s scorching, and we dare not go away to get in any friendly shade.
Three of us had game legs and one dysentery, but, of course, we grumbled
not, for the R.A.M.C. are all honourable men. Various squads of sick
Artillery, M.I. and other regiments marched up, and finally an R.A.M.C.
sergeant came to the entrance of the tent and began calling them up
before the doctor. Eleven o'clock came, and in the hot sun we waited
still, in spite of being half-determined to return to our lines, as it
was getting rather wearisome and confoundedly hot; but the R.A.M.C. are
all honourable men. A Canadian helped a chum down to the group of
impatient patients, and after a few words left him with the terribly
audible remark, "So long, ole man. I'd sooner blanked-well die on the
veldt than go there." Which showed how he failed to appreciate the
R.A.M.C., and also his bad taste, for those inside must have heard him.
But there, they know that they, the R.A.M.C., are all honourable men.
"Driver Neads!" calls the spic and span little dark-moustached sergeant,
reading from a list of names. A ragged dirty-looking Artilleryman limps
painfully up, _two pills_ are given to him, he gazes curiously at them,
then at the back of the donor, who has turned away, and then realising
that nothing further is to be done for him, limps heavily back, making
room for the next patient. Once in the background, he heels a small hole
in the earth, turns the contents of his hand into it, methodically fills
the hole up, and hobbles back with his squad. They were, of course, the
celebrated "Number Nines," the great panacea out here as, of course, you
know. They (are supposed to) cure all diseases, from dysentery and brain
fever to broken legs and heads.

And still we, who were first, waited in the blazing sun, to be last.
Finally the smart sergeant smilingly recognised us, and cheerily told us
that there was an Imperial Yeomanry Field Hospital somewhere in the
vicinity, and we were to go there, and with that returned us our
admittance form. I pressed him for more accurate information, and had
the supposed direction given me, which proved correct. So off we
crawled, I, with my Bunyan's Pilgrim-like load, holding the position of
a scratch man in a race. I could not have done the distance had I not
procured the services of a nigger, who relieved me of my kit for a
shilling. So we shook the dust of the R.A.M.C. Field Hospital from our
boots, but let not an abusive word be level