Читать книгу South Africa Odyssey - Michael Tyquin - Страница 1

Mark Dunkley GP returned to his inner city practice just as the sun reached its noonday high. Despite his 26 years he looked drawn and tired. In fact he was so tired that one or two of his earlier sweethearts may have struggled to recognize the handsome beau who had been the source of their attentions at a host of university balls and picnics. While at the University of Sydney the aspiring medical student had been awarded a half blue in rowing and was considered an asset on the ballroom floor. Like his father he was a keen punter and enjoyed attending race meetings at nearby Randwick. He was gifted with a decidedly charming personality and had enjoyed the company of several young ladies, but he found them too talkative, too ambitious or simply boring.

Until recently he had not found the 'right' girl as his mother was fond of telling him. He was really searching for a partner who shared his passion for life and living. It seemed that petite and reserved Emily Doherty – a qualified nurse at the Prince Alfred Hospital, daughter of a Sydney trading store magnate and a year older than her suitor, met his expectations. Dunkley had met his sweetheart at the Medical Ball the previous spring and had at once been struck by her classic beauty, particularly her red hair, and her intellectual strength. The couple had been walking out together since, although no formal announcement had been made of an engagement, which set some tongues wagging. While her experience of hospital wards had honed an already strong personality she had a sense of humour which she often used to great effect to draw Dunkley out of his 'brown' moods, as she called them.

She was also proud of him as a newly minted militia officer in the army medical corps and at her request wore his new blue and scarlet uniform to the formal dinner at which the couple announced their engagement. A week later she accompanied Dunkley to Victoria Barracks where he had papers to sign. His commander, Lieutenant Colonel Robards, a man devoted to his wife of many years, found himself looking after Emily's figure as the pair left his office with Dunkley. Emily Doherty was a woman of strong character who had almost fallen out with her father, Sir James Doherty, when as a teenager she steadfastly maintained her desire to pursue a career as a nurse. Sir James was understandably disappointed that he had put his eldest daughter though an expensive private school, followed by a year in Geneva, and was hoping for a political alliance in the form of her marriage to a leading politician, Sir Robert Smart.

But Emily had other ideas and took herself on a steamer to London to attend the Nightingale School. Her ambition, charm and natural abilities soon marked her out as a leader. After only two years she was appointed private nurse to Harley Street specialist, Sir Michael Barnett, before returning to the colonies in 1896. On her return she was appointed assistant matron at Sydney’s public hospital where her skill brought her to the attention of that institution’s honorary surgeon, Doctor William Williams, who was also the senior medical officer in the colony’s tiny defence force.

She had definite ideas on the place of women and soon raised the issues of female military nurses with Colonel William. After months of official meetings and cables between Sydney and the War Office in London the NSW Militia was authorized to found an Army nursing corps. Emily’s personal contacts and her reputation soon drew to her a number of enthusiastic young nurses who were not only public spirited, but shared their leader’s taste for adventure. That would come soon enough. Williams was sufficiently impressed by her no nonsense approach to medical care that he appointed her first matron of the nursing corps. She took no small pleasure in reminding her prospective fiancée that they now had equal rank, or at least she held the honorary rank of captain.

'Well, don't get any ideas above your station', he chided her.

'And what if I do?

'You might end up in South Africa looking after some wretched Boer farmer. How would you like that?'

'I should like it very well. A patient is a patient as you know.'

And so the banter went on each time they met.

Dunkley had been calling on patients since early morning. His visits had included the straight forward, but unexpected delivery of two red-faced boys of Mrs. Woodruff, the butcher's wife. The man had still to get over the surprise. As he tossed his hat onto the hallway table Dunkley was met by his diminutive housekeeper.

‘Oh doctor, here is an urgent cable come for you.’

‘Thank you Mrs. Ryan, I am done in.’

He took the wire without looking at it and went immediately to his little study, which looked directly onto the sun-soaked street. He grimaced at the cacophony made by the cicadas in the trees.

‘Would a cup of tea be in order?’ he asked as he opened the door.

‘Certainly, doctor,’ replied Mrs. Ryan.

‘Oh, and Mrs. Chomely is here again for her back.’

‘Very good, I’ll see her directly.’

He closed the door behind him, dropped his medical bag, a graduation gift from his proud parents, on the floor; placed the message on his desk and settled heavily into his leather chair. He gazed out the window onto the sun-soaked street, then rubbing his eyes with one hand he picked up the cable. It bore the cipher O.H.M.S. which adorned all the colony's official correspondence. He opened it gently with a tortoise-shell paper knife.

‘CAPTAIN DUNKLEY, NSWAMC, it began, REPORT TO PMO VICTORIA BARRACKS REF SERVICE FOR SOUTH AFRICA. IMMEDIATE. SGND LT COL.WILKES.’

