“Falling between three stools…”
by Roussillon

Make no mistake about it, by the northern summer of 1952 the Canal Zone was in a bit of trouble over an outbreak of typhoid. The first battalion naturally blamed it on the horde of new arrivals which had poured in after Farouk abrogated the treaty. Scarcely desert worthy in their view, it was only to be expected that these johnnies-come-lately were incapable of looking after themselves even in the comfort of Fayid, Moascar and all the other fleshpots of the North.  For us, of course,  a trip to Fayid was akin to a day at Butlin’s. The despatch by a noted correspondent that it was only a touch of the usual Gyppie tummy only added confirmation of this view. When had the press ever reported things as they were?

But, nevertheless, as the merry-go-round of  ‘duties’ went faster and faster and we found ourselves doing fatigues and guard after guard for people who hadn’t even had their first bout of sandfly fever or the shits, the mood hardened. The final straw was a warning in Battalion Orders repeated in company detail, that anyone with headaches, vomiting, running a temperature, loose bowels or just about anything other than pregnancy was to report sick to be checked for Paratyphoid fever. Failure to comply would be a disciplinary matter.. Clearly this was serious.

It so happened that a Land Rover and I had parted company the week before and breaking my fall with my left forearm had left a small graze, which under the ministrations of the medical orderlies had finally blossomed into a whole arm of desert sores painted a fetching purple by the daily application of Gentian Violet. This revolting condition needed to be dressed twice a day so I was a regular at the sick parade. ‘ Come the sick come the lame …etc’ became my theme song. Anyhow I was sitting outside the MO one evening with my small pack when a party from one of the rifle companies were bought in by an NCO. It so happened that I had bought my mug of tea from the cookhouse with me as I waited and when a wide free ranging thermometer was stuck in my mouth I naturally registered an elevated temperature. Within minutes I was in a truck bound for BMH Fayid.

Nowadays, since acquiring a Stent in my LDA I naturally hope never to be a trauma patient but if it does happen, hopefully amid all the new clinical technology, I could wish for no better reception than that which we received at the BMH. They were marvellous. Clean sheets, blanket baths from the QARANC sisters, even I who presented as a purple suppurating horror got a smile. How shameful that their trust and compassion was to be so abused. But as that Australian icon Ned Kelly said on the scaffold ‘Such is life’.

We awoke next morning in total luxury, a cool, airy, high ceilinged ward with quiet figures moving gently among us. .A total contrast to the usual shouts of “gunfire” down the lines and a shambling half-awake squaddy clutching six mugs crashing out of the tent to get our share. Breakfast was served in bed and then after being told to ’ lie to attention’ we were seen by a Registrar. It appeared that the crucial indicator for this fever, whether as a sufferer or a carrier, was to be found in faecal samples collected under controlled conditions and then tested in the pathology lab. The use of bedpans was to be rigorously enforced for the first few days during which time we were to be confined to bed. After a couple of ‘clear’ specimens we would be allowed up and in the absence of any other symptoms after three ’clear‘ samples we would be released. The mathematically minded were already reckoning on a week off, a possibility made even more desirable by the discovery that there was a daily issue of Guinness before tiffin.

My own first offerings were inconclusive and I was allowed up and granted the privilege of collecting my own specimen labelling it and placing it in the special pathology fridge. It meant also, of course, making less of a mess of my sheets. As I moved up to this new group I met ‘Toxic Ted’.  Ted was apparently capable of producing specimens, which blew the Path instruments off the scale, or produced rainbow results from every reagent. He was the walking re-incarnation of the Black Death and the plagues of the Old Testament. He had apparently given a dozen dirty specimens on the trot. Ted’s stools were infallible. But he was not selfish. Secure in his own invincibility he would allow less fortunate beings to partake of his largesse, a few disgusting moments in the sluice room provided a substitute specimen, which ensured another three days off. Well you’ve already guessed it: I put one of Ted’s in with my name on it and for the first time in a fortnight it came up clear.
 

Leaving a few genuine cases behind, our group was sent to a convalescent camp and for the first few days I spent my time playing snooker with a Mauritian orderly while my arm cleared up. Then came the announcement that we were to be released for light duties to neighbouring units. Since, given our medical history, no competent commander would let us near their lines, ablutions or cookhouse, life descended into endless desert sweeps pulling waste paper and cigarette packets out of the wire. Clearly if this was going to be our lot we would be better off back with the Battalion and so we asked to be discharged. This was accepted and we all went home.

I was never sure just how much our superiors had heard about our Odyssey but any previous impression was totally demolished by our reception. There stood the Adjutant and the RSM, straight faced, cordially welcoming us back.  Commending us on our regimental spirit in voluntarily discharging ourselves from the BMH and rejoining the Battalion in its hour of need. Naturally we could not be expected to take up our full share of the current workload until such time as we were fully rehabilitated and to that end we were to undergo a special period of advanced convalescence. Here some of us noticed the arrival of the regimental PT Sergeant; visibly straining to suppress the usual shark-like grin of that horribly healthy fraternity confronted with the idle, lazy, or unfit; and felt the first twinge of alarm. We were handed over to him and our new healthy regimen was spelt out. PT before breakfast, light marches in PT gear, constant compulsory games all leading up to pokey drill in battle order when we were fit enough.  The building up and rehabilitation started next morning at 6.15am after gunfire; by noon the following day by dint of strenuous pleading I had a job in the Signal Office.