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by Richard Bramley
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As the effects of a hefty dose of codeine wore off and I returned to consciousness, the pain in my head felt like a thousand kettle drummers beating a tattoo on the outside with Big Ben boinging away on the inside in time with my heartbeat. Tentatively opening my eyes, I found myself looking at the rust-tinged, cream-painted underside of a vehicle roof. It proved to be an ambulance, and I was lying on a stretcher. There was no sign of the kettle drummers, who turned out to be monsoonal rain pounding on the ambulance roof. The throbbing inside my head was a mother of all headaches, far exceeding my worst-ever hangover. Turning my head gingerly, since any movement caused intense pain behind my eyes, I noticed a uniformed person sitting on the opposite bunk. This proved to be a Royal Army Medical Corps orderly, who informed me that we were on the way to the Medical Reception Station at Majedee, where a doctor would examine me on arrival.
The medic got out to talk to the driver who had pulled off the road onto the laterite shoulder due to the storm that had cut visibility to near zero. Left alone, I squirmed around trying to lever myself into a less painful position. In so doing, I put my hand down between the bunk and the back of the cab and grasped what felt like the barrel of a gun – a rusting Sten gun, no less.
“This yours?” I asked the medic when he returned.
“Fuck, no,” he replied. “Where’d ya find it?”
I pointed.
“Best put the fucker back,” he said. It was nothing to do with him, and he wanted to keep it that way. So much for weapons security.
When the kettle drummers eased off, I heard the driver start the engine and attempt to get back onto the road. Wheels spun, the back end of the ambulance slid down the shoulder towards the storm drain and we were bogged down. Luckily, a passing tractor from the nearby rubber estate stopped and towed us back onto the road.
On arrival at Majedee, I was issued pajamas, given more codeine, had my temperature and pulse recorded, was assigned a bed, and told a doctor would see me soon. ‘Soon’ turned out to be twenty hours later, when the resident doctor showed up for his regular morning rounds.
“Best look at that bloke first,” urged the patient in the next bed, “Bastard kept us awake all night with his moaning and groaning.”
By this time, my headache was worse, if that was possible. I had developed a rash, my back ached, and my joints felt stiff and tender. After examining me, the doctor dispensed yet more codeine before dispatching me to the British Military Hospital (BMH) in Singapore. On arrival, blood samples were taken and, when I could finally produce some, I submitted my dainty turds for examination. The real treat though was the lumbar puncture. The less-than-sensitive-male medical orderly prepared me for this with great relish.
“The Doc’s going to stick a sodding great needle into your spine without any local anesthetic,” he said. “So, you’d better pray he hits the spot first time, or you can look forward to some real pain.”
Fortunately, the doctor was on the money the first time and spared me any additional agony. Spine duly punctured, nine medicos (four lieutenants, four captains and a lieutenant-colonel) assembled at the foot of my bed but, in the manner of doctors the world over, they told me nothing other than that I was “a very interesting case and it would be interesting to see what the virologist discovered.”
I was diagnosed with dengue fever which had brought on aseptic meningitis (inflammation of the membrane covering the brain and spinal cord). I was prescribed total bed rest to minimize the risk of inflammation of what passed as my brain, supplemented by regular aspirin and pethidine injections. The upside was the alluring bevy of Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps nurses at my beck and call, attending to (almost) my every need. After a few days the dressing was removed from my back and I enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath for the first time since Christmas.
“Gonna come and scrub my back?” I invited the nurse who delivered my bath towel. No response; caring as they were, the nurses were immune to the suggestive advances of impecunious National Servicemen.
In the week that followed, as I lay in bed obeying orders—exerting myself as little as possible—I pondered on how I had come to find myself in this situation. Instead of deferring, and possibly avoiding my National Service altogether, by accepting a place at London University, I had opted for Cambridge University to pursue my ultimately unfulfilled Rugby ambition of playing against Oxford in the annual Varsity Match. This necessitated doing National Service first. Hence, in September 1957, I was called upon to donate two years of my life to the service of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.
So, instead of being two years into a degree, I was four months away from completing my service in a dysfunctional infantry battalion engaged in the undeclared war known as the “Malayan Emergency.” During its brief period on active operations, the battalion managed to find itself in the wrong places at the wrong times to capture or kill any communist terrorists (CTs). The only casualties it had suffered were self-inflicted; the only people who had surrendered to it were prostitutes (at a price); the only hostile bodies it had captured were sexually transmitted; and the only fighting it had engaged in took place in bars and dancehalls.
In my case, it had not been contact with the CTs we were supposed to be hunting that had proved to be the greatest threat to my life but contact with the mosquito, Aedes aegypti, the vector for dengue fever.
