South Africa Odyssey. Michael Tyquin
Homburg squarely on his head, he walked past two newly khaki-clad sentries at the massive sandstone gate. He reported to the office of the Principal Medical Officer and waited in the dim anteroom. A wheezy staff sergeant sat at a small desk absorbed in a mountain of documents. A huge blowfly struggled vainly against a windowpane, while outside the muffled sounds of parade ground drill could be heard. He was in the process of removing a pocket book from his jacket when the outer door opened and a long-time friend, Captain Louis O'Reilly strode through it.
‘Good Lord, you too eh?’ he exclaimed with the hint of an Irish brogue and smiled boyishly.
As Dunkley rose, the other man shot out a hand and shook that of his friend.
‘I expect we all received our orders. The old man will be in a tizz. He has been looking forward to this ever since the Battle of Colenso.’
‘Let's hope he won't be disappointed,’ rejoined Dunkley.
A bespectacled red-tabbed officer beckoning him through the door interrupted their laughter.
'Ah, Captain Dunkley, do step in.'
When it was O'Reilly's turn the men cherrio-ed each other. They would meet again soon enough to join their unit in its preparations to leave for the fighting.
Thus began, as for many professional men who belonged to the militia, an anxious time for the young medicos of the ambulance. They set their affairs in order, arranged for changes in operating theatre lists with hospitals and sought reliable doctors to act as locums in tenens for their practices, and made out their wills. Both physicians and surgeons in the militia had to prepare themselves for a period of relative poverty while they were on service. But for many of the orderlies, drivers, stretcher-bearers and others, their army service would mean a regular income. This was a luxury for dozens of these men, particularly those from outlying rural areas, who had not had a regular wage since the recession of 1893. But the craftsmen among them, namely the farriers, wheelwrights and harness makers, who all doubled as orderlies or bearers, would find themselves no better off.
The general feeling in the ambulance was one of excitement, an emotion that grew as the whole unit came together to train as one. The men now drilled with a sense of purpose and urgency. Ambulances and wagons were harnessed in record time tents were erected and pulled down again so that the men could do it blind-folded. First aid and stretcher drills were carried out under the critical eye of sergeants and non-commissioned officers.
It was on the second day of this fevered activity that 'the old man', their commanding officer, stepped down from a brougham as it drew up to the barracks gate. His person, uniform and accoutrements were polished to a high gleam. Militiaman he may have been but Lieutenant-Colonel James Horatio Felix Robards FRCS, ED looked every inch the soldier.
‘Stand fast!’ roared a sergeant major, whose hawk eyes had spied the carriage as soon as it came through the gate.
A tall, gangly trooper ran, too late, to open the door of the brougham. Feeling foolish he managed to give a passable salute.
‘More drill on paying compliments to officers’, Sergeant Major Maloney made a mental note to himself.
The second-in-command of the Field Ambulance, Major Henry Clarke, a respected Sydney surgeon, saluted his chief and the two shook hands. Robards had taken his invalid wife to a Blue Mountains resort and had only just returned to Sydney by the morning train.
‘How goes it Clarke, men shaping up? No shirkers?’ His questions were asked in a clipped staccato, the result of years in hospital operating theatres.
‘Why no sir, the men are as good as gold. Even Holmes has come up from Kangaroo Flat and it has been an age since we last saw him parade.’
‘Well don’t let me interrupt proceedings. I am going to see Colonel Wilkes. I'll address you all at dinner this evening.’
‘Very good sir.’
Clarke took a step back and threw a smart salute, which Robards acknowledged by touching a silver-topped cane lightly to his helmet.
‘Carry on Sah Major!’ shouted Clarke.
And the sweating men returned to some half-hearted rifle drill in the knowledge that the bugler was about to signal Mess call.
Robards made his way to the PMO's office where he met Bernard Wilkes, a long-time bridge partner. The two exchanged pleasantries and various forms and documents were signed.
‘Well Robards, I suppose you are surprised at us sending you out?’
‘Not really. As we told them in ‘88, disease would kill more of ‘em in a war than bullets, and such has been the case’ replied Robards.
‘Yes, the imperial medical authorities are barely coping with the latest outbreak of enteric and have asked us, Victoria, and I believe Canada, for medical reinforcements. As you know Colonel Williams our senior medical officer left for the Cape two months ago. I believe he shocked a lot of the Britishers with his methods. You know how he abhors red tape!’
Both men smiled.
‘Here are your orders. You and your men are to board the SS Southern Cross on Thursday. I apologise for the short notice, but the politicians have put their hand up and, as usual, have promised London everything before thinking the matter through.’
As he stepped out into the intense sunlight, Robards was met by the last of the men scurrying off to their respective messes for lunch. Officers, some of them with canes under their arms, strolled behind. There was some cricket banter between Captain Mathew Harris (known as 'mouse' because of his shyness and something of a high class old maid in his habit) and Warrant Officer Arthur Holmes, the quartermaster and a man overly fond of whiskey. Major Clarke and Captain Dunkley fell into step and made their way to the two-storey sandstone Georgian building which served as the officers’ dining room. As the youngest officer and a recent medical graduate, Lieutenant Edwin McIntosh stood back as his seniors took their seats.
Despite the heat outside steaming Brown Windsor soup was dispensed from a silver tureen by a solemn faced steward. As the man leant over the table Dunkley was sure he could smell beer on his breath. Robards disclosed the unit's orders to his five officers and, over a very poor leg of lamb they talked about outstanding issues such as missing equipment, surgical instruments and – a mascot for the Ambulance. The most urgent issue however was that several hundred men of the 1stCommonwealth Horse would have to be vaccinated in two days’ time.
Major Clarke informed the colonel that on the previous day two parents had made representations to him asking that their sons not deploy with the rest of the ambulance. In the first case, Trooper Wilson was 21 years old and therefore Clarke told the man's elderly father that as he was a volunteer the choice lay with his son. After an angry scene with his father Wilson decided to stay, arguing that he would remit all his pay to his parents, something he could not do if he remained a casual fruit picker. The other aggrieved parent had to be won over not by their son's persuasiveness, but by that of the adjutant. Captain O'Reilly pleaded that the unit would be unable to find another trumpeter at short notice, that the boy had given good service over the past three months, and that he personally would do everything to ensure that he remained out of trouble and out of harm's way. Thus mollified the lad's father returned to his cobbler's shop easier in mind and Robards retained his bugler.
Dunkley made it a point to pen a note to Emily informing her of developments and regretting that he could not meet her that weekend. He begged her understanding.
The myriad small and trying administrative details drove everyone to distraction —officers and men alike. Paperwork and procedure kept the men at a snail's pace for the next day. On Friday the men of the Commonwealth Horse, led by their band, marched dismounted to the barracks to be vaccinated against the Smallpox. Several men fainted before the needle touched their bared arms and one man had a seizure immediately after his shot. This provided some of the younger orderlies a rare opportunity to practise their first aid among ribald jokes and advice from the victims’ mates.
During the three hours it took four doctors to get the job done