Dead in the Dog

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 he’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.

Lynette pointed to the other special room opposite, its humming cool-box sticking out of the wall. ‘No one in there tonight. The OMO often sleeps there if it’s empty.’

‘Maybe I will – if you’ll bring me a cup of tea in the morning!’

‘Some hope, Captain! I’m off duty at six and straight back to my own bed, thank you.’

There was an undercurrent of playfulness in the innocent exchange and Tom felt an inner warmth steal through him, unrelated to the outside temperature.