大象传媒

A JAUNDICED VIEW

Between Junior and Senior Schools we were given a weeks leave. All that hard work, you know!. This was a time of some pretty brutal weeding out. It was the time when any doubtful cases were relegated to the next course, to do at least another 8 or 10 weeks of Junior school again. A large group of us headed for town to celebrate our luck in going through, as once in Senior term there was at least a 99% chance of getting a commission. Unless you did something particularly stupid. Like getting jaundice. Like me! Therein lies a tale.......
Not feeling too chipper when I set out with the others, I had to return on my own after a couple of hours feeling pretty bloody and bringing up my dinner. There was the usual chorus of ho ho ho's and suggestions like 'take more water with it'. On the whole we were a kind, caring and sympathetic lot, as you will have noticed..
The next morning, feeling marginally better - not the case with my companions of the night before, I may add - I sent Sam up to the Mess to bring me some breakfast, a nice gentle boiled egg and toast. It had barely gone down before it was on its way up again. That set a pattern, and on Monday, feeling worse, I reluctantly reported sick. With my track record in sick bays, I might have known. The M.O. eventually saw me, pronounced me perfectly fit, and told me to go away! (He turned out to be a lunatic Irishman with a severe alcohol problem, - couldn't get enough of it - and was hospitalised and sent home later on, after an Indian sepoy from the Demonstration Platoon was found dead in the waiting room, having been kept waiting for several hours.)
I survived until Wednesday, then staggered up to the M.I. (Medical Inspection) room again, and signed in. After a couple of hours I was sent away again, and told "not to keep botherin' me."
On Friday I thought I was dying, - so did Willie and one or two others who were getting quite worried. Willie and Halgalli got a tonga and insisted on going up to the MI room with me. This time, when I eventually saw him, the Doc blew his top, ordered me 'back to duty', accused me of malingering, and said if he ever saw me again he would have me put on a charge. I explained I was on leave and therefore unlikely to be a malingerer, but he shouted at me not to be insolent.
I was taken back to the room by W and H, who clucked around me getting more worried, while I lay about looking pale and interesting. Not all that pale, as it turned out, but a nice yellow colour.
On Monday I dragged myself from my charpoy and went on parade for PT, where I managed a spectacular collapse. When Willie told Captain Triggs, the platoon commander, what the situation was, he called for a stretcher and had me taken up to the MI room again. Saying ominously, 'we'll bloody see about this', he marched along too, and had a blazing row with the MO. The mad Irishman looked down at me and bellowed "Well, man, can't ye see ye have the yellow jaundice? Why the divil did ye not tell me that the first time!"
And I was carted off to the BMH (British Military Hospital) in Bangalore.

