Diary transcript of Reginald Harriman Heywood, 1917 - Part 7

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There's sure to be trouble too - becos' Robbie

is next door - they must reckon he's reliable - and when

Robbie talks he uses the whole language you bet ! and

amendments and addendums of syntax too.

Tom has gone back a bit to-day but perhaps it's

only the weather, reminds ^me of a very welcome coolish

change this afternoon.

Patrick let loose another 800,000,000 typhus bugs

in my arm this afternoon - imagine the struggle with the

phagocytes but I've got some positive chemiotaxis up my

sleeve this time to say nothing of the opsoniuns - the sauce

of the polymorphonuclear universe.

We cross the line tonight or in the early a.m.

but Sparks says it will go on getting hotter for some

time yet and we do not have the sun directly overhead

till 20° North. I seek my bunk in considerable trepidation 

tonight because its about an even money bet that

Robbie in a fit of abstraction will wander in next door,

tear the bedclothes off one of the occupants, puff a

cloud of frowsy cigar smoke in her face of ^a bid her "Good

night Jiggy old Cock" - and then he'll wake up.

July 1st, 1917.

Robbie didn't do anything untoward and contented

himself by serenading his neighbours with the Y.M. harmonium.

He has unearthed a comic hymn - it must be comic 

for although he's read it several times to me I have dismally

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failed to catch the words yet. 

We are over the line now - I must have been

asleep as I didn't feel anything.

Church Parade down on No 2 troop deck was a

huge success. If poor old Sugar Lambert could only

borrow it he'd be able to ride 6.7 in no time.

The Padre strung out a truly Presbyterian appeal

for collection of course - you know tears in his voice,

but his eyes looking round carefully and all that sort

of thing. It made me promise myself that I wouldn't

go to Church again.

I used to think I'd like to live in the land

of curry and tomato sauce - but ferget it! it seems to

be raining all the time and for mugginess Sydney isn't in

the same class. I hate the name of Sierra Leone.

I think we will only have two more Sundays on the "Benalla" .

July 2nd, 1917.

Robbie is suffering a reversal of form again

and woke me in the middle of the night and also about daylight.

This isn't the weather for the sort of thing and

those bugs were making me feel pretty sore, so I explained

to him that friendship is only a transitory art and liable

to termination without further notice and without wishing

to be rude a lot of other things he made me think of.

It appeared to have some effect but am not too sanguine

about its permamency.

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Another burial this morn :- The "Ascanius"

pulling out of line this time.

Tom is discharged from hospital at last and

appears to be taking an interest in meal time again.

The prospect of the union of those two aseptic

souls heretofore mentioned seems, alas to be very remote.

At present Walrus seems to be leaning towards a person

by name Hunter. That's a dangerous name isn't it -

worse than that Leach Of Robbies. We're going to be left

with that gimlet on our hands alright.

One of the ladies next to Robbie the strong man

has developed a graveyard cough - more trouble.

A beast of a day to-day - Jupiter pluved over

the top deck and a muggy beast of a rain at that and we've

had to drape ourselves over the saloon and vestibule

floors. This even: was made to order tho'

The ladies God bless them have taken to strewing

the promenade deck with their beds and selves and as I

was coming from the saloon just now and picking my way

amongst female forms more or less divine, I saw the Walrus

doing the work of two bedroom stewards - Gimlet was eyeing

him coldly and I'm afraid it must have been the Hunter

person's bed he was sledging.

July 3rd, 1917.

Wrote 5 letters to civilization today - you're

up against it to write nothing in 5 different ways.

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Tom must be better becos' when I respectfully

offered to take his dying depositions today, he scornfully

waived the idea.

Knowall waded discordantly along the piano today,

thro' "Oft in the stilly night" - made me think of Jack

Macintosh and Ikons and Sheenies etc and when we were sunworshippers - and of that Star in which when I'd laid my

earthly fancies down I was to preside over Vera and other

goddesses, in return for my devotion. But that was before

we backslid.

