Campaign Pictures of the War in South Africa (1899-1900) | Page 8

a small hospital, the name of
which I do not know. It was simply a farmhouse turned into a place for
the wounded. On the road thither we called at many farms, and at every
one men, women, and children came out to see us. Not one taunting
word was uttered in our hearing, not one braggart sentence passed their
lips. Men brought us cooling drinks, or moved us into more
comfortable positions on the trolly. Women, with gentle fingers, shifted
bandages, or washed wounds, or gave us little dainties that come so
pleasant in such a time; whilst the little children crowded round us with
tears running down their cheeks as they looked upon the bloodstained
khaki clothing of the wounded British. Let no man or woman in all the
British Empire whose son or husband lies wounded in the hands of the
Boers fear for his welfare, for it is a foul slander to say that the Boers
do not treat their wounded well. England does not treat her own men
better than the Boers treat the wounded British, and I am writing of that
which I have seen and know beyond the shadow of a doubt.
From the little farmhouse hospital I was sent on in an ambulance train
to the hospital at Springfontein, where all the nurses and medical staff
are foreigners, all of them trained and skilful. Even the nurses had a
soldierly air about them. Here everything was as clean as human
industry could make it, and the hospital was worked like a piece of
military mechanism. I only had a day or two here, and then I was sent
by train in an ambulance carriage to the capital of the Orange Free State,
and here I am in Bloemfontein Hospital. There are a lot of our wounded
here, both officers and men, some of whom have been here for months.
I have made it my business to get about amongst the private soldiers, to
question them concerning the treatment they have received since the
moment the Mauser rifles tumbled them over, and I say emphatically
that in every solitary instance, without one single exception, our
countrymen declare that they have been grandly treated. Not by the

hospital nurses only, not by the officials alone, but by the very men
whom they were fighting. Our "Tommies" are not the men to waste
praise on any men unless it is well deserved, but this is just about how
"Tommy" sums up the situation:
"The Boer is a rough-looking beggar in the field, 'e don't wear no
uniform, 'nd 'e don't know enough about soldiers' drill to keep himself
warm, but 'e can fight in 'is own bloomin' style, which ain't our style. If
'e'd come out on the veldt, 'nd fight us our way, we'd lick 'im every time,
but when it comes to fightin' in the kopjes, why, the Boer is a dandy,
'nd if the rest of Europe don't think so, only let 'em have a try at 'im 'nd
see. But when 'e has shot you he acts like a blessed Christian, 'nd bears
no malice. 'E's like a bloomin' South Sea cocoanut, not much to look at
outside, but white 'nd sweet inside when yer know 'im, 'nd it's when
you're wounded 'nd a prisoner that you get a chance to know 'im, see."
And "Tommy" is about correct in his judgment.
The Boers have made most excellent provision for the treatment of
wounded after battle. All that science can do is done. Their medical
men fight as hard to save a British life or a British limb as medical men
in England would battle to save life or limb of a private person. At the
Bloemfontein Hospital everything is as near perfection, from a medical
and surgical point, as any sane man can hope to see. It is an extensive
institution. One end is set apart for the Boer wounded, the other for the
British. No difference is made between the two in regard to
accommodation--food, medical attendance, nursing, or visiting.
Ministers of religion come and go daily--almost hourly--at both ends.
Our men, when able to walk, are allowed to roam around the grounds,
but, of course, are not allowed to go beyond the gates, being prisoners
of war. Concerning our matron (Miss M.M. Young) and nurses, all I
can say is that they are gentlewomen of the highest type, of whom any
nation in the world might well be proud.
I have met one or two old friends since I came here, notably Lieutenant
Bowling, of the Australian Horse, who is now able to get about, and is
cheerful and jolly. Lieutenant Bowling has his right thumb shot off, and
had a terribly close call for his life, a Mauser