o o o o o o o

B.M.H. Bangalore

I remember feeling dreadful for two or three days, just lying hardly moving or eating. Each morning we were wakened at 6.30, and shortly after removed from our beds. While it was remade, we were washed, hair combed, and carefully replaced in the bed. The care, you understand, was not for the patient but for the bedclothes. The sheet was turned down over the blanket with mathematical precision, and we were forbidden to move a muscle until after the SMO's (Senior Medical Officer's) inspection. When he actually came into the ward the order was given ' LIE AT ATTENTION'! Difficult to believe? - Absolutely true.
On my first morning the SMO stopped at the end of my bed. He was a dapper little man, vertically challenged in PC speak, a cap too large for him set right in the middle of his head. He peered out at me and barked "Well lad, how are you today?" While I was trying to think of an appropriate answer he picked up my chart, glanced at it, said "Good, good. Looking better than yesterday" and trotted off to the next bed. With Matron's eagle eye upon me I thought it prudent not to point out that I hadn't been there yesterday.
That evening, still feeling terrible, I was visited by I suppose a well-meaning Padre, with a long thin face and a dispirited look. I probably looked much the same, but at least he wasn't bright yellow. He offered me a free Bible if I promised to read it every day for the rest of my life. The only answer I could think of was that feeling as I did then, I was unlikely to get past page one, and he went off in a huff, pursing his lips. I never saw him again.
The BMH was quite educational, in that it appeared to be based on the Hindu caste system. At the top of the heap, of course, was Matron, personifying Siva, the Destroyer of Mankind. She had been known to demolish a few Womenkind as well. Immediately below her, on a semi-mortal level, were the Medical Officers, lording it over everyone, strutting their stuff, stethoscopes dangling down the fronts of open white coats.
Next in line came the Q.A.'s (QAIMNS) Queen Alexandras Imperial something Nursing Service, I think. They were all female nurses, officer status, who clicked about in high heels and immaculate white starched triangular headdresses, and were universally lusted after by all and sundry. No chance, unless you were at least a Major. About the most menial task they did was to slip a thermometer daintily into the mouth of some prostrate warrior. Actually, I think I am being totally unjust.
One layer down from the QA's - quite a lot lower, - were the RAMC orderlies. Within that caste there were sub-castes like Sergeant, Corporal, Lance Corporal and Private. They all actually did a good deal of good work looking after the sick and wounded. Some casualties from Burma found their way here. They were a cheerful crowd, and did most of the Admin. as well.
The bottom layer - not quite on a par with the Untouchables, - the hardest working, kindest, most sympathetic, caring, helpers of all were the Italian prisoners of war. They were magnificent, did more to help and succour the inmates than the other three castes put together. Or so it seemed from the worm's eye view. They were just so grateful to be out of the war, living like lords in comparison to their service days, certain degree of freedom, warm climate. No barbed wire for them. They would have been utterly horrified if anyone had suggested escaping.
The routine was reasonably regular. After the usual daytime inspections, pill-rolling, commode-bashing, food-distribution, rest periods, - about 4 p.m. the Medical Officers would disappear and head for their quarters. The QA's would keep their beautiful eyes on them, and as soon as all were clear they would tell the RAMC lads to carry on, and rush off to bath and change and prepare for another Hedonistic evening in the fleshpots of Bangalore. They all had more offers than they could cope with!
Naturally, the minute they had departed, the RAMC lot would scive off shouting "carry on, Antonio" and suchlike to the Italians. The Italians would be in charge of administering evening medicines, bedpans, comfort, fetching and carrying, or whatever. Sometimes they would sit on the verandah and sing with guitars. (My God, war was hell!) They were always cheerful and smiling. No wonder!
They had a nice little earner going. In the hospital grounds where most of them lived they had set up small workshops, and turned out beautifully made things like cigarette cases, lighters, goblets, bracelets, engraved with whatever you wanted - map of India, picture of the BMH, naked ladies, anything. They hawked them round the wards selling to staff and patients.
Oh well, - back to more important things. - ME! My treatment seemed to consist of one tiny pill 3 times a day, and as much fresh lime juice as I could pour down me. There was always a big jug of the stuff on my bedside cabinet, ice cold, and always more to be had. After a few days when the thought of eating sent shivers of horror through me, I began to perk up. Hunger raised its ugly head, so I was obviously on the mend. In fact I became ravenous, and the hospital meals were unable to cope. I had lost a lot of weight after all, needed building up. So I told myself. AND Willie. When he and others came to visit me they learned to call in at the Bangalore equivalent of today's Indian Take-away. None of your bunch of grapes nonsense, but a damn great curry.
Captain Triggs came to see how I was getting on, with a worried look the second time. Senior term was considered very important to a cadet and future officer, the rounding off, the pulling together of all the other bits etc.It only lasted 6 weeks, the last of which was taken up with parades and celebrations anyway. It looked as though I would spend half of it in hospital, which meant, he was sorry to tell me, almost certain relegation to the next course coming along behind. This thoroughly depressed me. It meant that Willie, and all my friends, would be commissioned on schedule, while I would have to do Senior term again with a bunch of strangers, apart from those already relegated from my course.
However, - halfway through my third week, with only a couple more days to do in the BMH, the Commandant himself, Brigadier Jones, made one of his visits along with my Company Commander, Major Bruce, M.C., an ex-tea planter, of the 10th Gurkhas. They earned my everlasting gratitude when they informed me that in view of my reports, they had decided that I should go ahead and get my commission as scheduled. I could have kissed them, but I understand there is a specific section of the Military Law Manual dealing with that sort of thing. Perhaps not nowadays, though...
Naturally, when Willie and the others heard about it, there had to be something of a celebration. There was, once he had organized some supplies.

Escape From Colditz

Getting out of the BMH turned out to be rather more complicated than it was getting in. By week 3, I was up and about feeling pretty chipper and anxious to depart, fine other than a slight feeling of weakness. And bored out of my skull.
All weekend ejections were done on a Saturday morning by 12 noon. I ate a hearty breakfast, and packed up my belongings. Having said my farewells to all and sundry I set off to collect the mandatory bits of paper without which it was impossible to get through the main gates.
Unfortunately, before I got very far I was collared by Matron, and asked to deliver a wounded officer in a wheelchair to the Dental Section. Matron was a sturdy Scot, steely-eyed, chin like an aircraft carrier, and you did not argue with Matron. I stood at attention, and said 'yessir'. Or at least something similar, and found myself pushing this guy miles and miles through unfamiliar territory at the far end of the hospital complex. Leaving him to the tender mercies of the dentists, I raced off to the Orderly Room, only to find I had missed the 12 noon deadline by a few minutes. And that was that. No amount of pleading, begging, cajoling was going to get me out of the hospital after the enchanted hour. The Orderly Sergeant had already departed, his Corporal clerk was owlish and adamant. "Yer should 'ave got 'ere on time , mate."
Eventually I trudged back to my ward, resigned to spending the weekend in here, instead of going out on a thrash with the others. Things got worse. Back at the ward I found that my bed had been stripped, sheets, blankets mattress gone for washing and airing. "Wot are you doing back 'ere" grunted a RAMC Sergeant. I told him. "Well" he said, with every evidence of enjoyment, "I don't know wot yer goin' ter eat, mate, 'cos yer orf my ration strength!" Great news.
The trusty Italians saved the day, of course. Or both days. They all fell about laughing when they heard what had happened, the funniest thing since sliced salami,and produced bedding and nosh. (They were almost in sole charge at weekends, it seemed.) Nor could they understand why I wanted to get out of this nice safe haven anyway.
That Saturday night turned out to be quite a night. When I failed to return Willie cycled down to find out why. He too fell about laughing, then departed promising to return with reinforcements at visiting time that evening. He did, and we joined up with another entirely separate celebration in the ward next door.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.