A Yeoman's Letters / Third Edition

by P. T. Ross

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.[Back to Contents]

At the Base.

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.