IMPERIAL YEOMANRY HOSPITAL,
PRETORIA.
_Monday, December 24th, 1900._
Here's to the doc's an' the nusses,
The bloomin' ord'lies too,
Who tend to us poor worn cusses,
All of 'em good and true.
Fightin' with death unceasin',
With ne'er a word of brag,
Sorrow an' anguish easin',
Under the Red Cross flag.
_Extract from forthcoming "Orspital Odes."_
Christmas Eve! Forsooth! And it falls on a homesick British Army in
South Africa, home-yearning and longing for a sight of the sea (our
sea!) like the famous Grecian host of old. If you ask a British
soldier, "How goes it?" he promptly growls, "Feddup." I wonder what the
Grecian warrior's equivalent for "fed up" was. He had one I am sure.
Christmas Eve, forsooth! Where is the prickly, red-berried holly? Where,
too, the mistletoe with its pearly berries? And where, most of all,
queries your enforced member of a Blue Ribbon Army--where is the Wassail
Bowl?
The weather is fine, and under our tents we don't feel the heat of the
sun. After the monotony of khaki here, there and everywhere, to which
one gets accustomed on the veldt, the colours one sees here are quite
enlivening. To begin with, _place aux dames_ the nurses are arrayed in
grey, white and red, and the patients who arrive in torn, worn, dirty or
bloody khaki, surrender all their warlike habiliments to an orderly,
have a bath and then "blossom in purple and red"--pyjamas, or in pinks,
stripes or spots.
The food is very good here, and, as Tommy says, there is _bags_ of it.
"Bags" is the great Army word for abundance. It is used apparently
without discrimination, and so one hears of bags of jam, bags of beer,
bags of bags, bags of fun, or anything else in or out of reason.
For a student of dialect this hospital opens a large field. It is a
regular Babel at times, our Sister speaking a superior Irish and the
orderly an inferior brogue. In our tent are a Scotch, two Welsh, a
Dorset and a Sussex Yeoman. In the next tent are some regulars of the
Northumberland Fusiliers and Yorkshire Light Infantry, and a true-bred
cockney Hussar, and their speech requires careful attention if the
listener wishes to understand it, I can assure you. A few Kaffirs
talking a bastard Dutch and an old Harrovian, who stutters like an
excited soda water syphon, completes the Babel in my immediate
neighbourhood.
The Irish orderly, Mick, by the way, is one of the most wonderful and
plausible fellows I have met out here. To say he could talk a donkey's
hind leg off would be a mild way of describing his excessive
volubility--he would chatter a centipede's legs off. Often when he comes
in, with another orderly's broom, to make a pretence of sweeping the
tent out, and leaning on the stick, starts retailing stories of
mystery and imagination, I lay down the book I am trying to read, and
closing my eyes, drift into the land of true romance.
[Illustration: _Owing to the great wear and tear on the Hospital
garments and the large influx of fresh patients--pyjama suits are very
rare in a perfect state or satisfactory size. Slippers also are
excessively scarce. The above is a common scene._
ORDERLY (to complaining new patient): "_Well, it's the best Oi can do
for yez._"]
It is a land uninhabited by ladyes fayre in the general way, for the
_dramatis personae_ usually comprise "th' ortherly corp'ril"; "th'
sargint of th' gyard"; "th' qua'thermasther, an' a low blaygyard he
waz"; "th' gin'ril o' th' disthrict"; "a lif'tint in 'H' Company"; and
other military personages, with "th' ortherly room" or a "disthrict
coort-martial" thrown in. If I had only had a phonograph I would
preserve them, and when I get home, have them set up in type, tastily
bound, and announced as "Tales from the Ill, by R--. K--.," and then
live a life of opulent ease on the proceeds thereof.
"Th' sisther," as he calls her, says he is a dreadful man, and from her
point of view I don't think she is far away from the truth. He argues
about everything, and is always blaming his fellow orderlies. Still, it
is the dreadful men who are invariably so entertaining.
I have just heard that a friend, Trooper Bewes, a cheery fellow of the
Devons, has succumbed to his wound. Christmas Eve, forsooth! His chum
was shot through the stomach, and died on the veldt. Poor fellow, he
(the chum) was always swallowing with avidity any rumour about our going
home--perhaps he was too keen, and ironical fate stepped in. It's a hard
Christmas Box for his poor people, is it not?
