without a history and often perish without a memorial--as, for instance,
the devotion of a private at Modder River who applied digital pressure
to the severed artery of a comrade for hours under fire and so saved his
life. Again, the soldier's religion, where it exists, is often very
genuine indeed. Just after the Magersfontein reverse a wounded
Highlander entreated me to find his rosary for him which was hidden
under a pile of accoutrements. On another occasion we picked up on the
floor of the train a piece of paper which proved to be the will of a
poor private, a Roman Catholic, who left "all he possessed" to the
Church. I need not say that this will was forwarded to the proper
quarter. The wounded men too were frequently very grateful for any
little services one could render them, and made us odd little presents
by way of return. One H.L.I. man gave me the badges from his ruined
khaki jacket, and an Argyll and Sutherland Highlander bestowed upon me a
pair of goggles he had taken from the face of a dead Boer.

By the time we reached Richmond Road the usual influx of private
offerings for the wounded had, as usual, begun. We always left the front
with the ordinary comforts of an ambulance train; by the time we reached
Capetown we looked like a sort of cross between a green-grocer's stall
and a confectioner's shop. We simply didn't know what to do with the
masses of fruit and flowers, puddings and jellies, which the people
along the line forced upon us. These kindly folk--men, women and
children--thrust their various offerings through the windows; then they
peeped through themselves, and the women would say "poor dear" to some
six-foot guardsman, who smiled his thanks or told them how he got hit.
As I say, the train was, by the time we reached Wynberg, simply choked
with luxuries--some of them quite unsuitable for wounded men--a
veritable _embarras de richesses_. We used to begin the journey with
moderation and end it with a species of debauch! But it was most kind