On Friday I went before our Battalion doctor, who had lost everything,
save what he stood in. However, he fixed up my leg and hand and exempted
me from duty. On going before him the next day he said my leg wanted
resting, and in spite of protests sent me to the R.A.M.C. field
hospital. A word aside here. I suppose you have heard of this great
institution of the British Army--the d----d R.A.M.C. (I seldom, if ever,
have heard it alluded to without the big, big D's.) My experience of it,
I am pleased to say, has been, so far, severely limited, but, slight as
it is, I can quite understand why it is lacking in popularity. With
three other Yeomen and my kit, I accompanied the doctor's orderly to the
Brigade Hospital. The order for our admission was given in, and we were
told we should be attended to at nine. The sun was hot, shade there was
none, and outside the doctor's tent we waited. Nine came and went, a
doctor also rode up, chatted with someone inside, and rode away. The sun
was scorching, and we dare not go away to get in any friendly shade.
Three of us had game legs and one dysentery, but, of course, we grumbled
not, for the R.A.M.C. are all honourable men. Various squads of sick
Artillery, M.I. and other regiments marched up, and finally an R.A.M.C.
sergeant came to the entrance of the tent and began calling them up
before the doctor. Eleven o'clock came, and in the hot sun we waited
still, in spite of being half-determined to return to our lines, as it
was getting rather wearisome and confoundedly hot; but the R.A.M.C. are
all honourable men. A Canadian helped a chum down to the group of
impatient patients, and after a few words left him with the terribly
audible remark, "So long, ole man. I'd sooner blanked-well die on the
veldt than go there." Which showed how he failed to appreciate the
R.A.M.C., and also his bad taste, for those inside must have heard him.
But there, they know that they, the R.A.M.C., are all honourable men.
"Driver Neads!" calls the spic and span little dark-moustached sergeant,
reading from a list of names. A ragged dirty-looking Artilleryman limps
painfully up, _two pills_ are given to him, he gazes curiously at them,
then at the back of the donor, who has turned away, and then realising
that nothing further is to be done for him, limps heavily back, making
room for the next patient. Once in the background, he heels a small hole
in the earth, turns the contents of his hand into it, methodically fills
the hole up, and hobbles back with his squad. They were, of course, the
celebrated "Number Nines," the great panacea out here as, of course, you
know. They (are supposed to) cure all diseases, from dysentery and brain
fever to broken legs and heads.
And still we, who were first, waited in the blazing sun, to be last.
Finally the smart sergeant smilingly recognised us, and cheerily told us
that there was an Imperial Yeomanry Field Hospital somewhere in the
vicinity, and we were to go there, and with that returned us our
admittance form. I pressed him for more accurate information, and had
the supposed direction given me, which proved correct. So off we
crawled, I, with my Bunyan's Pilgrim-like load, holding the position of
a scratch man in a race. I could not have done the distance had I not
procured the services of a nigger, who relieved me of my kit for a
shilling. So we shook the dust of the R.A.M.C. Field Hospital from our
boots, but let not an abusive word be levelled at them, for are they not
all honourable men?
The Imperial Yeomanry Field Hospital was about a mile off, and on
reaching it we were treated with every kindness. They had only come in
the previous night, and we were the first patients. Every consideration
was shown to us, and in a few minutes we were lying down in a fine tent
of the marquee brand and drinking excellent _cafe au lait_ and eating
bully and biscuit. "The best we can do for you at present," as they
apologetically remarked to us. Fomentations were applied to our wounds,
and luxuriously reclining on my back, smoking a Turkish cigarette one of
the orderlies had just given me, I fervently swore that the grandest
institution in South Africa was the I.Y. Field Hospital. In the
afternoon some sick Inniskilling Fusiliers were admitted, and for some
time seemed dazed at the kind treatment they were receiving, and
appeared half under the impression they were in Heaven. "What's this
chummy?" queried one. "Imperial Yeomanry Hospital" was the reply. "Thank
Gawd 'taint the R.A.M.C." grunted the Tommy, turning over on his side
with a sigh of relief. At about ten that night we had to make room in
our tent for a dozen wounded men from Thursday's fight. Ninety were
being brought into Rietfontein and the I.Y. people were taking half.
Soon an ambulance was halted by our tent, and wounded men hobbled or
were carried in, heads, arms and legs tied up, with here and there blood
showing through the bandages. They were M.I., Kitchener's Horse,
Northumberlands and K.O.Y.L.I. (King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry).
"Man," started a Yorkshire man before he had been in the tent a minute,
"they (the Boers) treated us real well." "Ay, they was all right,"
chimed in a M.I. man, "they gave us to eat as much as they 'ad." "One
bloke arsked my permission to take the boots orf one of our dead chaps,"
said a Northumberland Fusilier. And at it they went hammer and tongue,
especially the latter. To follow the various speakers one needed a dozen
pairs of ears at least. Several related that the Boers came up to them
and told them they had made a grand fight of it. They were quickly
supplied with beef tea and biscuits, and some of the necessary cases
were dressed again. "See that that man has a ground sheet down there,"
ordered Major Stonham, "he is on the bare earth." "I've laid on it for
three nights out there, sir," cheerfully vouchsafed the patient under
notice.
At last I got to sleep, awaking at four, and having had a small bowl of
porridge and milk, arose with the other fellows who had come in with me
and the sick Inniskillings, and getting our kits, got into an ambulance
waggon for the first time. The I.Y. people sent in two ambulances and
the R.A.M.C. three open mule waggons filled with sick soldiers. We
reached Pretoria at three, and we four Yeomen were sent to the Imperial
Yeomanry Hospital, where, after once again giving in our names,
regimental numbers, ranks, regiments, service, ailments, religion, and
a hundred other items of general information, I was allotted a ward,
bed, and suit of pyjamas, and after having had a bath, got into bed and
awaited the next person desirous for my name, number, time of service,
&c. It was not long before the sister in charge of our ward appeared;
she is Irish (Sister Strohan), and naturally very kind. Our tent holds
six men, and we were all new arrivals that evening. She asked if we had
had anything to eat, and we said we had had nothing beyond a little
porridge at four in the morning. Then she commanded the orderlies to
get "these _poor_ men" bread, marmalade, cocoa, beef tea, pillows and
all sorts of things. And we "poor men" laid comfortably in our beds and
grinned at one another. She ordered us later to go to sleep, but we
could not. For myself, I had not been in a bed for so long that I
positively felt restless, and almost rolled out of bed so as to have a
comfortable "doss" on the ground (it seemed like a case of the pig
returning to its wallowing). At last I fell asleep, and once in that
state took a good deal of arousing--for night nurses and orderlies tread
more lightly than stable guards, and loose horses grazing round one's
head.
[Illustration: A friendly Boer family watching a British ambulance
waggon, full of sick & wounded, going into Pretoria.]
Thursday, December 20th. A friend, of the Fife Yeomanry, came in here
wounded last night. He went up with twenty other men of his crowd to
reinforce the Northumberlands on the hill. Out of these, six were killed
and nine wounded. I have already told you many of the dead and wounded
were left on the kopjes for several days. He tells me it was horrible to
see some of the poor fellows; the flies had got on their wounds. One
fellow with a wounded jaw had maggots inside as well as out, and they
were taken out of his mouth with little bits of stick. Another with a
wounded side was quite a heaving, moving mass of them where he had been
hit.