In the grey
light a long string of ambulance waggons was moving slowly towards the
camp from the battle-field. Parallel to the line of waggons a column of
infantry was marching northwards, perhaps to reinforce some of our
outlying trenches against a possible Boer attack. I shall long remember
the sight--the column of dead and wounded coming in, the living column
going out, and scarcely a sound to break the silence.
The wards of the train were all ready for the wounded, so I went off
with a couple of buckets to replenish our water supply. Wounded men are
generally troubled with thirst, and the washing of their hands and faces
always refreshes them greatly. I found the station tap, however,
guarded by a sentry; no water was to be drawn for the use of the
troops, as the pipes--so it was said--came from Modder River, which was
contaminated by the Boer corpses.
We were soon busy with the wounded Highlanders and well within an hour
we had safely placed some 120 men in our bunks, and some on the floor. I
am afraid the poor soldiers often suffered agony when they were lifted
in or rolled from the stretchers on to the bunks. It was sometimes
impossible to avoid hurting a man with, say, a shattered thigh-bone and
a broken arm in thus changing his position. We however did our best and
lifted them with the utmost care and gentleness, but they often, poor
fellows, groaned and cried out in their cruel pain.
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