The Sisters’ Albums
Sunday, January 26th, 1901.
Still at the above address, but going strong, and almost losing the Spartan habits engendered by my recent life on the veldt!
News is very scarce with us, and to dare to write you a long letter would be the height of impudence, so I will let you off with a moderately short one this week.
Last week an original burlesque (perhaps I ought to politely designate it a musical comedy) was produced in a large marquee here, which is called “the theatre.” I don’t know what the name of the piece was but it dealt with a Hospital Commission, and the dramatis personæ consisted of a Boer spy, posing as the Commissioner, the real Commissioner, as a new nurse, nurses, orderlies, Kaffirs and doctors, amongst the latter being a Scotch Doctor, who drank a deal of “whuskey” and whose diagnoses were most entertaining. It was quite pathetic to watch the keen interest with which the audience followed the diversions of “Dr. Sandy” with the bottle.
I have been concerned in “doing something” in our day nurse’s album lately (I think I have already alluded to the presence of the album evil out here). I have willingly volunteered to contribute to these volumes, hoping to see their contents, but, alas, in most cases I have had to start the tome; however, in the present case the album has been well started by various patients. Most of the efforts are strikingly original and all in verse, so I determined to do something for the honour of the county of my birth, and, securing a pen and ink, perpetrated some Michael Angelic-like sketches of “the-ministering-angel-thou,” order. Then, hearing that a poem (scratch a Tommy and you’ll find a poet) was expected, valiantly started off with something like this:
“She wore a cape of scarlet,
The eve when first we met;
A gown of grey was on her form
(I wore some flannelette!):
She was a sister to us all,
And yet no relation;
She stuck upon my dexter leg,
A hot fomentation.”
But appearing suggestive of something else, I crossed it out and finally produced the following ambitious ode:—
The Great Panacea.
Poets from time of yore have sung
In every clime and every tongue,
Of beauty and the pow’r of love,
Of things on earth and things above.
Sonnets to ladyes’ eyes indited,
And for such stuff been killed or knighted.
They’ve raved on this and raved on that,
The dog or the domestic cat.
On blessëd peace and glorious war,
On deeds of daring dashed with gore,
And scores of other wondrous deeds,
Which History or Tradition heeds.
But I would humbly sing to praise
Something unhonoured in those lays—
The cure for broken legs and arms,
For suff’rers of rheumatic qualms.
For wounds by bullet or the knife,
Obtained in peace or deadly strife;
For broken heads or sprainëd toes,
And myriad other sorts of woes,
For that incurable disease
“Fed up” or “tired of C.I.V.’s.”
For pom-pom fever, Mauseritis,
The toothache or the loafertitis.
For broken heart or broken nose,
For every sickness science knows.
All these and ev’ry other ill,
Are cured by that well-known Pill;
’Tis made on earth with pow’rs divine,
I sing in praise of Number Nine.
To expatiate further upon the famous “No. 9 Pill” would be absurd, as it is as great an institution of the British Army out here as the 4.7 or pom-pom.
We are still suffering (worse than ever) from a paucity of news and a superabundance of rumours; indeed the supply of the latter far exceeds the demand, and budding fictionists eclipse themselves daily. Had the Psalmist lived in these days, I feel sure he would hardly have contented himself with the gentle statement that “all men are liars,” but have indulged in language far more emphatic. Still as far as we are concerned, the Boers can beat the most brilliant efforts of our own fellows any day.
We have a lot of Regulars in this hospital, and it is amusing at times, and at others rather irritating, to hear some of their criticisms of the Yeomanry. I recently heard some of them (good fellows) chaffing merrily over certain Yeomanry (a very small number), who were concerned in an unfortunate affair some time ago, totally ignoring the fact that a large number of Regular Infantry and Mounted Infantry were also equally involved. Again the Cavalry may make a mistake, and they have made a few, but we don’t hear much about their incapacity, but let the Yeomanry commit a similar error, and we hear about it, I can tell you. I venture these few remarks in common fairness to the Yeomanry, my temperature being quite normal, as I fancy they have often been used as a butt where others would have done as well.
The explanation, it appears, is this. A corps of new Yeomanry is being formed, who are to receive five shillings a day; we also, of the original Yeomanry, are to receive the same at the expiration of a year’s service, having up till then been paid the regular cavalry pay, for which we enlisted. Naturally, Thomas A. feels exceedingly wroth at “blooming ammychewers” receiving such remuneration, and to use his own metaphor, “chews the fat” accordingly. His position and feelings remind me very strongly of the poor soldier in “The Tin Gee-Gee!”
Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and sighed,
So I patted his little tin head,
“What vexes your little tin soul?” said I,
And this is what he said:
“I’ve been on this stall a very long time,
And I’m marked ’1/3’ as you see,
While just above my head he’s marked ’5 bob,’
Is a bloke in the Yeoman-ree.
Now he hasn’t any service and he hasn’t got no drill,
And I’m better far than he,
Then why mark us at fifteen pence,
And five bob the Yeoman-ree?”
etc. etc. etc.
I am very sorry for poor friend Thomas.
On Wednesday (the 23rd) we heard the sad news that our Queen was dead. It came as quite a blow to us, and even now seems hardly credible; we had only heard the previous day of her serious condition. All through the Hospital everyone seems to be experiencing a personal bereavement. I overheard a Tommy remark, in a subdued tone full of respect, when he was told the news, “Well she done her jewty.” And I am sure it summed up his and our feelings very accurately. A man has also told me of the death of Captain McLean, at Krugersdorp, which is very sad; he always looked so fit. Mr. Cory is now captain of our squadron and the only Sussex Yeomanry officer in South Africa.