The Boer armies turned to guerrilla warfare in the second half of 1900 because they could not hold ground in the face of British military power, but were unwilling to give up their fight for independence. An emerging generation of Boer leaders – prominent among them Christiaan De Wet, Kroos de la Rey and Jan Smuts – recognised the tactical strengths of their commandos and the potential they had for continuing resistance. Using their superior mobility, knowledge of the countryside, and intelligence networks, commandos could identify when and where to strike before rapidly evading the British response. De Wet’s operations in mid-1900 demonstrated that such operations could rise above being mere irritations and seriously disrupt British operations. Gradually, a new path to victory emerged in Boer minds: by continuing to resist within the now annexed Republics and spreading the war to the Cape and Natal, the commandos could exhaust British willingness to continue and give the Republics an upper hand during any peace negotiations.

Charles Frederick Cox returned home from South Africa on 3 October 1902. That this was months after his own regiment, 3NSWMR was because Cox had been sent to London to participate in Coronation duties for King Edward VII. While there he was both permanently promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and made a Companion of the Order of the Bath. Just as he had done upon arrival in South Africa, on his return to Sydney Cox delivered some remarks to reporters waiting dockside. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Cox does not think there will be any more trouble in the Transvaal or Cape Colony’, the Sydney Morning Herald reported, ‘but if more fighting takes place he is ready for more either there or elsewhere.’

At the heart of the bushman-soldier myth was combat. The skills of the bush – riding, shooting, living off the land, the innate intelligence of ‘the colonial’ – were valuable because they could deliver success on the battlefield. The bushmen would ‘be able to meet stratagem by stratagem’, as civilian advocate H. S. Stockdale crowed, and be ‘just as likely to stalk “the Boer” as the Boers to stalk them.’ Like many civilian enthusiasts Stockdale conceived of the Australians as auxiliaries to a British regular force, serving as scouts and skirmishers on the fringes of the battle. Military men were under no such illusions: the Australian contingents would do everything mounted rifles were expected to, from ersatz cavalry work to seizing and holding ground. Both groups, however, shared a confidence in their ideas. ‘As Australians have shown themselves in the fields of sport,’ Stockdale declared, ‘so I feel will they prove themselves on the field of battle.’

The war that began in October 1899 was not the first time Britain and the Boer Republics had clashed. The Free State and the Transvaal Republic were the fruit of the great trek (Voortrek), the mass exodus of Boers from southern Africa’s coastal regions in the 1830s that was prompted by British conquest of the region 20 years earlier. In 1877 the British annexed the two states; in 1880 the burghers rebelled. Their victory in 1881 led to a negotiated treaty that restored Boer independence while giving Britain a degree of control over their external affairs. What followed was what Bill Nasson has characterised as a ‘nervous stability’, as both sides regarded each other with suspicion but worked to avoid a renewal of hostilities while balancing their own interests.

When Australians woke on the morning of 13 October 1899 to headlines announcing war had broken out in South Africa, it must have come as little surprise. Since the collapse of talks between the Transvaal and Britain in June, war had seemed increasingly likely. The failure of these talks had prompted discussion, both in London and Australia, of the possibility of Australian contingents being raised and sent to South Africa in the event of war. A meeting between the six colonial commandants in late September to mastermind the raising of a united Australian contingent force collapsed in intercolonial bickering, but this proved only a minor speed bump. By the time the Boer ultimatum that made war inevitable was delivered on October 9 four of the six colonies had already received requests from London for troops, and the proposition was being openly debated in colonial parliaments. While there was vocal opposition from a minority, all six colonies ultimately agreed to send contingents to South Africa. It would be a small commitment for what was expected to be a short war.

On the evening of 12 June 1901, Private C.A. Salmon of the 5th Victorian Mounted Rifles was making himself comfortable at the end of a long day’s trek. The left wing of 5VMR, part of a detachment under the command of Major Morris, had camped near a farm called Wilmansrust in the eastern Transvaal. Mail had arrived from home, fuel was readily available, and the rum ration had been dispensed. Spirits within the bivouac of the column were high. Yet, as Salmon lay down to read the newspapers sent from home, a shot rang out, followed closely by a series of volleys. Around 100 men from the Middelburg Commando had succeeded in moving past the camp’s outlying pickets undetected and were attacking. Salmon emerged into the darkness and was immediately wounded in the face; when he recovered he found himself face-to-face with one of the attackers, who called him a British cow and demanded he put his hands up. Salmon complied; so too did the survivors. Fourteen Victorians had been killed and 46 wounded, of whom a further four would eventually succumb. The entire engagement had lasted around 15 minutes.

Over 15,000 individual Australians served in contingents in South Africa and at least 600 died. While it was quickly overshadowed by the First World War, it was nonetheless an important part of Australia’s military history. Australian soldiers were sent in the belief that they possessed certain qualities that would make them valuable on the battlefield. It was an idea that, in various forms, would continue to surface throughout the first half of the twentieth century. What follows is an analysis that not just dispels this myth but shows what it can tell us about war more generally.

