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 1st Commonwealth 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 ebb tide. 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 Moravian and the Surrey lay 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.

‘This place doesn’t seem to be much different from home’, suggested O'Reilly.

Dunkley nodded. Young McIntosh quipped.

‘I thought it would be all jungle with at least a lion.’

As the ship drew closer they could pick out several prominent buildings, then individual houses and then people, groups in khaki, some parasolled ladies and many 'Kaffirs' or blacks. The wharves were a mass of funnels and masts. There were British Men-o-War, troopships, merchantmen, tramps and one or two smart little yachts.

The whole scene was alive with colour and noise – and smells. Local fishermen occasionally looked up from their tiny boats as the transport awaited the harbour master's launch. Robards concluded a long letter to his wife before donning his helmet and joining the other officers. On his approach Dunkley knocked his pipe against his boot and stood to attention.

‘As you were gentlemen, I trust we won't disappoint upon disembarkation.’

Captain O'Reilley, who as adjutant had to ensure the daily administration of the Ambulance, assured his CO that all was well.

'The men are as keen as mustard sir', added Major Clarke.

Once docked the Southern Cross began to disgorge her human and animal cargo. The mounted infantry and the bushmen had all their gear unloaded first and were marched off to some distant camp. Then by late morning it was the turn of the Ambulance. Wide-eyed horses were slung over the side before being gently led out of their canvas cradles and walked around to steady their sea legs. They seemed glad to be outside at last and many whinnied their pleasure to the men leading them. Pallets laden with various pieces of equipment were slung over the side and onto the wharf. This cargo was followed by the unit's ambulance and transport wagons, bundles of tentage, panniers and litters. The men came last, each with a kit bag over his shoulder. The officers, in stark contrast to their imperial counterparts, travelled lightly - their personal gear stowed in the wagons.

The morning was clear and bright and the whole unit was disembarked in less than four hours. Wagon axles and wheels, well oiled harnesses and saddles were checked and then horses were backed into wagon shafts and put in their traces. After what seemed an age the men, with the smell of sweating horses and Neat's-foot oil strong in their nostrils, set off to their billet west of the town.

Unlike most other Australian units on landing here the ambulance lacked for nothing, while other newly arrived colonial units had to be issued with clothing, boots and other items from the imperial Q-store. In terms of the ambulance's equipment however there was some criticism from Robards and Clarke regarding the lack of acetylene lighting and the outmoded operating tables. Even so Colonel Williams, head of the New South Wales Medical Corps, had calculated shrewdly so that they had sufficient medical stores and drugs to enable the unit to operate independently of British resupply for one month.

The local people of all colours showed little interest in their movements and the men trudged along the dusty road to a huge tented city, the staging post for imperial and colonial troops arriving from overseas. They were followed by an assortment of filthy street urchins who begged mercilessly. A meagre lunch was provided: a pannikin of potato soup ('swill' according to Trooper Lewis), half a loaf per man and a mug of thick black tea. An enormous Union Jack hung limply from a masthead at the headquarters building as if to mock its regimental surroundings. Further to the north lay the drab vastness of the veldt, stone strewn and barren. It was there that the still undefeated foe waited.

Robards, accompanied by Major Clarke and the adjutant, had ridden ahead and presented themselves at the Receiving Officer's quarters. They were allocated a billet in the most exposed part of the camp, in an area picked out with white stones. As the ambulance drew up in three companies the men formed ranks with the ambulances and wagons to the rear. They stood stiffly to attention in the afternoon heat as Clarke handed the parade over to his chief. Robards then addressed the unit, giving thanks that they had arrived safely, advising them that South Africa would be no picnic and urging the men to do New South Wales proud.

‘The eyes of the world are upon us. Let us not let the side down.’

He handed the parade back to Clarke who in turn left it in the capable hands of Regimental Sergeant Major Maloney who dismissed the men.

With practised skill canvas bell tents sprang up, horse lines drawn and roped, heel ropes and pegs put down, wagons parked and stores and fodder unloaded into two long marquees  the gift of a wealthy Sydney grain and chaff merchant. As the last guy ropes on these, the pride of the ambulance, were being adjusted, a colour sergeant from the Imperial Service Corps came storming up. The highly polished insignia on his helmet marked him as a new arrival to South Africa.

‘I say you there; you can't erect that tent there.’

‘And why bleeding not?’ queried 'Ginger' Blewett.

‘Regulations state…’

But before the red faced man could finish, Ginger walked up to the sergeant and when he was close enough to smell the tobacco on the man's breath spoke.

‘If you don't like it where it is cobber you can bleedin’ well move it yourself.’

‘I will report this insolence to your officer. You colonials are a disgrace.’

So saying he turned on his heel and with as much dignity as he could muster fled whence he came.

‘Blimey Ginge you didn't arf put the wind up that cove.’

There was laughter all round until RSM Maloney peered out from under a tent flap. Even Robards allowed himself a smile when the story reached him that evening.

Nonetheless Blewett duly had his pay stopped for four days and the word 'insubordinate'  pencilled into his pay book  this on top of his pay stoppage over the affair of the ship’s siren. Subsequently the little colour sergeant became the unit's implacable enemy, an antipathy joined with equal venom by the men who fell prey to his petty vindictiveness over the next two weeks. Within days the sergeant would be mocked in his own voice from across the paddock by the ambulance’s cockatoo 'Sunday Best'. On the night before the unit was to move out, several men from A Company, led by the irrepressible Ginger, found their way to the sergeant's neat little timber office and poured four gallons of Golden Syrup into his portable filing chest and a pair of beautifully polished parade boots.

'That should slow the little bugger down' giggled Blewett as they returned to their own lines.

At this time Robards, Clarke and Dunkley received an invitation from Colonel Williams, to meet him in his office at No. 3 General Hospital in Rondebosch, a Cape Town suburb. Williams had preceded Robards and his men by several weeks allowing him to reconnoitre and advise British authorities as to the best use of the Ambulance once it arrived. A slightly portly Williams met them at 11.00. A veteran of the 1885 Sudan campaign he sported three medals on his khaki tunic. A pair of mischievous, restless eyes peered out from under his Wolseley helmet.

'Welcome to South Africa gentlemen', as he grasped the hands of each of his officers.

'A pleasant voyage out eh, Robards?'

The four men went into his office where Williams summarized his observations to date.

'An Awful big country here you know. The Boers have the upper hand at the moment although you would not know this reading the newspaper reports. Disease is the biggest challenge here. From what I have seen our casualties from typhoid and dysentery far outweigh the butcher's bill from the Boer. The British medical units here are hamstrung by bureaucracy. They don't think for themselves and won't take the initiative. Worse, they are slow moving, so I think your outfit will do nicely on the Veldt with none of those lumbering carts the RAMC uses!'

Then looking directly at Robards he said:

'Well, looking forward to doing some good here?'

Robards smiled and nodded.

'I say Dunkley how is your father?'

'Well sir, when I left Sydney at any rate.'

'Capital. Now gentlemen if you follow me over to the main hospital building I have something to show you, just so you don't think you have left civilization entirely behind.'

Entering a single white washed building surrounded by a wide, latticed veranda entwined by climbing sweet pea, they strolled along a corridor with Williams and Robards leading.  Both men talked as occasionally Williams paused to point out a special ward or to introduce them to an officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps. He was obviously well known here. Eventually they stopped before a green door.  Above it hung a small notice: 'Röntgen X-Ray Room'. Williams knocked.

After a moment a white-coated figure opened the door.

'Ah Williams, do come in. And these are your chums then?

The two men shook hands.

'Gentlemen I should like to introduce Colonel Henry Beaver, one of three radiology specialists here.'

Dunkley asked, 'is your only machine sir?'

'Heavens no, each of our 16 military hospitals from here to Kimberley have one and so too do the seven private hospitals operating across the colony.'

'Impressive', said Clarke.

'Quite so', Beaver agreed, 'and X-Rays are making a remarkable difference to those of our battle casualties who reach us alive.'

Williams beamed, 'who would have thought that just five years after Röntgen invented his apparatus that we would be using them in wartime?'

Of the colonials only Dunkley had had little experience of the X-Ray machine although he had attended lectures on its practical uses. He walked over to the apparatus as Beaver proudly demonstrated its field service coils, fluorescent screen, cross-thread localizer, Mackenzie-Davidson couch; and various pieces of photographic equipment and materials. For all its size the whole thing looked quite fragile. Beaver showed them some of the more interesting plates from his collection. These included three wounds made by the new German-made Mauser bullet, some shrapnel wounds and several different fractures. It was obvious that this invention was an important addition to military medicine.

'Pity we can't take a machine with us', joked Robards.

After a further briefing from Williams followed by warm beer in the mess the trio returned to their lines across town.

The three weeks of acclimatisation for the new arrivals were rare as most units arriving in South Africa were almost immediately deployed to the field. The consequent loss in horseflesh was enormous. Soon after his arrival here from Sydney almost three months previously Colonel Williams had observed this and had made the three week 'rest' period a condition of deploying the ambulance. Even so some of the more experienced horse handlers within the unit thought that this was too short a time for their horses to get used to the climate and to the oats, chaff and other fodder issued here, some of it adulterated with weed

'Chook' Fowler who acted as the farrier was the first to voice concerns. After raising the issue with RSM Maloney, the two men, with 'Birdie' Taylor in tow, asked to see the adjutant Captain O'Reilly.

The genial Irishman looked up from his desk as the three saluted.

'RSM?'

