That very great, august and omnipotent being, the Sergeant-Major of this
establishment, has just been round. His motto is, I fancy, "_Veni, vidi,
vici_." To him nothing is ever perfect, save himself. He entered,
"Shun!" and we stood at attention by our cots. A trembling sergeant and
orderly followed in his train. Upon us, one by one, he pounced, this
"brave, silent (?) man" at the back. My blue fal-de-lal jacket he
unbuttoned and revealed, horror of horrors, very crime of crimes, the
fact that I was not wearing the monstrous red scarf which, according to
the laws of the R.A.M.C., which alter not, must always be worn by all
patients at all times, in life, or even in death, I presume. And
further, a most perspiring bare chest revealed the heinous fact that I
had omitted to put on the _thick_ flannel shirt which has to be worn
under the coarse white cotton one. Why wasn't I wearing this article? I
explained that I was too hot already. That did not matter a Continental.
Where was it? I produced it from under a bed near by and managed to
avoid putting it on in his presence, as that would have still further
revealed that I was wearing a belt containing money, which is contrary
to Rule No. something or other, in which it is emphatically laid down
that all jewels, money, and valuables are to be given in to the
staff-sergeant in charge of the pack store, who will give a receipt for
the same, &c., and so forth. Verily the backbone of the Army is the
non-commissioned man, but I must confess to frequently wishing to break,
or at least dislocate, that backbone.
The mosquitoes here seem rather more troublesome than their Pretoria
relatives. There are twenty men in the next room, and only three of us
here; and we three get a frightful lot of attention from these
_skeeturs_. They seem vicious as well as hungry. We fancy this is to be
explained by the fact that they had been marked down from up country for
the base and England, and are enraged at being kept here with the
prospect of being returned whence they came; their hunger in this
R.A.M.C. Hospital we can understand, and would sympathise with more if
they did not treat us as rations. Other patients have a theory that they
are the lost and much damned spirits of R.A.M.C. officers,
non-commissioned officers, and men, who have gone before and come back
to their old earthly billet. But of course these are all mere surmises,
and hardly to be regarded seriously. On Thursday I am to be sent to
Rondebosch, Tommy's oft and ever-repeated cry, "Roll on, dear old
Blighty" (England), seems vainer than ever as time spins out its endless
cocoon.