It continues muggily damnable and I for one don't

worry how much there isn't to do. Phillips and I sleep

well tho' in spite of Ernie and other unpleasantnesses.

A dead grouse found its way to the table tonight -

talk about a high G - it was a dizzy altitude and too

dead to skin. The Padre can't taste thro' his nose tho'

and he reckoned it was the handsomest smell that ever

laid him and eggs in the shade - the old bounder. He'll

never go putrid tho', he ought to be immune to putrefactive

organisms for ever after that.

July 4th, 1917.

That Knowall! if ever a man deserved divine

intervention and the closure applied on his vocabulatory

apparatus he does. He's a good talker but a bad listener

and it isn't what a man knows that he brags about - it's

what he thinks he knows. If there's anything more tragic

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than knowing too little, its knowing too much - you can

get in and widen up a narrow mind a bit, but there's

nothing known that will cause absorption of a swelled head.

What I started out to say was that he sighted

land early this morn, and he always comes just outside

my cabin to sight things, the blighter. He's been a

hive of industrious gases ever since.

We passed a convoy of 6 vessels going to

Australia during the night.

Entered the harbour of Sierra Leone about 11 -

it's malariously pretty too - and anchored off Freetown -

which is quite a town - a little later. There is a big

British cruiser close at hand. Said to be the "Prince

Alfred" As we came in there were some girls waving from

the balcony of a big red roofed house and I couldn't help

thinking of Thors-Havn, Sorrento.

You can smell Surra and Sleeping Sickness,

Piroplasms, Trypanosomes and Malaria from here tho' -

and there's a smell of Rider Haggard too; but talk

about stagnant , why if the University Lake were frozen

it would be like the Bight to this.

We didn't go ashore - and spent the evening

decorating the walls with the mangled remains of flies

which we imagined might be malaria humpers.

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July 5th, 1917.

Awoke about daylight on the arrival of a couple

of hundred duskies on a barge with a few tons of coal.

At present they are loading coal and singing "Abide

with me", "Tipperary" and "God Save the King" and other

selections. They brought their smell with them too.

Doped ourselves with Quinine and went ashore.

I'm not sure that I wouldn't prefer malaria to quinine.

Of all the rum goes this is the star comedian -

and if only it wern't so sweltering.

We are anchored in the mouth of the something

or other river but it is several miles across just here

and there are plenty of ships about including the "Orama",

"Marmora" and "Prince Alfred".

There is no such luxury as a wharf and we went

ashore in boats manned by immaculate black gentlemen who

took ¾ hour to get us there. It wasn't chilly in the

sun either and the more the vikings pulled the more

perfume they exuded.

Trimlett alias Gimlet was first off the mark

and in a squat stiff grey hat looked like H.M.A.T.

"Shropshire" the biggest boat of the convoy. Bib was a

good second and last on board you bet. His mind was

so full of noble thoughts that he quite forgot a camera

which had been lent to him. He wrote to the native

Ta-anltalras he was so upset.

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We did get ashore tho', but not before the tar

in the boat had well melted over us.

Made a rapid tour of the town including the

native markets etc and were assailed by every kind of

stench from garlick up. In addition to smells we were

assailed by a horde of guides and a youth with a white

suit, a L.H. Hewitt cap and a large gamp fell on me like

a brother. After several ineffectual efforts to lose

him - I resigned my stick to him and took possession of 

his gamp and added much to the comfort of the visit.

About this time I ran across Snowy persued by guides -

he anxiously asked me now to swear in Kaffir and I told

him all I knew, but the last I saw of him they were still

in hot persuit.

Gravitated to the Club Hotel and found an excellent

beverage brewed by one Bass - ice in it too and only

1s.6d per time. Had to repair to the Park to recuperate

after that - but the ever watchful shadow presided over

our recumbent forms as we sweltered.

