Dead in the Dog

The Mess seemed to slide into gloomy silence after this, until their Admin Officer made a suggestion intended to raise the mood a little.

‘I’ve been looking at the duty rosters for next weekend, chaps,’ said Alf earnestly. ‘Quite a few of you are free, so why don’t we organize a trip to Pangkor? I know the colonel’s going down to Kinrara to meet the ADMS, so we could get away early on Saturday morning and come back on Sunday.’

There was a stir of interest, except from those who were tied to the hospital that weekend.

‘Be a nice change, we could see if a few of the QAs wanted to join us,’ said Alec, always with an eye to female company. During the buzz of discussion that followed, a mystified Tom Howden asked Alec what this was all about.

‘Pangkor? It’s a tropical island just off the coast. Smashing place, only about fifty miles away. We leave the cars at Lumut, then get a small ferry across. The accommodation’s a bit primitive, just a row of wooden chalets above the beach, but it’s better than this place. You must come, Tom, it’s great! Swimming, boozing, flirting!’

Alf winked across at the pathologist. ‘See if you can get that nice Lynette to come, Tom. Swaying palm trees under a tropical moon, do your love life no end of good!’

It seemed that several other officers had the same idea, as when they got around to discussing which cars to take, David Meredith announced that his passenger seat would doubtless be occupied by Lena Franklin. Then Peter Bright effectively stopped the chatter by rather gruffly indicating that he intended asking Diane Robertson if she would like to join the party.

‘She needs something to take her mind off things, poor woman!’ he said defiantly, making it clear that he was personally intending to provide that something. He got a few knowing looks from his fellow officers and a leer from Percy, but no one pursued the matter and the conversation drifted on to details of the trip, Alf volunteering to contact the beach hotel and make the bookings.

Outside, the storm finished as abruptly as it had begun and gradually the crowd in the Mess began to drift away. Some of those not on duty went out to the cinema or visit other messes in the garrison, while a few sloped off to their rooms to write letters, read or listen to their record players.

An hour later Tom was left alone in the anteroom, apart from Eddie Rosen, who was snoring peacefully in one of the chairs.

The pathologist browsed through his thick dog-eared copy of Muir’s Pathology, but his attention span was limited, even though he told himself that he must keep bashing the books, as he intended taking the Diploma when he got back home. Too many diverting thoughts marched through his mind, from puzzling about Jimmy Robertson’s gunshot wound to the sounds and aromas of a tropical night that wafted through the doors. A recurring diversion was the face and figure of Lynette Chambers. He knew that she was not on duty tonight, but the promised weekend with her on this fabled island was a tantalizing prospect, with which Professor Muir’s book had no chance of competing. He gave up the attempt at study and earlier than needs be, grabbed his hat and belt and went off down to the hospital to do his rounds.

Checking first with the orderly sergeant down at the front, he began working his way back up the corridor, stopping at each ward in turn. At Ward Five, his path crossed that of the night sister and they stopped for a cup of coffee in the office. Tonight QA Captain Joan Parnell was in charge and sitting in close proximity in the small room, he was aware of what an attractive woman she was. Glossy auburn hair peeped from beneath her white linen head-cloth and her smooth features always seemed to hold a slightly mischievous expression.

‘You’ve made quite a hit with young Lynette, Captain Howden,’ she said archly. ‘Fast workers, you Geordies!’

Tom grinned sheepishly. She was an easy woman to talk to as they had no flirtatious hang-up to contend with. He had his eye firmly on Lynette and Joan was intent on prising Peter Bright away from the new widow woman.

‘There’s a plan afoot to make up a party for this Pangkor place next weekend,’ he observed. ‘Will you be able to come?’

‘Is Peter going, d’you know?’ she asked. ‘Maybe we could drive down together.’

Tom felt that he was treading on sensitive ground here, but he could hardly avoid a direct question. ‘He said that he was, but I think he’s giving a lift to Mrs Robertson.’

Joan’s luscious lips tightened at this.

‘Then I’m definitely damned well going!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m not letting her have him all to herself for a whole weekend.’

Tom wisely avoided any comment and tried to change the subject.

‘Eddie Rosen and Alec both said the CO had been acting strangely the past few nights. Have you seen anything of him?’

Joan Parnell pulled her mind away from the prospect of their surgeon cavorting with a blonde on a tropical island and nodded.

‘It’s the talk of the Sisters’ Mess this week. Matron said she’s going to have a word with him, as he’s been poking about the buildings until God knows what hour – including the QA’s Other Ranks billet. The man’s mad!’

‘Have you seen him tonight?’

‘I caught a glimpse of him in the distance about an hour ago, going up the corridor towards the armoury. I’m sure it was him, you can tell by that funny up-and-down walk of his.’

The pathologist drained the last of his Nescafe from a mug advertising a new lotion for treating scabies. ‘Let’s hope I can keep clear of him tonight. He seems to have taken an instant dislike to me.’

Joan gave him a glowing smile and reached out to touch his hand.

‘Don’t take it personally, Tom. He’s like that with everyone, unless they’ve got boobs and long legs! The latest one to hate him even more than usual is Robbie Burns.’

‘I’ve heard they don’t get along, to put it mildly,’ said Tom. ‘But is this something new?’

‘The colonel gives all the QM people a hard time, but now he’s threatened to arrest Robbie and have him court-martialled,’ explained Joan.

‘This place is nothing like Newcastle’s RVI, where I worked,’ said Tom ruefully. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

Joan shrugged her slim shoulders indifferently.

‘Some fuss over a fiddled Board of Survey, they say. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

Tom Howden had already been instructed in the art of handling Boards of Survey by Lance Corporal Cropper. Every department had to have its inventory of equipment checked every so often by an officer and a member of the QM staff. Any deficiencies had to be paid for out of the pocket of the officer-in-charge. Where the lab was concerned, the crafty Cropper informed Tom that all his predecessors had wangled their way out of debt by calling a ‘Board of Survey’ to condemn items allegedly worn or unserviceable. These were supposed to be destroyed immediately, but in fact, after replacements were obtained, the old ones were quietly brought back to replace anything missing from the inventory.

‘In this man’s army, you can get away with writing off a truck or a tank with no more than a ticking-off,’ the corporal had confided. ‘But break a bloody thermometer worth five bob and there’s hell to pay!’

It seemed that the luckless quartermaster had fallen foul of the eccentric Commanding Officer over something to do with this time-honoured tradition.

‘Apparently, Captain Burns is livid!’ went on Joan. ‘It seems the colonel has been persecuting him for months and now Burns has been heard to say that he’s willing to swing for Desmond O’Neill! Let’s hope they don’t meet on one of our nights on duty!’

With this cheerful thought, the two went about their business and after finishing his pilgrimage to the other wards, Tom made his final trip to the arms kote. As he went, he kept a wary eye out for the CO, but thankfully the only thing he saw at the top end of the hospital was a cat slinking along a monsoon drain. The excursion to the arms blockhouse also went peacefully, though again there was another new Malay OR locked inside, one Tom had not seen on his previous visits.

By midnight, he was back in his own bed, as the air-conditioned ward was occupied by a gunner with malaria. As he stared up in the gloom at the dim wraith of his mosquito net, he thought of the coming weekend. Visions swam into his mind of nubile maidens in grass skirts dancing on a palm-fringed moonlit beach – and they were all wearing the starched headdress of the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps.