大象传媒

This story by Professor Alex Mair was printed in the April 1995 issue of 鈥淟eopard鈥� 鈥� the magazine for North East Scotland.

An Army doctor鈥檚 moral dilemma鈥�

Professor Alex Mair tells of the strange connection between a Scottish soldier and a Belgian baby.

In the early part of 1944 I was on leave from the RAMC when I found myself part of a funeral procession en route to the cemetery near Portknockie. Funerals were always important events in the life of the village. All of us were dependent, directly or indirectly, on the herring industry, the fluctuating fortunes of which offered at best an uncertain future, at worst unbelievable hardship and poverty. Perhaps it was this very economic uncertainty and insecurity which served to bind us and give cohesion to our lives and kinship.

Certainly, at these funerals any subtle barriers which existed between fisherman and farmer, Brethren and Baptist, relatives and friends, would disappear 鈥� at that time only men attended. In place of woollen navy-blue ganseys, dark suits well-brushed and smelling of moth-balls would be donned complete with white shirt, black tie and those highly-polished and uncomfortable 鈥淪unday shoes鈥�. The motor hearse had now replaced the more familiar horse-drawn vehicle but a slow, dignified pace was still maintained to suit all mourners both young and old.

As the hearse moved off, groups of fishermen, sheltering at gable ends from the cold north winds would gradually move out, join the cortege and form up in rows three abreast. Along the streets all the window blinds would be drawn as a token of respect.

As it happened, one of my partners on the route that day was John Wood, an ex-provost of the village and formerly a leading businessman, a fish-salesman with extensive ownership of steam drifters. As such he had, over the years, been a central figure in the lives and livelihood of so many families in this and other neighbouring villages. However, sometime before the war, the collapse of the Russian and German markets for salt-cured herring had calamitous consequences. His fish-selling business went bankrupt and with it, inevitably, the fortunes of many of the fishermen and their families. Equally distressing, and quite unjustified, was the calumny directed at him, often by former friends and clients with perhaps little understanding of the down side of share ownership and corporate finance. Sadly ostracized by many in the village, he became rather a lonely figure. One could not but admire the man and his pride in home and family of wife and five children.

The Wood family lived in King Edward terrace, a small, rather select street, housing the local postmaster, the headmaster of the school and the Minister of the United Free Church. Thus there was in a small way a cultural separation from the rest of the village - from those of us destined for the hazards and uncertainties of a life at sea.
John Wood鈥檚 son, John Alex, joined the Territorial Army and became a Second Lieutenant with the Gordon Highlanders soon to be called up and sent to France with the BEF in 1939. Then, in 1940, came the German attack and the Allies retreated and miraculously managed to rescue many troops at Dunkirk. Soon after, the Wood family, like so many at that time, received the dreaded pink telegram from the War Office. Understandably, there was great confusion and lack of information. Later, the Red Cross confirmed that some soldiers who were reported killed were alive in POW camps.

It was now nearly three years and still John Wood clung to the faint hope that his favourite son, John Alex, was alive and possibly in hiding somewhere. Parting company on our return home and in bidding him goodbye, I asked, 鈥淭ell me John, where was John Alex last seen and thought to be alive? Who knows, I may find myself in that area and could make further inquiries.鈥�

He replied, 鈥淭hat would be so nice of you Alex. As far as I can gather, he was last seen by several of his men near a village called Mollem, fifteen miles from Brussels.鈥�

I went back to my parent unit, the 108 British Military (Field) Hospital, largely a 鈥減aper鈥� organization of 1200 beds. While recruitment proceeded apace, we operated on a rather artificial basis, a wartime EMS unit in the grounds of a mental hospital near York. By the middle of May 1944, the number of Medical Officers had increased to 40, Nursing Officers (QAINSR) to nearly 80, while other ranks including Medical Orderlies, mechanics and Pioneer Corps numbered several hundred.

