大象传媒

When I was about five, in 1943, I was playing and fell on some broken glass and cut my leg. My mother did her best to clean the wound but over the next few days is was obvious that the wound was infected. My left leg started swelling and was soon swollen both around the cut on my shin and above the knee.
The doctor was called and arrived at the start of a night time air raid. My parents had an indoor air raid shelter the top of which was used as the railway sidings for our model railway but on this night was used as an operating table.
The doctor came with a limited amount of surgical equipment and my mother acted as his nurse. My father kept well out of sight! A mask was applied and ether dripped onto it. Away I went into the land of dreams.
When I awoke, my leg had a large hole just below the knee, the poison had been removed and there was a strong smell in the room. Light bandaging was applied and the doctor prepared to leave, I cried for him to stay. But off he went through the continuing raid. I owe Dr Murphy, our long-time family doctor, my leg and possibly my life.
I slept in the shelter with my leg pushed through a box to protect it from knocks, mainly from neighbouring children who slept in our house.
As the weeks progressed the wound healed, but I still couldn鈥檛 walk. Wheel chairs were not available and so a builder, who was carrying out war damage repair, converted a baby鈥檚 pushchair to give my leg support.
I still carry a scar 30mm long and about 8mm wide as a permanent reminder of that time.

John Frost now retired

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