Then we walked along Kissy Street, thro' the

ultra native quarters passing on the way the flourishing

business of one Bungie - "Sympathetic undertaker", with a

couple of coffins out in the street in front. Some of

the emporiums are a sight to behold.

Caused quite a sensation by trying to photograph

about 200 women doing somebody's washing in a creek.

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They rushed about like a lot excited wasps. They're

the limit - please run away while I blush.

There are plenty of Ta-ran-ta-ras on the Cape

plan but black - excuse my mirth. You get a good view

of the kids too - and talk about well nourished: poisoned

pups aren't in it!

Called at the Soldiers & Sailors Rest, and for

1d had a cup of excellent tea dispensed by members of

the fairer sex - the dears, assisted by numerous darkies.

Fancy asking white girls to live in Sierra Leone.

Put in an hour being entertained by some energetic coons

fishing and being acquainted with the local dusky Chas

Chaplin. Then a Sierre Leone Charon ferried us back

over the river of Despair to the "Benalla".

Spent the evening assisting in the restoration

of prostrated sisters.

July 6th, 1917.

A deluge in the morning raised a full head of

steam for the day so decided to remain on board and swelter

which was easy. There was the unholiest kind of a smell

during the morning which disappeared simultaneously with

the departure of the duskies in their barges - they were

still vocally abiding with me - but fortunately didn't

act the part.

The most exciting event of the day was the

return of the shore-going parties towards evening.
 

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The Padré and his crew which included Robbie seemed

particularly happy. Robbie regards himself as an old

Salt having qualified on the H.M.A.S. "John Murray" or

the "Edina" as assistant veterinary officer or something -

and had taken possession of the helm. He steered a somewhat

erratic course but landed the goods alright - he has

secured a fez that will lay Sir Pertab Singh in the

shadows for ever. It's a creation of old gold and rose

and talk about an am^uarious tassel - and up to date, chee!

its the sort of thing that will be worn in Melb. 3 years

hence. .

At dinner the Padré to the ordinary grace

added an amendment for the mercies we had had that day -

I don't know whether they were Black or White or Red Seal.

I'm colorblind, but he was sure due for a whole lot of

thankfulness.

After that he stoutly affirmed that bar perhaps

the Irish, the Scotch are the dizziest team of humourists

on the earth - and that's about the most adjacent to humor

I ever heard from a Scotsman. Then he proceeded to give

us with fine dramatic effect an inventory of the funniest

thing he had ever seen in his natural - witnessed that

day in Sierra Leone. It appears that a sporty tho'

languid individual armed with a formidable set of golf

clubs drove one off the tee, and then climbed dreamily

into a harlequin or a plantain or something which resembles

a kiosk with a hammock in it, and which four dusky

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Hackenschmidts carry on the heads, and was borne off in a

more or less somnolent tho' comfortable condition to where

his ball lay. Fairly broke the Padré up.

There was some excitement when Ernie appeared

in the small hours, the fez and the Rajah of Bhong dressing

gown armed with a murderous dagger.

They've decided that we're sweltered here long

enough - and so we have, tho' I don't often coincide with

their decisions and we're to face the barrier at 8a.m.

tomorrow.

July 7th, 1917.

Off again - as 8 o'clock was sounding the cruiser

which is the "Mantua" and not the "Marmora" started out

and we were soon all under way. Sparks says we will be

 in in a fortnight bar accidents.

Can anyone tell me why that boy is so everlastingly

permeated with gloom. Happiness is always a day

ahead of Sparks.

We're getting along at a good pace too - just

getting the old lady nicely warmed up before we get to the

barrier - you know, not enough to get her on her toes and

all in a lather but just so she'll be able to jump out

well and freely into her stride. Then you never want to

start off at a pace you can't improve on, do you? - don't

get back where you'll get all the dust and then have to go

round the field at the finish - but a little bit in hand