So rapidly did the men fall that accommodation could not possibly be found for them.  They lay about anywhere.  The space between the bed-cots was full of groaning, struggling, dying humanity.  In inches of mud and slush they lay, breathing their lives out all unattended.  The supply of doctors, nurses, and orderlies was altogether inadequate.  Tents and medicines could not be got to the front, for the railway was required for food supplies, and the army must be fed.  It is too early to pass judgment on the arrangements.  We record a few facts, vouched for not only by the papers from which we quote, but by scores of men who have come from Bloemfontein, and with whom we have talked.

It is in the remembrance of all that Mr. Burdett-Coutts wrote an article in the Times, and afterwards delivered a speech in the House of Commons, in both of which he told of the terrible sufferings of our men, and severely criticised the hospital arrangements.  The men returning from the front, while they one and all declare that everything was done by the hospital authorities which it was possible for those on the spot to do, yet mournfully admit that the terrible accounts are not exaggerated.

=Dr. Conan Doyle’s Testimony.=

The Daily Telegraph published the number of deaths from disease at Bloemfontein during the months of April, May, and the first part of June.  They reach the awful total of 949.  Dr. Conan Doyle, in a recent letter published in the British Medical Journal, says:—­

’I know of no instance of such an epidemic in modern warfare.  I have not had access to any official figures, but I believe that in one month there were from 10,000 to 12,000 men down with this, the most debilitating of all diseases.  I know that in one month 600 men were laid in the Bloemfontein cemetery.  A single day in this one town saw 40 deaths.’

He speaks in the highest terms of the conduct of the sick soldiers.

’They are uniformly patient, docile, and cheerful, with an inextinguishable hope of “getting to Pretoria.”  There is a gallantry even about their delirium, for their delusion continually is that they have won the Victoria Cross.  One patient whom I found the other day rummaging under his pillow informed me that he was looking for “his two Victoria Crosses.”  Very touching also is their care of each other.  The bond which unites two soldier pals is one of the most sacred kind.  One man shot in three places was being carried into Mr. Gibbs’ ward.  I lent an arm to his friend, shot through the leg, who limped behind him.  “I want to be next Jim, ’cos I’m looking after him,” said he.  That he needed looking after himself never seemed to have occurred to him.’

=The Hospital Orderlies.=

Dr. Conan Doyle, however, reserves his highest praise for the hospital orderly.  We venture to quote at length, because of all workers during this campaign none deserve higher praise, and none will receive less reward than the men who have so nobly, so uncomplainingly done the horrible work of nursing—­’the sordid and obscene work,’ as Dr. Doyle calls it—­through this frightful epidemic.