South Africa Odyssey. Michael Tyquin

for whom this was their first experience of the wicked looking syringes. Immediate comparisons were made with the tools of their own veterinary officer. One of the three men who collapsed was the regiment's boxing champion. When he came to his glowering looks were enough to dampen the mirth generated by his newly discovered Achilles heel.

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

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

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

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

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

      They clasped hands and she whispered 'God speed'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      ‘RSM Maloney sir.’

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

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

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

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

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