'Sir, it's about the issue of fodder. Private Fowler thinks it will play up with our mounts.'

'Is that so?'

Without waiting to be asked 'Chook' then listed a number of complaints about what they were being given for feed.

'Seriously sir I wouldn't give this stuff to a goat.'

'Birdie' nodded solemnly.

'It's like this sir, Fowler went on, 'The army forage ration here if mainly imported fodder from Mexico and Argentina. There is a weed, called 'Blackjack' that is mixed in with it.  It's poor stuff sir. If our horses loose condition they are prone to get Glanders and Lymphangitis. If they do we will be stranded with no way to move anywhere on the veldt.'

O'Reilly replaced the cap of his fountain pen, impressed by Fowler's knowledge on the subject.

'I will raise it with the colonel. In the meantime what do you suggest?'

Trooper Taylor coughed and O'Reilly looked at him.

'Well sir, me and Trooper Wilson passed a chaff store in town a few days back. If we could make a purchase of even a wagon load we can mix it in with what goes into the horses' nose bags. It might make a difference.'

'Very good I will bring it to the attention of the colonel. Dismissed.'

On reporting to Robards O'Reilly was quick to point out the appreciation of horses displayed by two of the Ambulance's roughest diamonds.

Generally the men soon settled into their new routine. But it wasn’t long before his growing dislike for Private Nowicki began to eat away at 'Birdie' Taylor. For his part the young Pole had tried to avoid any confrontation and kept well out of his way as far as this was possible in a small unit. While there had been more fights after the memorable bout aboard the Southern Cross, Taylor made it clear to his mates that a score still had to be settled. He would put this right the next opportunity arose for an organized fight. Little did he know however how this would ultimately turn out? While 'Birdie' glowered and sulked, Nowicki carried on in his annoyingly cheerful way. This was another trait that only served to add to 'Birdie’s' anger. One night, both men found themselves with two other soldiers on piquet duty under Corporal Albert Sweet.

Sweet, a genial ex-Londoner was one of only four regular soldiers in the Ambulance. He had served in a British Rifle Regiment and had seen service in the Sudan in 1885. While neither man was in his company he had witnessed the famous knockout blow aboard ship and was well aware of Taylor’s animosity towards Nowicki. Sensibly he decided to pair each with another man and post them at opposite ends of the camp perimeter.

That night passed as it had done for the past few weeks, the stillness broken by the distant sound of locomotives. But just after three in the morning the sound of thunder could be heard. This was followed by streaks of white light flashing down on the distant hills, followed by tremendous claps of thunder. The terrific light and noise spooked several horses. In the confusion the two antagonists found themselves face to face. Sweet and the other sentries had their hands full trying to settle the horses further down the line. Even in the half light Nowicki saw the big man move toward him, a fist raised in the air.

He was only saved by the horse he was leading suddenly rearing up and knocking him to the ground. 'Birdie' had missed his chance as Corporal Sweet, leading two horses who had broken their heel ropes, was moving down the line towards him. Addressing Nowicki he shouted over the din.

‘Get up laddy! All these pegs need to be checked before we have these nags all over the town.’

Seeing a retreating 'Birdie' in the lightning he yelled.

‘Private! Secure those horses and then do a head count.’

Taylor cursed his luck in missing an opportunity to get his own back on the wretched Pole.

In their second week Colonel Robards allowed his men the first of several one-day leave passes. Some men hired gigs or wagons driven by Kaffirs, or took the long walk to town where they could catch a tram to take in the sights. There was the zoo and botanical gardens, for those interested in such things. Indeed this was their first destination for O'Reilly and McIntosh. But most of the men headed straight for the pubs. A few looked into barber shops, others were swindled of their pay by purveyors of 'genuine' souvenirs – fake ivory and rhino horn for example. Newspapers from Australia were hard to come by, but London papers only a few weeks old could be bought, as could other luxuries such as tobacco, fresh fruit and eggs. 'Chook' Fowler and his mates visited some of the numerous tea rooms for the female company to be found there.

Robards had a relative living in town and so became a regular visitor, while the other officers made the most of several clubs or attended tea parties hosted by the Cape’s society matrons and frequented by genteel young ladies. There were polo games, bicycle races and cricket matches for those who didn’t mind the heat and dust. It was at one such cricket match on the unit’s last Sunday in town that Private Taylor decided to settle the score with his nemesis.

The match was between the Lincolnshire Yeomanry Regiment and the Second Victorian Mounted Rifles Regiment from Melbourne. The huge, ornate grandstand was crowded with soldiers and civilians. Fruit and lemonade vendors picked their way among the spectators under the hot sun. Not a few of the soldiery had come up from nearby pubs and were vocal in their support for the respective teams. As luck would have it almost all the members of the ambulance had come along to watch. Although some might have supported Victoria, their neighbouring colony in Australia, just as many supported the Englanders, such was the animosity between the two colonies. Taylor and a few mates were covertly drinking from bottles of porter, when a few meters in front of them Nowicki, with 'Ginger' Blewett and Private Samuelson in tow, pushed their way through the crowd for a better vantage point.

It was after a contentious call by the umpire in the third over of the afternoon that the trouble began. Somehow an argument broke out between two Yeomanry supporters. Tempers flared, a punch was thrown and the contagion spread along the serried rows of seats at the front of the grandstand. The solitary civilian policeman on duty wisely beat a hasty retreat, no doubt to call up reinforcements. Two British officers, passing on horseback, spurred their steeds into the melee shouting at the flurry of fists. One was pulled from his saddle and roughed up.

There was a roar from the grandstand as dozens of locals and colonials threw their hats in the air at this riotous display of democracy. By now a platoon of military police had arrived, and without pausing to determine the innocence or otherwise of any party, laid about them with their batons. People fled in all directions. Bemused, the instigators of the fracas stayed on the green and enjoyed the spectacle from the safety of the wicket.

'Birdie' and his chums were laughing their heads off when a bottle hit him on the head. Turning to meet the thrower of this missile he was struck another blow  by the same man – a drunken cockney who sported the badge of the hated Army Service Corps on his helmet. The enraged ex-shearer delivered a punch of such force that it poll-axed the unfortunate Tommy. Other Londoners came to the aid of the little man and descended on 'Birdie', while his two mates suddenly found themselves outnumbered. This fight soon took centre stage, drawing more spectators than the temporarily resumed cricket match.

Nowicki, 'Ginger' and Samuelson could see the New South Welshmen were losing badly. Rolling up his sleeves and with a smile on his face the Pole led the trio into the epicentre. He used his height to advantage and began thinning the group of men who were laying into 'Birdie', who was beginning to sway on his feet. The slender Pole punched a space clear of Taylor and, with Blewett and Samuelson, forming a human shield, half dragged the giant to a nearby pavilion.

The following morning RSM Maloney paraded the men before Robards. They did not present a particularly good look. All had bruised faces, two sported blackened eyes, and one had both fists bandaged. Behind closed doors he admonished them and issued fines. But, before dismissing the men, and with the thinnest of smiles on his lips, added that they had at least upheld the honour of New South Wales.

The men continued their training routine which included rifle and stretcher drills, caring for the horses and practicing their newly acquired medical skills. For this purpose squads of eight were rotated through a nearby military hospital to get further practice. For most this was their first real contact with their counterparts in the British army – the Royal Army Medical Corps.

The acronym RAMC was often unfairly interpreted as 'Rob All My Comrades', while the medics were known as 'Linseed Lancers'. Dunkley and other officers quickly noted that while the drills and lessons were the same (indeed all the army training pamphlets were British issue), their counterparts from the old country seemed to labour under red tape and numerous forms, whereas the colonials’ focus was on mobility and getting the job done.

Major Clarke had no trouble staffing the rosters on Wednesdays and Fridays as on these days several nursing sisters from Princess Christian’s Army Nursing Service came up from one of the larger military hospitals in Cape Town to check on patients in the camp hospital and assist in the training of orderlies. At precisely eight o’clock in the morning on these days a buggy would draw up at the gates from which four immaculately grey clad figures descended, their slender shoulders draped by scarlet capes. This otherwise dignified entry was somewhat ruined by the gaggle of scrawny dogs and screaming children that followed behind the buggy. They carried parasols to protect their faces which flushed pink between starched white collars and veils as they made their way up the stone lined path to the weatherboard hospital hut. The foursome deliberately stared ahead; acutely conscious of the men’s mainly innocent stares.

They were met under the veranda by the duty medical officer and an NCO. After a few pleasantries the doctor brought the women up to date on what patients were in the ward, together with their complaint or condition. For the next six hours the nurses changed dressings, took temperatures and imparted their knowledge to the orderlies. Having being schooled in the Nightingale tradition, cleanliness was a priority in their ward routine  one not always shared by the soldiers who found the constant hand washing and cleaning unnecessary chores. Nor did the nurses shy away from criticizing their rough charges.

'Private, that is not a hospital corner as shed seized on a recently made bed.'

'Orderly, take this bed pan back and scrub it properly.'

'Yes ma'am' was the meek reply.

Despite these rebukes the male staff and their patients cherished the rare contact with female company.

The ward patients were all 'Tommy Cornstalks' as British soldiers were popularly known, suffering from boils, the mumps, heat stroke and the usual barracks ailments that afflicted their kind. The monotonous Army ration did not help prevent skin and gastric problems. Naturally there were attempts by both patients and staff to flirt with these visions from heaven, but the doctors and ward master generally ensured that any worship was made at a distance.