‘Dear God', he thought, closing his eyes. For several months the colony had been swept up in a brief bout of imperial fervour, and only ten weeks previously he had signed up and volunteered his services for South Africa. He had a sudden twinge of guilt as he wondered for the first time if his decision lay behind Emily's push for a military nurses.

There had been no indication that his unit would be called upon to ‘do their bit’, as his sergeant major called it. He had attended drill weekends and a week-long bush camp with his stretcher-bearers. They formed B Company of the New South Wales Field Ambulance. The ambulance was staffed by of six officers and eighty-five Other Ranks drawn from all over Sydney and its surrounding districts, stretching from the Blue Mountains to the coastal belt south of Wollongong.

Dunkley enjoyed the break with routine that the militia training provided, and he was quite proud of his new uniform. His sisters had more than once told him that he cut a dashing figure in it, but since the first euphoric days of the colony's flirtation with war in the previous year, he could feel the excitement gradually leaving him. And really he had put it out of his mind until now, what with a growing practice and all.

The newspapers, fed by their correspondents in the field, ran continuous seesaw reports of defeats and victories, but there was more jingoism than fact and he rarely glanced at anything more than the headlines. News from the war competed with reports of local cricket games, sheep and cattle sales and large advertisements proclaiming a host of sure cures and the latest women’s fashions. There was also information about colonial politicians as they tried to whip their local electorates into something approaching enthusiasm over the forthcoming federation of Australia. But it was the racing page that usually received his undivided attention. The newspaper reports baffled many of his friends, as everyone thought that the Boers were now a spent force.

As his father liked to say 'After all they are up against the greatest empire in world!'

Like most of his countrymen, Dunkley felt nothing more than curiosity about battles in far off South Africa. British and colonial casualties had been slight and he was not entirely convinced of the justice of the British fighting groups of Dutch farmers and miners.

The rattle of a tea service, which the housekeeper set down by his desk, interrupted his thoughts.

‘Thank you Mrs. Ryan. I'll see Mrs. Chomley but I shan't see any other patients until after luncheon.’

‘Very good, doctor.’

He suffered the poor woman's banter before ushering her out with a prescription. Taking his hat from the hallway he followed her out.

He pulled a watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it before stepping lightly off the horse tram at Victoria Barracks. Straightening his Homburg squarely on his head, he walked past two newly khaki-clad sentries at the massive sandstone gate. He reported to the office of the Principal Medical Officer and waited in the dim anteroom. A wheezy staff sergeant sat at a small desk absorbed in a mountain of documents. A huge blowfly struggled vainly against a windowpane, while outside the muffled sounds of parade ground drill could be heard. He was in the process of removing a pocket book from his jacket when the outer door opened and a long-time friend, Captain Louis O'Reilly strode through it.

‘Good Lord, you too eh?’ he exclaimed with the hint of an Irish brogue and smiled boyishly.

As Dunkley rose, the other man shot out a hand and shook that of his friend.

‘I expect we all received our orders. The old man will be in a tizz. He has been looking forward to this ever since the Battle of Colenso.’

‘Let's hope he won't be disappointed,’ rejoined Dunkley.

A bespectacled red-tabbed officer beckoning him through the door interrupted their laughter.

'Ah, Captain Dunkley, do step in.'

When it was O'Reilly's turn the men cherrio-ed each other. They would meet again soon enough to join their unit in its preparations to leave for the fighting.

Thus began, as for many professional men who belonged to the militia, an anxious time for the young medicos of the ambulance. They set their affairs in order, arranged for changes in operating theatre lists with hospitals and sought reliable doctors to act as locums in tenens for their practices, and made out their wills. Both physicians and surgeons in the militia had to prepare themselves for a period of relative poverty while they were on service. But for many of the orderlies, drivers, stretcher-bearers and others, their army service would mean a regular income. This was a luxury for dozens of these men, particularly those from outlying rural areas, who had not had a regular wage since the recession of 1893. But the craftsmen among them, namely the farriers, wheelwrights and harness makers, who all doubled as orderlies or bearers, would find themselves no better off.

The general feeling in the ambulance was one of excitement, an emotion that grew as the whole unit came together to train as one. The men now drilled with a sense of purpose and urgency. Ambulances and wagons were harnessed in record time tents were erected and pulled down again so that the men could do it blind-folded. First aid and stretcher drills were carried out under the critical eye of sergeants and non-commissioned officers.

It was on the second day of this fevered activity that 'the old man', their commanding officer, stepped down from a brougham as it drew up to the barracks gate. His person, uniform and accoutrements were polished to a high gleam. Militiaman he may have been but Lieutenant-Colonel James Horatio Felix Robards FRCS, ED looked every inch the soldier.

‘Stand fast!’ roared a sergeant major, whose hawk eyes had spied the carriage as soon as it came through the gate.

A tall, gangly trooper ran, too late, to open the door of the brougham. Feeling foolish he managed to give a passable salute.

‘More drill on paying compliments to officers’, Sergeant Major Maloney made a mental note to himself.

