he said, “it isn’t the way we would do it, is it? We colonials have been taught that nothing we could do could possibly be just right; nothing we could say could just suit the point; and we are brought over here and dumped into a country under a lot of officers who don’t know as much as a child at home would know about the same game.”

Throughout the colonial regiments that sentiment was manifest, for both the Australian and Canadian forces were volunteers of the same type that constitutes the United States volunteer army in time of war. Business men, professional men, and society men—all sorts and conditions—volunteered from purely patriotic feeling; they each went from a new country, where every man is to some degree an adventurer. The same spirit that had sent men to the colonies now sent men to the war. They are men with intelligence and courage enough to better their personal surroundings, and consequently are capable of approaching a situation with daring and executing it with success. While the colonials were in the field in South Africa, I think their opinions of the imperial officer took the shape of amusement rather than contempt; but when they have returned to their homes their derision is bound to become scorn; for that great respect which they have been taught to feel is broken, and they have suddenly awakened to the fact that they of the New World have outstripped the mother country in practicality.

The imperial officer did not hesitate to show his contempt for the colonial officer; not because he lacked intellect or bravery, or anything that a soldier should have, but because his social position was not equal to the English idea. It was the old-time prejudice against “the man in trade;” for the British society man cannot understand the spirit and life of a new country, where every man, rich or poor, of high or low birth, is what they call “in trade.” The colonial officers felt this treatment keenly, for they soon perceived their own military superiority; although they did not make manifest their sensitiveness, they resented the lofty manner of the imperial officers. There was a most unexpected disclosure of character in the conduct of many of the British officers who were taken as prisoners of war by the Boers. A great deal has been said on this subject, and although the story has been told many times by those who witnessed the exhibitions, it is flatly denied by nearly all Englishmen, especially by those who stayed at home.

During the first months of the war the British officers who had been captured were quartered in the Staats Model Schoolhouse, in the heart of Pretoria. It is a handsome one-story brick building, built according to the most approved plan of what a modern school should be. At the rear is a spacious yard, which served as a place in which the officers might exercise. It was through this yard and over the side fence that the war correspondent, Winston Spencer Churchill, succeeded in making his escape. Some of the officers who had been in the prison at the same time were very bitter against Mr. Churchill, as they say he anticipated a plot planned by many of the prisoners by which a large number could escape. As he escaped sooner than the time agreed upon, it prevented the others from making the attempt.

The Boer authorities were obliged to remove the officers from the Model Schoolhouse to the open country, on account of the unbecoming conduct that some of them displayed towards the ladies of Pretoria who lived in the vicinity or who happened to be passing along the streets. It is the extraordinary fact that some of the British officers made offensive remarks to these ladies, and altogether acted in a disgraceful manner. They defaced the walls of the building shamefully, cutting it and drawing all sorts of pictures upon it. An exception to this vandalism was the exceedingly clever topographical work of one of the officers in drawing a huge map of the South African Republic and its surroundings. It was, in fact, so cleverly done that, as the artist had not time to finish it previous to the removal of the prisoners to their new quarters, the Boer officials requested that he continue the work, and allowed him to return each day until it was completed. When the building was renovated and the interior defacings removed, this map was allowed to remain, and it will be preserved.

There is absolutely no doubt of this disgraceful conduct of some of the officers at the Model Schoolhouse, and there is no doubt that this conduct was the cause of their removal to the outskirts of the town. It is persistently denied, but it remains a fact, nevertheless, for instance after instance in proof of it was narrated to me by the Boers. Indeed, I myself had one remarkable occasion to witness the discreditable conduct of certain of the officers.

On my way to South Africa I had occasion to stop at Cairo for about two weeks, waiting for an East Coast steamer; and while at Shepherd’s I was told that the commander of one of the Egyptian regiments, a Colonel Kelly, had a son who was a prisoner in Pretoria, from whom he had not heard for many months. He had been captured early in the war, and all attempts to communicate with him had proved fruitless. Colonel Kelly expressed the desire to meet me, as I was going directly to the Transvaal capital. Consequently I had the honor of a call from him. He is a magnificent type of the Irish soldier, a man who has fought in every zone and in every quarter of the British Empire; one of those men who has cut the pathway of civilization and progress for the statesman to follow. Colonel Kelly requested me to take a letter to his son and endeavor to deliver it to him by obtaining permission from the Transvaal authorities. I took the letter, and the second day after I reached Pretoria I asked Secretary of State Reitz what course to pursue so as to obtain permission to deliver the letter. Although all the officials were extremely considerate and glad to assist me in what I desired to obtain, it took me several days to get the passes required in order to see Lieutenant Kelly. Finally, having obtained the necessary signatures to several papers giving permission to deliver the letter, I drove out to the officers’ prison, which was about a mile from Pretoria, on the first slope of the foothills.

