Fighting the Phantom Army (The Soldier's Son Book 6)

A War of Shadows in a Dying Empire

In 1901 South Africa, the Boer War has devolved into a brutal game of cat and mouse. Captain Andrew Baird faces a new kind of war—one waged by swift, elusive commandos and marked by scorched-earth tactics, shifting loyalties, and moral ambiguity.

Tasked with hunting down the deadly Van Collier Commando, Andrew must transform his underprepared Natal Dragoons into a battle-hardened force. Opposing him is Jacoba du Toit, a fierce Boer fighter fueled by grief and vengeance. As guerrilla raids intensify and trust erodes, both sides edge closer to collapse. Meanwhile, fractured lives begin to converge—where love, loss, and justice collide in a war that refuses to end cleanly.

Fighting the Phantom Army is the gripping final volume in Malcolm Archibald’s Soldier’s Son series, weaving battlefield action with emotional depth in a powerful conclusion to a saga of conflict and consequence.

Finish the fight. Read Fighting the Phantom Army today.

Excerpt from the book

CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

DECEMBER 1900

“The war is over,” a plump major assured Andrew as they stood side by side in the club in Cape Town, drinks in hand. “Bobs would not be leaving otherwise.”

Still dusty and tired from the long journey south from the Drakensberg, Andrew nodded. “I hope you are right, sir,” he said. “Although the Boers are a tenacious people.”

“Tenacious? Nonsense, man!” The major scoffed at the idea. “I’ll grant you they had some victories at the beginning of the war, but Lord Roberts soon ended that and showed them that we are in control here. Great Britain is firmly in charge of South Africa now, we have restored order, and all is well with the world.”

Andrew thought of the hard-riding, straight-shooting Boers he had encountered in the field, sipped at his whisky-and-soda, and grunted. “We’ll miss Lord Roberts,” he said diplomatically.

The major nodded. Although he outranked Andrew, he was five years younger, with a bristly moustache on his smoothly red face. He placed his empty glass on a side table and lifted another from a tray a waiter held. The effervescent champagne bubbles rose within the fine crystal. “Kitchener will soon have the country organised,” he said. “The Sirkar will treat South Africa as he did Egypt and the Sudan. You’ll see.”

“There are still plenty of active Boers in the field,” Andrew reminded him. “De Wet, Botha, De la Rey and the van Colliers.”

“The last dregs,” the major dismissed the fighting Boers with a careless shrug. “Guerrilla bands, no more. They may attack a small convoy or an isolated garrison, but they are of no more than nuisance value. Kitchener will round them up, and that will be that.” He eyed Andrew. “What did you say your name and formation were, Captain?”

“I am Captain Andrew Baird,” Andrew said. “Once of the Royal Malverns, now commanding the Natal Dragoons.”

The major did not look impressed. He swallowed half the contents of his glass. “Natal Dragoons? I’ve never heard of them. Is that one of those colonial units?”

“It is,” Andrew agreed softly. “We’ve fought the Boers across Natal and the Transvaal.”

The major glanced around the room, looking for somebody of equal social standing. Light from the crystal chandelier above reflected from his shiny forehead. “I can’t say I’ve much time for colonials. They think they’re better than they are.”

“We do our best,” Andrew said softly, fighting his anger as he remembered the sacrifices the South African, Australian, New Zealand and Canadian men had already endured in the veldt. “Have you seen much action, sir?” He allowed his gaze to rest on the major’s breast while dropping his arm to reveal the campaign medal ribbons on his tunic. The colours of the Zulu, Transvaal, Burmese and Chitral campaigns caught the light.

“I’m on the staff,” the major replied smoothly.

“Ah,” Andrew said, and glanced at his watch. “I’m sure you are, sir. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I am due to meet General Kitchener in fifteen minutes.”