The second-in-command of the Field Ambulance, Major Henry Clarke, a respected Sydney surgeon, saluted his chief and the two shook hands. Robards had taken his invalid wife to a Blue Mountains resort and had only just returned to Sydney by the morning train.

‘How goes it Clarke, men shaping up? No shirkers?’ His questions were asked in a clipped staccato, the result of years in hospital operating theatres.

‘Why no sir, the men are as good as gold. Even Holmes has come up from Kangaroo Flat and it has been an age since we last saw him parade.’

‘Well don’t let me interrupt proceedings. I am going to see Colonel Wilkes. I'll address you all at dinner this evening.’

‘Very good sir.’

Clarke took a step back and threw a smart salute, which Robards acknowledged by touching a silver-topped cane lightly to his helmet.

‘Carry on Sah Major!’ shouted Clarke.

And the sweating men returned to some half-hearted rifle drill in the knowledge that the bugler was about to signal Mess call.

Robards made his way to the PMO's office where he met Bernard Wilkes, a long-time bridge partner. The two exchanged pleasantries and various forms and documents were signed.

‘Well Robards, I suppose you are surprised at us sending you out?’

‘Not really. As we told them in ‘88, disease would kill more of ‘em in a war than bullets, and such has been the case’ replied Robards.

‘Yes, the imperial medical authorities are barely coping with the latest outbreak of enteric and have asked us, Victoria, and I believe Canada, for medical reinforcements. As you know Colonel Williams our senior medical officer left for the Cape two months ago. I believe he shocked a lot of the Britishers with his methods. You know how he abhors red tape!’

Both men smiled.

‘Here are your orders. You and your men are to board the SS Southern Cross on Thursday. I apologise for the short notice, but the politicians have put their hand up and, as usual, have promised London everything before thinking the matter through.’

As he stepped out into the intense sunlight, Robards was met by the last of the men scurrying off to their respective messes for lunch. Officers, some of them with canes under their arms, strolled behind. There was some cricket banter between Captain Mathew Harris (known as 'mouse' because of his shyness and something of a high class old maid in his habit) and Warrant Officer Arthur Holmes, the quartermaster and a man overly fond of whiskey. Major Clarke and Captain Dunkley fell into step and made their way to the two-storey sandstone Georgian building which served as the officers’ dining room. As the youngest officer and a recent medical graduate, Lieutenant Edwin McIntosh stood back as his seniors took their seats.

Despite the heat outside steaming Brown Windsor soup was dispensed from a silver tureen by a solemn faced steward. As the man leant over the table Dunkley was sure he could smell beer on his breath. Robards disclosed the unit's orders to his five officers and, over a very poor leg of lamb they talked about outstanding issues such as missing equipment, surgical instruments and – a mascot for the Ambulance. The most urgent issue however was that several hundred men of the 1stCommonwealth Horse would have to be vaccinated in two days’ time.

Major Clarke informed the colonel that on the previous day two parents had made representations to him asking that their sons not deploy with the rest of the ambulance. In the first case, Trooper Wilson was 21 years old and therefore Clarke told the man's elderly father that as he was a volunteer the choice lay with his son. After an angry scene with his father Wilson decided to stay, arguing that he would remit all his pay to his parents, something he could not do if he remained a casual fruit picker. The other aggrieved parent had to be won over not by their son's persuasiveness, but by that of the adjutant. Captain O'Reilly pleaded that the unit would be unable to find another trumpeter at short notice, that the boy had given good service over the past three months, and that he personally would do everything to ensure that he remained out of trouble and out of harm's way. Thus mollified the lad's father returned to his cobbler's shop easier in mind and Robards retained his bugler.

Dunkley made it a point to pen a note to Emily informing her of developments and regretting that he could not meet her that weekend. He begged her understanding.

The myriad small and trying administrative details drove everyone to distraction —officers and men alike. Paperwork and procedure kept the men at a snail's pace for the next day. On Friday the men of the Commonwealth Horse, led by their band, marched dismounted to the barracks to be vaccinated against the Smallpox. Several men fainted before the needle touched their bared arms and one man had a seizure immediately after his shot. This provided some of the younger orderlies a rare opportunity to practise their first aid among ribald jokes and advice from the victims’ mates.

During the three hours it took four doctors to get the job done there was much banter among the men for whom this was their first experience of the wicked looking syringes. Immediate comparisons were made with the tools of their own veterinary officer. One of the three men who collapsed was the regiment's boxing champion. When he came to his glowering looks were enough to dampen the mirth generated by his newly discovered Achilles heel.

Thus occupied, the time for the Ambulance's departure arrived soon enough. Dunkley and his sweetheart had shared a quiet meal in a fancy restaurant the night before. Neither could really bring themselves to say what they really felt and when it came to goodbye it was a warm, but polite departure.

'Well dear one, I'm off to war like a modern day Ulysses.'

