lamp if could form phosgene', said Robards.
McIntosh looked momentarily lost.
Clarke chipped in, 'that means you can choose between poisoning everyone in the operating theatre or blowing them up with an ether explosion. Be a good chap and pass the port'.
When a sailor slipped and broke his arm, it fell to Dunkley as the duty medical officer to attend him. Dunkley had a huge and critical audience watch him set and splint the limb. Less conspicuous was young Bradshaw who had so annoyed the ship’s company in practising various calls on his bugle that he had been cast down with the stokers who thanked various gods that they could hardly hear a note against the massive churning steam engines.
For the troops there was also the constant regimen of cleaning. While the introduction of drab khaki uniforms was a far cry from the clay piped scarlet and blue uniforms of the recent past, the men had more than enough to do. Meals were tedious affairs and mutton, bread, butter, tea and jam were staples. Letters home and diaries were filled with descriptions of the ship, the sea, and the strange rituals of the seamen. One of the latter, an evil looking bosun, had a cache of illicit whisky, which despite attracting the best efforts of the ship’s officers remained undiscovered, and by journey’s end this entrepreneur had made a tidy sum.
Two-up and sometimes tense card games helped the men while away the time. Their quarters were cramped and the swinging hammocks took some getting used to. Daily sick parades also meant that most of the medical officers, quartered in the first class saloon with their cavalry colleagues, were occupied for at least some part of each day. Some of the men found long lost friends and even relatives from other parts of Australia and many an evening was spent catching up on family gossip, births and deaths, which mates had ‘done well’, or who were still ‘doin’ it rough’.
For those seeking something that would 'improve the mind' as a large handwritten poster on the promenade deck proclaimed, there were to be evening lectures. The first of these was presented by the debonair Captain O'Reilly. His topic, recent archaeological discoveries, was to be illuminated by magic lantern slides. This fact drew a decent crowd, mainly officers, who were genuinely curious. Not a few soldiers from among the various units aboard were also in attendance. Even 'Ginger' Blewett, the ambulance's chief joker went along. Commenting on one slide which showed an Egyptian mummy he nudged the soldier next to him.
'Looks just like me great aunt'.
O'Reilly had trained at St. Thomas's Hospital in London and had come out the year before to join an older brother who had a flourishing legal practice in Sydney. He had met Dunkley at a clinical meeting and soon found they had a common interest in rowing and cricket. While O'Reilly was rather introspective he made no secret of his ambition to become one of the colony's leading medicos. Tall and lean, he had an alarming tic which caused one eyebrow to twitch violently when he was in animated conversation or an argument. Perhaps in an effort to draw attention away from this defect he had cultivated a luxuriant, carefully waxed moustache. A dapper dresser, he still managed to attract his fair share of the fair sex. It was he who had persuaded Dunkley to join the colours.
Now both men shared a portside cabin with young Edwin McIntosh. On the first night out of Sydney the young doctor had startled his two colleagues by wearing the most brightly coloured silk pyjamas either of his cabin mates had ever seen. These garments, together with a shock of red hair on the head of the wearer, managed to make an impression.
'Good Lord', exclaimed Dunkley.
'You not going to wear that outfit on the Veldt are you? The Boer will spot you from ten miles away!' laughed O'Reilly.
Redding slightly McIntosh countered.
'It's just for aboard ship. My mother knows about how one should dress you know.'
'I'm sure she does', Dunkley winked at his colleague and both men burst into laughter.
McIntosh flung himself into his cot and turned his face to wall. A recent medical graduate, his hobbies, such as they were, tended mainly to botany and laboratory work. He was particularly interested in the new science of pathology. His well-to-do parents had set him up with equipment and books which were the envy of professional men years his senior. He had brought some of this largesse along with him – carefully packed in a pannier, and equally carefully smuggled aboard despite Robards' orders that his officers should travel light.
Devoted to his books his only other interest was military history which was why he had joined the Ambulance. He proved to be a font of knowledge on the campaigns of both Caesar and Napoleon and would passionately expand on his subject on any suitable occasion. He was therefore the unit's unofficial authority on plant life and history. His enthusiasm matched that of Captain Harris and the two could often be found peering through Harris's microscope or discussing the flora or diseases found in South Africa. Robards referred to the unlikely pair as 'two peas in a pod'.
The only significant events (and duly noted in the ship's log) occurred when, several days out of Melbourne, the troopship slowed through its passage into the huge King George Sound before docking at the West Australian town of Albany to take on coal. The men were refused leave because of the justified fear of what they might do in the town. Disappointed and angry troops watched the seamen disembark down a single narrow gangplank to renew their acquaintance with the pubs and prostitutes. From the rear of the ship's bridge Dunkley looked down the chosen few. He could discern the quiet rage of the men but trusted in the decision of Robards and the other two commanders based on what they might do in town. One soldier did manage to quietly slip over the deck rail and was not missed until his frantic shouts drew a few men to the ship’s side. To their horror the water below took on a reddish hue as a White Pointer shark tore huge chunks from the miscreant’s thrashing body. His remains had still not been found when the ship departed the next day.
A cigarette flicked carelessly into the aft hold while the ship took on coal from the bunkers ashore provided the second distraction of the day. As the town’s pride and joy, a highly polished horse-drawn fire engine, smoke spiralling up from its engine clanged its way to the wharf cheers went up from the ship’s company. The roar reached a crescendo as the firemen ran out their hoses and played streams of water onto a smouldering bunker. As the fire threw up jets of steam under the blanket of water the men returned to their quarters below decks. There were only a few old timers and local fisherman present when the Southern Cross drew away from the wharf in the early hours of the next day.
Two days into the voyage one of the ambulance men, ‘Cracker’ O’Dowd, a gun shearer from Camden, shot himself while cleaning his Lee-Enfield rifle, neatly taking off most of his jaw. Dunkley was assigned to care for him, but despite his efforts infection set in, proving fatal. While popular with his mates, his burial at sea was later remembered more for its novelty than for the tears shed. As the flag-draped coffin slid over the ship’s side a close mate was heard to mutter that ‘the cove’ had died owing him two guineas from a poker bet. Robards however saw the shooting as a slur on the unit’s professionalism, and, in the words of his batman, was ‘in a black mood’ for days afterwards. His was a particularly gruff figure at the inquiry held aboard, although he penned a touching and eloquent letter to O’Dowd’s people at home.
Five days out of Albany the dog watch found a fifteen-year-old stowaway hiding with a small Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo in an ambulance wagon in the hold. How they came to be there no one could fathom, but the boy’s quick wit and talent on the harmonica soon made him a favourite with the men. His young pet was a great mimic who seemed to take an instant dislike to any officer, a trait which immediately endeared it to the troops. However officialdom would soon consign the boy to a voyage home on the first ship from Cape Town returning to Sydney. The men managed to keep the cockatoo.
Reluctantly Robards approved the noisy bird as the mascot