The prison consisted of a long, corrugated-iron building, enclosed in a barbed-wire barricade, the ground around the building covering several acres, sufficiently large for the officers to play cricket, football, or tennis. The barbed-wire entanglement was about six feet high and fifteen feet broad, and was constructed as though three parallel fences were interlaced with innumerable strands of loose wire. There was never a very heavy guard at the prison, as the impenetrable character of the enclosure made it unnecessary that there should be more than a small body of men on watch. A line of electric-light poles followed the run of the barricade all around the enclosure, and the lights were kept burning throughout the entire night, making the surrounding area as bright as day, to prevent escape under cover of darkness. Such a construction would not have long restrained the type of officers who were prisoners of war in Libby or Andersonville. The officers were fed better than was to have been expected under the circumstances, since for several months the food supply from the outer world had been cut off from the Transvaal. They were, indeed, receiving every day better rations than the officers of the Transvaal army themselves obtained. Their quarters were comfortable, each officer having an iron cot in the large room, with an ample supply of blankets and linen.

After obtaining permission to deliver the letter to Lieutenant Kelly, I drove out to the prison. I had not been within speaking distance of the enclosure three minutes when some of the officers began loud insults. They did not wait to ascertain why I was there; to them I was merely a “Yank,” coming there out of idle curiosity. A group gathered around the entrance of the barricade and called out insultingly to me and to the Boer officials who were with me, all of whom speak English with but a slight trace of accent, if any at all. Some of the Englishmen even went to the extreme of tossing sticks and stones at our party. I made some comment on this behavior to the commandant in charge at the prison, and he replied:

“Oh, do not mind them; they always do this sort of thing when any one comes out.”

Their derisive remarks were particularly pointed towards Captain von Losburg, a German-American who fought gallantly with the Boers, commanding a battery of field artillery. Many of them knew him by name, and among the English officers were a large number who had personally surrendered to him, and whose lives he had literally spared when they begged him to cease firing in battle; and yet they shouted insults to him beyond the limit of endurance. Although his arm had been shattered by a shell and he wore it in a sling, he told these officers that he would gladly attempt to thrash any one of them for their language. He had not brought it upon himself, for he had not said a word before they began to vituperate him; in fact, the same thing had happened before, so he came forewarned and endeavored not to heed their remarks. I was thoroughly amazed, and could not believe that these shameless men held the Queen’s commission; for in my estimation there is nothing more unutterably mean than for a prisoner of war to insult the man from whom he has begged his life. If it had been only myself upon whom they had poured their torrent of abuse it would not have been so strange, for to them I was an American who had cast my lot with their enemy; and they did not know, for they did not stop to inquire, whether I was fighting or not. It was almost beneath scorn, however, for them to abuse the man who had so recently befriended them.

When I entered the prison enclosure to meet Lieutenant Kelly, I was compelled to pass directly through a large crowd of officers who had gathered about the gate; as I did so I brushed elbows with a number of them, but their offensive remarks continued until I had passed into the building and out of earshot. The commandant who was conducting me asked some of the officers who were standing about for Lieutenant Kelly, saying that there was a letter awaiting him. A moment later an officer ran up to me and said, in a manner full of excitement and anticipation, “I hear you have a letter for Kelly. For God’s sake give it to me, for I haven’t had a line from home since I’ve been in this place.” I was about to deliver the letter to him when the commandant stopped him, saying gently, “I am sorry, Captain, but this is for Lieutenant Kelly.”

Never was keener disappointment pictured on a man’s face, and he staggered as though he had been struck; but after an instant, making an effort to recover himself, he half extended his hands with a gesture denoting resignation, shrugged his shoulders, and simply said, “Oh, I’m sorry!” and turned away.