'I pray that you may not meet a similar fate', Emily replied with a hint of a smile on her face.

They exchanged a tender kiss. Then they embraced and the next kiss was rather more passionate. Dunkley pulled himself away, fighting self doubts about the wisdom of participating in a war.

'I will write. There is a regular mail you know. I pray they will not require any nurses to go out.'

They clasped hands and she whispered 'God speed'.

Once he was out of sight Emily wept a little before giving the driver of the hansom cab the hospital address. Dunkley too was moved and kicked himself for being so reserved as he walked stolidly to the officer's wing, his mind quickly occupied by his duties for the morrow.

This soon arrived and there were goodbyes, kisses, handshakes and crying as families and friends saw their fathers, sweethearts and friends off at the barracks. Dunkley knew that Emily was rostered on ward duty and could not get away. Clarke grasped him by the shoulder.

'Come on old man or you will miss the whole show.'

The two men laughed then officers, men, horses and wagons marched with little ceremony into a grey overcast morning down to the city’s wharves.

Spirits were high as they came in sight of the already bustling quay, its forest of masts and smoke stacks swaying gently in the ebbtide. For most of the men this was an adventure, one that they had talked about for weeks. They knew the risks and like their countrymen had read the daily newspaper reports about the cunning Boer. The older soldiers went with the knowledge that they were going to serve Queen and empire. A few were preoccupied with domestic affairs, newborn babies; or bank loans. One or two were leaving the country to avoid creditors, for economic depression had visited ruin upon many. At least two men were sought by the police for various misdemeanours. As they marched along their sharp eyes scanned the pavement for any overly curious constables. But their mates were preoccupied with other thoughts. For their part the medical officers hoped their locums or partners would ensure that they had a practice to return to. Their weekly salary of just under three pounds would barely cover their costs while they were away.

Among the cheers were loud guffaws and what passed for street wit as local pushes of larrikins and ne’er do wells waved half empty beer bottles or gawked stupidly from under wide awake hats or smart bowlers. Officers looked meaningfully at each other expecting their men at any moment to break ranks and reciprocate the ribaldry. But nothing happened and the khaki mass marched stoically along behind a scarlet clad brass band, its tunes instantly recognizable to any old soldier – from Poona to Fiji.

Along the three-mile route over dusty roads, then cobbled streets, the cheering crowds caught some of the ‘new chums’ unawares as they tried to avoid horse dung as they marched along. A persistent escort of mongrel dogs yapped and nipped at polished heels, much to the annoyance of man and horse. Still they made a pretty good show as they finally made their way onto the quay. First came Robards, ramrod straight in his saddle, then a bearer company accompanied by several white hooded ambulance wagons, their red cross flags hardly moving in the still, damp air. Another company of orderlies were led by their officers grasping the scabbards of their swords. Finally a number of wagons and lorries came up at the rear. Harnesses gleamed and horses were moist with sweat and drizzle as it began to rain.

The sight of their transport ship, the black hulled SS Southern Cross crowded out doubts and distractions. Belfast-built of just over 5,000 tonnes she was powered by screw triple expansion engines and had been at sea for only 14 months. Two other transports - the Moravianand the Surreylay alongside the wharf. Troopers from the Mounted Bushmen Regiment, who had embarked earlier in the day, looked down from the deck onto the scene below.

Although most of the unit had trained together at camps and on Sundays, the medicos were still unaccustomed to army life as a career. This vocation offered short bursts of frenzied activity interspersed by immensely long periods of mindless tedium, leavened only by the exhortations of sergeants to ‘get a move on there’. Orders and directions were changed, cancelled or countermanded and for soldiers not privy to the reasons behind this seeming chaos, orders took on a kind of mystique. It was not surprising then that such a culture would give undue prominence and credibility to that great camp follower – rumour. Better known as a ‘furphy’, and named in honour of the manufacturer of a water cart, these scraps of gossip or hearsay could take root in minutes and assume all the credibility of a War Office communiqué.

Captain Dunkley was an early witness to its power. A sweating Sergeant Reid came up to him as the horses were being lowered gingerly in canvas slings into the ship's hold.

‘Sir, it seems that orders have been changed. Your company's equipment is to be stowed on the afterdeck, not in the hold.’

‘What! The orders state that medical equipment is to be stored below. Who gave you the new order?'’

‘RSM Maloney sir.’

And so it went until the source of this troublesome order was found to be a simple misunderstanding.

In spite of these minor setbacks the last soldiers made their way up the gantry while below crowds of well wishers and relatives waved hats and newspapers. Women dabbed at their eyes with impossibly small handkerchiefs. Little children waved hesitantly in the general direction of the ships as the rain became a real shower. A steam tug nosed the transport eastwards toward the Heads and Sydney town soon vanished as the vista of the vast Pacific Ocean opened up before them.

