Christmas in Hospital
Imperial Yeomanry Hospital,
Pretoria.
Monday, December 24th, 1900.
Here’s to the doc’s an’ the nusses,
The bloomin’ ord’lies too,
Who tend to us poor worn cusses,
All of ’em good and true.
Fightin’ with death unceasin’,
With ne’er a word of brag,
Sorrow an’ anguish easin’,
Under the Red Cross flag.
Extract from forthcoming “Orspital Odes.”
Christmas Eve! Forsooth! And it falls on a homesick British Army in South Africa, home-yearning and longing for a sight of the sea (our sea!) like the famous Grecian host of old. If you ask a British soldier, “How goes it?” he promptly growls, “Feddup.” I wonder what the Grecian warrior’s equivalent for “fed up” was. He had one I am sure.
Christmas Eve, forsooth! Where is the prickly, red-berried holly? Where, too, the mistletoe with its pearly berries? And where, most of all, queries your enforced member of a Blue Ribbon Army—where is the Wassail Bowl?
The weather is fine, and under our tents we don’t feel the heat of the sun. After the monotony of khaki here, there and everywhere, to which one gets accustomed on the veldt, the colours one sees here are quite enlivening. To begin with, place aux dames the nurses are arrayed in grey, white and red, and the patients who arrive in torn, worn, dirty or bloody khaki, surrender all their warlike habiliments to an orderly, have a bath and then “blossom in purple and red”—pyjamas, or in pinks, stripes or spots.
The food is very good here, and, as Tommy says, there is bags of it. “Bags” is the great Army word for abundance. It is used apparently without discrimination, and so one hears of bags of jam, bags of beer, bags of bags, bags of fun, or anything else in or out of reason.
For a student of dialect this hospital opens a large field. It is a regular Babel at times, our Sister speaking a superior Irish and the orderly an inferior brogue. In our tent are a Scotch, two Welsh, a Dorset and a Sussex Yeoman. In the next tent are some regulars of the Northumberland Fusiliers and Yorkshire Light Infantry, and a true-bred cockney Hussar, and their speech requires careful attention if the listener wishes to understand it, I can assure you. A few Kaffirs talking a bastard Dutch and an old Harrovian, who stutters like an excited soda water syphon, completes the Babel in my immediate neighbourhood.
The Irish orderly, Mick, by the way, is one of the most wonderful and plausible fellows I have met out here. To say he could talk a donkey’s hind leg off would be a mild way of describing his excessive volubility—he would chatter a centipede’s legs off. Often when he comes in, with another orderly’s broom, to make a pretence of sweeping the tent out, and leaning on the stick, starts retailing stories of mystery and imagination, I lay down the book I am trying to read, and closing my eyes, drift into the land of true romance.
It is a land uninhabited by ladyes fayre in the general way, for the dramatis personæ usually comprise “th’ ortherly corp’ril”; “th’ sargint of th’ gyard”; “th’ qua’thermasther, an’ a low blaygyard he waz”; “th’ gin’ril o’ th’ disthrict”; “a lif’tint in ‘H’ Company”; and other military personages, with “th’ ortherly room” or a “disthrict coort-martial” thrown in. If I had only had a phonograph I would preserve them, and when I get home, have them set up in type, tastily bound, and announced as “Tales from the Ill, by R—. K—.,” and then live a life of opulent ease on the proceeds thereof.
“Th’ sisther,” as he calls her, says he is a dreadful man, and from her point of view I don’t think she is far away from the truth. He argues about everything, and is always blaming his fellow orderlies. Still, it is the dreadful men who are invariably so entertaining.
I have just heard that a friend, Trooper Bewes, a cheery fellow of the Devons, has succumbed to his wound. Christmas Eve, forsooth! His chum was shot through the stomach, and died on the veldt. Poor fellow, he (the chum) was always swallowing with avidity any rumour about our going home—perhaps he was too keen, and ironical fate stepped in. It’s a hard Christmas Box for his poor people, is it not?
We are debating whether to hang our socks up or not. If I do, and get something inside, it will probably be a scorpion. I found one in my boot a few days ago. The latest from our cheerful town pessimist, is “Don’t be surprised if you are out another twelve months.” Our Harrovian friend has summed up our feelings very aptly by stuttering, “If I had a bigger handkerchief I’d weep.”
