On December 10th, as we were standing on a siding at De Aar, a telegram, arrived ordering us to leave for Modder River in the morning.  We were delighted at the prospect of getting rid of our enforced inaction at De Aar.  The air was full of rumours about an impending attack on Cronje’s position, and we fully expected to be in time for the fight and probably to be employed as stretcher-bearers during the battle.  Alas! our hopes were all in vain.  Next day, some miles below Modder River, our engine with its tender suddenly left the metals.  The stoker jumped off, but the engine fortunately kept on the top of the embankment and nobody was hurt.  We none of us knew how or why the accident had occurred, but one of the officials suspected very strongly that the rails had been tampered with.

At any rate, there we were within a few miles of a big fight, off the metals and quite helpless!  We were all perfectly wild with vexation and disappointment.  But up flew a wire to Modder River for a gang of sappers with screwjacks.  Pending the arrival of their assistance I climbed up to the top of a neighbouring kopje with a lot of Tasmanians.  From this point the flashes of the guns above Modder River were visible, and the dull boom of Lyddite was borne to our ears.  Methuen’s artillery was still doing its best to avenge or retrieve the disaster of the early morning.  The sappers at length arrived.  We all helped—­pushing and digging and lifting—­and at length after several hours’ delay steamed off to Modder River, too late for anything, except to wait for the morning and the wounded.  We knew by this time that at 3:30 that morning the Highland Brigade had made a frontal attack on the Magersfontein lines and had been repulsed with terrible loss.  The accounts which were vaguely given of the disaster were frightful, but accurate details were still lacking.  Yes, here we were within four miles of the nearest point of Cronje’s lines and we did not know half as much about the fight as people in Pall Mall 7000 miles away!

On 12th of December I woke at four.  The sun was just beginning to rise and the raw chill of the night had not yet left the air.  In the grey light a long string of ambulance waggons was moving slowly towards the camp from the battle-field.  Parallel to the line of waggons a column of infantry was marching northwards, perhaps to reinforce some of our outlying trenches against a possible Boer attack.  I shall long remember the sight—­the column of dead and wounded coming in, the living column going out, and scarcely a sound to break the silence.

The wards of the train were all ready for the wounded, so I went off with a couple of buckets to replenish our water supply.  Wounded men are generally troubled with thirst, and the washing of their hands and faces always refreshes them greatly.  I found the station tap, however, guarded by a sentry; no water was to be drawn for the use of the troops, as the pipes—­so it was said—­came from Modder River, which was contaminated by the Boer corpses.