D_Day came on June 6th. Soon we went by train to Brighton and Hove. Meanwhile, the main staff boarded a passenger ship en route to the beachhead to await the arrival of tents, equipment and personal belongings. After many vicissitudes we were soon operational on the Bayeux Road in Normandy, joining other small Field Hospitals about six miles from the battlefront.

Prior to this, the staff had been appraised of a new drug called Penicillin. Central to our introduction of this new wonder substance was the clear instruction from the War Office that owing to its limited supplies its use 鈥渕ust not extend to civilian casualties鈥�.
Soon the hectic incoming convoys of casualties became less, and conditions at the front had changed with the enemy retreat. Orders arrived to cease admissions and prepare to transfer to the Brugmann Hospital. This afforded the Allies a breathing space to build up supplies of ammunition and to consolidate the rearguard.

As one can imagine, all this slowing down up front was reflected in quieter activities at the rear. Casualties ceased to arrive in large convoys and the tempo in the Brugmann became more like a civilian hospital, sharing receiving days with the 6th Brigade General Hospital elsewhere in the city.

From the discomforts of working and living under canvas in Normandy, life in the Brugmann was relative luxury. The Belgians, grateful for the departure of the Germans were eager to offer their services to the hospital as porters, cleaners or stretcher-bearers, their only reward being to share our food after suffering years of near starvation. A number of Red Cross auxiliary nurses also offered their services. One who was allotted to our ward was a Countess, who spoke perfect English and was fluent in Flemish.

As things were quiet, and short leave in the city easy to come by, I explained to this lady the story of John Alex. Would she accompany me so that together we could try and obtain information about him from the local people? So off we set for the village of Mollem.

We sought our way to the village Mayor. He spoke Flemish which my French-speaking companion was able to translate for me. Soon, the initial niceties out of the way, his delight was immediate and the story was told with remarkable clarity and detail.

In this area, apparently, the Germans suddenly broke through on that fateful day in vast numbers riding motor-cycles with sidecars. Such was the speed of the German advance that many Allied troops were taken prisoner. However, information reached the village that an Allied officer had been killed and his body lay at the roadside some distance away. Uncertain as to how they would be treated if found by Germans, the villagers planned to retrieve the body during darkness. With a one-shaft joiner鈥檚 barrow, they brought the body to the village hall. Next day, the villagers combined to arrange for a suitable coffin to be made and, with the cooperation of the Roman Catholic priest, the officer was given a dignified burial in the village cemetery.

Hearing that I was a doctor from the same village in Scotland, the Mayor insisted that we call on the local headmaster who might be able to add to the information.

At the schoolhouse we told the purpose of our visit to the headmaster. He gave a wry smile and led us into his study. Here his roll-top desk was open and on it lay binoculars, a leather pocket-book and military documents. He turned to us, and said in good English, 鈥淚 knew that once the Germans had retreated someone would arrive to ask about Lt. Wood. It鈥檚 extraordinary, but a voice, some inner urge, told me that I could expect it to happen today, hence this preparation on my desk.鈥�

He then went through Lt. Wood鈥檚 belongings and his correspondence both personal and official, the latter containing a telegram warning of the imminence of a German breakthrough on that particular front. In addition, the headmaster told us that Lt. Wood鈥檚 revolver was in safe-keeping in some Department or Ministry in Brussels.

It was obvious that our mission was complete and our quest, sad though it might prove to the hopes of the Wood family at home, was now over and conclusive.

鈥淗owever, you must meet a woman from Mollem called Mrs. Van Handenhoven-Luyckx.鈥�

So off we went to find Pauline (as I came to know this delightful lady) to discover that over the three intervening years she had regularly placed flowers on the grave of this young officer of whose background and origin she knew nothing. At least, this would be her simple tribute to one who had given his life for the cause of freedom and to uphold everything which she and Belgians held dear. With great dignity and indeed a measure of pride, she led me to the cemetery and to the grave where John Alex now lay. It was a moving, unforgettable experience.