A few moments later I delivered the letter to Colonel Kelly’s son, who was that day probably the happiest man in the prison. He courteously invited me to remain for a time and meet some of his brother officers; but after having witnessed the exhibition near the entrance I felt that I wanted to get away from the place as soon as possible.

Not many days after, the boom of the British guns resounded in the valley; shells shrieked over the prison and fell into the little city; and on a day early in June a horde of khaki poured over every mountain side, from every hill-top, and flowed through the valley from every direction. Pretoria was in the hands of the British, and these prisoners were released after many weary months of captivity. There was a wild scene of rejoicing about the prison, and the captives embraced their rescuers, fairly dancing for joy at the regaining of their liberty. That afternoon, in the public square, when Lord Roberts raised the Union Jack over the State House, five of the English officers came up to me and apologized for the conduct of their companions in captivity on the occasion of my visit to their prison.

“It was a shabby thing for them to do,” said one of them, “but then you know there are bound to be cads in every lot.” I could not help thinking, however, that there was a singularly large number of cads in this particular lot, and also of the many tales that I had heard from the Boers of similar conduct on the part of other English officers when they were first captured. My friend, Mr. Richard Harding Davis, went to South Africa in complete sympathy with the British cause, and joined General Buller’s army, seeing much of the hardest campaigning on the Natal side. He was fully convinced as to the rights of the English cause, and equally firm in his opinion that the Boers were all they had been depicted by the press of Great Britain. A little later he had occasion to withdraw from the British forces and transfer his observations to the opposite side. He did so with the full consent of the British authorities, and without unfriendly disagreement. He had not been with the Afrikanders very long before he was persuaded of their cause, seeing how grossly they had been misrepresented by men who wrote without knowledge of the true state of affairs, or who wrote in revenge after having been crossed in some manner by the Transvaal authorities. Mr. Davis saw that the men of these two South African Republics were not the dirty, ignorant, bewhiskered settlers that had been pictured, but that they were clubmen, professional men, and business men of every description and many nationalities, as well as the typical farmers of the veldt known to illustrated papers, and they were all fighting in a just cause and defending their rights against territorial aggression. This was also, I am safe in saying, the impression of all the correspondents who had the opportunity of observing the war from the Boer side, no matter how warm had been their early prejudice in favor of Great Britain. Mr. Davis went to the war as heartily prejudiced in favor of the British officers as of the cause of England; but because he has had sufficient strength of character and love of fair play to change his sentiments and the tenor of his writing completely, he has been malignantly attacked for making the same statement that I have just made regarding the personal conduct of the British officers. Nevertheless, this statement is a fact that remains absolutely true. It seems incredible that such demeanor could have been manifested, and I am free to confess that had I not been a witness I would not have believed it.

I could not but think of the contrast shown between these captured Englishmen and the Spanish officers who surrendered during the fighting in the war with Spain. They were compelled by the fortunes of war to put themselves in the keeping of the officers of a different nation, a different race; men whom they had been taught to despise and for whom they really had a bitter hatred. Yet they could not have been more courteous had they been guests instead of prisoners. Admiral Cervera and the officers of his fleet were for a time quartered at Annapolis, and later in one of the New England sea-coast towns, where they enjoyed many privileges of recreation and liberty. They met our American women each day during their term of captivity, and their conduct showed most conclusively their gentle breeding. When they came in direct meeting with any of the ladies, they raised their caps with grave respect; in many cases they were formally presented, and they invariably proved themselves the gentlemen of refinement that officers are supposed to be. When they met any of our officers, they never failed to give the military salute, showing the respect in which they held their captors, notwithstanding the bitterness in their hearts. Their demeanor, which won the admiration of all our people, was in marked contrast to that of some of the British officers towards their captors.

At the beginning of the South African War I was not without a wish that our government might have arrived at an open understanding with the British Ministry. After their gracious attitude towards us in the latter part of the Spanish-American War, it looked as though Englishmen might be sincere in their friendship. One of the titled staff officers following Lord Roberts was, to put it very mildly, exceedingly discourteous to one of the American correspondents whose papers were of considerable influence upon public sentiment. In discussing the incident with one of General French’s highest staff officers, I asked if it would not have been better had this officer been a trifle more diplomatic and, by a little courtesy, made a friend rather than an enemy of a man whose writings reached so many American readers. This officer’s answer struck the keynote of the British sentiment when he replied:

“We do not care a tuppenny damn what any American on earth thinks of us!”

