With Methuens Column on an Ambulance Train | Page 4

colonial rebels. The South African Light Horse has already been
mentioned. For those of us who found it impossible to pledge ourselves
for the whole period of the war, owing to duties at home which could
not be left indefinitely, and who possessed some knowledge of
ambulance work, an excellent opening was found in one of the
ambulance corps originated by the Red Cross Society under Colonel
Young's able and energetic management.
Having volunteered for service on one of the ambulance trains and been
accepted, I set off with a corporal to Woodstock Hospital to secure my
uniform and kit. The quartermaster who supplied me was justly
annoyed because some mistake had been made about the hour for my
appearance, and when he rather savagely demanded what sized boots I
wore, I couldn't for the life of me remember and blurted out "nines,"
whereas my normal "wear" is "sevens". Instantly a pair of enormous
boots and a correspondingly colossal pair of shoes were hurled at me,
while, from various large pigeon-holes in a rack, bootlaces, socks,
putties and other things were rained upon me. I couldn't help laughing
as I picked them up. Here I was equipped from head to foot with two
uniform suits of khaki--which mercifully fitted well--shirts, boots,
shoes, helmet, field-service cap and other minutiae, and the entire
equipment occupied some four minutes all told. What a contrast to the

considerable periods of time often consumed at home over the colour of
a tie or the shape of a collar!
Shouldering the waterproof kit-bag containing my brand-new garments,
and saluting the irritated officer, I marched off to ambulance train No. 2,
where I speedily exchanged my civilian habiliments for her Majesty's
uniform. The "fall" of my nether garments was not perfect, but on the
whole I was rather pleased with the fit of the khaki, relieved on the arm
with a red Geneva Cross.
One of the two ambulance trains on the western side is manned entirely
by regulars, the other (No. 2) is in charge of an R.A.M.C. officer, but
the staff under him is composed almost wholly of volunteers. This staff
consists of a civilian doctor from a London hospital attached to the
South African Field Force, two Red Cross nurses from England, a staff
sergeant, two corporals, a couple of cooks and ten "orderlies" in charge
of the five wards.
Introductions to my comrades followed. We were certainly one of the
oddest collection of human beings I have ever come across. Our
pursuits when not in active service were extremely varied--one of our
number was an accountant, another a chemist, a third brewed beer in
Johannesburg, a fourth was an ex-baker, and so on. We were, on the
whole, a very harmonious little society, and it was with real regret that
I left my comrades when I returned to England. At least four of our
number were refugees from Johannesburg, and very anxious to return.
These unfortunates retailed at intervals doleful news about
well-furnished houses being rifled, Boer children smashing up
porcelain ornaments and playfully cutting out the figures from costly
paintings with a pair of scissors, and grand pianos being annexed to
adorn the cottages of Kaffir labourers. Another member of our little
society had a very fair voice and good knowledge of music, for in the
days of his boyhood he had sung in the choir of a Welsh cathedral;
since that time he had practised as a medical man and driven a tramcar.
The weather was very trying sometimes and J----, our Welsh singer,
had acquired an almost supernatural skill in leaping from the train
when it stopped for a couple of minutes, securing a bottle of Bass and
then boarding the guard's van when the train was moving off. On one of
these successful forays I saw J---- send three respectable people
sprawling on their backs as he violently collided with them in his

desperate efforts to overtake the receding train. The victims slowly got
up and some nasty remarks about J---- were wafted to us over the veldt.
We had a couple of cooks. One of them was an American who had
served in the Cuban war, the other a big Irishman called Ben. The
American chef, being the only man out of uniform on the train, had
access to alcoholic refreshments at the stations, which were very
properly denied to the troops, and he rejoiced exceedingly to exercise
his privilege. He could sleep in almost any position, and generally lay
down on the kitchen dresser without any form of pillow, or slept
serenely in a sitting posture with his feet elevated far above his head.
We steamed away from the Capetown station in the afternoon. The
regular service had to a large extent been suspended, and here and there
sentries