It took me a day or two of thought as to how I would proceed to communicate this final chapter to the Wood family in Portknockie.

As it turned out, they took it in remarkably good heart. Now that the tiny thread of hope had been broken, it came almost as a relief. What was more, in was comforting to know that in a far-off land, a simple village community had rallied round to show their gratitude for the final sacrifice of an unknown soldier.

I also learned from home that the Wood family found comfort, gratitude and relief that the final truth had been discovered and relayed to them by another Portknockie lad rather than by the cold impersonal hand of the War Office, or perhaps later by the War Graves Comission.

In early 1945, a message reached me one day to the effect that a Belgian lady, a Mrs. Van Handhoven-Luyckx, wished to see me. Relaxed and composed when we met in Mollem, Pauline was now obviously under considerable stress. Partly in French, with occasional attempts at English, her anxiety was explained and clearly understood. Her younger sister Anne Marie had given birth to a baby girl on 23rd December, 1944. The baby was now six weeks old and had developed Cerebro-Spinal Meningitis. Such drugs as were available had failed. The doctor had informed the parents that he could do no more for the child, unless, of course, by some means, a supply of a new substance called Penicillin 鈥� available only to the Allied forces 鈥� could somehow be obtained. The issue (and my moral dilemma) suddenly became clear. This was the good lady who had attended the grave of a Portknockie lad. Her simple request was : 鈥淐an I have a small dose of this Penicillin, please?鈥�

In reply, I tried, quite inadequately, to explain that Penicillin was in short supply and it had been decreed that its use had to be restricted to Allied Service personnel.

I can still see the expression of Pauline, standing there at the entrance to the Brugmann Hospital, bewildered and incredulous that such a simple request could not be met. Little did she understand the significance of Army discipline, the rigid structure of command and the need to adhere to all regulations, all of which were necessary in the conduct of war. Flexibility, or departures from the rules for this or that reason, would not be tolerated. For the Regular Army soldier of whatever rank, strict adherence to the rule was paramount. Departure on the more serious issues might lead to Court Martial while less serious breaches of discipline would affect promotion.

To me, a wartime recruit, the issue was seen in more human and humane terms. I had to provide Pauline with a supply of Penicillin. There were two ways of doing so.

I could, with or without the cooperation of the ward sister, arrange for a series of injections to be given to an imaginary patient with imaginary gunshot wounds. If discovered, this could lead to some military inquiry resulting in some form of admonition short of a Court Martial. Who cares? Or I could attack the citadel itself, approach 鈥淥ld Bob鈥�, tell him the story and ask him to bend the rules this once to show our gratitude to this lady.

Entering his room, approaching his desk, I came to attention, saluted smartly and presented my case.

He looked down on his desk and mumbled: 鈥� Mair, you know perfectly well what the regulations are. On no account is Penicillin to be given to civilians 鈥� casualties or otherwise.鈥�

I replied: 鈥淚 know that Sir, but this is different.鈥�

I explained the role of this lady and her efforts 鈥� it was all she could do to show her gratitude for what we were fighting for, etc. etc. 鈥淥ld Bob鈥� was not to be moved. Perhaps unlike me he had his professional future to think of. He stared out of the window to the city roof tops below. He turned and looked at me, still in silence. Perhaps he recalled that this fellow Mair had met, so far, all the demands he had placed on him; secondment to the D-Day operation, the control and safe transport of the whole hospital equipment and personal belongings through London and the Dover Straits to Normandy.

Did he see this as a moral or military question? He continued to stare at me in silence. I suppose he could order my removal or worse. I stood there at attention.

鈥淎ll right, Mair, go ahead.鈥�

Giselle, the 鈥淧enicillin baby鈥� as her aunt referred to her, was 50 years old in December last year (1994). Her son, Dominique, is 27, and grandchildren Yasmina and Nora and six and four respectively.

In Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 it reads: 鈥淎 time to kill and a time to heal.鈥�

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