was the closed gate into the main garrison compound, its lights silhouetting a row of coconut palms that ran down inside the dividing fence. On this side of the gate to the right of the road, was the QA Officers’ Mess, as silent as his own quarters on this dance night at The Dog.
Tom turned into the open corridor and walked down its length without seeing a soul, a contrast with the daytime, when it was a bustling thoroughfare. At the front of the hospital, he turned right and went to the small office belonging to the RSM, where the night Duty Sergeant camped out. Tonight it was Staff Sergeant Crosby, a pharmacist from Essex, who occupied the building opposite the laboratory. He was a neat, dapper young man with spectacles, a seven-year Regular with ‘two to go’, working for some extra qualification that would set him up well in civilian life. Tom found him busily writing in an exercise book, copying from a large Pharmacopoeia propped open in front of him.
‘Plenty of time to study, doc!’ he announced cheerfully. ‘And plenty of experience out here, though I doubt I’ll have to dispense many antimalarials when I get back to Epping Forest.’
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
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.
‘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.
‘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