A couple of orderlies have just passed our tent, bearing an inanimate blanket-covered form on a stretcher—the last of my poor Devon friend, beyond a doubt. Another was carried by about two hours ago, while we were having tea. Christmas Eve, forsooth! Well, I will resume this to-morrow, or on Boxing Day.
Christmas Day.
There are not many people who would do any letter-writing on the afternoon of this day. But out here one does marvellous deeds, which one would never dream of attempting at home. So here I am, my dinner finished, adding a few lines to this letter, commenced yesterday.
Last night, in lieu of the festive carol singers, our waits (pickets) entertained us nearly all the night with volleys and independent firing. Whether the foe was real or imaginary I have not yet heard, but I believe the former. At four this morning I was awakened to have a fomentation on my leg, and drowsily realised it was Christmas Day. Then I fell asleep again, and dreamed of horrible adventures with Brother Boer. When we all awakened, we tried hard to convince one another it was indeed Christmas Day; one man actually going to the length of looking in his sock with a sneer, and all through the day “this time last year” anecdotes have been going strong amongst us of the I.Y.
“And a sorrow’s crown of sorrows
Is remembering happier things.”
After breakfast I strolled up to the post-office tent on a forlorn hope for letters. There were none for me, but one and a fine Scotch shortbread for the wounded Fife man in the bed next to mine. The cake, the beauty of which we quickly marred, was tastefully decorated with sugared devices, and the inscription, “Ye’ll a’ be welcome hame!”
Another fomentation, a visit from the doctor, who put us all on stout, and dinner was up. This consisted of the roast beef of Old—oh, no, it didn’t, it was roast old trek ox, and I was unable to damage it with my well-worn teeth, so left it. The “duff” was not bad, and the quantity being augmented by a cold tinned one, which our Harrovian friend produced from his haversack, we fared very well, finishing up the repast with shortbread and a small bottle of stout each, with a diminutive pineapple for dessert.
Everybody I meet seems agreed on one point, and that is there has been no Christmas this year. Well, let us hope we shall have a real old-fashioned one next year.
New Year’s Eve.
“The year is dying, let him die.”
Them’s my sentiments—“let him die.” Despite the nil nisi bonum sentiment, I can’t find it in my heart to say (at this present time and in my present humour) a good word for the dying year, his last days having been ones to be remembered with—er—oblivion only, so to speak. Since writing last, I have been flying high—that is to say, my temperature has—having registered 104.4 (don’t omit the point) for a couple of days. I was rather proud of this, for, as you know, I didn’t swagger in here with a fever or anything like that. No, I simply and quietly waited about a week, and then let them see what I could do without any real effort. And that is the right way to do things.
Look at Kitchener. People out here have been saying: “Wait till Kitchener is in command,” and “Kitchener will do this and that.” I sincerely hope he will. Mick, our day orderly, has just told me that “to hear people spake, ye’d think he cud brake eggs wid a hard stick,”—which I believe is his sarcastic way of summing up hero worship. I suggested most men could do that; whereupon Mick retorted: “Ye don’t know, they might miss ’em.” You never catch Mick napping. I only wish I could record the story of how he chucked the kits of “the Hon. Goschen and a nephew of the Juke of Portland’s” out of one of the tents in 22 Ward, because they didn’t choose the things which they wanted kept out, and let him take the rest away to the store tent. Needless to say, he was unaware at the time that he was entertaining angels.
Kitchener visited the Hospital some time ago but I missed seeing him. I was sleeping at the time, and was awakened by his voice inquiring how we were, and turned round just in time to see a khaki mackintosh disappear through the door. Of course, I had met him before. He turned me out of a house at which the C.-in-C. and staff had luncheon the day we were marching on Johannesburg. My luncheon on that occasion consisted of a nibble at a small, raw potato.
(Only one verse.)
When you’ve said “the war is over,” and “the end is now in sight,”
And you’ve welcomed home your valiant C.I.V.’s,
There are other absent beggars in the everlasting fight,
And not the least of these your Yeoman, please.
