WYNBERG HOSPITAL,
CAPE COLONY.
_Monday, February 25th, 1901._
The above address may appear to you like a day's march nearer home, but
it is more than likely nothing of the sort. Having once got the
convalescent gentlemen in khaki down south as far as Cape Town, and
raised the home yearning hearts of the aforementioned to an altitude
beyond the loftiest peak of the Himalayas--the medical officers here
return them as shuttlecocks from a battledore up country, and it's a
case of "gentlemen in khaki ordered North."
We arrived here this morning early, having left Deelfontein at daybreak
yesterday (Sunday). Ambulance carts conveyed us to the Wynberg Hospital,
where I now am.
Tuesday, 26th. Wherever I go I seem to fall fairly well on my feet and
meet old friends. In the next room (each ward is divided into rooms,
these are barracks in time of peace) are two fellows who were in my tent
at Pretoria; one was half-blinded by lightning. They are rattling good
fellows. My bed chum, the man next to me, is a man of the Rifle Brigade,
who has lost an eye, and, again, is a ripping fine chap. This is an
R.A.M.C. show, and everything is regimental, dem'd regimental. We have
the regulation barrack-room cots, which have to be limbered up and
dressed with the familiar brown blankets and sheets in apple-pie or,
rather, Swiss roll, order. Also, the locker has to be kept very neat and
symmetrical. To drop a piece of paper in the room would be almost
courting a court-martial. So, whenever I have a small piece of paper to
throw away, I roam about like a criminal anxious to conceal a corpse,
and am often nearly driven to chewing and swallowing it, after the
well-known method of famous heroes and criminals.
[Illustration: Tommy's Spittoon.
In Hospital the bed-patients whose principal pleasure in smoking seems
to be the spitting, have recourse to the above.]
I have already referred to the confounded regimentality of this place.
The very red cross on our virgin white R.A.M.C. banner is made of red
tape, not bunting, I am positive. It almost goes without saying that we
have to don, and never leave off, in the daytime, the cobalt blue
uniform and huge red tie so dear to the controllers of these
establishments. The blue trousers are terrible things, being lined with
some thick material and kept up by a tape at the waist. A friend of mine
in Paget's Horse will not have them called trousers, but always alludes
to them as leg casings.
I am not quite so particular about my food as formerly, but the Imperial
Yeomanry Hospital at Pretoria must have spoiled me. Then, again, there
was the Deelfontein one, so I must set aside my own opinion and give you
that of others. The food (in our ward) is little and poor; being one
pound of bread and an ounce of butter per day for men on _full_ rations,
accompanied at morn and eventide by a purply fluid called "tea." At
mid-day a tin of tough meat with a potato or two is served up, for which
we are truly thankful. Amen! As regards recreation we get plenty of
that--airing bedding, scrubbing lockers and floors, cleaning windows,
whitewashing, washing our plates and other tinware after our sumptuous
repasts, general tidying up, having rows with the sergeant-major, and a
myriad other little pastimes help to while the hours away. In full view
of our ward is the slate-coloured gun carriage which is used for
conveying the unfittest to their last long rest. It is kept outside of a
barn-like building, and its contemplation affords us much food (extra
ration) for reflection. It is often used.