Lean men, brown men, men from overseas,
Men from all the outer world; shy and ill at ease.
Some were men who had taken part in Arctic exploration; others were of the North-west Mounted Police and of the British South Africa Police; even a cowpuncher or two from under the flag of the U.S.A. were amongst this force of frontiersmen. And there were among them: good sorts, bad sorts, rich sorts, keen sorts, game sorts—all sorts!
Here also, holding the rank of subalterns, were some famous hunters, setting out again on adventure. F. C. Selous, the renowned big-game hunter and naturalist and explorer, was there, and Cherry Kearton, who, like his brother Richard, “shoots” with his camera and has specialised in photographing big game in Africa. Then there were George Outram and Martin Ryan, hailing from divergent corners of our colonies, who were reputed old hunters who knew, by long association, the vast hunting-grounds in Africa, as well as you or I, perhaps, know our grouse moor at home. And, lastly, at the head of all stood Colonel Driscoll, the leader of “Driscoll’s Scouts” in the South African War.
Yes, there was a spirit of romance on Number Seven platform on this evening of April 1915. But, as is often the case with romance, it was obscure to the ordinary vision of the spectator, and but dully realised, if realised at all. So, for the most part, those troops remained commonplace, and passed from London, as thousands of other troops do, out to an unknown destination under cover of the night.
It was 2 o’clock next morning when, after long waiting, the train finally drew out of Waterloo. Between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m., by twos and threes, friends of the troops had taken their last farewells and departed, taking sadness with them, and leaving, here and there, a disconsolate soul behind.
How many touching, aye, last farewells have been witnessed by the soulless shed of that vast station since war began! How many brave souls have laughingly departed never to return!—their one great love their Home, their Empire’s honour.
The battalion’s destination—the port of sailing—was unknown, except to those in command, but in the early dawn of morning it became apparent to all, as we passed along the borders of Somerset and Dorset and on through Devon, that we were en route to Plymouth.
At 10 a.m. we drew up in Plymouth Docks, there to embark on H.M.T.S. Neuralia (Glasgow).