EARLY DAYS II 
saddle for quite a while but he tripped over a tent rope and then 
shot off like the wind. My predicament was thoroughly enjoyed 
by the entire camp who, by this time, were in convulsions. As I 
finally slid off the horse’s rump and turned several somersaults 
there was a great roar of laughter. 
Our final camp was at Rondebosch, a beautiful spot at the foot of 
Table Mountain. My great joy was to get a pass and ride to Mui- 
senberg, the popular resort a few miles away. Olifant loved the sea 
and nothing pleased him more than to walk out and face the on- 
coming rollers. He used to go on and on until I was washed off 
his back. Needless to say, I was in bathers and was riding bare- 
backed. 
Soon we were embarked for Walvis Bay, South-West Africa, 
with all our horses. It was a sandy desert that greeted us, and 
being the height of the summer season (December), the heat aver- 
aged 112°F. in the shade through the greater part of the day. Flies 
were there in millions and the water was brackish and unreliable, 
and I soon succumbed to ptomaine poisoning. 
After lying in the full blast of the sun for hours in the sand, I 
was taken on a stretcher to a field dressing station. I had acute 
dysentery and vomiting with a high temperature, and could keep 
nothing down. Unknown to me a cable was sent by the military to 
my parents in England: Your son dangerously ill believed enteric. 
In incredible heat I was put on a train at Walvis Bay en route for 
Swakopmund Hospital. To make room for my stretcher the kit in 
the guards van—tin trunks, kit-bags, etc—were piled to the roof 
on either side of it. After going some distance in this inferno the 
swaying of the train brought the whole pile of luggage down on top 
of me. Fortunately there was a guard around, who eventually un- 
earthed me. I vaguely remember being asked if I was hurt—a 
kindly remark that might have invited a sarcastic retort in a 
healthy person, but I was too weak to exercise any sense of humor. 
After a few days at Swakopmund I recovered sufficiently to be 
transferred to Wynberg Hospital, a lovely place situated at the foot 
of Table Mountain not far from Rondebosch. Here I spent weeks 
convalescing though there was nothing really wrong with me, 
but as my papers had gone astray no one knew what to do with 
me; in fact I was more or less abandoned. It was taken for granted 
