Veldt Church Service
On Sunday we had a Brigade Church Service—we had not had one for a long time. We also had a real padre, who wore a surplice, cassock, and helmet, and who preached an indifferent sermon. I don’t suppose we deserve a real good man.
The great event of Tuesday was the fate of my Christmas pudding, which I had received from my Mater. Having handled and examined it carefully for some time, I thought I could detect signs of decomposition about it. I communicated my fears to my comrades, who shared them, and said they didn’t think it would last till Christmas. It didn’t; for we ate it that evening. It was good, and I suppose we ought to feel ashamed of ourselves for eating it out of season, but really our excuses are many, principal among them being it is not wise trying to keep edibles, as they have a way of getting lost, and if the pudding managed to last to Christmas it is just on the cards we might not.
To show you how civilised we are at the ‘Dorp, we, when in standing camp, occasionally have a chance of getting a drink of beer. This afternoon a barrel was brought into our camp, and to-night we shall be able to buy pots of it at sixpence a pint. You should see those pints! We may be Imperial Yeomanry, but they don’t give us Imperial Pints. Teetotallers will be interested and pleased to hear that out of our princely stipend of 1s. 3d. per diem (unpaid since July) we don’t buy much of the beverage.
I have drawn a fresh horse from the remounts we are in charge of; my last gee-gee I called “Barkis,” because he was willing, this brute I shall have to dub “Smith,” because he certainly is not—Willing.
N.B.—Our mounts are always known as “troop horses,” those belonging to the officers though, however Rosinante-like, are invariably, politely and with dignity alluded to as “chargers.”
Thursday morning. We had to turn out and stand to arms this morning at three, an attack being expected on the railway. I, happening to have the stable picket, had the pleasure of arousing the recumbent forms of the sleepers with the joyous Christmas carol of “Christians, awake! come, salute the happy morn.” You ought to have seen the “Christians” awake; to have heard them would have been too awful.
So from three till six we stood to arms, a thick fog enveloping us, making it impossible to see more than fifty yards to our front or rear. But they did not come. I understand that we may have “the stand to arms” wheeze every morning now, so we have something to look forward to.