The nursing sisters were tolerant and kind, but would brook no ill discipline from either their patients or the male orderlies. Their relations with the medical officers of the Ambulance were conducted in the same way, although the Australian medicos saw them differently. While Clarke noted their neatness, Dunkley observed the calm way they went about their business. McIntosh’s sharp nose identified faint hints of both lavender and rose water on certain days of the week, despite the use of scent by nurses being forbidden under Army regulations and frowned upon by matron.

Indeed Matron Annie Cavendish was a force to be reckoned with as many a wizened army surgeon had found to his embarrassment. Most of her charges here were from the leisured upper classes or educated middle class young women from London and the larger cities of England. The matron herself hailed from the grey rectitude of Edinburgh. In her youth she had once met the famed Florence Nightingale and had deliberately moulded herself in the same no-nonsense approach to her work. She never married.

Dunkley had read somewhere that a contingent of Australian nurses was expected at some time, although it was unclear where they might be sent. Emily's face flashed into his mind and while he could ignore the image momentarily it would return to him over the next few weeks – often at the oddest moments.

For the men ward work was a break from sentry, piquet, horse line and kitchen duties and most were fast learners. Those who did not show the same aptitude for medical skills were ordered to spend more time with the horses. The Ambulance depended on their horses for their mobility in the field. As the unit did not have its own veterinarian, Troopers Fowler and Taylor took on this roll. Before leaving Sydney Colonel Robards had the foresight to purchase a veterinary kit himself.

Despite the heat and changed feed the unit had not lost a single animal. The farrier and smith were busy ensuring all the horses were properly shod for what would be hard going once they took to the field. British mounted units did not fare so well as the camp was subject to severe dust storms every evening and horses began to die of sand colic. Robards and his officers had noted shortly after arriving in the camp the poor condition of imperial horse stock. Most looked emaciated, their coats lacking sheen. They put it down to poor grooming and even poorer horsemanship.

On any day, by looking out through the fence the Australians would see squads, companies or entire regiments canter past in plumes of dust, when a walk would have been more appropriate. Old horse hands in the unit shook their heads. Many of their riders didn’t seem to sit properly in their saddles, and almost all their mounts were over-loaded. And these were brigades and regiments that were about to march north to engage the Boer.

Robards, with Dunkley and the ward master behind him, was inspecting the camp. While prodding a hospital bed with his cane an orderly came up, saluted and handed him a telegram. Pausing, he opened it and then turning to Clarke said:

‘We have to move to Orange River.’

Clarke took the cable from his chief.

'The men will be relieved sir. I think many of them are champing at the bit for some action.'

'Let's hope they will take the bit between their teeth then eh?'

Robards congratulated himself on his little joke.

Several patients were in earshot of this fresh news and not a few faces registered disappointment in the sure knowledge they would miss out on the chance to engage the Boer. Some of their carers however knew what this would mean in terms of death and wounds. Soon the lines were abuzz with the news and the dust that now rose from the camp site was proof of a new urgency in the movement of soldiers and animals. That same afternoon wagons were packed, the horses and mules exercised and huts cleaned in preparation for the move to the railway.

Not a man lay in his bed at 0330 the following morning and by midday the medical unit entrained for Orange River. The African sun blasted through the morning air as the unit made its way to the railway station. Few passers-by paid them any attention as the ambulance men wended their way to the very ornate station building. After some fraught moments coaxing skittish horses up ramps and into the livestock wagons, the men were packed into slightly better carriages, although Harry Figgins, a ward orderly, noted that there was little to tell the two types of wagons apart. Their officers shared a second class carriage with an assortment of British officers, railwaymen and officials travelling north. The boarding was made without incident and soon they were steaming north, along the 500 or so miles of track to the former seat of President Marthinus Steyn, President of the Orange Free State and, if one believed some British newspapers, public enemy number one.

The landscape changed slowly as the train made frequent stops, passing the heavily fortified stations of Beaufort West and De Aar. Bleary-eyed soldiers looked out on the vast landscape. The more romantic noted the white blossoms of coffee bushes. In the far off distance the flash of heliographs could be seen sending situation reports to British units encamped or deployed among the hills.

Once the Ambulance had detrained Robards and RSM Maloney, who had ridden on ahead, were shown a campsite on a barren sandy waste next to the muddy river. Almost as soon as the newcomers had erected their hospitals tents and secured their horse lines, the first casualties streamed in from the hospital trains which drew up nearby.

Two days after their arrival Robards deployed B Company, its three ambulance wagons and two carts in the care of Dunkley and McIntosh, with Sergeant Reid, Corporal Loney, 'Chook' Fowler and 11 men along with three days’ provisions to support the 1st Queensland Contingent near Belmont at a place called Sunnyside. There, in a skirmish they had to deal with the first Australian colonial casualties of the war. In addition to several wounded Boers two troopers of the 1st Queensland Mounted Infantry were killed. The stretcher bearers in particular found it a hard time. Later Private Wilson would tell Maloney that ‘it was very rough work bringing down the wounded, as the first fight was on top of a very rough hill and a man was rather heavy for two to carry’. The next evening they were ordered up to Paardeberg where Boer General Piet Cronje was holed up. British and Canadian troops successfully attacked his position. Both sides suffered more than 1,200 casualties at Paardeberg

It was here that Captain Dunkley figured in an unlikely incident. He had ridden out ahead to spy out possible casualties accompanied by a sergeant of the Yeomanry Cavalry acting as his escort. For a moment the two men moved off in different directions in response to a hail of rifle fire. The sergeant's horse was shot for under him and the man sprawled clumsily groping desperately for his rifle. Seeing this Dunkley spurred his mare and at the gallop swept the startled man up onto his horse as bullets whizzed around them. Not looking behind Dunkley raced his horse back to where he had left his men. His quick action had not gone unnoticed and troops fired several volleys in the Boers' direction as he made good his escape. A cheer went up as the pair cantered over the last ridge separating them from the field of fire.

Both men were rewarded with a tot of rum and many slaps on the back. A number of officers from the Yeomanry regiment later thanked Dunkley for the safe return of one of their own while there was adulation from the medicos.

'I never saw the like before', exclaimed an excited McIntosh.

'Well done sir that showed some pluck.'

Sergeant Reid added his congratulations at the safe return of his chief. But the immediate needs of tending to the wounded dictated a speedy return to their work.

Within 24 hours news of the event swept through the entire column. There was talk of a possible decoration for Dunkley. Robards could hardly contain his joy.

'By Jove, this is certainly one for the books', and that night he shouted the officers' mess to champagne.

'Chook' Fowler reckoned it was 'bloomin' amazing.'

Unbeknown to anyone in the Ambulance (there was no telegraph here) a small group of nurses under newly appointed Matron Emily Doherty had just arrived in Cape Town, bound for the north. Much later when she got to hear of Dunkley's exploit Emily showed little emotion but she was very pleased.

On the same day as Dunkley's departure for Paardeberg C Company under Major Clarke and Captain O'Reilly had gone off with a stretcher party under Corporal Samuelson and their vehicles and accompanied a column of 700 British and colonial cavalry and Light Horse. They assisted in supporting British attacks around Wepener, where they came under lively shellfire.

This left Robards, Warrant Officer Holmes, Corporals Sweet, Loney and newly promoted 'Ginger' Blewett, Lance-Corporal Butwell, Troopers Lewis and Figgins, and Bugler Bradshaw with A Company at the Orange River camp to look after twelve cases of typhoid, twenty of dysentery and a large number of assorted ill and injured from the Royal Scots Greys, the Imperial Mounted Infantry and the Queensland Mounted Infantry among others. Robards had asked for urgent medical reinforcements from the British camp at Belmont, but these might not arrive for two days or more. Despite the best efforts of Robards and his tiny band few of the typhoid cases recovered and burials became too frequent an occurrence. The Ambulance's own Corporal Loney, who acted as one of the unit's dispensers, also fell victim to typhoid and was also buried here. It was the second time the unit had lost one of their own, after ‘Cracker’ O’Dowd's tragic accident at sea on the voyage out.

Robard's men now found themselves part of a 40,000-strong army under Field Marshal Lord Roberts advancing on the capital of the Orange Free State. The British commander split his forces: the infantry advanced along the north bank of the Modder River, while his cavalry Division made its way along the south bank. The Ambulance followed behind the cavalry. It was now March and the Veldt experienced the first rain squalls of the season.

It was the cavalry which engaged the forces of two of the Boer generals, De la Rey and de Wet at Polar Grove. But they managed to retreat in good order, the British forces and their horses being too exhausted to follow up. They had taken casualties too and the ambulance men were the first on the scene of one action in which there were four killed and 50 wounded. But worse was to come and only a few days later the column met stiff resistance from the Boers at a place called Driefontein.

Here they sustained 450 casualties. There were only four British field ambulances on hand and their horse transport was so rickety and antiquated it wasn't long before the colonials were called for. The canvas-covered ambulance wagons, which were light and fast due to their uniquely sprung wheels, soon appeared over the crest and a hoarse cry when up from the Regular troops. From each wagon fluttered a Red Cross flag as Dunkley and the other officers wheeled their horses, dismounted and began their bloody work. The men were kept at it hard all day. There were a number of deaths and several of the wounded lost limbs to the surgeons' knives. The ambulance barely had sufficient stores to deal with the mess and it was only with strict economy that none of the wounded missed being properly attended to and their wounds treated and dressed. Even comforts such as brandy, port, arrowroot and tinned milk almost gave out.