The rain began to clear and as the ship made its way out to the heads two ferries packed with well-wishers and soldiers’ families followed in her wake. The smaller of these two vessels, the Lady Sprite, had increased her speed to come up starboard of the Southern Cross. But then a sudden squall picked up and inexplicably the steamer found itself across the bow of the troopship. There was a shudder throughout the Southern Cross as the ferry scrapped away alongside before its captain could bring her off. Little noise could be heard above the wind and many of the troops looking on were unaware that a woman and child had been thrown into the sea when the two vessels made brief contact.

They continued to cheer while aboard the ferry several women fainted and men ran up and down the decks shouting. Due to the swell attempts at rescue were impossible. The two drowned passengers were Mrs. Loft and her nine-year-old boy Benjamin, the wife and son of Private Albert Loft of the Commonwealth Horse. He was only told of the incident when the Southern Cross docked at Albany several days later. Distraught he left his mates for the return voyage to Sydney. Once on the open sea the vessel tacked to the south, its decks festooned with pale soldiers in the throes of their first experience of mal de mere. With the exception of four officers and thirty or so men who had emigrated from the old country, it was the first time most of the troops had been at sea.

The voyage from Sydney to Western Australia was largely uneventful, although there was an outbreak of 'flu which kept the medical staff busy as 70 men became ill. The 500-odd horses and mules aboard also required constant and careful attention with fodder, water and exercise. Rotations of soldiers mucked out the horse boxes in the bowels of the ship. Fortunately the crossing was smooth, the weather being mild and the seas calm. No animals were lost. It was during this time that many of the men formed affectionate relationships with their mounts. But they also cursed them when it came to the constant attention that had to be given to bits, bridles, links and chains to prevent rust from the sea air. Rigorous brushing with crushed brick and emery cloth kept this at bay, but it was a chore none of them relished.

‘By gum, me old lady doesn’t do this much cleanin’ even at ‘ome,’ said one wag.

The days aboard were interspersed with physical exercise drills on deck for the men and, for the men of the Ambulance, first aid lectures and practice during the evenings.

Soon, and despite the medical officers' best efforts, half the ship’s company was suffering from influenza. All cabins and living quarters were fumigated with burnt sulphur and every man received a small glass of quinine wine. Warmer weather came and the 'flu largely spent itself much to the relief of all aboard. Shipboard routine returned.

Robards considered that the Boers had no understanding of fair play so he ordered regular drill practice for his troops. Officers and men would blaze away at boxes and other debris thrown overboard as floating targets. On the rare occasions a hit was marked a cheer would go up, to be drowned by an even louder groan from the watching Bushmen lining the deck, many of whom were crack shots. Horses were brought up on deck for exercise as often as possible. The men played practical jokes and few were spared, even Lieutenant McIntosh, who was popular with them because of his boyish humour and enthusiasm. Once he arrived at the bridge and saluted smartly to the bemused captain who informed the innocent that no one had summoned him. There were muffled giggles from the men as they watched the spectacle from the forward deck. But the young officer took it in good humour.

Another prank involved three soldiers – 'Ginger' Blewett, pharmacist’s assistant, the Ambulance’s bugler young Dick Bradshaw, and former post office clerk Ray Samuelson. Together they came up with a plan to thwart the life boat drill which was held every other day. By this time everyone aboard knew where to assemble, lifejackets on, when the ship’s siren blew. It was the most unpopular activity on the ship and no one participated with any enthusiasm.

It was midnight on Tuesday evening when Samuelson, his feet clad in a pair of old plimsolls, made his way stealthily up to the starboard side of the bridge. He and his mates had noted that the ship’s siren was activated by pulling a chain which hung just aft of the main wheelhouse. It was lashed to a pipe with a piece of twine. Blewett and Bradshaw watched from the main deck, poised next to two large ventilation funnels which led to the troop decks below. Samuelson untied the chain and gave it three mighty heaves.

The still night air was suddenly split with the scream of the steam siren. Barely containing himself he quickly made his way down a narrow ladder as the first mate rushed out. At the same time Blewett and Bradshaw poked their heads down into the ventilators and shouted.

‘We’re going down! Help! Help! It's every man for himself!’

Bleary eyed cursing troops streamed on deck, some half naked (but wearing their hats), clutching kit bags and life jackets, or trying to pull on their boots. On the bridge confusion reigned as the ship’s captain piped up expletives and question from his cabin to the wide-eyed first mate in the wheelhouse. Sailors were taking up their stations or loosening life boats from their davits. Officers shouted orders, soldiers swore as men shoved and pushed their way to the main deck. Down below on the horse decks the animals had smelt the panic and were rearing and crashing about in their stalls. One man who was on watch there almost lost as an eye trying to restrain a frantic mare.

By now the captain, grotesquely attired in a voluminous night shirt and sou’wester, had reached the bridge and was walking along it while shouting into a huge copper megaphone.

‘Stand down, stand down, false alarm! Stand down I tell yer! Blast ye all!’

