Dead in the Dog

‘I’ll tell the corporal you’re staying, so that she can get some sheets put on for you.’

‘Thanks – I’ll have to go up the rest of the corridor first, then over to the armoury.’

As they parted, they waved at each other, though Tom felt the urge to kiss her, which no doubt would be an offence against Queen’s Regulations. He plodded up the corridor, making quick enquiries in each of the remaining wards, where all seemed peaceful enough. At the top of the corridor he crossed the road and went across a wide patch of gravel to the arms kote which was placed between the two Officers’ Messes, each a few hundred yards distant. Behind it was the high perimeter fence, lit at intervals with lamps that threw yellow pools of light down on to the gritty ground. Beyond, Tom could just make out a dim glimmer from the scattered Malay huts that lay in the scrub between the hospital and the jungle that clothed the hills that rose half a mile away.

He crunched up to the small building, which was a flat-topped concrete blockhouse with a heavy metal door, like a larger version of the defence pillboxes that had been scattered around Britain during the war.

According to Alec Watson, the place was not a dispensary of weapons to the staff of BMH in the event of a siege, but a temporary repository for the guns of soldiers admitted to hospital. The all-knowing Alec had also repeated Alf’s admonition that their Commanding Officer was obsessional about its security and advised Tom to stick to every detail of ‘Part Two Orders’ concerning the armoury. These mysterious commandments were the Standing Orders for the Unit, as opposed to ‘Part One Orders’, which were a day-to-day update of tasks and events. From Alec’s description, Tom had almost expected them to be carved in tablets of stone set outside the colonel’s office, but eventually discovered they were rather dog-eared typed sheets pinned up on a notice board outside the Admin Officer’s room.

There was a low-wattage bulb over the door of the armoury and Tom stood under it for a moment to remind himself once again from his sheet of instructions.

‘Knock on door,’ was the first obvious command and he did so, using a fifty-cent coin on the thick steel panel. There was some shuffling inside and he waited for a ‘Who goes there?’ in true military style. Instead, a small panel slid aside at eye level and a rather frightened Malay voice quavered, ‘Who dat?’

‘Orderly Officer. Captain Howden!’ he replied, putting his mouth near the trap, which looked like a small letter box.

There was a silence while the body behind the door digested this. Tom had the suspicion that this was the first time the MOR occupant had been lumbered with this duty; it was certainly not the same chap that was there last time.

‘Identity card, sah?’ came the voice again, sounding more confident now that it was probably not Chin Peng himself who was standing outside the door.

Tom pulled out his identity document, a celluloid-covered card bearing an almost unrecognizable photograph that had been taken at the Depot in Crookham.

He pushed it through the slot, generating more shuffling and muttering. Then there was much scraping and scratching of bolts being drawn and the massive door slowly swung open enough for him to squeeze through, when it was immediately slammed shut again to keep the bandits out. The pathologist was now in a cell-like room which contained only a small table and one hard chair, apart from the diminutive Malay lance corporal. On the table was a gaudy vacuum flask, a glass half filled with water and a copy of the Koran. The small space was suffocatingly hot, even though there was a fan in the ceiling below some kind of vent through the roof above, but the corporal seemed oblivious of the heat. He handed Tom’s card back with a tentative smile on his smooth olive face.

‘Everything OK, sir,’ he confided, his almond-shaped eyes taking in the shiny new brass of the officer’s cap badge and pips.

Tom nodded at him and consulted his creased sheet of paper again.

‘I have to look in each of the magazines, corporal. I’m rather new at this business.’

The Malay’s face stretched in a conspiratorial grin. ‘Me also, sir. I got posted from BMH Kamunting last week. Another fellow from here sent back there – is crazy!’ He looked suddenly doleful. ‘My wife and my two kid still in Taiping.’

Tom muttered his commiserations at the habitual waywardness of the British Army, but wanted to get out of the stifling heat as soon as he could.