Having volunteered for service on one of the ambulance trains and been accepted, I set off with a corporal to Woodstock Hospital to secure my uniform and kit.  The quartermaster who supplied me was justly annoyed because some mistake had been made about the hour for my appearance, and when he rather savagely demanded what sized boots I wore, I couldn’t for the life of me remember and blurted out “nines,” whereas my normal “wear” is “sevens”.  Instantly a pair of enormous boots and a correspondingly colossal pair of shoes were hurled at me, while, from various large pigeon-holes in a rack, bootlaces, socks, putties and other things were rained upon me.  I couldn’t help laughing as I picked them up.  Here I was equipped from head to foot with two uniform suits of khaki—­which mercifully fitted well—­shirts, boots, shoes, helmet, field-service cap and other minutiae, and the entire equipment occupied some four minutes all told.  What a contrast to the considerable periods of time often consumed at home over the colour of a tie or the shape of a collar!

Shouldering the waterproof kit-bag containing my brand-new garments, and saluting the irritated officer, I marched off to ambulance train No. 2, where I speedily exchanged my civilian habiliments for her Majesty’s uniform.  The “fall” of my nether garments was not perfect, but on the whole I was rather pleased with the fit of the khaki, relieved on the arm with a red Geneva Cross.

One of the two ambulance trains on the western side is manned entirely by regulars, the other (No. 2) is in charge of an R.A.M.C. officer, but the staff under him is composed almost wholly of volunteers.  This staff consists of a civilian doctor from a London hospital attached to the South African Field Force, two Red Cross nurses from England, a staff sergeant, two corporals, a couple of cooks and ten “orderlies” in charge of the five wards.

Introductions to my comrades followed.  We were certainly one of the oddest collection of human beings I have ever come across.  Our pursuits when not in active service were extremely varied—­one of our number was an accountant, another a chemist, a third brewed beer in Johannesburg, a fourth was an ex-baker, and so on.  We were, on the whole, a very harmonious little society, and it was with real regret that I left my comrades when I returned to England.  At least four of our number were refugees from Johannesburg, and very anxious to return.  These unfortunates retailed at intervals doleful news about well-furnished houses being rifled, Boer children smashing up porcelain ornaments and playfully cutting out the figures from costly paintings with a pair of scissors, and grand pianos being annexed to adorn the cottages of Kaffir labourers.  Another member of our little society had a very fair voice and good knowledge of music, for in the days of his boyhood he had sung in the choir of a Welsh cathedral; since that time he had practised as a medical man and driven