We are debating whether to hang our socks up or not. If I do, and get
something inside, it will probably be a scorpion. I found one in my boot
a few days ago. The latest from our cheerful town pessimist, is "Don't
be surprised if you are out another twelve months." Our Harrovian friend
has summed up our feelings very aptly by stuttering, "If I had a bigger
handkerchief I'd weep."
A couple of orderlies have just passed our tent, bearing an inanimate
blanket-covered form on a stretcher--the last of my poor Devon friend,
beyond a doubt. Another was carried by about two hours ago, while we
were having tea. Christmas Eve, forsooth! Well, I will resume this
to-morrow, or on Boxing Day.
_Christmas Day._
There are not many people who would do any letter-writing on the
afternoon of this day. But out here one does marvellous deeds, which one
would never dream of attempting at home. So here I am, my dinner
finished, adding a few lines to this letter, commenced yesterday.
Last night, in lieu of the festive carol singers, our waits (pickets)
entertained us nearly all the night with volleys and independent firing.
Whether the foe was real or imaginary I have not yet heard, but I
believe the former. At four this morning I was awakened to have a
fomentation on my leg, and drowsily realised it was Christmas Day. Then
I fell asleep again, and dreamed of horrible adventures with Brother
Boer. When we all awakened, we tried hard to convince one another it was
indeed Christmas Day; one man actually going to the length of looking in
his sock with a sneer, and all through the day "this time last year"
anecdotes have been going strong amongst us of the I.Y.
"And a sorrow's crown of sorrows
Is remembering happier things."
After breakfast I strolled up to the post-office tent on a forlorn hope
for letters. There were none for me, but one and a fine Scotch
shortbread for the wounded Fife man in the bed next to mine. The cake,
the beauty of which we quickly marred, was tastefully decorated with
sugared devices, and the inscription, "Ye'll a' be welcome hame!"
Another fomentation, a visit from the doctor, who put us all on stout,
and dinner was up. This consisted of the roast beef of Old--oh, no, it
didn't, it was roast old trek ox, and I was unable to damage it with my
well-worn teeth, so left it. The "duff" was not bad, and the quantity
being augmented by a cold tinned one, which our Harrovian friend
produced from his haversack, we fared very well, finishing up the repast
with shortbread and a small bottle of stout each, with a diminutive
pineapple for dessert.
Everybody I meet seems agreed on one point, and that is there has been
no Christmas this year. Well, let us hope we shall have a real
old-fashioned one next year.
_New Year's Eve._
"The year is dying, _let him die_."
Them's my sentiments--"let him die." Despite the _nil nisi bonum_
sentiment, I can't find it in my heart to say (at this present time and
in my present humour) a good word for the dying year, his last days
having been ones to be remembered with--er--oblivion only, so to speak.
Since writing last, I have been flying high--that is to say, my
temperature has--having registered 104.4 (don't omit the point) for a
couple of days. I was rather proud of this, for, as you know, I didn't
swagger in here with a fever or anything like that. No, I simply and
quietly waited about a week, and then let them see what I could do
without any real effort. And that is the right way to do things.
Look at Kitchener. People out here have been saying: "Wait till
Kitchener is in command," and "Kitchener will do this and that." I
sincerely hope he will. Mick, our day orderly, has just told me that "to
hear people spake, ye'd think he cud brake eggs wid a hard
stick,"--which I believe is his sarcastic way of summing up hero
worship. I suggested most men could do that; whereupon Mick retorted:
"Ye don't know, they might miss 'em." You never catch Mick napping. I
only wish I could record the story of how he chucked the kits of "the
Hon. Goschen and a nephew of the Juke of Portland's" out of one of the
tents in 22 Ward, because they didn't choose the things which they
wanted kept out, and let him take the rest away to the store tent.
Needless to say, he was unaware at the time that he was entertaining
angels.
Kitchener visited the Hospital some time ago but I missed seeing him. I
was sleeping at the time, and was awakened by his voice inquiring how we
were, and turned round just in time to see a khaki mackintosh disappear
through the door. Of course, I had met him before. He turned me out of a
house at which the C.-in-C. and staff had luncheon the day we were
marching on Johannesburg. My luncheon on that occasion consisted of a
nibble at a small, raw potato.
[Illustration: Sick.
"Who said 'C.I.V.s'?"
(With apologies to the talented painter of "Who said 'Rah'?")]