There was a lengthy pause before he explained how an experienced, older sergeant, who had seen it all before, spotted that there was a problem. And a serious one at that.
In the months before General Slim issued the mepacrine edict the sergeant had been in a unit that had been virtually halved after suffering the same symptoms. He issued orders for the stricken youngster to be taken by stretcher to a casualty clearing station, where malaria was diagnosed.
‘I was flown on a DC-3 Dakota to Chittagong and then brought here by ambulance,’ he added.
He told Madge that his biggest worry was not about malaria, but instead about not getting back with the boys. He missed his mum and dad, the farm and the dogs. He didn’t want to be a problem to anybody. He just wanted to do his duty for England and go home. When would he be able to leave hospital? When could he rejoin his unit? The morning bout of fever had drained his energy and when George once again drifted into a troubled sleep Madge lifted the sheets up over his shoulders and made sure he was securely tucked into bed. She ended her first day at 56 IGH feeling slightly anxious but not sure why.
The calm, professional way she had handled George’s problems had been noticed by the doctor and within two weeks Madge was in charge of wards that cared for as many as thirty patients at a time. Her duties included giving the more incapacitated patients bed baths, taking temperatures, making sure medicine was taken, giving injections, administering the dreaded mepacrine, and making sure everybody got breakfast. A multitude of tasks that on the morning shift had to be completed in time for the doctor’s rounds, which got underway at 10.30 a.m.
With virtually no nursing assistance available, Madge worried about her ability to help patients turn over to avoid bed sores until she realised that only on the very rarest of occasions would it be a problem. Most active patients did their utmost to help her move them anyway and were also so wracked by illness that they had lost huge amounts of weight.
There was one thing that Madge always checked when she was running wards, either on the day or night shifts, and that was security. After the frightening incident at Stoke Mandeville’s kitchen she made sure she knew where help would be if problems developed. At 56 IGH there was always a fellow sister on the next ward, but most comforting of all was the fact that though they were rarely seen, Madge now knew the Gurkhas were always there, even on night shifts. Few were prepared to tangle with the infinitely courteous but utterly fearless little warriors from Nepal.
After she had been at the hospital for ten days Madge was transferred to the dangerously ill (DI) ward to help her become familiar with all the problems that the hospital faced. At the end of one particularly tiring shift, during which the heat and humidity had been especially unpleasant, she bumped into Dr Whittaker who had been so helpful on her first day on duty.
‘How have your first couple of weeks at the hospital been?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘Good. I like the fact that we are getting as much experience as possible by working in all the wards. By the way, how is George, the lad who was struggling with malaria?’
The doctor told her that a few days earlier George had complained about feeling cold in spite of a temperature reading of 105 degrees. That had been followed by a bout of the shakes so severe that the bed frame had banged repeatedly against the bamboo walls of the basha hospital. There were also spells of irrationality.
He had been sick again and wasn’t eating, though he did manage to down a few spoonfuls of soup. Other soldiers in the ward had done their best to jolly him along, and repeatedly tried to cajole him into having a drink in an effort to combat the effects of dehydration from that high temperature. Later that night there was another bout of the shakes that became more and more severe.
George became weaker and weaker. He never mentally gave up the fight to recover but sadly passed away. ‘For a number of reasons we think that he died from cerebral malaria,’ said the doctor.
Madge, feeling sad at the news she had just received, slowly walked up the slope from the hospital to her basha and mulled over what the doctor had said about the fevers, the nausea, the violent shakes, the high temperature but feeling cold, and that young George had died from cerebral malaria. Suddenly it all became clear as she remembered how her dad had suffered from shakes so violent that his metal bed had crashed against the bedroom wall. He’d always had a frighteningly hot forehead, and suffered from nausea, comas and irrationality. He had also served in India in the Great War. It all fell into place. Cerebral malaria had almost certainly killed him as well, not the constant bouts of flu the doctors had diagnosed.
Madge felt a sharp pull in her stomach at the realisation. I’m too late to help my dad, but maybe being here I’ll be able to help others before it’s too late for them.
12
Learning About Indian Life
The first shift on an Indian DI ward opened Madge’s eyes to the complications of nursing Hindu and Muslim patients on the same ward. Not only did they have separate kitchens and cooks of their own faith but they
