Now that the fever has begun to subside I can only hope for a tiny ration of tea, a brown compound called rice pudding, flavoured with the immemorial dust of Indian temples, and a beef-tea which neighs in the throat.

That is the worst of the condition of the sick now; when they begin to mend it is almost impossible to get them well.

There is nothing to give them.

At Intombi, I believe it is even worse than here.

The letters I have lately seen from officers recovering from wounds or dysentery or enteric are simply heart-rending in their appeals.
_February 25, 1900._ Nearly all the patients who have passed through the field hospital during the fortnight have been poor fellows shot by snipers in arms or legs.