As Samuelson tried to blend into the crowd, an alert third mate extended a finger in his direction. The trio had not considered the moonlight which allowed the mate to recognize him as one of the culprits.

‘That man there, hold fast!’

Before he could turn two burly seamen had him by the arms. Their prey could only look about him sheepishly. He was then taken to the first class saloon where Robards, Major Clarke, the red-faced ship’s captain, and the first mate questioned him. It wasn’t long before the ship was combed to find his two accomplices. By half past midnight all three had been charged and confined in a storage locker off the forward hold. Everyone except those who had the horse watch below found the whole incident very amusing.

First aid and anatomy lessons were the subject of much banter in the officers’ saloon of an evening as the men under their command had a varying grasp of theory and practice. It was noted that the most unimpressive students of anatomy were usually the best when it came to hands-on skills. But as the voyage progressed Robards was happy that the key principles of wound care and knowledge were being absorbed by his soldiers. The main saloons of the vessel were given over to morning lectures by the officers. The afternoon drill, supervised by the non-commissioned officers, was conducted on the decks.

After lunch soldiers could be seen swathed in layers of bandages or immobilised in an array of wooden splints. Surgical and medical panniers were packed and repacked and soldiers instructed in the use of their contents – instruments, pills, lotions and drugs. Soon every man was familiar with them. O'Reilly took four of the brighter men and gave them special instruction in the use of chloroform anaesthetic and the standard apparatus (a cotton mask and a graduated dropper bottle). One of the new elite, Corporal Loney drawled,

'but sir I can go to sleep just listening to the padre'.

'Corporal if you aren't careful with this stuff you might not wake up', was O'Reilly rejoinder.

His mate, the Pole Private Nowicki, added in a heavy accent:

'Some say you have been dead a long time already!'

O'Reilly rolled his eyes heavenward.

But this was not the only hazard of chloroform as Robards informed his officer at dinner one evening in response to a query by Lieutenant McIntosh.

'We were taught that chloroform is not flammable sir.'

'Usually yes, but if administered near a candle or acetylene lamp if could form phosgene', said Robards.

McIntosh looked momentarily lost.

Clarke chipped in, 'that means you can choose between poisoning everyone in the operating theatre or blowing them up with an ether explosion. Be a good chap and pass the port'.

When a sailor slipped and broke his arm, it fell to Dunkley as the duty medical officer to attend him. Dunkley had a huge and critical audience watch him set and splint the limb. Less conspicuous was young Bradshaw who had so annoyed the ship’s company in practising various calls on his bugle that he had been cast down with the stokers who thanked various gods that they could hardly hear a note against the massive churning steam engines.

For the troops there was also the constant regimen of cleaning. While the introduction of drab khaki uniforms was a far cry from the clay piped scarlet and blue uniforms of the recent past, the men had more than enough to do. Meals were tedious affairs and mutton, bread, butter, tea and jam were staples. Letters home and diaries were filled with descriptions of the ship, the sea, and the strange rituals of the seamen. One of the latter, an evil looking bosun, had a cache of illicit whisky, which despite attracting the best efforts of the ship’s officers remained undiscovered, and by journey’s end this entrepreneur had made a tidy sum.

Two-up and sometimes tense card games helped the men while away the time. Their quarters were cramped and the swinging hammocks took some getting used to. Daily sick parades also meant that most of the medical officers, quartered in the first class saloon with their cavalry colleagues, were occupied for at least some part of each day. Some of the men found long lost friends and even relatives from other parts of Australia and many an evening was spent catching up on family gossip, births and deaths, which mates had ‘done well’, or who were still ‘doin’ it rough’.

For those seeking something that would 'improve the mind' as a large handwritten poster on the promenade deck proclaimed, there were to be evening lectures. The first of these was presented by the debonair Captain O'Reilly. His topic, recent archaeological discoveries, was to be illuminated by magic lantern slides. This fact drew a decent crowd, mainly officers, who were genuinely curious. Not a few soldiers from among the various units aboard were also in attendance. Even 'Ginger' Blewett, the ambulance's chief joker went along. Commenting on one slide which showed an Egyptian mummy he nudged the soldier next to him.

'Looks just like me great aunt'.

O'Reilly had trained at St. Thomas's Hospital in London and had come out the year before to join an older brother who had a flourishing legal practice in Sydney. He had met Dunkley at a clinical meeting and soon found they had a common interest in rowing and cricket. While O'Reilly was rather introspective he made no secret of his ambition to become one of the colony's leading medicos. Tall and lean, he had an alarming tic which caused one eyebrow to twitch violently when he was in animated conversation or an argument. Perhaps in an effort to draw attention away from this defect he had cultivated a luxuriant, carefully waxed moustache. A dapper dresser, he still managed to attract his fair share of the fair sex. It was he who had persuaded Dunkley to join the colours.

