Tom Howden missed the dance at The Dog the following Friday evening, as he was doing his first session as Orderly Medical Officer. He should have gone on the rota earlier, but the others thoughtfully gave him a few days to settle down. The OMO spell of duty ran from nine in the morning to the same time next day, though unless there was some emergency, there was little to be done during the daytime, as the regular staff coped with any problems. He spent the day in his laboratory, where he now had had a full week to get the hang of the routine.
After being nothing more than a junior to consultants and registrars on Tyneside, he revelled in his new-found independence. None of the other doctors here knew anything about laboratory practice and he was left to carry on more or less as he wished. True, there were set procedures laid out by the Deputy Assistant Director of Pathology down in BMH Alexandra in Singapore, but that was four hundred miles away and the DADP was said to come up to inspect only once in a blue moon. Tom’s real bosses were his four technicians, who knew the business backwards and tactfully allowed their captain to think he was in charge, while they carried on blithely as they had done for the last month, since his predecessor had gone RHE.
There was Sergeant Derek Oates, a smart young Regular soldier with a clipped military moustache, who was a well-qualified medical laboratory technician. The other Brit was Lance Corporal Lewis Cropper, another Regular who had been a full corporal, but had been busted back to private when in Germany and had only recently climbed back to one-stripe. He was an engaging, but rather dodgy character, decided Tom – the type of Cockney from whom you would never buy a used car! He was thin and scraggy, with a lock of mousy hair that fell over his forehead and a uniform that fitted him even worse than most of his comrades. However, he was an excellent worker and prepared the best microscope sections of tissue that Tom had ever seen.
The other two technicians were locally enlisted Malayan Other Ranks – ‘MORs’, as they were known, both having been trained by the Army in the FARELF lab down in Singapore. It was a close little family and after this first week, Tom was perfectly happy and enjoyed every minute of his working day. He had a small room off the main laboratory, with a desk and a good microscope, a shelf of books and an oscillating fan – what more could a man want, he asked himself! The window looked out towards the main corridor, so he could watch the comings and goings of the whole hospital – within a few days, he could recognize every QA by their ankles without having to look up at the face under the crisp white headdress.
It was also an early-warning system in case the CO took a fancy to call, other than on the official weekly inspection of the whole hospital, which O’Neill did at ten o’clock every Tuesday morning. Then there was much cleaning and polishing to be done before the procession arrived, protocol demanding that each member entered in strict pecking order. First the RSM would clump in to call the staff to attention, his gleaming nailed boots rattling on the concrete floor. The technicians would stand rigidly alongside their benches, as behind the RSM came the Commanding Officer, stick under arm, followed by Doris Hawkins, the QA matron, blinking benignly at everyone. The Quartermaster was next, an ageing captain with a bulbous nose and a dyspeptic mouth. Though he had a strong Liverpudlian accent, he rejoiced in the name of Robert Burns. Alf Morris, the Administrative Officer, brought up the rear, carrying a clipboard, ready to note down any commands, complaints or pearls of wisdom that might fall from the colonel’s lips.
The pathologist was more fortunate than some other sections of the hospital, as the inspection of the laboratory was relatively perfunctory. Tom wondered if this was because O’Neill, who had been a public health specialist, knew absolutely nothing about pathology – or whether he was afraid of catching something nasty if he rubbed his fingers on the furniture and fittings to look for dirt. The first inspection lasted about two minutes, with a rapid perambulation around the central bench and a quick look into Tom’s office and the little histology lab where Cropper cut his sections and made the tea. With a few grunts and throat-clearings, the CO ended by demanding to know if Tom had any problems. Then with a curt nod, O’Neill left the new pathologist to breathe a sigh of relief as he saw the cavalcade leave and march into the dispensary opposite to persecute the staff sergeant who ran the pharmacy.
This was now the routine of his new life and he enjoyed every minute of it, with just an occasional pang of homesickness for faraway Tyneside.