Not a few times did Dunkley cast an anxious glance at his orderlies as he asked for more ether, gauze and bandages. Later, he thought how coolly his men had worked amongst this slaughter. Each calmly went about his work, others swapped banter with their British colleagues in an effort to keep up their spirits. Their work done they later joined the main force where they handed over their casualties to British medical staff.

As the Boers ahead of Roberts' army withdrew and then surrendered the city the rest of the advance was uneventful. On Tuesday 13 March a large imperial force under Roberts marched into the city. The town was taken without a shot being fired, which was just as well given the state of the troops. But hopes that the war would soon be over were dashed by the enemy's guerrilla tactics, something that the Ambulance would witness at first hand shortly after leaving a pestilential Bloemfontein on the long advance north to Pretoria.

The officers of the Ambulance were given a tour through two of the town's hospitals. Several Boer prisoners were being treated for gunshot and shrapnel wounds and other injuries. Dunkley thought to himself that some of them looked decent fellows, but others looked very objectionable.  The prisoners he saw held in a makeshift wire-fenced enclosure presented a melancholy spectacle. Some were barefoot, while others wore British-issue boots, no doubt removed from some hapless soldier killed on the veldt. They wore a striking array of headgear, some hats barely recognizable as such. A few of the older Boers cast dour looks in Dunkley's direction as he passed. They sucked silently on their little clay pipes. 

While casualties had been relatively few, Roberts had over stretched his supply line leaving his entire force in desperate need of rest and refurbishment; horses in particular had had a gruelling time of it.  Bloemfontein was a pesthole of enteric fever and other illnesses. The unclean water at Paardeberg up river, polluted by dead horses and human waste, infected many of the imperial force.

The remainder of the ambulance marched into Bloemfontein the same afternoon and set up camp a little out of the city. The fact that their camp was almost next to the cemetery did not cheer Robards or his men. Even 'Sunday' seemed sullen as he sat on his perch. The unit had just completed a gruelling three day tramp from the Orange River camp, most of the time through slush and rain and on half rations with five engagements with the Boer along the way. Other medical reinforcements arrived too although the newly arrived nursing contingent had a more genteel journey. Emily wrote in her diary on 27 April of their trip to Bloemfontein.

'Coming up we were very comfortable; had two four-berth sleeping compartments between the six of us. Food we procured on the way. We had spirit lamps so sometimes we had it picnic fashion; at others we got out at different stations for a meal.'

The picnic was short-lived of course.

As their train steamed into the town the tower of an imposing state building came into sight. The white stoned facades of the inner city soon gave way to wide streets of timbered houses and shops before blurring uneasily into the meaner dwellings and lean-to’s of the poorer classes, labourers, and Indigenous people or 'Kaffirs'. Among the crowds could be seen swarthy Zulus, Swazi and Sothos, some of them ex-miners, who had either fled here or had been drawn to the place with the promise of work.

With the arrival of Emily and her five nursing sisters, life on the veldt had more appeal, at least for the officers. She introduced her charges to Robards and his officers (Clarke and Harris had worked with three of them in Sydney the year before) before they moved off to share the nurses' quarters and mess in little low roofed bungalow half way between the town’s only draper’s shop and a deserted chaff merchant’s store.

Dunkley waited anxiously on the hospital veranda. Soon Emily came out into the bleak morning as a weak sun tried to find its way through the clouds. He swallowed and moved toward her. Decorum and army regulations demanded that the two just shook hands. But even this momentary touch sent a spark to both. Dunkley smiled.

'Oh how I have missed you!'

The couple moved off onto the street as she adjusted her cape against the cold air.

'I can't imagine', she teased. 'But you're quite the hero after Paardeberg.' Then in her best matron's voice she addressed him.

'Really you do take the most foolish risks'.

They both smiled and walked toward a long empty fountain as they exchanged news and rekindled their love affair.

The women settled in well and brought new standards of order and cleanliness to the hospital wards. Small vases of wild Birdberry, Karee and Snake Lily appeared in the wards and the patients were genuinely heartened by their presence. An attempt by some of the orderlies at amoral advances had been sternly rejected, if not by the recipients of this attention, then by Miss Doherty. Tall and winsome, in her grey uniform and starched veil, from which peeked brilliant burnished red wisps of hair, she was a commanding figure. It was little wonder that Dunkley was so taken with her.

It was this grey and scarlet caped whirlwind then which had arrived in the soldiers’ midst. The sisters were popular with the men – both patients and staff  although as matron Emily tended to overawe both. On some evenings she and Dunkley could be seen walking together, but always in the company of one or more of her charges. Both admired the physical beauty, the wit and vivacity of the other, but they were still nonetheless very formal. Dunkley at first found this strange but she was well aware that they were both in the very public gaze of the soldiery and there could be no hint of scandal.

'Oh now that I am here I do long to be home again', she whispered to Dunkley.

'Well, I wouldn't advertise that to anyone. It's bad for morale', he smiled.

Reflecting on his taking the Boer surrender at Paardeberg she turned to him.

'Is it true they are giving you the Victoria Cross or something?'

Dunkley laughed.

'No, I don't think there is any danger of that happening.'

'But it must have been terrifying, being shot at by all those rough bearded men.'

'I was lucky to have a reliable mare which is remarkably fast when the wind is up.'

'Yes, if you put it that way', and she squeezed his arm a little tighter.

‘Emily’, Dunkley placed his hand gently on her arm.

'How I have missed you.  And now here you are in South Africa!'

They had returned to the hospital and were now alone in the small room used as the dispensary.

‘You may Captain.’

Her starched veil brushed across his chest as he kissed her on both cheeks.

'I know that this is not a good time, what with the ambulance ordered north. And everything, but you must know that I feel strongly for you.’

She took his closed fist in her soft white hands and squeezed gently.

‘I do know.’

And she gazed steadily into his dark brown eyes with an intensity which almost took him aback.

‘Oh I am sorry matron!’ said a nurse who suddenly opened the door. ‘I need some more Condys crystals.’

‘By all means Nurse Miller’, and Emily released the doctor’s hand.

The nurse managed to suppress a blush, picked up a bottle and left the room as quickly as she had entered.

‘Mark’ she smiled, ‘I must stay here and you are off for goodness knows how long but you will never be out of my thoughts. ’

‘The poets say that the path of love is not always easy’ ventured Dunkley and their eyes met again in a longing sort of way.

‘I don't think there is much point writing. The mails here are extremely bad.’

‘Perhaps I shall write some anyway and save them for our next meeting my love.'

Then they kissed, slowly at first but then with increasing fervour as their united passion grew.

Despite their liaison none of the hundreds of men who passed through the hospital or its scattered outbuildings were jealous, although one of the nurses had been heard to remark on Dunkley’s undoubted good looks. He continued to mention Emily in his letters home knowing that his mother moved in the same circles as Mrs. Doherty and would be bound to pass on the news. The bonds between their respective children became stronger as the days went by.

As dusk gave way to a cloudy dark sky most of the Australians not on duty could be seen sauntering in pairs or small groups, sometimes furtively looking for cheap grog or moonshine. Albert Sweet and George Wilson were two such tourists who were surprised to come across a high wire fence which enclosed a large bare, pebble strewn square. Facing this were a number of barrack-like buildings. Instinctively they went to turn away when Wilson heard a child sobbing.

The sound came from the base of the fence a little way from a huge tree whose sparse branches offered a little shade. The black clump proved to be a little girl. The men were even more surprised as a distraught woman ran to the fence, screaming something in Afrikaans, the language of the Boers. As she snatched the emaciated child into her arms the look of hatred in her eyes was unmistakable.

Just then two British regulars drew up and shouting, shepherded the woman and child away to the distant buildings.

‘Oi’, shouted Wilson, ‘what’s the go ‘ere?’

‘Push off you two, it’s none of yer business. This is where Boer sympathisers are 'eld.

The other guard raised his rifle.

'Now ‘op it.’

‘Blimey, what a war! Women and children eh? It’s not why we came here to fight’, offered Sweet, who had his own child back home.

They shared this intelligence with their mates in the mess that night. The discovery left a sour taste in everyone’s mouths. But the memory of the child’s pale and gaunt face continued to haunt Sweet.

It was only two days later when the colonials were asked to take over the Artillery Barracks Hospital in the town. This would relieve overworked RAMC staff and release them for duties elsewhere. Formerly known as Queen's Fort, it wasn't particularly imposing but Robards' officers, together with RSM Maloney and Warrant Officer Holmes, inspected the dilapidated building and then set to work. With the help of fatigue parties, together with some Royal Engineers, it was soon able to house 150 patients. Beds and bedding were bought locally while local townspeople donated furniture and other items. But as the Boers had cut off the city's water supplies, what water could be got from the town's wells was rationed and boiled. Horses suffered too and many cavalry and lancer units here lost up to half their mounts.

It was then that Colonel Williams arrived. He had ridden from Kimberley 180 kilometres in two and half days without the benefit of a guide or escort, and hastened along by a sniper’s bullet, to take charge of the medical arrangements in the city. At Williams’ request the Sydney office of the British Red Cross Society had sent out a shipment of goods to South Africa. After an anxious wait for the arrival of the cargo, a Red Cross depot, subscribed to by the New South Wales public, was established next to the Barracks hospital. It did a brisk trade in supplying hospital clothing and general comforts like chocolate, dried fruit, tobacco and books. For the Ambulance the Barracks was home for the next few weeks - until the next big move.