Within fifteen minutes that same officer asked whether America would not stand by England in the event of a European war.

There is no doubt that the English-speaking peoples should stand together. But my recent experience at the seat of war, in London, and at other European capitals, has convinced me, against my will, that we must be slow in having faith that England is our friend. If the occasion required she would not hesitate to point her guns towards us, and her friendship would be turned to hostility in an hour. More true friendliness towards America exists in Germany or Russia to-day than in England. There is a serious fallacy in the premise that because we speak the language of England we are more closely allied to that country than to any other.

To return from the digression, the army officer of to-day, to be a complete success, must be exceedingly versatile in his accomplishments. He must not only be a careful student of the science of war, but he must also be a thorough business man. He must not only understand the tactics of attack and defense, but he must be able to tell the quality of hay and of butter. He must understand weights and measures as accurately as an ordinary shop-keeper. Real war of this day has a great deal of everything except fighting. Hundreds of men and officers go through an entire campaign and never hear a shot fired; instead, they study columns of figures, great sheets of warehouse returns, and manifold way-bills of freight shipments. They may worry over the price of wheat or the weight of live stock on the hoof, but never over bullets or bayonets. The only orders they give are written on little slips of “flimsy,” such as you see the station agent hand into the cab to the engineer just before the train pulls out. The only possible difference between this sort of an officer and a regular business man is that the officer wears a uniform and works much harder for less money.

During the Cuban campaign, and, in fact, ever since, the American officers have been called upon to perform every duty that man could do; and, greatly to their credit, they have in almost every case performed their tasks creditably. When in Havana with General Ludlow’s staff, for the first five months following the American occupation, I had an excellent opportunity to see the real worth of the American officer outside of his fighting qualities. Colonel Bliss was taken from his regiment and made Collector of the Port, and has performed the duties of that very peculiar and trying office, with raw clerks, incomparably better than it had ever been done before. Captain Charles G. Treat and Major Pitcher sat on the judicial bench and meted out justice in the police and criminal courts. Colonel Black suddenly found himself a superintendent of streets and of public works. Major Greble became the custodian of the poor. In fact, every office, from that of the governor-general down, in the entire government, was occupied by an army officer, whose performance of the new duty was more thorough and practical than could have been expected from most civilians. Not only were these officers called upon to attend to all matters of ordinary routine, but they were compelled to restore destroyed records, to delve into the land titles of the island, and to handle problems of a delicate nature which would seem to require the study of a lifetime.

Not only the officers of the army, but also the officers of the navy, have had charge of an administration difficult and complicated; and in every case they have met the requirements of their unmilitary duty. The great majority of instances where this excellent work has been accomplished are hidden away in the records of the departments, and the men will never get the slightest notice for what they have done—because they did it well.

On this executive side of the modern soldier’s duty the British officers are also abundantly deserving of admiration for business-like efficiency. The selections made for civil administration in captured territory were, on the whole, fortunate. Especial credit belongs to the Army Service Corps, through whose splendid management the stupendous task of supply and transportation from the ends of the earth to the interior of Africa was effected without breakdown. There is, however, no comparison between the American and the British officers in the knowledge of their strictly military profession. This is not to be wondered at when their difference in training is considered. One has been taught to be a social success, while the other has been trained to be a man of tempered steel, being compelled to pass at each promotion an examination of which not half the officers of the British army could meet the requirements.

Until it comes to the critical test, however, the British army gets along just as well as though the officers worried themselves about the fine principles of the art of war. It is astonishing how dependent the officers are upon their men. One morning, while with General French’s staff during the operations in South Africa, I was waiting for a man to put the saddle on my horse; being rather impatient, as an action was expected, I remarked to one of the staff officers standing by that I would not wait, and so picked up my saddle, swung it on the horse, and began to cinch it up. The officer watched me in an interested, half-amused way for a moment, and then said, “My word! but you’re clever!” I asked what he meant. “Why,” he answered, “you can saddle your own horse.” “Most certainly,” I replied; “can’t you?” “Well,” said he, “I suppose I could, although I have never tried, for my man always does that.” And that man was a cavalry officer.