The past week had been enlivened by Christmas, treating Tom to another bizarre experience, seeing hospital staff in tropical kit going around with red Santa Claus caps – and in the children’s part of the Families Ward, even a few with cotton-wool whiskers. In the sweltering heat, wards were hung with paper chains and cardboard reindeers. Carols and Christmas pop songs blared out from record players in the barrack rooms and messes. Tom volunteered to help with the decorations in Lynette’s ward and even joined the carol singers who paraded the corridor on Christmas Eve, belting out ‘Good King Wenceslas’ in competition with the cicadas and bullfrogs.
A few days after New Year was celebrated, the OMO rota again brought Tom on Friday duty. After dinner that evening, Tom sat in the deserted Mess, quite glad of some peace following a busy day. Almost all the others had gone to The Dog, though Peter Bright had left a note to say that he was in the NAAFI library in the garrison, in case there were any major surgical emergencies that couldn’t be handled by Eddie Rosen. As well as the OMO, there was always a rota for a surgeon and anaesthetist, which meant that like the Orderly Officer, they had to remain sober for the night. There was another ‘gasman’ apart from David Meredith, a Regular captain who lived in married quarters and rarely came to the Mess.
The pathologist lolled in one of the easy chairs, reading yesterday’s Straits Times, which carried all the British sports news on its back pages, making home seem less far away. As he relaxed, Number One brought him a pint glass of Frazer and Neave’s grapefruit soda, a satisfying drink for those temporarily on the wagon. He lay back contentedly to catch up with the recent fortunes of Newcastle United.
When he finally put the paper aside, Tom just sat quietly, listening to the endless chirrup of the crickets outside the open doors and the gentle whirr of the fans overhead. The strangeness of being dumped halfway across the world within a few weeks of leaving a cold, wet England was beginning to fade, though he still had fits of unreality about the whole business. He had rarely before been more than fifty miles from his native Tyneside. During the worst blitzes of the war, his parents had evacuated him to an aunt’s farm in rural Northumberland, but apart from rugby trips and some childhood holidays to Scarborough or Whitby, he had been very much a home bird. Even as a medical student in Newcastle, he had stayed in Gateshead, living in the semi-detached with his parents and younger brother. His father was a draughtsman in the huge Swan Hunter shipyard across the Tyne in Wallsend and Mum was a dedicated housewife.
Tom’s life had been happy and uneventful until now, the only major excitement being his getting a scholarship grant from the grammar school to go to university, as the family certainly could not have afforded it themselves. His parents were slightly overawed by having a doctor in the house, after generations of unambitious industrial workers in their family. When on his embarkation leave, he dressed up for them in his uniform with his three new pips on each shoulder, they stared at him as if he was a stranger from another planet, unable to recognize their ‘wee Tommy’ in this alien being.
Some of this went through his head as he sat alone in the cloying heat of a Malayan night. He had already written home a dozen times and this little attack of nostalgia decided him to start another epistle later that evening. He had a pack of flimsy airmail envelopes in his room, all with strips of greaseproof paper under the flaps to stop them sealing themselves up spontaneously in the humidity. It was little things like that which brought home to him how far away from home he was – along with the egg-cup full of anti-malaria tablets on the breakfast table each morning and the free issue of
a tin of anti-foot-rot powder. There was also a free issue of fifty cigarettes each week, but as he had given up smoking at the age of twelve, he gave them to Ismail, the young Malay mess boy who made his bed, cleaned his room and polished his shoes.
Lim Ah Sok padded in again from his kitchen-cum-bar, to ask if he wanted another drink.
‘No thanks, Number One, on duty tonight. Must keep a clear head in case Chin Peng comes!’
He immediately wondered whether he should have make such a feeble joke to another Chinese, but the razor-thin steward merely grinned and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
‘Those devils not come anywhere near here – too many guns in garrison!’
Tom wasn’t so confident, as he had heard the tale of BMH Kinrara, where the terrorists had come up to the perimeter wire and shot up the Sisters’ Mess, fortunately without injuring anyone. Before he left, Number One bent towards Tom as if to impart some confidence.