It was at Bloemfontein that the Ambulance’s self-assured mascot became a focus of attention, much of it unwanted in the opinion of its commander. While usually confined to a small cage mounted behind the driver’s box on one of the wagons or chained to a tool box, 'Sunday Best', now shortened by popular assent to 'Sunday', was often left free to graze and fly among the trees during the day.

With military precision he returned to his roost when the bugler played the Last Post every evening. It was the custom of the place that army cooks would light their Soyers’ Stoves just after dawn so that their cauldrons would be hot enough to cook the day’s meals. A range of freshly peeled vegetable produce was laid out on nearby tables, prepared by soldiers on various disciplinary charges or by local conscripted Kaffirs. 'Sunday' had reconnoitred the position thoroughly and could be seen strutting around the kitchen area watching for titbits for the juiciest, unguarded pieces of vegetables. Although fruit was relatively abundant, courtesy the railway supply line, it did not figure much in the Army diet as it was thought to be unhealthy.

After three days 'Sunday' discovered the joys of the officers’ mess at the hospital. This was a large marquee, with a tented kitchen attached. While the food was much the same, its preparation and cooking more closely matched the descriptions and illustrations in the Army’s new catering manuals. The officers also partook of roasted joints of game. This delicacy was regularly brought in from the veldt by some of the more sporting officers who had brought their own hunting rifles out with them. One such hunter was a particularly pompous and disagreeable medical officer  Major Nigel Braithwaite-Hoyle, son of a wealthy Norfolk landowner.

Hoyle was a tall, slender figure of about 40, with a ruddy face. He attempted to hide the absence of a chin by sporting a luxuriant moustache. Despite this deformity he was a crack shot and the mess relied on him for its supply of fresh game. A student at the London Hospital, he had been an average scholar and graduated as a doctor of indifferent talent and skill. Those soldiers who found themselves under his care soon learnt to make a rapid recovery. The nurses loathed his martinet streak, while his colleagues never went out of their way to make small talk with him. Certainly Clarke and Dunkley found him wanting.

'This is war', as Dunkley told his sweet heart

'We can't always choose our comrades.'

By contrast there seemed to be increasing harmony in the ranks. In ways only known to them 'Birdie' and Nowicki had made up their differences. There was a rumour that this was the deal made by the Pole who had won an arm wrestling competition with his former protagonist. The RSM was the first to spot their new found camaraderie and informed Dunkley.

'Apparently it's some sort of Truce sir, so far as I can make out.'

'And about time too', Dunkley replied.

'Did you bang their heads together?'

'No sir.  I think they realized that their little feud was giving everyone the pip.'

'Well the chief will be glad of the news. He was considering sending Trooper Taylor back to Cape Town. We can't have that sort of thing in such a small unit as ours'.

The ambulance began to take on the feel of a more cohesive unit now. Nursing real patients (mainly 'Tommy Cornstalks') often sick with, diarrhoea, dysentery and boils started to hone the skills of at least some of the orderlies who made fewer mistakes in the ward. But deaths continued and some were self-inflicted. The number of drunkards caused by the unwise distribution of rum on Friday nights also caused problems. Those soldiers who didn't drink often sold their shares to the hospital orderlies. Five British soldiers died on one very cold night from alcohol poisoning after they visited a sly grog shop in town. Robards was horrified and Lord Roberts ordered a massive parade of all troops and called the affair a disgrace. All the pubs were immediately declared off limits and any soldier found drinking was liable to receive severe disciplinary measures.

By two o’clock the Ambulance was drawn up for inspection by its commanding Officer. Robards mounted on one of the two mares he had brought with him, a gift from a grazier friend and rode up and down the two ranks of men. Robards made a few observations in a tiny leather notebook and then rode to the front of the parade.

‘Men, I know that you have been placed in a situation, here at with hospital tasks. While we did not volunteer to come all this way to share hospital wards with pretty nurses (a few laughs from the men) I have been pleased with the way I which you have carried out your duties. Many of you have learned new skills that may still serve us usefully in whatever endeavour we find ourselves. Now we are on our way north to join General Gatacre’s Column.’

There were cheers from the men.

‘Major Clarke.’

‘Sir!’

'Carry on if you please.’

They saluted and Robards wheeled his horse to a small group on the hospital veranda. This included the new RAMC doctors, one or two civilians; and some blacks and, just at that moment, Emily.

‘Matron, here is my chance to say goodbye. Please tell your sisters how much we appreciated their help and how much you have improved this place. I’m told many of the patients here are loath to leave!’

‘Thank you sir we all wish you Godspeed and a safe journey.’

The colonel saluted and joined the rear of his unit, which was now in column of march. The dust was already rising in clouds about it. A few mongrel dogs snapped at the heels of the last horses as they rode off at an easy walk. Soon only the Red Cross flags could be seen above the swirls of dust. Emily Doherty felt a sharp pang, such as she had never felt before. But her reflections were interrupted.

‘Matron, you are wanted urgently in the surgical ward.’

The Regimental Sergeant Major read the roll call as the morning sun arose from its bed in the hills. Now that they were so close to the enemy’s home there were few attempts at wit, while ears strained as Robards addressed the unit.

‘Men’, he paused deliberately for effect ‘you will be pleased to know that we have at last received our orders to proceed north to support the advance to Bloemfontein'.

As if rehearsed, 'Sunday' let out an almighty screech that was so loud Robards had to repeat the news.

‘The Ambulance will move out tomorrow at five am. ‘NCOs are to check kit and equipment. Officers and outriders are to be fully armed. Headquarters will provide scouts and a cavalry screen until we reach our destination.’

The CO gave no clue as to where this might be.

But there were few secrets here. The day before Robards had given permission for Private Charlie Coulter to assist in the repair of the telegraph station and once back in his mess Coulter excitedly told his mates that as General French's cavalry column had now arrived in Bloemfontein Lord Roberts would advance to Pretoria. To do this he would have to move across the Vaal then first secure the Vet River and the Zand River on his flanks before seizing the town of Kroonstad.

The ambulance was directed to support a mounted column under Lieutenant General Ian Hamilton. This time they were in the company of several Australian contingents.  Bloemfontein soon became yet another memory as the entire unit moved out in a column at dawn, as Reveille stirred the rest of the canvas city into its daily routine. Robards, an exponent of rapid movement liked to show everyone, especially the regulars, that his outfit could match it with the best of them. To his chagrin few onlookers were present to see this miracle of modern colonial efficiency snake off into the bush.

The men rode easy as two scouts from the South African Constabulary rode a mile ahead of them. Although they were in 'safe' country they were under orders to deploy a scout and to field both a flank and rear guard. But ambulance wagons had never been deliberately fired upon in isolation so Robards felt this was an unnecessary encumbrance. However it was a good opportunity to drill the men. They in turn relished the cool morning air and the open spaces. The horses picked up the mood and whinnied joyfully among cajoling and curses from their riders and drivers.

Overall Robards was proud of the unit's enthusiasm and professionalism. They had proved useful in camp, when hundreds of long timers there came down with Typhoid   the food-borne disease which had decimated much of Lord Roberts' field force in the previous months. The officers noticed that the four men initially chosen and trained on the SS Southern Cross for theatre work proved good choices and confirmed their aptitude for such work. Recently Trooper 'Ginger' Blewett had helped Clarke at an operation, administering ether, drop by drop from a four-ounce bottle onto a piece of gauze over the patient's mouth and nose through a Clover's Inhaler. Blewett's face was a picture of concentration according to Clarke when   chatting with the CO.

The ambulance kept a good pace about three miles to the rear of Hamilton's main body of mounted troops. As was their wont Robards and Clarke rode along deep in conversation, Clarke punctuating the odd remark by jabbing his pipe in the air. A little way back Dunkley was riding alongside one of his company's ambulances when a small herd of startled Wildebeest raced across their flank throwing up clouds of dust. He was inspired at the sight.

'By Jove that is just what we need', he said speaking to no one in particular, 'fresh meat. What do you think Trooper Samuelson?'

'Yes sir, they're supposed to make a good feed; can't be any worse than a 'roo.'

An hour before sunset orders were sent back to bivouac for the night.  Sentries were posted and wagons were circled after the fashion of the Boer kraals. Soon the usual sounds of the night could be heard. The men were now in the habit of throwing the remnants of a blanket over 'Sunday's' cage to stop him squawking.

Looking at this procedure from one of the campfires 'Ginger' poked a stick into the fire.

'It's not as if Johnny Boer don't know we aren't already 'ere', and spat contemptuously.

'Er watch out', Private Wilson hissed, 'that just missed my boot.'

A cold dawn broke over a rock-strewn gully glistening after the night's rain. As men roused themselves from a fitful sleep, like automatons they slipped into the hum drum routine of stand-to, boiling the billy, and breaking camp. The horses shuffled as they could hear nose bags being filled with their meagre ration of mealies. By now 'Chook's' ration of chaff had long since been consumed. Wet blankets were rolled out and damp saddles thrown over their withers. The air around the camp began to fill with pipe smoke  the booty of a wealthy burgher's house 'searched' the day before. 'Birdie' Taylor and Private Coulter had absented themselves for half an hour to scrounge from nearby farmhouses. Their absence went unnoticed as they were supposed to be riding flank guard. The two marauders were careful in their choice of booty and left several unopened bottles of ale as it was well known that the wily Boer would often put sheep dip in anything containing alcohol. The tobacco was their only haul and it was duly shared out among a select few 'on the quiet'. After a few humble embers around the camp had been coaxed into something resembling fires tea was made and the men finished shaving. Warmed by hot tea the unit was ready to move out.

