There have died up to September in our camp over 500. Appalling!
Only one buried this afternoon (Mr. Becker); died in hospital.
Thursday, October 3.—No diary yesterday; listless to-day also; hot; oppressive days; one just longs for day to end. Towards evening (sunset) usually nice and cool, and wind goes down.
What shall I write about? Diary becoming monotonous; too great a sameness. Hospitals; visits; sick; dying; funerals; morose topic; oppressive.
Boer khaki in camp to-day. Result of visit, about a dozen have joined forces of the English. Wonder if a worm wouldn't have more self-respect! Such characters make themselves despicable and contemptible in eyes of the English themselves. To us it brings deep-down humiliation. Can a man sink so low? Enough.
Two night ago some women and children cleared off—"for," said they, "lest we starve here."
Can a man (let alone a woman—breathe not of a child) remain healthy and strong on bread, meat (miserable half-pound), coffee, and condensed milk? And so, when a sickness comes there is nothing to fall back upon—no resistance. And with a wasted constitution who can battle against fever, pneumonia, and other things?
And for those that grimly struggle through, there is nothing wherewith to nourish and strengthen; no real milk; no eggs; wine; no delicacies such as convalescents should be tempted with. About as saddening sight as one can dream of is a peep into the children's ward—poor wasted, withered little innocents!
Mr. Otto buried eight this afternoon.