‘That trouble at Gunong Besar, that not CTs, sir. No, not at all!’
He grinned again and tapped a lean forefinger against his nose in a cryptic gesture, before padding out to share a bottle of Bulldog stout with his wife. Tom was left suspecting that the servants, especially the Chinese, knew more about the local situation than all the Army’s intelligence system. They seemed to have their own Mafia-like organization amongst the hundreds of civilians who worked for the military, full of information from all the houseboys, mess servants and gossip in the central market, shops and eating stalls of Tanah Timah. Tom’s only previous experience of Chinese was confined to one laundry in Gateshead and films about Fu Manchu. He had assumed that they all looked the same to Europeans, but it was patently obvious that there was more diversity in their features than amongst whites. As for being inscrutable and impassive, a walk down TT’s main street had soon proved that they could be as garrulous and noisy as a bunch of drunken Italians. In spite of his sometimes dictatorial manner, Number One was really a patient and kindly fellow and had more than once quietly asked Tom if there was anything he needed to help him settle down so far from home.
The clock over the Queen’s picture showed half past ten and the pathologist shook himself out of his sleepy reverie to grope in the pocket of his bush jacket. He pulled out the folded sheet of paper supplied by Alf Morris. Its poorly duplicated typing faintly set out the duties of the Orderly Medical Officer and he studied it once again to remind himself and make sure that he wouldn’t fall foul of the CO at tomorrow’s Morning Prayers.
He had already been to Casualty near the front of the hospital and checked that there had been no new customers since Alec Watson had left at six o’clock. The next instruction was to check with the Duty Sergeant in the RSM’s office that the sentries were in place at the main gate and that the internal gate between the hospital and garrison compound was locked. He had to check with Night Sister in the Matron’s Office, then visit each ward and speak to the nurse or orderly in charge to make sure that all was well. If there were any patients on the DIL or SIL, they had to be visited and their status recorded.
Finally, the OMO had to go to the armoury – known to all as the ‘arms kote’ – at the back of the compound and check on the security. Before his first OMO duty, Alf Morris had impressed on him that the CO was particularly strict about this and any cock-up would call down the colonel’s wrath upon him. Only after doing this could he go to bed, prepared to be hauled out at any time if anything untoward occurred. This was usually someone being brought in as an emergency to Casualty – or if there was a sudden crisis over one of the patients.
Tom hauled himself out of his chair and took his hat and belt from the table, before ambling out into the still night air. The damp, scented warmth reminded him of the inside of an orchid house in one of Newcastle’s parks, which he had visited with his parents many years ago – and again he had one of his periodic attacks of unreality, momentarily refusing to believe that he was on the other side of the world, within sight of hundreds of miles of impenetrable jungle, swarming with oriental terrorists who, given the chance, would be delighted to kill him.
As he walked down the road towards the end of the main corridor, the hospital compound looked ethereal in the dim light from the lamps spaced around the perimeter fence and under the roof of the corridor, around each of which flitted swarms of moths and other insects. The brightest spot was down towards the Other Ranks barrack rooms, where a badminton court was illuminated by a battery of fluorescent tubes. Ahead of him in the distance was the closed gate into the main garrison compound, its lights silhouetting a row of coconut palms that ran down inside the dividing fence. On this side of the gate to the right of the road, was the QA Officers’ Mess, as silent as his own quarters on this dance night at The Dog.
Tom turned into the open corridor and walked down its length without seeing a soul, a contrast with the daytime, when it was a bustling thoroughfare. At the front of the hospital, he turned right and went to the small office belonging to the RSM, where the night Duty Sergeant camped out. Tonight it was Staff Sergeant Crosby, a pharmacist from Essex, who occupied the building opposite the laboratory. He was a neat, dapper young man with spectacles, a seven-year Regular with ‘two to go’, working for some extra qualification that would set him up well in civilian life. Tom found him busily writing in an exercise book, copying from a large Pharmacopoeia propped open in front of him.