The ambulance carried two sick Englishmen from a regiment of the line. Big men, they were hardly the weedy types so often seen in the British army. As one wag said when they had first arrived in South Africa, 'Some of those lads could do with a bit more tucker.' These men were tall and burnt by the sun, but were weakened by previous bouts of enteric. They gulped down two mugs of tea but could only manage a morsel of cold damper. As the horses were backed into the shafts of the ambulances, the bearers loaded their patients into one wagon with all the care of clerks in a porcelain shop.

It was as well that these Tommies were being transported by the colonials. The usual means of evacuating casualties in the British Army was by heavy ox-wagon, drawn by 14 or 16 oxen, usually at the rate of two and a half miles an hour. Often the only means of transport available, they were disastrous for those condemned to be evacuated in them. Knowing this from bitter experience General Hamilton had been quick to ask Lord Roberts for the NSW Ambulance as part of his column.

Clarke stowed his shaving tackle in his bed roll. Still damp and stiff with the cold he swung a heavy leg over the saddle and mounted. His mare, ever eager for a run, shook her mane and swung a large eye in his direction as if to satisfy herself that her rider was on.

'Sergeant, get those wagons moving and tell cook to douse those cooking fires.'

O'Reilly blearily peeked out of his bed roll.

'God this is as bad a boarding school: a hard bed and a cold breakfast.'

McIntosh came to his aid and preferred a mug of hot tea.

'If we don't scrounge some more fuel sir this might be the last hot anything we will have for a while.'

The officers, not to be hurried this morning, were all eventually mounted while the RSM grunted to himself that this laid back approach would not be permitted in a line regiment.

Warrant Officer Maloney barked a couple of gruff commands and although Clarke sometimes struggled to clearly understand his trusted senior NCO, the men responded quickly and the two ambulance wagons went forward. The sun warmed man and beast and despite less than a full belly they made off with that fleeting sense of elation that comes with a bright, cloudless morning.

'Rider!' came the warning, as a lone figure could be seen galloping along just beneath a ridge line off to their right. His wide-awake hat proclaimed him as a colonial. With a jangle of bit and spurs, bandolier and rifle he wheeled around next to the second ambulance wagon. After a salute that could barely be recognized as such, he handed a note to the major. Clarke scrutinized it.

'Thank you trooper. Tell them we will be there before noon if we can, horses permitting.'

'Sir' and the rider clattered off whence he came.

Clarke spurred his horse and cantered up to Robards and the two conferred briefly.

'Officers to me!,' Clarke shouted.

The officers left their stations and rode up while the rest of the unit rode past at a walk, ears strained for what had brought the courier.

'We have just received an order to say that the 3rd Imperial Bushmen had a scrap last night with Johnny Boer and I am afraid our lads got the worst of it. The note mentioned twelve wounded but nothing as to their condition. Dunkley you will take your company and proceed at once to their location.'

Dunkley snapped a salute and turned away followed by McIntosh. His fellow officers returned to the column, which had even now changed direction and was headed due west.

As he rode up his company of orderlies and bearers with its three wagons was already moving away from the rest of the Ambulance.

'Lieutenant, be so good as to inform Sergeant Harris of our mission and ask him to report to me.'

McIntosh saluted and trotted off.

Robards followed their progress through a pair of field glasses until they were lost in the distance.

Dunkley's company made good progress, led by a local scout. On the way they chanced upon a shallow gully which contained a sizeable pool of water. The horses drank greedily, while the men had only time for a swig of boiled water from their canteens and a few mouthfuls of bully beef before resuming their mission of mercy.

After a dull trek over the ridge and some kopjes the white bonneted wagons reached a small clump of trees at one o'clock in the afternoon. Artillery fire could be heard in the distance but there was no rifle fire here. Experienced eyes took in the scene and surmised in seconds what had probably occurred. A small relief column of Imperial and Australian mounted troops had been ambushed by a group of snipers from the trees. Beneath their shade some twenty or so men now lay in bloodied uniforms and bandages. Further along a wagon track lay the carcasses of several horses. As they rode up a teary soldier put a revolver to his just moving Waler and shot it through the head. Two officers came up to meet Dunkley. There were more salutes from the relieved men as the medical officers dismounted and moved to the wounded.

The lucky ones were propped up against tree trunks and several ashen-faced men lay in the shade on blood soaked blankets and remnants of uniforms. The Boer had been quick enough and bold enough to relieve this advance column not only of its supply carts but of parts of uniforms. Serviceable clothing was scarce among the hard ridden Boer.

Dunkley sorted the wounded by waving at each with his stick, whereupon Sergeant Harris ensured that the man was seen either by another medical officer or by an orderly. Dunkley sauntered among the wounded.

'Priority, throat wound there, chest wound here, leave him. Another chest wound', and so on. He carefully pulled blankets off unwilling patients to check the severity of their wounds. 'Abdominal wound, I'll see to him in a minute.'

Six badly wounded troopers and ten or so minor wounded made up the count. In the middle of this process one of the slightly wounded, a gangly Queenslander, whispered into Corporal Sweet's ear.

‘Don’t suppose the doc will do me piles as well?'

A few metres away and Private Nowicki struggled to make sense of the thick Glasgow accent of one of wounded Yeomen, although a large shoulder wound told the medic as much as he needed to know.

Dunkley and McIntosh each took two serious cases each and worked steadily, assisted by 'Ginger' Blewett and Trooper Lewis. The other men gave first aid or ensured the lightly wounded had either a drink or a smoke. Most of these men now made light of their recent ordeal. However the British major in charge, with an eye to his reputation, was somewhat shaken by the affair. The wounded accepted their lot stoically. Both doctors worked quickly before the daylight failed so that by five o'clock all the wounded had been seen to. It was too late to load them and so once sentries had been posted the group stood down and made their customary fires, this time with the luxury of some plentiful fuel about.

By the light of a lantern Dunkley was proffered a thick damper sandwich which contained the remainder of the breakfast bully beef and a cup of tea by his orderly. Closing his eyes he had taken only a sip when Trooper Straker came up and saluted.

'Sir, the chest wound is bleeding again and the bloke's fainted on me.'

The doctor followed the man a short distance to a Bell tent to look at his patient. The man, about forty and a fine horseman, was too old for this sort of thing, thought Dunkley as he gently removed the man's blood soaked tunic to re-assess his wound. Although the casualty had been propped up in a litter all the pads and bandages were stiff with blood.

'Trooper, I'll need my haversack.'

Within minutes he had removed the bandage, found a piece of debris in the wound which he had earlier missed and bound the man up again using a huge cotton pad and several lengths of bandage.

Another casualty was breathing heavily with a slight rattle that Dunkley did not like. More bandages were applied and he was then carried closer to one of the camp fires. An hour later he seemed to rally and had botted a fag from a fellow Victorian when the cigarette soon fell from his lips. In the morning he was added to the Killed in Action list. With lookouts posted a squad dug his grave and, to the accompaniment of six rifle shots, his body, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into the earth. Some of his wounded mates peered out from the ambulance wagons at the small wooden cross as the unit made its way back to its previous camp site.

'He was a great pal', said one of them.

‘The bugger owed me a quid too’ spat another.

The following morning a trooper reported to Dunkley because he thought he had contracted dysentery because he had pains in his stomach and had blood in his stools. Upon examination Dunkley discovered that the man had been shot. A Mauser bullet had hit him an inch above his left hip and passed out the other side. The trooper thought he had been hit by a fragment of rock, and was quite unaware that he had been shot.  Dunkley patched him up before he too was loaded into one of the ambulance wagons. He took out his watch and suddenly realised that he was dead tired.

Dunkley then had an extraordinarily vivid flashback to Sydney’s St. Vincent’s hospital where emergency or accident patients were met by a doctor, a nun in a crisp habit and a group of equally starched nurses. The stricken victim was then wheeled away to a modern, brightly lit operating theatre where all that medicine and science could provide was at the surgeon’s disposal. Electric light, steam disinfectors, trained and experienced staff. A comely nurse who looked very much like Emily seemed to float through these ethereal wards. The sharp smell of a rotting wound bought him back to the veldt.

After an uneventful trek the company made its way past outlying sentry posts, across the railway line and into Kroonstad proper. The town had been taken without a fight. The Boers were retreating northward as fast as they could. In the town they found troopers of the New South Wales Mounted Infantry, the 1st Australian Horse and the New South Wales Lancers.  It was the only time anyone could remember seeing so many Australian colonial units in one place at the same time. Dunkley thought he briefly caught a glimpse of Generals French and Hutton entering a large marquee of the main road.

At the edge of the settlement stood the school house which had been converted to a makeshift hospital. Here the bearers relieved the wagons of their stretchers. There were a few low moans as the casualties were carried up the whitewashed steps into the long narrow building. The tin roofed shed had been divided into two 'wards'. The whole building might have held twenty beds had it been a civilian hospital but here some 50 patients were crammed in like sardines, lying on the floor with no mattresses, few blankets and no sleeping clothes. Some of the men spat, vomited or fouled themselves where they lay. The stench was foul, even to medical nostrils. Until the arrival of the ambulance only four orderlies had been available to work 24 hours shifts.  While these men were willing and kind they were clearly out of their depth and could not cope with the demands of the severely ill in their care.

The colonials quickly moved in and made order out of chaos. They found that three of the patients had actually died some time before and their bodies were quickly moved and buried. Under Robards direction all the unit's Bell tents were erected and into these groups of five men were moved on stretchers. 

Dunkley's company was responsible for moving these sick and wounded.