In early December 1900, the New South Wales Imperial Bushmen finished a day of marching in the western Transvaal and made camp. A storm was brewing, and just before midnight it broke. Troopers woke to a downpour that quickly soaked through their blankets, their uniforms and their food. The ground turned to mud and horses began to break their lines and escape. Exhausted from trekking and now unable to sleep, the New South Welshmen began to try and restore order in the camp. Amidst the confusion and misery, one helpful soldier began a sarcastic rendition of the song “Soldiers of the Queen.”’

Trying to destroy the commandos in the field was one half of Kitchener’s strategy. The other was the destruction of farms and the removal of civilian populations from rural areas to camps close to the British-controlled central railroad. This was designed to deny the commandos access to food and intelligence, but also to act as a threat: continued resistance meant denial of access to family and destruction of virtually everything a burgher owned.

It was not a radical departure from British practice but an evolution and consolidation of what had occurred over the previous 12 months. From the outset of the invasion of the two Republics, the British had considered forms of collective punishment valid for what they saw as illegitimate military actions. This policy had always been chaotically implemented, clashing as it did with a recognition that the conquered populations would have to be governed and so needed to be courted. Perhaps more importantly the shambolic state of British logistics meant during the invasion units lived off the land and rarely fulfilled their obligations to pay for what they took. By the end of 1900, the precedent for large-scale destruction as a tool of war had been well and truly set.

The article studies the war artifacts and military symbols, particularly bullets and tattoos, in Héctor Tobar’s novel about the Guatemalan civil war, The Tattooed Soldier (1998) and Salomón de la Selva’s testimonial poetry about World War I, El soldado desconocido (1922). Although the texts were written more than seven decades apart, the two authors’ treatments of these objects demonstrate ligatures between soldiering, disability, and the frailty of the Global North’s patriotism in Latinx narratives. They depict the effects of war on vulnerable bodies as well as the central value of the figure of the soldier. In his novel, Tobar builds on de la Selva’s poetic explorations, from the soldiers in the European trenches to the soldier turned immigrant. Their narratives capture how soldiers in global and local conflicts look for a sense of masculinity and patriotism, but instead expose the atomization and dark side of contemporary American cultures across borders. For both authors, war creates physical and psychological wounds that go unrecognized and for which the US is never held responsible. Tobar and de la Selva reveal war artifacts and militaristic symbols as original, tangible sites that expose this reality.

Stefanie Markovits’ chapter thinks about counting and accountability, and how they inform literary representations of the military man, one of the most visible of war’s outcomes in mid-Victorian Britain. Markovits reflects on this period as one which saw ‘the rise of statistics as a discipline of social science and a method of statecraft in Britain’, and with it the growing need for accountability in public affairs. The figure of the soldier is both hero and statistic, individual and number, in a period where fiction, philosophy, and popular commentary, were preoccupied with how individuals realised their fully individualised potential. The soldier’s cultural and political potency is enabled because his being is aligned with the numbers that account for him. In the work of Tennyson, Harriet Martineau, and Dickens we see how ‘the mid-century soldier becomes such a potent figure precisely because his “type” aligns so closely with numbers’.

Civil war soldiers worried a lot about cowardice in combat, something few historians have been willing to admit. The Introduction explains its importance and sets up how this book will explore the topic by focusing on two civil war regiments accused of cowardice and the lasting effects such allegations had on them. It also discusses what historian Drew Faust calls “war stories” and how constructed celebratory tales of martial glory often hide war’s chaos and horrors.

A substantial collection of sources indicates that women constituted a considerable part of the travelers in the first centuries of the Roman Empire, a period in which traveling became increasingly popular with various social classes. These travelers have left traces of their experiences en route in personal letters on papyri and ostraca, in graffiti and on votive inscriptions. Classical scholarship has long ignored these sources, even though they offer us a unique insight into female experiences and self-representation. Recent excavations on and near the trade routes in the Eastern and Western Desert of Egypt, along which units of the Roman army were positioned in military outposts, protecting and controlling the area, have uncovered letters in which women – most of them of lower rank – discussed their concerns about traveling from and to the military camps of their husbands, fathers, or brothers. When combined with other sources such as papyri and graffiti, these documents give insight into the mobility of the female relatives of soldiers in Roman Egypt. They tell us something about the reasons why they decided to undertake journeys, the distance they covered (some while being heavily pregnant), where they stayed, and the dangers they encountered during the trip.

The role of women in the religious sphere of the military world has been underserved. This chapter turns to the epigraphic record to illuminate the role of women in military households and communities in both public and private contexts. Visual and epigraphic material is a rich source of information for our understanding of women’s roles in public military settings and private military households, and especially how women expressed religiosity on behalf of themselves, their soldier-husbands, and their households broadly. The evidence is not overwhelming, but there is enough to start building an image of the religious aspects of the lives of women associated with the army. With this aim in mind, this chapter illuminates the lives of women in military communities through the lens of religion as one aspect of daily life. By investigating precisely what women were doing in the military community, this contribution addresses the increasing trend to see the families of soldiers – whether living in the fort or extramural settlement – as a direct part of the military community, rather than a “civilian” counterpart that has often been discussed in pejorative terms or as an appendage population that is located there only by chance.