Now both men shared a portside cabin with young Edwin McIntosh. On the first night out of Sydney the young doctor had startled his two colleagues by wearing the most brightly coloured silk pyjamas either of his cabin mates had ever seen. These garments, together with a shock of red hair on the head of the wearer, managed to make an impression.

'Good Lord', exclaimed Dunkley.

'You not going to wear that outfit on the Veldt are you? The Boer will spot you from ten miles away!' laughed O'Reilly.

Redding slightly McIntosh countered.

'It's just for aboard ship. My mother knows about how one should dress you know.'

'I'm sure she does', Dunkley winked at his colleague and both men burst into laughter.

McIntosh flung himself into his cot and turned his face to wall. A recent medical graduate, his hobbies, such as they were, tended mainly to botany and laboratory work. He was particularly interested in the new science of pathology. His well-to-do parents had set him up with equipment and books which were the envy of professional men years his senior. He had brought some of this largesse along with him – carefully packed in a pannier, and equally carefully smuggled aboard despite Robards' orders that his officers should travel light.

Devoted to his books his only other interest was military history which was why he had joined the Ambulance. He proved to be a font of knowledge on the campaigns of both Caesar and Napoleon and would passionately expand on his subject on any suitable occasion. He was therefore the unit's unofficial authority on plant life and history. His enthusiasm matched that of Captain Harris and the two could often be found peering through Harris's microscope or discussing the flora or diseases found in South Africa. Robards referred to the unlikely pair as 'two peas in a pod'.

The only significant events (and duly noted in the ship's log) occurred when, several days out of Melbourne, the troopship slowed through its passage into the huge King George Sound before docking at the West Australian town of Albany to take on coal. The men were refused leave because of the justified fear of what they might do in the town. Disappointed and angry troops watched the seamen disembark down a single narrow gangplank to renew their acquaintance with the pubs and prostitutes. From the rear of the ship's bridge Dunkley looked down the chosen few. He could discern the quiet rage of the men but trusted in the decision of Robards and the other two commanders based on what they might do in town. One soldier did manage to quietly slip over the deck rail and was not missed until his frantic shouts drew a few men to the ship’s side. To their horror the water below took on a reddish hue as a White Pointer shark tore huge chunks from the miscreant’s thrashing body. His remains had still not been found when the ship departed the next day.

A cigarette flicked carelessly into the aft hold while the ship took on coal from the bunkers ashore provided the second distraction of the day. As the town’s pride and joy, a highly polished horse-drawn fire engine, smoke spiralling up from its engine clanged its way to the wharf cheers went up from the ship’s company. The roar reached a crescendo as the firemen ran out their hoses and played streams of water onto a smouldering bunker. As the fire threw up jets of steam under the blanket of water the men returned to their quarters below decks. There were only a few old timers and local fisherman present when the Southern Cross drew away from the wharf in the early hours of the next day.

Two days into the voyage one of the ambulance men, ‘Cracker’ O’Dowd, a gun shearer from Camden, shot himself while cleaning his Lee-Enfield rifle, neatly taking off most of his jaw. Dunkley was assigned to care for him, but despite his efforts infection set in, proving fatal. While popular with his mates, his burial at sea was later remembered more for its novelty than for the tears shed. As the flag-draped coffin slid over the ship’s side a close mate was heard to mutter that ‘the cove’ had died owing him two guineas from a poker bet. Robards however saw the shooting as a slur on the unit’s professionalism, and, in the words of his batman, was ‘in a black mood’ for days afterwards. His was a particularly gruff figure at the inquiry held aboard, although he penned a touching and eloquent letter to O’Dowd’s people at home.

Five days out of Albany the dog watch found a fifteen-year-old stowaway hiding with a small Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo in an ambulance wagon in the hold. How they came to be there no one could fathom, but the boy’s quick wit and talent on the harmonica soon made him a favourite with the men. His young pet was a great mimic who seemed to take an instant dislike to any officer, a trait which immediately endeared it to the troops. However officialdom would soon consign the boy to a voyage home on the first ship from Cape Town returning to Sydney. The men managed to keep the cockatoo.

Reluctantly Robards approved the noisy bird as the mascot of the Ambulance. At a ceremony of doubtful theological orthodoxy after Sunday prayers Padre Fanshaw blessed the creature. Alarmed at the unexpected shower of holy water in its face the cockatoo let fly with some newly learnt expletives.

'It's a heathen then', added Father Meaghan unhelpfully.

His reverend colleague quickly excused himself in the face of the foul-mouthed tirade as Private Wilson muffled its beak with a tobacco stained hand and took the creature below. The bird was duly christened ‘Sunday Best’ and continued to entertain many of the ship's company. Even the targeted clergyman was known to feed it when he thought no one was looking.