The first indications had been stomach pain and a throbbing headache against which aspirin proved ineffectual, so I had reported sick which led to my nightmare ambulance journey and my presence in hospital. Over the course of my first week in hospital the rash subsided, the joint pain eased, the severity of the headaches began to diminish, and the pain behind my eyes became less acute. All I did was lie there and enjoy the bedside service from the Navy, Army, and Air Force Institutes (NAAFI), select books from the Red Cross library trolley, and enjoy the meals brought to my bedside. Hospital food was exceptionally good and varied, especially compared with the slop we were served back in camp. Another luxury in the ward was the headphones that enabled me to listen to the radio whenever I pleased, without disturbing others.
My first weekend in hospital, I was surprised when Ron and Sammy, two of my fellow intelligence clerks in Tactical Headquarters (Tac HQ), visited. Sammy gleefully informed me that I would be on a charge when I got back.
“How come?” I asked.
“Malaria, mate, self-inflicted illness. Not been taking your Paludrine tablets.”
“I don’t have malaria, Sammy, I’ve got dengue fever,” I said angrily. “Paludrine doesn’t work against dengue, so you can tell Major Rocky where to stick his charge.”
As soon as I could summon sufficient concentration to focus on writing a letter, and quite oblivious to how serious meningitis could be (despite the pain I had endured), I penned a letter home nonchalantly stating that I was in hospital with meningitis. Little did I know the alarm and consternation this would cause on the home front. The first I knew of parental distress was seeing Pop Homan and his wife striding down the long, high-ceilinged ward. Neighbors from home, Pop was then working in Singapore and I hadn’t seen them since my Christmas leave in Singapore.
“How on earth did you know I was in hospital?” I asked.
“Your father wrote asking us to check up on you,” said Mrs Homan.
“Well, you can tell them I’m over the worst of it and on the mend,” I said, trying to downplay how sick I had been, but no doubt they heard the full story from the doctors.
“Can we bring you anything?” Pop asked.
“A few Tigers (beers) would be good,” I said. Pop laughed.
“I’d never get them past the Matron,” he replied.
I later discovered via ‘Sputnik,’ one of the Orderly Room clerks, who paid me a surprise mid-week visit, that my father had contacted a pre-war rugby teammate of his who, in addition to being the Sheriff of Nottingham, was also the Colonel of the Regiment’s Nottingham Territorial Army (Reserve) Battalion. The Sheriff contacted the CO of the Regimental Depot in Derby who telegrammed Coco-Oscar, our pompous and inept battalion commander, urgently requesting news of my state of health. Apparently, the telegram galvanised Coco-Oscar into action.
“Who is this man?” Coco-Oscar had demanded, bursting into the Orderly Room, and waving the telegram in the face of the Company Orderly Sergeant.
“Bring me his service record,” he’d barked, quite oblivious to the fact he’d had almost daily contact with me in Tac HQ during the time we had spent on operations. Yet this came as no surprise to me. I had once heard him tell an Army PR captain, “The private soldier has no personality.” Being of lowly rank, I had obviously failed to impinge on his consciousness. Nonetheless, once having ascertained my identity, he was quickly on the phone to BMH Singapore and was overheard demanding to know details of the condition of one of his “valued soldiers.”
Suitable reassurances were transmitted back home from the Homans, from the Hospital Commandant and, eventually, Coco-Oscar’s authoritative confirmation that I was receiving good care and recovering well. The Sister in charge assured me that meningitis was not as serious as it once was, and that I’d only had a mild form, with no danger of permanent after-effects. She also advised me that the following week I would be transferred to the cooler, higher altitude convalescence hospital in the Cameron Highlands.
Much as I enjoyed my sojourn in female company—such a fantastic change after so long in an all-male, military environment—the downside was no beer. I longed to become an “up-patient” and entitled to a free daily bottle of beer. Despite being denied beer, my spirits were lifted when, after ten days in hospital, I received my first pay in nearly three weeks. According to Sputnik, it was only after the hospital sent for my medical and pay records that it came to light my 18-month reclassification pay raise, effective since March, had yet to be authorized on Battalion Orders—typical Army inefficiency. It was now mid-May and, finally I received my long overdue pay increase, including backpay.
Two weeks after my admission, Captain Kelly, my primary doctor, advised me that my latest blood test and stools analysis were normal and I was deemed healthy enough to be declared an “up-patient” and prepared for my transfer to the Cameron Highlands. Next morning, I was up early and on the bus to Royal Air Force Changi with a Royal Navy rating from the same ward who was also being transferred. At Changi, we boarded a twin-engine workhorse fondly known as the “Bristol Frightener.” Shortly after we were seated in canvas bucket seats facing backwards, the Captain and First Officer came aboard, both wearing one-piece coveralls open to the navel.
“Flying time to KL (Kuala Lumpur) a little over an hour, weather clear all the way, just keep your seat belts fastened,” the Captain said in his cryptic pre-flight briefing as he passed us on his way to the cockpit.
After taxiing to the end of the runway, the pilots wound up each engine in turn. The aircraft rattled and shook as if it was about to fall apart; the noise deafening and the fumes toxic. But this was nothing compared to when both engines were powered up together as we set off down the runway. This was my first experience flying, and I was having serious doubts as to whether we would get airborne. Eventually we did and labored up to cruising altitude as if flying through cotton wool rather than clouds. Even after we reached cruising altitude, the noise was ear-splitting and we scarcely seemed to be moving. Nevertheless, we arrived in Kuala Lumpur as predicted. We picked up a few more patients, and an hour later I was back in familiar territory: Ipoh, where the battalion had been deployed as part of Operation Ginger.
