slid the tureen towards Alfred.
Tom’s vocabulary of acronyms was already wide enough to gather that some accident had occurred to a private in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers from the Motor Transport section. What a ‘Saracen’ was, he had no idea.
The younger man was Alec Watson, a fresh-faced, gingery Scot only eighteen months out of medical school, who added his two-pennyworth to the conversation.
‘They say that an alternative cap badge for REME should be a crown surmounting a crossed screwdriver and a condom, with the motto “
Major Morris grinned, but then wagged a finger at the lad.
‘That’ll cost you a dollar in the box, laddie. You know the rules.’
Their Commanding Officer had instituted a strict no-swearing regime in the Mess, the penalty being putting a Straits dollar in the swear-box for the Red Cross. There was even a faded list of words pinned on the anteroom wall, listing the proscribed oaths. There was also a ‘no-treating’ rule, which meant that though a member could invite another to have a drink, each had to sign a chit to go on their own mess bill.
Alec Watson grinned ruefully and promised to fork out later. He was a mere GDMO – a General Duties Medical Officer – which meant that he was too junior to have a speciality and was a medical dogsbody in the hospital. He ran the Casualty Station during the day, as well as the Families Clinic, though there were relatively few of those, apart from the dependants of the Malay-enlisted Other Ranks and some Gurkhas.
They ploughed through the soup course, which came straight out of Campbell’s tins, then a tough piece of local chicken that the sardonic Percy claimed must have died of senility. The best part was the dessert, which was a fruit salad of fresh mango, papaya and pineapple, the first two being a totally new experience for Tom Howden.
After the meal, they went through the door at the other end into the anteroom, which like the dining room, was across the width of the long narrow hut, louvred doors running down each side. Most of these were open, letting in the heavy scent of the tropical night, along with the incessant twitter of the cicadas and monotonous burp of a bullfrog lurking in a nearby monsoon drain.
Number One glided in with a tray of coffee which he put on one of the low tables within the rectangle of easy chairs that filled the centre of the room. Another table at one side carried outdated magazines, the
There was a sleepy silence while they all sipped their coffee, which was blatantly Nescafe with a dash of Carnation tinned milk. When they had finished, Number One came to collect the tray and take orders for drinks. They all ordered a beer, except for Alec Watson who regretfully shook his head.
‘Sorry, I’m OMO tonight, Number One.’
Two days ago, Tom might have thought that the young Scot was confessing to being queer, but now he knew that it stood for ‘Orderly Medical Officer’, the doctor permanently on duty overnight – which explained why he was the only one in uniform.
Alec must have read his thoughts.
‘Soon be your turn, Tom! Everyone under field rank has to go on the rota. As there’s only five of us lieutenants or captains, it comes round more than once a week.’
Howden grinned. ‘Don’t know that I’ll be of much use. I haven’t seen a live patient for over a year.’ After qualifying, he had been able to delay his call-up for National Service by getting deferment for another twelve months. This allowed him to get a pathology training post in Newcastle’s Royal Victoria Infirmary and come into the Army as a junior specialist on a Short Service Regular Commission.
When the Tigers arrived, there was another long silence. Percy Loosemore, the wiry Essex man with the long, leathery face, studied the Appointments Vacant section of the
The young Scot, who to Tom looked about sixteen, sat immobile, staring out through an open door into the velvet darkness, listening to the cicadas and thinking inscrutable thoughts. The new arrival began to think that the main danger of Active Service was not being shot by terrorists, but dying of boredom. It was hardly eight thirty, but everyone seemed ready for bed. The only socializing influence in TT seemed to be The Dog and in an effort to break the ennui, Tom brought up the subject.
‘Who exactly can be members?’ he asked. ‘That chap with the loud voice said it had been there since the nineteen-twenties.’
Alf Morris, who was not asleep after all, gave a snort of amusement.
‘That was James Robertson – self-appointed squire of Tanah Timah! Though at least he’s a planter and it was that lot who started the club. But if it wasn’t for the Army, it wouldn’t have had all those facilities like a swimming pool and squash court. It’s only our membership fees that keep it afloat.’
‘And the bar profits!’ said Percy. ‘Very exclusive, The Dog – only officers and white men, very pukka!’ Tom wondered if dealing every day with scores of men with the clap had made him cynical about human nature.
‘What about women?’
The magic word brought Alec out of his trance. ‘Women? Well, the QA sisters are officers, so they qualify, but not their Other Ranks, of course. The only others are the wives of the members, though there’s a civilian English teacher seconded to the Garrison who they let in as a special favour.’
Tom thought that the GDMO had picked up a lot of local gossip in the few months that he had been here – though he supposed there was little else to do except absorb all the tittle-tattle.
‘That James Robertson – he seems a pretty forceful chap.’
‘He’s full of bullshit!’ snapped Alec. ‘And that’s not on the swear-word list, Alf, so don’t look at me like that!’
‘A colourful character, James,’ mused Percy Loosemore. ‘We could tell you a lot about him.’
Alf Morris pulled off his handkerchief and sat up.
‘Now watch what you say, Percy, especially around here.’
Intrigued, Tom’s jug-handle ears almost wagged in anticipation.
‘Tom should know the basics of the situation, Alf,’ said Percy. ‘It might stop him innocently putting his foot in it.’
‘And now’s as good a time as any, when the other fellows aren’t here,’ suggested Alec Watson. With Morris still looking uneasy, Percy, the venereologist, launched into a tutorial on the local scandals.
‘The plain fact is that our beloved senior surgeon, Peter Bright, has had a bit of a thing going with Robertson’s wife. A real cracker, is Diane, a blonde gorgeous enough to make your eyes water! Everyone seems to know about it except the damned husband.’
‘I’m not so sure about that, Percy,’ grunted Alf Morris. ‘So don’t go mouthing it about or there’ll be hell to pay.’
Alec Watson seemed to be looking forward to some High Noon drama in TT.
‘If Jimmy Robertson does find out, there’ll be a shoot-out. Plenty of guns up at Gunong Besar, I’ll bet!’
‘There’ll be a shoot-out if he hears you calling him “Jimmy”, my lad,’ snapped Alfred. ‘Our James is very touchy on that point – even “Jim” isn’t posh enough for him.’
There was a pause while Percy rang a small brass bell that stood on the table. Number One padded in to take orders for more beer, offering his pad of chits and a pen for the drinkers to sign their pay away. As they waited, Tom recalled the object of the gossip, whom he had met briefly over a cup of tea that afternoon. Peter Bright was a Major, the senior of the two surgeons at BMH. A tall, good-looking man in his mid-thirties, Tom felt he was the sort of man that appeared on the covers of Mills & Boon hospital romances. Swept-back fair hair, blue eyes and an aristocratic nose gave him a head start in the lady-chasing stakes, to say nothing of his Oxbridge accent.
After the drinks had materialized, Percy Loosemore was off again.
‘Our Peter got divorced a couple of years ago, when his missus did a runner with some German chap at BMH Munster, so now he’s casting around for a new wife. And as the Robertsons are having a stormy passage these days, maybe he’ll get lucky.’