The usual entertainments – both legal and illegal - continued aboard. Gambling was rife and despite threats and a lecture from both chaplains to their respective flocks on its evils, two-up and card games thrived. Officers were keep busy hearing charges, while soldiers who had been designated to act as military police could be seen nursing bruised faces. Other forms of relaxation included deck games and sports. Boxing drew the biggest crowds and one such match would have direct implications for the men of the Field Ambulance.

Bert 'Birdie' Taylor was considered the best pugilist in the ambulance. He had knocked around shearing sheds and worked as a stevedore up and down the east coast. Standing over two metres tall he had a barrel chest topped by a disproportionately small head. It was as if someone had attached a child’s head to a man’s body, but apart from this deformity his close set eyes were his most remarkable feature. Tiny and almost black they reminded one of a magpie. They would fix upon you and never move. Even some of the officers felt uncomfortable when having to talk to him. While not particularly good with people he was a born animal lover and could do almost anything with one - be it horse or dog.

Major Clarke had spotted him outside a pub at a cattle sale. There had been a stampede and it was only through 'Birdie’s' quick action in heading off, then calming several head of cattle, that had prevented a little girl being trampled to death. As he was ‘between jobs’ Clarke had persuaded him to take the Queen’s shilling before appointing him as a horse handler and general roustabout for the unit.

However on the day of the unit’s weekly boxing tournament he met his match at the hands of a most unlikely contender. This was Private Jakub Nowicki, a 'new chum' who had emigrated from Poland only a few years before. An adventurer with an uncertain background and grasp of English, his father was reputedly a doctor and so when the Field Ambulance had advertised for men he enlisted. He had shown remarkable aptitude in first aid classes and was a fast learner. Several officers had already marked him out a possible NCO, despite his thick accent. Tall and thin with a shock of blond hair, he was an unlikely pugilist.

It was the third match of the morning. The ship swayed slightly in the swell and a mild breeze cooled the crowd around the canvas ring. 'Birdie' Taylor had won all three matches – a considerable feat, as one of his opponents had been the ship’s champion, a nuggetty Scot who had tumbled bloodied to the mat in the fourth round. Before morning tea Taylor had challenged all comers and to everyone’s surprise the Pole stepped forward. The wags running an unofficial book on the results saw pound notes flash before their eyes. Private 'Chook' Fowler, a farrier from Goulburn, oversaw all gambling within the Ambulance. He spent a frenzied few minutes taking silver shillings and several one pound notes from the more optimistic as he scribbled in a tiny ragged notebook. Word of the pending massacre soon spread throughout the ship. Even the ship’s captain, Robards, and the Bushmen’s colonel found themselves among the crowd.

Taylor faced off against the Pole in the ring. Although they had seen each other around the unit in the previous few weeks, this was the first time they had come close. For some reason 'Birdie' had taken an instant dislike to the gregarious Pole and took to parodying his accent in the mess. For his part Nowicki, who had picked up much while hanging around some of Sydney’s gangs (he had been a member of the notorious Redfern push for a while) had laughed it off and taken it in good humour. This only made Taylor dislike him even more.

The crowd became noisier as the referee, a diminutive second mate, issued the usual warnings about fair play. A sailor clanged two horseshoes together as a signal for the round to start. 'Birdie' moved straight for his intended victim’s jaw, but as quick as lightening the Pole moved aside, causing his opponent to lose balance. As he fell the ship rolled and judging the moment nicely the Pole delivered a punch of such force that the favourite did not rise from the canvas for a full thirty seconds.

There was a stunned silence as the troops took in the scene. Then a lone voice from the Ambulance shouted.

‘Good onya Jackie boy!’

There was a roar, helmets and hats were tossed into the air and 'Birdie’s' supporters swore and counted their losses. Missing his regular visits to the racetrack Dunkley had placed ten shillings through a third party on 'Birdie' minutes before the fight began. A smile crossed his face as he watched proceedings. While both contestants shook hands, Taylor had felt humiliated in a way he had never experienced before. The Pole was now marked as the enemy - on a par with the Boer. There were other less obvious going's-on aboard. Trooper Richard Straker, rumoured to have spent time in Sydney's notorious Long Bay Gaol, had also shown his fists to a few of his ship mates – mainly for late payment of poker debts.

In due course the Southern Cross came within sight of the South African coast a day ahead of schedule. Everyone not on duty below decks flocked to the ship's side. The hills, which receded from the coast, were filled with white buildings of various sizes. At this distance they gave the countryside the appearance of being neatly bisected by a band of white between the sea and the hilltops. Not a few men made favourable comparisons with the coastal town of Newcastle back home.

Dunkley was in a pensive mood, sucking his pipe on the port deck where O’Reilly and an excited Lieutenant McIntosh joined him.

‘I wonder what this place holds for us.’

O’Reilly mused to no one in particular.

‘Beautiful women and beautiful plants I hope’, added the freckled subaltern.

'A decent drop of whisky for me', said O'Reilly.

Soon the ship made its way into Table Bay, Cape Town. In the distance rose Green Point and Table Mountain.