He’s a casual sort of Johnnie, and his casualties are great,
And on the veldt and kopjes you will find him,
For he’s still on active service, eating things without a plate,
And thinking of the things he’s left behind him.
I’ll spare you the chorus.
The accompanying sketch, perhaps, needs a little explanation. To be brief, the British Army feels aggrieved at the praise bestowed on the C.I.V. Regiment, and its early return to England. To hear a discussion on our poor unoffending and former comrades is to have a sad exhibition of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.
Any amount of fellows have got bad teeth, and when one considers the trek-ox and the army biscuit, one cannot be surprised. A lance-corporal of ours went before the doctor last week on this score; he had practically no teeth, and has been sent into Pretoria on a month’s furlough. It is generally circulated in the squadron that the authorities expect fresh ones to grow in that time.
Tuesday, January 1st, 1901.
I saw the New Year in—in bed. There is little or no news, when we do get some it is usually unsatisfactory. I suppose you know we have no paper in Pretoria; the best they can do for us is to let us buy for a tikkie the Bloemfontein Post, always four days old, and its contents! The same brief, ancient and censored war news, the inspired leading article, a column on a cricket match between two scratch Bloemfontein teams, a treason trial, advertisements for I.L.H. and other recruits, and that is about all. Well, here’s “A Happy New Year to us all.”
There are some terrible dunder-headed beings in this world of ours. I saw one the day I came through Pretoria to this hospital. We were acquaintances in London, and with the eye of a hawk he picked me out of a load of dirty, khaki-clad wretches, and pounced on me with “What on earth did you come out here for?” I told him “to play knuckle bones.”
In the tent next to this is a quiet man with a gun-shot wound in his knee. He is Vicary, V.C., of the Dorset Regiment. You may remember he won it in the Tirah campaign for a deed immeasurably superior to that of Findlater’s; he saved an officer’s life by killing five Afridis, shooting two and bayoneting and butt-ending the rest—a messy job. He is a small, quiet man, and wild horses could not induce him to talk of the winning of his V.C. He won’t say a “blooming” word on the subject to anyone, not even an orderly.
We have a small library in the hospital (Mrs. Dick Chamberlain’s). I got Max O’Rell’s “John Bull and Co.” from it a few days ago. It concludes with the author’s reply to a question asked him the day before he left South Africa.
“Well, after all these long travels what are you going to do now?”
“What am I going to do?” he replied; “I am going to Europe to look at an old wall with a bit of ivy on it.”
And, by the Lord Harry, that’s just what I want to do myself.
I’m getting rather tired of my prolonged loaf in Arcadia, for that is the name of this part of Pretoria, and although it is really not my fault, still I feel ashamed of myself for not being with the company. Still, even if I were out of the hospital, I should merely be able to join a number of details of Sussex, Devon, Dorset, Fife, and other Yeomen who are waiting in Pretoria an indefinite time for remounts and fresh equipment. I daresay my last letter, if it arrived at all arrived later than usual, as the day the mails left here there was a biggish fight a few miles down the line at the first station (Irene), and the train had to return. It is also rumoured that the home mails due were held up and collared, a hardy perennial this.
All last Friday we could hear big guns pounding away, and we heard on Saturday that the enemy had pulled up a good deal of the line, but the fort, or forts, at Irene had held their own. In addition to this, rumour hath it that Delarey and eight hundred (or 500, or 1,000) have been killed or captured, also that Clements has been killed. But all this, as usual, needs confirmation. So inaccurate or vague is actual news when we do get it, that a big fight might take place in the nearest back-garden, and we should be absolutely ignorant of the real details of the combat.
I have just heard that the news that General Clements is dead is correct. He died of a wound received some days ago I am told. If it is true, we have lost another good officer and brave man.
We certainly have made every use of our privilege as Englishmen to grumble since we have been out here. A certain Bill Fletcher, erstwhile a Cockney pot boy, now of Kitchener’s Horse, has just taken a bed in our tent, and has announced that he is tired of the “blooming” country, where the “blooming” flowers don’t smell, the “blooming” birds don’t sing, and the “blooming” fruit don’t taste (this latter charge is not quite correct), and he wants to get back to the “blooming” fog and smoke of London; all this, and he has only been at it five months.