‘Yes put him there, I will look at him directly.’

As he briefed his orderlies, the other men unlimbered wagons and carts and fed and watered their horses and mules. Both Robards and Harris's mounts had thrown their shoes and were led off to the farrier where the sound of his anvil echoed between the mean little shanties and stores that made up the street. The remainder of the unit not directly looking after patients managed to catch some sleep.

For the time being the doctors remained in the various tents finish writing up their notes and to look at a local African boy who had just been admitted  against the rules. He was suffering from elephantiasis and the ward sergeant had put him on the floor of one of the ambulance wagons. When Dunkley saw the black he wondered whether Sergeant Bourke had brought the native in for humane reasons or for his curiosity value. The youth’s left leg was the size of a man’s torso, while his scrotum had swollen so that it hung to his knees. The condition’s name was an apt one. But the youth was comfortable and Dunkley’s colleague Harris, who had studied tropical medicine, would be interested in this case.

Corporal, would you ask Lieutenant McIntosh to look in on this case.'

Craving fresh air Dunkley made his way out of the tent into the early evening

Samuelson nodded and sought out the young officer who was discussing one of his charges with Major Clarke.

The track which passed for a street in this place led to a little square. Here, the kerosene lanterns outside the hotel and telegraph office barely penetrated the blackening night with a yellow haze. Dunkley walked past the hotel from whence came a rollicking of off-key chorus singing 'Champagne Charlie' to the accompaniment of a piano that had seen better days. But suddenly his need for distraction left him and he wandered back to the ambulance's camp.

As he approached the lines a sentry challenged him.

‘Who goes there?’ came the ancient challenge.

‘Dunkley, Captain, army medical service.’

‘Sir you know you need a password.’

‘For God’s sake Smith, whose face he could clearly see, ‘you know me!’

‘Well you know the rules sir’, came the undaunted reply.

‘Damn, well what is the password tonight Smith?’

‘Washtub sir.’

‘Well washtub and a good evening to you trooper.

‘Pass Captain Dunkley.’

It was perhaps just as well that the sentry didn’t see the officer roll his eyes heavenward as he walked past. Weary now Dunkley pushed back the flap of his tent. His nostrils met a potent mixture of pipe shag, boot polish and brandy.

‘Mail old chum’ and O'Reilly threw him a small bundle of tattered paper. Stooping to remove his sword belt the doctor took the small shot glass of brandy O'Reilly held out for him.

‘Thanks, did everyone receive mail?’

‘Yes, but all mine are either bills or bible tracts!’

‘I’ve got some fig jam and a bag of decent tobacco from sis’, chimed in McIntosh.

Clarke held one of his letters up close, murmuring. Then he re-read it.

Well I'll be damned my brother has gone and got himself married and didn't even wait for my blessing!'

They all laughed and returned to reading.

Dunkley then proceeded to go through his five letters methodically sorting them into date order. In his mail his mail he penned evocative glimpses of the land and its peoples, black and white. He remarked often on the differences between the former and the few Australian natives he had seen about Sydney. The local people struck him as being industrious and good husbandmen and although he was sometimes scathing of the Boers’ treatment of the Kaffirs, he knew that British and Australian conduct wasn’t much better. Both sides exploited the blacks with no thought either for their welfare or for their place in this huge country after the war.

There was a letter in a spidery hand from an old school chum from Kings, an odd smelling envelope from an aunt, one from his parents but nothing from Emily. His brows knitted at the omission. He thought of excuses for her not writing, an outbreak of typhus, piano lessons, a lost letter – it happened often enough. He read his mail but digested little of it. It brought him no nearer home. Old Dr Robinson had sold his practice and Dunkley senior thought there might be an opening for him at St. Vincent's Hospital when he returned from South Africa.

The four men sat in their tent lost in their correspondence or in thoughts of home which invariably accompanied the mail when it came. Still it was a welcome diversion from the scanty gossip from the hospital or the endless rumours garnered from overhearing the men’s conversations or second guessing orders when they came. Outside, the wind rose to a low moan, then, by midnight it was licking at the tent flaps in a frenzy.

Dunkley was in the middle of his parent’s home paddock when a cold bugler with a colder instrument made an effort to sound reveille on key.

‘Where do they get those ruddy trumpeters from?’ croaked O’Reilly who promptly rolled over again in his camp bed.

'I have no idea'’ said McIntosh, ‘but he is not an Eisteddfod winner.’

The joke fell flat and McIntosh felt embarrassed.

‘Orderly!’ called Clarke. A moment later a partially lathered face appeared at the opening of the tent.

‘Yes sir?’

‘Hot water, and don't loiter.’

After a shave and a mug of tea the four officers looked in on their respective patients.  Robards had risen early and with RSM Maloney and 'Mouse' Harris' was doing the rounds of a second makeshift hospital erected overnight in the British lines. McIntosh's elephantiasis patient had ‘done a bunk’ during the night as Sergeant Reid explained. Apparently the white folks’ hospital was bad medicine and the stricken boy had his worst fears realized when the body of an enteric victim, the local school teacher, had been carried past his wagon just after midnight, in full view of the astonished native.

The unit was a tightly knit one now and they were conscious that their absence, however much justified, placed a greater burden on those left on duty. Most of these soldiers who presented themselves at sick parade were from units visiting the town or passing through. Several ‘Tommie Cornstalks’ were among them. Two were jaundiced, one had burnt himself while tending a camp fire; there was a malingerer and three soldiers had unmistakable symptoms of enteric. The last group was given over to the care of the two duty orderlies who helped them strip before laying them on the ambulance stretchers.  Kroonstadt could boast no beds other than those belonging to the townsfolk.

By 6.30 Dunkley and Clarke joined O’Reilly and McIntosh at the long tent which served both as General French's headquarters and as the officers’ mess. Colonel Robards was already seated at the long trestle table, intent on a large bowl of porridge.

‘Sit down gentlemen, don’t let it go cold. Well how are the men?’

McIntosh looked up from his plate: ‘Usual mix sir, but we seem to be losing more fellows to enteric.’

‘Damn, the last thing we need out here’, added Robards between mouthfuls of oatmeal.

O’Reilly simply nodded as his mouth was occupied with a large piece of warm damper. An hour later saw officers and men sated with the first hot meal they had enjoyed for several days. The general's cooks had done wonders in providing gallons of hot, sweet tea.

‘I thought shearers were bad’, quipped one of them.

But you should have seen the colonel bolt down his cha, as if he was dying of thirst d’you know.’

Officers and men returned to their tented hospital when a runner approached the camp bearing a telegram.

‘Message for OC 1st New South Wales Field Ambulance’, he said as he saluted Clarke. The latter turned to indicate Robards who was coming up a little behind him. Taking the telegram he adjusted his pince nez.

‘Major Clarke, be so good as to take the good lieutenant and an orderly and proceed at once to Pik’s Drift. The rest of the ambulance will follow directly. It seems there has been a bit of a stoush and our people have taken a few bullets from the Boer.

The three men rode for over four hours. Fortunately they had a member of the South African Constabulary with them to act as guide. Even so it had been hard riding and their progress slowed by having to ford several streams in full flow. This, together with the wind, made for an uncomfortable journey. Shortly after noon the group rode into a nondescript kraal. They were approached by a sentry at the same time as the smell of cooking fires met their nostrils. Yeomanry horses, thin and haggard, were neatly tethered and knots of men were squatting or standing smoking pipes or talking in low voices. Up on a ridge a heliograph was making the best use of brief periods of sunshine to flash out signals to units further south. The Australians’ arrival seemed to be the cause of some surprise.

Dunkley knitted his brows and thought ‘Where were the casualties, the bodies…?’

A boyish looking subaltern came up and saluted smartly.

‘Can I help you sir?

‘Dunkley, New South Wales Medical Corps. We were informed this morning that your unit had taken serious casualties. Our ambulance is following. What is going on?’

The Englishman looked nonplussed

‘I know of no casualties to our troops sir but I will take you to the adjutant sir if you please.’

‘What a cock up’ the Australian confided to his men.

‘Dismount corporal and take the horses to water while I find out what the deuce is going on.’

Corporal Smith took the horses’ bridles and led them off.

‘Major Rogers. Captain Dunkley I take it?’

‘Yes sir', and Dunkley saluted into the sky blue eyes of the yeomanry officer.

‘Early this morning we received a message to the effect that your fellows had been badly knocked about in a Boer raid. I expect the rest of the ambulance to be here within hours.’

‘Oh dear’, said the sunburned Briton, ‘I am afraid someone has rather blundered. We ran foul of a few head of cattle last night. The lightning storm probably set them off you know. At any rate they stampeded our lines. Felt rather like a cowboy what?’

He giggled in a boyish way but immediately recovered himself as he failed to raise a grin from the young doctor.

‘Well we had few tents trampled. That was all. Can’t imagine how you chaps became involved. We sent out no runners. Tell you what a heliograph unit arrived this morning, no doubt en route for the Cape. Why don’t you send a message to Reid’s Drift to head your fellows back? They will have to pass just near the drift and there is a helio post and runners there.'

‘Thank you sir, the men are tired enough without these wild paper chases.'

The major detected sufficient umbrage to take him by the shoulder and lead him off to a mess tent and hot tea.

As they sipped from china cups the major continued.

‘I know what you mean Captain. We were delayed last week through this interminable pursuit of DeWet’s men who were reportedly seen near here.'

