Finger trouble
Brushing merrily away at my boots one evening, I noticed a distinct pain in the middle finger of my right hand. I got very little sleep during the night and by morning the offending digit had grown to the size, colour and shape of a continental salami and was throbbing like a mad bass drum! there was no alternative: I had to seek medical attention. In civilian life, one would simply have ambled down to the doctor's surgery, at a reasonable hour, and joined the queue in the waiting room. In the Army, it's done differently!
Anyone wishing to 'go sick' must first visit the company office in the pre-dawn to register this intention. Then, back to the barrack room to make up his bed, with all accoutrements displayed in the prescribed manner, and to perform his ablutions. The intending patient has to be properly attired in serge BD (no denims), complete with boots and gaiters, and he must pack his 'small kit', consisting of a towel, washing and shaving gear and a change of socks and underwear, in his haversack, in case he is hospitalised. This done, it's back to the company office to join the other 'casualties', all hopes of breakfast having been abandoned in this whirl of activity. The roll is called and the parade is marched smartly off to the clinic. We all agreed: you had to be really fit to go sick!
I eventually saw the Medical Officer, who took one look at my finger and proclaimed that I had a whitlow. This was an extremely painful, though fairly common, complaint in my youth but I have not seen or heard of a case in many years. Perhaps antibiotics knocked it on the head. The only remedy, announced the MO, was immediate surgery. My next recollection was waking up on a hospital bed with what looked like a packed lunch resting on my chest. I managed to catch up on my missed sleep of the previous night and, in the late afternoon, I was discharged, rejoining my squad with a directive to Adolph that stipulated 'light duties'. Robbed of my right hand, it meant that I could do little else but sit on my bed watching my comrades go about their nightly chores. The following day being Saturday, I managed to collect my 36-hour pass and returned home for the weekend.
On the following Monday morning, I had to report to the clinic again to have the dressing changed. Although the pain was gone, there had been a certain amount of bleeding and seepage, and the bandage could not be unwound more than a few turns. The doctor solved this problem by wrapping the loose end around his fist and giving it a sharp tug. The bandage came off easily but so did my fingernail and a large piece of my flesh! My minor wound, which would probably have healed in a couple of days, now looked like being with me for several weeks, or at least until the nail had re-grown. My rigid middle digit stuck up like the proverbial sore thumb, providing a fitting gesture of my contempt for the medical profession. It could have been worse, I suppose, given the military surgeon's well-known propensity to amputate!
There was an advantageous fall-out, however. When I returned to my squad, I was in possession of a leather finger-stall and a 'chit' to the effect I should be treated with consideration because of my handicap. In the Army, a medical chit is a prized beyond pearls as it can be manipulated to the bearer's advantage. Nobody below the rank of commander-in-chief would ever question a doctor's order so, faced with an unpleasant or onerous duty, I had only to flaunt my injury and wave the chit to be excused that particular chore. As this encompassed all forms of arms drill, I spent many happy hours idling on the sidelines while my squad-mates trudged up and down wielding their rifles. I was able to perpetuate this subterfuge until the tattered document literally fell to pieces. Nobody had ever bothered to read the bloody thing!
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