On November 8 we received the order from our General to attack the Rooirandjes the following day.  We were about 250 strong, and very willing, as that position had not yet been entrenched.  On a mountain to our right a cannon had been placed that was to begin firing on the enemy’s position towards dawn.  Distinct orders were given that our Veld-Cornet was to be at the foot of Rooirandjes with his men before daybreak.  But something went wrong again, and it was already quite light when we reached the donga.  We found ourselves at a distance of about 700 paces from the Rooirandjes, and we had to cross an open space if we still wished to storm the position.  The enemy’s watch already began shooting at us.

The corporals let their men advance in groups of four from the donga to the kopje, using the ant-hills as cover when they lay down.  Our turn came last, but meanwhile the enemy had received reinforcements, and the nearest ant-hills were nearly all occupied, so that only three men could go at a time.  Such a shower of bullets fell that it was a miracle that we came out of it alive.  Fortunately I found a free ant-hill.  My brother had to share one with a comrade.

At last the cannon from the mountain fired a few shots, but stopped again almost immediately—­why, I do not yet know.  So we were obliged to lie in our positions.  It was terribly hot, and not a cloud in the sky.  We suffered horribly from thirst, and scarcely dared move to get at our water-bags.  One of our comrades lay groaning behind me.  He was shot through both legs.  The bullets kept flying over our heads to the kopje behind us, where some of our burghers lay firing at the enemy.  Every now and again a bullet exploded in our neighbourhood with the noise of a pistol-shot.  I fancy only Dum-Dums make that peculiar noise.  We had already seen many such bullets taken from the enemy by our burghers in the Battle of Modderspruit.  Another burgher, Mulder, ran past me with a smile on his lips, threw himself behind an ant-hill, immediately rose again with the intention of joining some of our burghers in the front ranks, who sat calmly smoking behind some rocks under a tree, but had not gone two paces when he was shot in the thigh.  There he had to lie groaning until our brave Reineke, who was killed later on at Spion Kop, saw a chance of carrying him away.

Some of us fell asleep from fatigue.  One of our men on waking heard the hiss of a bullet over his head at regular intervals, and thought that a khaki had got closer up to him, and was firing at him from the side.  When he lifted his head he found that he had rolled away from all cover.  One, two, three, back he was again behind his ant-hill, and the scoundrel stopped firing at him.  It was lucky for us that the enemy were such bad shots, or not many of us would have lived to tell the tale.