'De Wet, De Wet’ thought Dunkley. He was beginning to wonder if this elusive enemy commander would ever be captured or brought to a real fight. What an elusive shadow. Thousands of troopers were running about the countryside trying to pin the Boer leader down and force him to fight a proper, fixed battle. But he was too good a strategist to play the game the British way.

‘I say Dunkley you might look at some of our chaps while you are here.’

‘I’ll fetch my bag.’

For the next hour, while his assistants boiled water, cleaned instruments and applied bandages, the doctor lanced boils, treated a case of suppurating piles, removed a grass seed from man’s eye and extracted an abscessed tooth. These men had been gangly big fit fellows, but with constant riding, poor rations and the cold and wet conditions, the strain was beginning to tell on some. A little after four o’clock, with still no sign of the ambulance, he was again invited to the mess tent, where several officers had gathered for refreshment.

Knowing he must get back to his own unit he hurriedly emptied three cups of tea and some stodgy fruit cake which despite the army postal service had found its way here from a subaltern’s over-anxious mother. ‘This lot does themselves well’, he thought. He was bade farewell by the same major who had greeted him and the party of horsemen cantered away.

By now Dunkley had developed a good eye for the lay of the land so he left the scout with the Yeomanry. Three hours later they met up with the ambulance which had picked up the helio message about the false alarm. The reaction was immediately obvious by the disgusted look on most of the men’s faces. Dudley’s two companions melted into the column and he rode up to the colonel and fell in beside his mount.

‘Afternoon sir’ and saluted.

‘Sorry to have sent you off for nothing old man. Bad business, knocks up men and horses you know.’

This was followed by a cloud of exhaled pipe smoke.

‘Actually sir I did manage to lance a few army boils.’

They both laughed.

The constant controlling and time spent in the saddle told on the stamina of the men, the medicos included. The scarcity of fuel made things worse and not even the comfort of a hot ‘brew’ was possible in some areas. Theoretically the army ration was a sound one. A typical brigade might expect its full daily ration to include one pound of biscuits, flour or rice, one pound of preserved or fresh meat, half an ounce of coffee or an ounce of tea or chocolate, three ounces of sugar, half-an-ounce of salt, half-an-ounce of pepper, and four ounces of jam. A doctor could order one ounce of cheese instead of the meat while he could also prescribe a tot of lime juice or rum to convalescents. But in the bush cheese soon went rancid and the rum never went far. The monotonous diet also meant skin problems and boils which kept medical officers busy in army camps or while in bivouac.

For the next few weeks imperial troops had a number of successes against the Boer. Despite the minor nature of such engagements the British war correspondents magnified them to an extent that any of the participants in these events would have scarcely recognised them. Increasingly desperate British tactics were beginning to bite deeply into the Boer’s traditional sources of supply and intelligence - their families.

During this time the ambulance manned a makeshift hospital at the newly captured Boer town of Pietersburg. On this occasion the town hall had been commandeered into service and this, together with two tented wards catered for two hundred men, almost all of whom were suffering from enteric fever. All the ambulance's doctors were kept busy at the hospital and as army routine quickly reasserted itself, the tedium of war grew oppressive. Rumour was rife and indiscipline was not infrequent. But Pietersburg was a largish town. It boasted three hotels and not a few pretty girls. There was a local club of sorts which the Australian officers shared with three British units which were garrisoned in the area. The men soon made the place their own and made the owner’s fortune. At the end of ward duty many of the colonials made straight for the hotels which did a brisk trade in cheap beer and doctored 'spirits'.

Most of them just went along for a friendly glance from the girls who tended the bars. Like all wars, most of the time was spent in mind numbing tedium, with an occasional bout of excitement, which seemed to make some sense of them being in South Africa. It was far from what they had expected, especially those raised on tales of derring-do by the empire’s soldiery.

It was during one of Trooper Straker's visits to the 'Duke of Gloucester' pub that he met Imogen Leyden, daughter of Thomas Leyden, publican and elder of that town. A former prospector, he ran the hotel with the help of three daughters and a formidable wife. She had recently gone to East London to oversee a consignment of imported furniture, wines and spirits. Her husband had shrewdly foreseen that her manner, size and voice would ensure all the precious cargo reached the hotel without loss. For her part Mrs. Leyden had not been slow to realise the benefits of a garrison in such a small town. She had visions of enlarging the place. Certainly the troopers spent lavishly there.

The recently opened and renamed 'Beer and Skittles' (it had, until recently been the 'Bierhaus') across the dusty street was a seedy little place, not much more than a tavern. None of the pubs were visited much by the locals, most of them being God-fearing teetotal folk. A small contingent of military police maintained regular patrols of the district earning them the opprobrium of the colonials especially. It was nothing unusual of an evening for a British officer, with a full belly and reeking of port wine to criticize his own soldiers for drinking. No one seemed to see the irony.

Of course alcohol and the colonials did not always mix so well. After only three weeks, five men had been brought before Robards on charges ranging from drunkenness to insubordination. Four had been fined and Corporal Straker had been reduced to the ranks. The monotony showed through in other ways. Some of the officers became short-tempered, senior non-commissioned officers consequently became peevish and ward discipline was not always up to the standard insisted upon by Robards. Patients had to be shaved and cocooned in their drab cotton bed covers; their whiteness would have brought tears of joy to any matron’s eye.

Despite this, the men were becoming as proficient in working in a ward as they were in field work, cooking (such as it was), driving or the host of other drills and tasks which they were often called upon to undertake. It had been one of their chief’s aims to have all the men skilled in different tasks. A soldier who could dress a patient’s wounds in ward would also negotiate a two-horse wagon over difficult terrain with as much ease. The Australians were proud of this because from first-hand experience they knew that the British, with their red tape and cautious ways, would not allow any man to work outside his own niche within the army medical corps.

The long recovery time for those enteric patients who did not die spent in bed also caused other rarer, but infinitely more serious disciplinary problems. One of these incidents centred on Driver Figgins, a wagoner from Sydney, who was sent back to Australia with ‘disordered heart syndrome’.

Lieutenant McIntosh kept himself busy in a tiny, improvised laboratory at one end of a disused stable along from the hospital. He spent much time here, poring over his note books, tubes, a microscope, flasks and virus laboratory paraphernalia he had packed in a wicker pannier. On those days he was not on ward duty vapours and smells from the stable made their presence felt down wind.

As 'Chook' once remarked, 'That place is beginning to small like the cook 'ouse.'

Among the 200 or so men who filled the hospital wards, was a young trumpeter from the 1st NSW Lancers, a strong seventeen year old who had succumbed to enteric. The boy was from an outback town and was as handsome as he was innocent. One night he became delirious. Figgins, who was rostered as the ward orderly, heard his cries and went to calm him. The other men in the room, the smallest in the makeshift hospital, were in that deep state of sleep brought on by the exhaustion of fever. The trumpeter lay in a heavy sweat, his arms twitching above the bed covers. There was no shouting, just a murmuring, and an occasional, soft call for ‘Mother’.

Figgins took a sponge and bowl and wiped the youth’s face and hands. As he placed the patient’s arms beneath the blankets, the lad grasped his hand. Figgins instinctively returned the clasp, and then became troubled by this turn of events. He found he was gazing at the boy’s face, and embarrassed perhaps, decided to go to outside.

Over the next few days the trumpeter slowly recovered and became more lucid. With ward and horse duties Figgins had little time to dwell on individual patients until, some days later, he found himself on night duty again. Dunkley knew Figgins to be reliable and the nursing sisters were not due until the morning. All the officers had been invited to a smoke night in the mess of a neighbouring unit. Figgins relieved the duty wardsman and slumped into the vacated chair. It was just after 11.30 pm and it wasn’t long before he felt a pair of eyes upon him, and peering into the gloom lightened by the moon outside, he looked directly into the trumpeter’s face.

The boy continued to look on him unblinking. Figgins, somewhat unnerved even for a big man, took his lantern, got up and walked to the bed. ‘What’s up mate?’ He noticed the boy’s shock of dark blond hair, the cut of his jaw and the fine features on a pale face. He had known no tenderness since leaving Australia.

‘Please…’

‘Quiet lad, you go off to sleep now’ whispered Figgins who stooped down and kissed the boy’s face.

The trumpeter just closed his eyes and squeezed the trooper’s hand just a little harder.

Moments before Sergeant Maloney, who was the duty NCO came into the ward. He had seen, even in that low yellow light, what had taken place.

In a low voice he said: ‘Figgins, git over here at once.’

Once outside he stared straight into the corporal’s face and asked ‘what's your game Figgins? I’ll see you in the adjutant’s office in the morning. You are relieved of duty. And stay away from that boy, d’ye hear?’

Figgins, shocked and dumbfounded as much at his own actions as to the sergeant's harsh words, could only stammer ‘Yes sergeant.’

Maloney was not a spiteful man, but the army was his life and he played by the book. Both the adjutant, who was made aware of the incident just after morning Reveille and the OC, to whom the matter had to be reported, were at one on the penalty, which was clearly set out under Queen’s Regulations. Roberts and Clarke decided to send Figgins home for a 'breach of discipline', but softened the blow by inserting a medical excuse into his service record. Still his report gave an indication of the true nature of the offence and in civilian life, as in the army, the penalties were severe. So at 6.30 am on the following day a sombre and somewhat shocked Figgins departed on a mail cart for Durban and thence by boat to New South Wales. It was only months later, while leafing through some old newspapers that someone noticed a small column headed: ‘Returned soldier leaps from Sydney Heads.’ The man’s name was given as Alfred Edwin Figgins, 35, wagoner of Surry Hills.