July 8th
This is an ideal ship for a hospital ship, luxuriously fitted with cabins and saloons. The ship is painted white, with a red band running all round and a large red cross in the centre on either side. At night a large red cross of electric globes is illuminated, and the great ship, lit up, makes a pretty sight. We had a burial yesterday, stopping, and a great hush falling over the vessel as the body was shot over the side and fell with a big thump and splash into the sea, resting on the surface a few seconds and then slowly sinking. I thought of the words of Prince Henry in “Henry IV,” Part I: “Food for worms, brave Percy,” but the word “fishes” should be substituted for “worms.”
A great number of wounded men sleep on deck, and, by Jove! they do look glad that they are out of it for a bit, although they want to get back after a change—some of them.
All the nurses are dears, dead keen on their job. I am not wounded, so I don’t like talking to them.
The badly wounded officers are in beds in a large saloon, and one can look over a balustrade and see them. They are patient, and they stick the monotony admirably.
One fine chap, a Captain, has a lump of flesh torn from his back by a bomb, and has to lie in one position. As I pass along the gallery overlooking the ward at all hours of the day I can see him, either calmly looking at the roof, reading or dozing, and always in the same position, in which he will have to lie for weeks. Bombs make terrible wounds. My friend Cox, of the Essex, is on board. He was the officer that I saw limping back after the battle on the Wednesday after we had landed, and we have some chats together about those thrilling days. He and his officers were on the Dongola, from which boat we landed, and I have mentioned how they played “The Priest of the Parish.” I never want to play that game again. A good percentage of those chaps have gone now. There are only two officers in the Essex who have not been hit.
Cox has been back to the Peninsula once, but is now going to Alexandria, sick. I am nearly fit, but bored stiff, and want to get back to my job. The sea is calm and it is a lovely day, and awfully peaceful and quiet on the ship.
The stewards are very attentive; they are natives, as are also most of the crew. I always think that the nigger makes a better servant than the white man. Colonel Bruce, of the Gurkhas, is on board wounded, and has his servant with him. A ravine up the gully that he captured is now called Bruce’s Ravine. This servant at the hospital in Lemnos was allowed to sleep on the floor beside his master’s bed, and if his master stirred in his sleep, he sat up watching him intently.
We all had to go before the Medical Board this morning, a R.A.M.C. General at the head.
We had another burial to-day.