In the end we stopped here all day, and what in the world our forced march was for, is one of the inexplicable things that so often confront the tired unit, and which he doesn’t attempt to solve.

The camp was the most unpleasant I ever remember, on a deep layer of fine dust, of a dark, dirty colour.  A high wind rose, and eyes, ears, mouth, food, and kit, were soon full of it.  Roasting hot too.  There was a long ride to water, and then I got some sleep behind my upturned saddle, waking with my eyes glued up.  To watering again and evening stables.  The wind went down about six and things were better.  None of us drivers had blankets, though, for the kit-waggon had for some reason been left at Pynaar’s River.  However, I shared a bed with another chap, and was all right.

August 24.—­I am now cursing my luck in an ambulance waggon.  For several days I have had a nasty place coming on the sole of my foot, a veldt-sore, as it is called.  To-day the doctor said I must go off duty, and I was told to ride on one of our transport-waggons.  This sounds simple; but I knew better, and made up my mind for some few migrations, before I found a resting place.  With the help of Williams I first put myself and my kit on one of our waggons.  Then the Major came up, and was very sympathetic, but said he was sending back one waggon to Pynaar’s River, and I had better go on that, and not follow the Battery.  So I migrated there and waited for the next move.  It came in a general order from the Staff that nothing was to go back.  I was to seek an asylum in an R.A.M.C. ambulance waggon.  So we trudged over to an officer, who looked at my foot and said it was all very well, but he had no rations for me.  However, rations were sent for, and I got into a covered waggon, with seats to hold about eight men, sat down with six others, Munsters and Wilts men, and am now waiting for the next move.  It is 11 A.M. and we have not inspanned yet, though the battery and most of the brigade have started.  I hear the whole column is to go to Warm Baths, sixteen miles farther on.

We didn’t start till 1.30, and halted about five.  They are very pleasant chaps in the waggon, and we had great yarns about our experiences.  They were in a thorough “grousing” mood.  To “grouse” is soldiers’ slang for to “complain.”  They were down on their scanty rations, their hot brown water, miscalled coffee, their incessant marching, the futility of chasing De Wet, everything.  Most soldiers out here are like that.  To the men-calculators and battle-thinkers it doesn’t matter very much, for Tommy is tough, patient, and plucky.  He may “grouse,” but he is dependable.  It came out accidentally that they had been on half-rations of biscuit for the last two days, and that day had had no meat issued to them, and only a biscuit and a half.  By a most lucky hap, Williams and I had the night before bought a leg of fresh pig from a Yeomanry chap, and had it cooked by a nigger.  In the morning, when