MCKENZIE'S FARM,
MAITLAND (once again).
_Sunday, March 3rd, 1901._
Of late my addresses have been many and varied. The above is the latest.
I have filtered through into Maitland, which has changed considerably
since last April. On Thursday last I left Wynberg for the convalescent
camp at Rondebosch without any regret, for, as a matter of fact, I was
getting hungry. On the afternoon of that day I found myself one of a
very unselect-looking band of khaki men, parading before the terrible
R.A.M.C. Sergt.-Major of the Wynberg Hospital.
Just before parading, I saw the gun carriage, alluded to in my last,
being used; going past our ward, in slow time, with reversed arms, went
the perspiring and, let us hope not, but I fear 'twas so, the angry
Tommies told off as the escort. Then came the gun carriage with its
flag-covered burden. Only another enteric, only another broken heart or
so at home, another vacant chair to look at and sigh, and the small but
strictly regimental and unsympathetic procession had passed; and the
half-interrupted conversation in the ward went gaily on. Having paraded
and answered to our names, a doctor strolled down the ranks questioning
us, "Are you all right?" All those who answered said "Yes." The question
was supposed to be put individually, but by the time he got to where I
was, the worthy man was slurring over about three or four at a time. I
didn't trouble to reply, it being obviously unnecessary. About
half-an-hour later, the ambulance carts came up, which were to bear us
to Rondebosch, and we were ordered to carry our kits down and get in. So
the halt and the broken picked up their kits--some of them were very
heavy--and staggered with them to the carts, a distance of about fifty
yards.
In particular, I noticed one poor fellow, a gunner of the 37th Battery,
R.F.A. A water cart had gone over him at Mafeking, and fractured three
ribs and affected his spine. The poor, emaciated, bent figure of what
had once been a smart soldier lifted a rather heavy kit and tottered
towards the carts. I felt disgusted at seeing such unnecessary labour
thrust on a man, who never should have left the hospital save to go
home. But he had been turned out by the powers which be, and--I was
going to say shouldn't, but the R.A.M.C. are all honourable men--when I
saw a sprightly, well-fed R.A.M.C. Lance-Corporal walking smartly after
him, and in a relieved voice I remarked to the man on my left: "The
Corporal is going to carry it for him," to which my neighbour remarked:
"He can't, he's got a stripe." And, begad, he didn't! He passed him,
apparently not having noticed him. I shall have a little more to tell
you of the gunner presently.
The drive to Rondebosch, through Wynberg, Kenilworth and Claremont, was
lovely beyond words. I had a box seat, and as we drove through the
avenues of trees, down the roads, with the gardens of the
comfortable-looking bungalows a mass of green foliage and tropical
blooms on either side of us, I felt like a gaol-bird escaped from his
cage. You may laugh at me if you like, but there I sat with dilating
nostrils and eyes, absorbing all I could. Often we passed English girls
in white costumes, and pretty, clean-looking children. It was a real
treat. Of course, they took no notice of us. We were a common and not
altogether pleasing looking lot, many among us being
"Poor fighting men, broke in her wars."
At last the pleasant drive came to its end, and we entered the
Rondebosch camp. I was told off with 25 others to a hut, drew bedding
and blankets--which included bugs--had some tea at a coffee bar, looked
about, and turned in for the night. Alas! that night and others.
Rondebosch boasts of a dry canteen and _another_, where Tommy can obtain
beer, oftentimes called "Glorious Beer," even as we allude to "Glorious
War." Over the sale of this to men, fresh from the hospitals recovering
from enteric, wounds, and so forth, there is no restriction. The result
needs no imagination--copious libations, songs, rows, and vomitings.
The next day I was put on as Orderly Sergeant. Now, if I was
Sergeant-Major and had among my subordinate "non-coms." a man I wished
to get into trouble, I should make him an Orderly Sergeant at
Rondebosch. About every half-hour the bugles went "Orderly Sergeants,"
and up I doubled. In all, I attended about a score of these summonses,
and even then omitted to report a man who had been absent since
_reveille_.
This last sin of omission came about in this way. I was anxious to turn
in early and get a little sleep if possible, but could not do so, as I
had to report "all present and correct" at tattoo. Anyhow, I strolled
down to our hut at nine o'clock and found that the poor gunner alluded
to already was in great pain, writhing about and groaning horribly. One
of his chums who was with him told me he could not find a doctor, and
the chaplain, who had looked in, had said that he could not get him even
a drop of hot water.
The poor fellow was really bad, and thought he was going out, and I
should not have been surprised if he had. Soon a few more chums came in,
somewhat beery, and commenced to buck him up. The great method
apparently on such occasions is to grip the sufferer's hand very
tightly, pull him about a good deal, punch him now and again, and tell
him to bear up. "Stick it, mate! * * * it, you ain't going to * * * well
die! Stick it, mate!" And there he lay, with his pals, fresh from the
canteen, exhorting him to stick it, a poor broken Reserve man, with a
wife and children across the seas. At last I went and, after no little
bother, discovered an R.A.M.C. Sergeant, who found his Sergeant-Major,
and the two came with me to our hut. The result was a mustard leaf,
which was sent down to me to place on the sufferer. With this on the
left side of his stomach, bugs biting, mosquitoes worrying, and comrades
lurching in, singing and rowing, and beds collapsing, the night passed.
The next day the doctor saw him, and he was returned to Wynberg.[11]
[Footnote 11: I met him again looking much better and in the
best of spirits on the _Aurania_, being invalided home.]
In the afternoon we paraded and came on here. In the evening I slipped
off to Cape Town and met a friend, with whom I dined at the "Grand."
Having a decent dinner and amongst decently dressed people made me feel
quite a Christian, though as a matter of fact, most of the diners
appeared to be Jews. The sheenie man refugee is still very much in
evidence, and though he sells things at ruinous prices (for himself, he
says) seems to do well.
Tuesday, March 6th. After being kept outside the doctor's bureau from 9
till 12.30, the great man, the controller of fates, the donor of
tickets, the Maitland medicine man, has seen me, and, whatever he has
done, has not marked me for home.