Southward Ho!
No. 2 Hospital Train,
Monday, February 18th.
On Friday I had my sheet marked with those magic words “For base,” paraded on Saturday morning before the P.M.O., and a few hours later was told to go to the pack store, draw my kit, and be ready to entrain at five. So I had to rush about.
It was soon time to parade for the station, and I had to rush through as many leave-takings as possible. Good-bye to Sister Douglas, Sister Mavius, Sister O’Connor; to an Australian Bushman friend with injured toes, who hobbles about on his heels; to poor old Scotty, the New Zealander, as game as they make them, who is to have his right arm off on Monday (to-day); to a big, good-natured gunner of No. 10 Mountain Battery, whose acquaintance I had only just made; to a Piccadilly Yeoman; to our day orderly, and dozens of other good fellows, and I had said farewell, or perhaps only au revoir, to the I.Y. Hospital Arcadia, with the doctor of our ward, Dr. Douglas, one of the cleverest and best, the Sisters with their albums, and all its tragedies and comedies. Perjuring my soul beyond redemption by cordial promises to write to all and sundry, so I left them.
Once aboard the lugger, I should say train, our berths were allotted to us, and we soon settled down. The whole thing is very much like being on shipboard, save that there the authorities are all for turning you out of your hammocks (“turn out o’ them ’ammicks!”), and here they are all for keeping you in your bunk, the space being so limited. On each man’s bed was a well-filled white canvas bag, being a present from the Good Hope and British Red Cross Societies. These were opened with no little curiosity. Strange to say one of the first things an old toothless Yorkshireman drew out was—a toothbrush. This caused general amusement. There was nothing shoddy about the contents of these bags; they contained a suit of pyjamas, shoes, a shirt, socks, towel, sponge bag with sponge, soap, and toothbrush in it, a hairbrush, and handkerchief. So could you but see me now, as I write, you would behold a being clad in a swagger suit of Cambridge blue pyjamas.
Before daybreak a terrific bang aroused us to the fact that the engine which was to bear us southward had come into action, and soon we were under way. At Elandsfontein we beheld the mail train with our mails going up. Farewell to mails! Kroonstad was reached at half-past two, and we were shunted into a siding till this morning, when we resumed our journey, passing through Bloemfontein, to our joy, and arriving at Springfontein soon after dark.
What a gigantic affair this war has been, and is. To travel through these countries, the Transvaal, Orange River Colony, and the Cape Colony (Tuesday morning, we are now in the latter) by rail alone is to feel all criticism silenced.
Already we have passed hundreds of miles of flat veldt, with now and again big kopjes in the background. At every station, bridge, and small culvert are bodies of regulars, militia, and volunteers, or colonial and other mounted troops. And when one considers that the bigger towns are being strongly held, also various posts all over these countries, and columns are operating in various districts, the whole affair fills one with wonder and admiration. We expect to reach Deelfontein this evening. An R.A.M.C. man has just been discussing that ghastly failure, inoculation, with another man. Said he: “Inoculation is bally tommy-rot!” Quoth the other, “That be hanged for a yarn. Tommy rot, indeed, it nearly killed me!” It’s a fact, the unnecessary suffering which was endured by the poor beggars who allowed this experiment to be performed upon them, with the hope of spoofing the fever fiend, has been great. And strange to say, in many cases they (the inoculated) have been the first victims.
Once again we are amongst our old enemies, the kopjes, which, south of the Orange River Colony, begin to assert themselves again. There has been any amount of rain down this way, and muddy water is flowing like the milk and honey of the promised land. From wet tents and saturated blanket kennels bronzed ragamuffins appear at every halting spot, and simultaneously they and we ask each other the old, old question, “Any news?”
Sometimes they break the monotony of the negative by telling us that “De Wet is mortally wounded,” or “has got away again,” and we tell them that “Botha is surrounded.” Some of the sanguine spirits aboard this train are buoying themselves up with the idea of getting home. Alas! there’s many a slip ’twixt the land and the ship, as I fear they will find to their bitter disappointment.
It is now Tuesday evening. We have just reached Naauwpoort, where we are spending the night. The Cape mail train has been detained here all day, the line ahead having been blown up, or some such thing, a train derailed and fired on, a Yeoman and several niggers killed, and other fellows injured. Brother Boer seems more in evidence down here than in any other place we have passed between Pretoria and this place.
Imperial Yeomanry Hospital,
Deelfontein.
We arrived here on Thursday, February 21st. Between Naauwpoort and De Aar we passed the derailed train. Mr. Boer had done his work well—from his point of view. The engine (575) was lying on its side quite smashed, as were also several broken and splintered trucks, while a few graves completed the picture. But the line was intact once again. An officer of Engineers and some men were standing by their completed task as we slowly came up and passed the spot.
Line Clear: o’er blood and sweat, and pain, and sorrow’s road I ran,
And every sleeper was a wound, and every rail a man.
The first person I beheld from the carriage window on arriving here was one of our Sussex fellows. He seemed very pleased to see me, and I certainly was to see him. He has been here a week or more, and in that time had acquainted himself with the ropes. Having been given accommodation in the emergency tent for the night, he took me by divers ways to a bell tent in which I found two or three men of Paget’s Horse, acquaintances of the “Delphic” days, another Sussex man, and a large washing basin containing beer—obtained no matter how. Into the basin a broken cup and a tin mug were being constantly dipped. With this, cigarettes, and chatter, the evening passed very agreeably. Of course this is early to criticise the Hospital and its working, but the general impression of we ex-Arcadians is that the Pretoria shop is far superior.
As regards reaching Cape Town, one cannot say much. A good many of our fellows have been sent back to Elandsfontein, which has been styled as “the home for lost Yeomanry.” In the station, a few hundred yards off, is a fine khaki armoured train, with a pom-pom named “Edward VII.” mounted on the centre truck.