‘Plenty of time to study, doc!’ he announced cheerfully. ‘And plenty of experience out here, though I doubt I’ll have to dispense many antimalarials when I get back to Epping Forest.’
They chatted for a few minutes, the pathologist unconscious of the usual gulf that the Army set between its officers and ‘other ranks’. To him, they were just two disciples of different branches of medicine. The pharmacist rapidly confirmed what Tom had already discovered, that the main trade in BMH was disease, not injury. Though at the RAMC’s Keogh Barracks near Aldershot, the new medical officer recruits were subjected to grisly displays of battle scenes, complete with horrific wounds and fake blood, dramatically enacted amid shouting, screaming, thunderflashes and smoke-bombs, most of the injuries seen here were from being run over by Land Rovers or putting fingers into moving machinery. The vast majority of the work was diagnosing and treating all manner of infections, from malaria to hookworm, from amoebic dysentery to the sewer-workers’ Weil’s disease, leptospirosis, caught from water contaminated by jungle rats. Sometimes, a whole patrol would have to be pulled out of the jungle because they had succumbed to one of the many tropical diseases on offer. Athlete’s foot, gonorrhoea, glandular fever and appendicitis were all common grist to the medical mill – even many of the gunshot wounds were from ‘friendly fire’, a euphemism for careless idiots who should never have been allowed anywhere near a firearm. True, there were frequent real emergencies, when a plane or helicopter crashed or there was a major jungle firefight or an ambush on road or rail, but BMH Tanah Timah had been lucky for several months, in that relatively few casualties from terrorist action had been brought in. As Tom rose to leave the sergeant after this illuminating chat, he fervently hoped that this situation would continue, especially on the nights when he was on duty.
He ambled back up the main corridor, calling into each ward to speak to the nurse or orderly, usually standing with them at the main door to the ward and looking down at the two rows of mosquito-netted beds, each bed set between the open doors on to the narrow verandahs. It reminded him strongly of his house surgeon days in Dryburn Hospital two years ago, before he gave up the wards for the laboratory. The same nocturnal atmosphere of settled calm, with the occasional cough, snore or fart to break the silence – though the muted whirr of the overhead fans and incessant twitter of insects from the grass between the wards reminded him that this was a world away from County Durham!
Halfway up the long corridor, he met the night sister coming the other way, doing her own rounds in the reverse direction. He was delighted to find that it was Lynette Chambers, who h
e’d not seen to speak to since the previous Friday in The Dog – though he had recognized her ankles several times from his office window. They met as they were both turning into Ward Seven, the one that had the two small air-conditioned rooms for special patients. Feeling easy in each other’s company, they sat in the ward office for a few moments, drinking orange squash which the QA corporal fetched from the kitchen fridge. Again, Tom had a déjà vu sensation from his days as a house surgeon, drinking coffee in the small hours with a pretty nurse in a Northern hospital.
Lynette was easy to talk to and though their conversation was about nothing in particular, he suddenly felt that he had arrived at some watershed in his life, a peculiar sensation that flooded through him pleasantly, like the effects of a double whisky. After a few minutes, they left rather reluctantly to visit the solitary SIL, who had come off the Danger List the previous week. He was lying awake in one of the cool rooms, a tough trooper from 22 SAS based in Sungei Siput. He replied in broad Brummie accents, when asked how he felt.
‘Fine, sir, now that them bloody shaking fits have gone! When can I get out of here?’
The sister explained that he’d be in for a week or two yet, before being sent for convalescence to either the Cameron Highlands or Penang. This brought a wide grin to the man’s rugged face. ‘Almost worth being bitten by them bloody mozzies, sir!’
Tom wagged an admonitory finger at him. ‘I wouldn’t try it again, lad, you damned near died, you know. Keep on taking the tablets!’
The pair went out of the little ward and the humid heat instantly wrapped itself around them like a damp blanket.
‘Phwah, air conditioning makes it worse when you come out!’ grumbled Tom, running a finger around the inside of his collar.
Dead in the Dog Page 9
