officiated; he was clothed in a grey back shirt and ammunition boots--
and displayed the daedal methods of a Fragson. Singers of every type
with every kind of voice, and perfectly trained, performed. Only later
did I learn that amongst the artists were half a dozen of the best
performers in Johannesburg. And at the foreshore, between fatigues,
drills, and spells of duty the fellows used to gather, to enjoy the one
luxury of Swakopmund--the surf-bathing. Here you would meet men upon
whom you never expected again to set eyes assembled literally from all
over South Africa from the Cape to the Zambesi. Belonging to one
regiment I met, in privates and corporals, six well-to-do farmers, a
handful of solicitors, bank clerks, a sub-native commissioner or two,
and the no longer youthful private secretary to one of the most eminent
semi-public companies in Africa. And there we all were cut off from the
outside world. Each evening we got an issue of the official Bulletin--
six square inches of paper thankfully received. For the rest we had no
change from the perpetual sound of the sea and the mournful note of the
bell-buoy that marks the inshore shoal. Its "dong-dong, dong-dong-dong"
created a perfect illusion of the call to a tiny church through the
country lanes of England. Everyone who was there can still hear the old
bell-buoy at Swakopmund.

[Illustration: Swakopmund from the Lighthouse: Extreme Right]
[Illustration: Swakopmund: Centre]
[Illustration: Swakopmund: Extreme Left]

[Illustration: Man and Beast in the Desert: both absolutely spent]
[Illustration: Looking for Water in the River Bed]
[Illustration: A Halt in a River Bed: General Botha has lunch]