(Only one verse.)
When you've said "the war is over," and "the end is now in sight,"
And you've welcomed home your valiant C.I.V.'s,
There are other absent beggars in the everlasting fight,
And not the least of these your Yeoman, please.
He's a casual sort of Johnnie, and his casualties are great,
And on the veldt and kopjes you will find him,
For he's still on active service, eating things without a plate,
And thinking of the things he's left behind him.
I'll spare you the chorus.
The accompanying sketch, perhaps, needs a little explanation. To be
brief, the British Army feels aggrieved at the praise bestowed on the
C.I.V. Regiment, and its early return to England. To hear a discussion
on our poor unoffending and former comrades is to have a sad exhibition
of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.
Any amount of fellows have got bad teeth, and when one considers the
trek-ox and the army biscuit, one cannot be surprised. A lance-corporal
of ours went before the doctor last week on this score; he had
practically no teeth, and has been _sent into Pretoria on a month's
furlough_. It is generally circulated in the squadron that the
authorities expect fresh ones to grow in that time.
_Tuesday, January 1st, 1901._
I saw the New Year in--in bed. There is little or no news, when we do
get some it is usually unsatisfactory. I suppose you know we have no
paper in Pretoria; the best they can do for us is to let us buy for a
tikkie the _Bloemfontein Post_, always four days old, and its contents!
The same brief, ancient and censored war news, the inspired leading
article, a column on a cricket match between two scratch Bloemfontein
teams, a treason trial, advertisements for I.L.H. and other recruits,
and that is about all. Well, here's "A Happy New Year to us all."
There are some terrible dunder-headed beings in this world of ours. I
saw one the day I came through Pretoria to this hospital. We were
acquaintances in London, and with the eye of a hawk he picked me out of
a load of dirty, khaki-clad wretches, and pounced on me with "What on
earth did you come out here for?" I told him "to play knuckle bones."
In the tent next to this is a quiet man with a gun-shot wound in his
knee. He is Vicary, V.C., of the Dorset Regiment. You may remember he
won it in the Tirah campaign for a deed immeasurably superior to that of
Findlater's; he saved an officer's life by killing five Afridis,
shooting two and bayoneting and butt-ending the rest--a messy job. He is
a small, quiet man, and wild horses could not induce him to talk of the
winning of his V.C. He won't say a "blooming" word on the subject to
anyone, not even an orderly.
We have a small library in the hospital (Mrs. Dick Chamberlain's). I got
Max O'Rell's "John Bull and Co." from it a few days ago. It concludes
with the author's reply to a question asked him the day before he left
South Africa.
"Well, after all these long travels what are you going to do now?"
"What am I going to do?" he replied; "I am going to Europe to look at an
old wall with a bit of ivy on it."
And, by the Lord Harry, that's just what I want to do myself.
* * * * *
I'm getting rather tired of my prolonged loaf in Arcadia, for that is
the name of this part of Pretoria, and although it is really not my
fault, still I feel ashamed of myself for not being with the company.
Still, even if I were out of the hospital, I should merely be able to
join a number of details of Sussex, Devon, Dorset, Fife, and other
Yeomen who are waiting in Pretoria an indefinite time for remounts and
fresh equipment. I daresay my last letter, if it arrived at all arrived
later than usual, as the day the mails left here there was a biggish
fight a few miles down the line at the first station (Irene), and the
train had to return. It is also rumoured that the home mails due were
held up and collared, a hardy perennial this.
All last Friday we could hear big guns pounding away, and we heard on
Saturday that the enemy had pulled up a good deal of the line, but the
fort, or forts, at Irene had held their own. In addition to this, rumour
hath it that Delarey and eight hundred (or 500, or 1,000) have been
killed or captured, also that Clements has been killed. But all this,
as usual, needs confirmation. So inaccurate or vague is actual news when
we do get it, that a big fight might take place in the nearest
back-garden, and we should be absolutely ignorant of the real details of
the combat.
I have just heard that the news that General Clements is dead is
correct. He died of a wound received some days ago I am told. If it is
true, we have lost another good officer and brave man.
We certainly have made every use of our privilege as Englishmen to
grumble since we have been out here. A certain Bill Fletcher, erstwhile
a Cockney pot boy, now of Kitchener's Horse, has just taken a bed in our
tent, and has announced that he is tired of the "blooming" country,
where the "blooming" flowers don't smell, the "blooming" birds don't
sing, and the "blooming" fruit don't taste (this latter charge is not
quite correct), and he wants to get back to the "blooming" fog and smoke
of London; all this, and he has only been at it five months.