A signal difference between the English and American officer is that the former cannot forget his Piccadilly manner when he is in the field; while the latter, no matter whether he is a regular or a volunteer, once in the field he is a soldier through and through. There are some of this type in the British service, but they are few and far between.

One of the most typical soldiers I have ever seen in any service was Colonel Beech, now a captain of the Reserve, who was for about ten years commanding an Egyptian regiment of cavalry. He is still a young man, but he has had more experience in war than usually comes to any ten men. He has seven clasps to his Egyptian medal, having been in every campaign waged about the Nile by the British in conquering the country. He is a man of enormous force, and perfect knowledge of all branches of military work, and is to-day a better soldier than the majority of generals who are commanding. He is much the same type of man that Kitchener is, and naturally, as he was trained in the same school.

Lord Roberts is also a splendid type of the fine soldier, who has solved his problems, with all their difficulties, as a master genius of war. His critics in London contended that he was not severe enough in his handling of the people of the two Republics. But Lord Roberts understood the people he was dealing with, and sought to use conciliatory methods on that account. The present British army and the present generation in England have been accustomed to exceedingly harsh measures against their foes, who have usually been of half-civilized races; measures which were absolutely necessary in order to make any impression upon the sort of enemy they were fighting. The conditions during the present war are entirely different, and Lord Roberts has done all that he could—all any man could do—to bring matters to a close. It is deplorable that such a magnificent soldier should be unfairly criticised by those who keep at home. They do not realize that the prolonging of the war is not the fault of their general, but is due to the unconquerable spirit of the men whose country they are invading.

The two wars of the last three years have overthrown a great many traditions, suppositions, and theories regarding various branches of military service, both in the navy and the army; and a new collection of facts now stands in their stead. The American army has been hampered by the uncertainty of the theory, while the army of the British Empire has been bound to the traditions of past centuries to such a degree as to cost immeasurably the lives of thousands of her bravest men, and to cause a series of useless disasters and defeats, nearly all of which can be laid almost directly to incompetent officers of the sort that carry canes on active service and have tea served by body-servants every afternoon.

An Australian war correspondent, Mr. Hales, has recently given his opinion of the British army in the London Daily News. He says: “I don’t suppose Australia will ever ask another Englishman to train her volunteers. If there was one British institution your colonial believed in more than another it was the British army. Their belief in the British army is shattered. The idol is broken.” He describes the officers as men “with their eye-glasses, their lisps, their hee-haw manners, their cigarettes, their drawling speech, their offensive arrogance, their astonishing ignorance, their supercilious condescensions, their worship of dress, their love of luxury, their appalling incompetence.

“Many a soldier I’ve asked why he scuttled. ‘Tommy, lad, why did you run, or why did you throw up your hands?’ I’d say.

“‘What’s the use of being killed?’ he’d answer. ‘’E don’t know where ’e are,’ meaning his officer. ‘I’d go anywheres if I’d a man to show me the way.’

“I believe if Kitchener had been chief in command he’d have shot some of those officers who surrendered. If the army is to be reformed it is with this class of young man they will have to start. Let him understand that soldiering is hard, stern business, and not play. The average officer hasn’t a mind above golf or cricket. He knows nothing of drill. He can’t ride. The mounted infantry is a farce. A Boer’s horse is a part of him. If there is a body of them, and you watch them through a glass, each man is off, has taken cover and led his horse away before you can say ‘knife.’ But watch a body of British. They have to wait for orders before they dismount; cover has to be pointed out to them; they have no initiative. Napoleon got his officers from the ranks. Who would make such a good officer as a sergeant-major? Instead of glory when they come home—glory and guzzling—some of the officers should get three years—you know where.”

This is what the colonials have begun to think of the imperial officers, and it is a growing opinion. Let me not be understood to infer that there are no worthy or intelligent officers; there are hundreds of them who understand all the details of war thoroughly, but they are tremendously hampered by the men of the other class. The British Empire has not the advantage of the great reserve of leaders, men who, like General Fitzhugh Lee, General Joseph Wheeler, and hundreds of others, have had years of experience in actual war. These are the men who are the mainstay of a nation while the younger generation are getting their baptism of fire.