We boarded a bus with a group of Aussies and Kiwis, who had recently arrived by train from Taiping, then set off for the Cameron Highlands. On arrival, we were issued hospital clothing before enjoying a scrumptious dinner, overseen by a very prim and proper Matron who recited “Grace” before allowing us to be seated. Malay waiters served us and, were it not for the fact that we had to make our beds and polish the floor every morning, it was little different from staying in a hotel. The food was exceptionally good, even better than in Singapore. Portions were generous and the quantity of meat served for tiffin (lunch) on our first day exceeded the total daily meat allocation served in the battalion mess at Kota Tinggi. The downside was that, unlike BMH Singapore where ‘up-patients’ were entitled to a bottle of beer each night, this place was totally “dry.” We were not allowed any alcohol in the hospital and were forbidden to drink when out and about convalescing in the township.
The day after our arrival from Singapore, I felt really drained from the journey but my energy returned the next day and, along with my new-found Navy mate, Roy, we set about exploring the environs. Afternoon walks soon became routine, because if you stayed in the hospital the medical staff would constantly chivvy you out into the fresh air anyway. Roy and I soon teamed up with Bert, a demob-happy Australian only a month away from release, and Wattie, a New Zealand Māori—the “Fearsome Foursome”—readily distinguishable by our diverse headwear: Roy in his naval rating’s round hat, Wattie in his Kiwi cap, Bert wearing his slouch hat and me in my beret. The illnesses we were recovering from were just as diverse as our headgear—scrub typhus, tinea, jaundice, dengue fever, and meningitis. Yet it wasn’t our headgear that gave us away when we found an out-of-the-way bar for a sly drink, it was our white hospital shirts. Before we finished our first clandestine beers, we were startled when a Military Police Land Rover pull up outside the bar and the Hospital Provost Sergeant jumped out.
“Right lads, on your feet, hop in the back of the vehicle and I’ll take you back for a nice cup of tea – after I’ve charged you!”
How the hell had they got onto us so fast? Unbeknownst to us, the bar was on the Hospital Commandant’s route from home to the hospital. On his way back to work that afternoon, he had spotted our white hospital shirts just as we were being served our first beer. Next morning, on Orders, we pleaded ignorance, claiming the relevant page of the dog-eared copy of Hospital Regulations which we had been given was missing, and escaped with being admonished.
This put a dampener on drinking in town until the following week when Bert spotted a couple of sergeants from his battalion who were up in the Highlands on a few days leave. I was greatly surprised when they invited us back to their hotel for a drink. In a British regiment, it was unthinkable for a pair of sergeants to invite lower ranking soldiers to join them for a social drink. That was the start of a ruinous afternoon’s drinking. When we returned to hospital in our drunken state, the lovely, and normally solicitous, Sinhalese Night Sister revealed her less lovely side and, next morning, the puritanical Matron gave us a severe tongue lashing. Unsurprisingly, we had an abstemious day, especially when we realized that we had ruined any chance of extending our stay in the Highlands with our escapades—bed numbers were limited and in great demand.
By the last day of my convalescence, I had regained most of the weight lost while bedridden in Singapore and was feeling remarkably well again. Moreover, two weeks in the Highlands had restored my suntan. Early the following morning the ‘Fearsome Foursome’ joined the others being discharged and boarded the bus for the journey back down the mountain to Ipoh. Over a couple of farewell drinks with Bert and Wattie at the railway station, we wrote our addresses on the back of the studio photo we had taken. Roy and I then headed off to the airfield to board another Bristol Frightener for the flight back to Singapore where we were transferred back to BMH Singapore for final tests before our discharge from hospital.
The next morning, I felt totally drained and had another severe headache, even after several hours sleep and feeling so healthy the previous day. The journey had taken its toll. I reported this to Captain Kelly when he examined me later that morning. He expressed concern about the recurrence of my headaches but attributed it to the long journey.
“I’ll run some more blood tests,” he said, “but, if they’re normal, you’ll be discharged on Tuesday and confined to light duties for two weeks when you return to your unit.”
My headaches persisted, and could no longer be attributed to the shake, rattle and roll and nauseous fumes of the Bristol Frightener. Concerned, Captain Kelly cancelled my discharge, ordered more blood tests and, joy of joys, another lumbar puncture. I continued to feel weak and my temperature and pulse rate were elevated. So, once more, I took to my bed where I remained until the following day. Unfortunately, this was the day when the Hospital Commandant did his weekly rounds; and, on finding my most recent test results were normal, ordered my discharge on Saturday regardless of how I felt. This came as something of a shock, but, as far as the Commandant was concerned, if my results were normal, how I felt was not going to change anything—my hospital sojourn was over. The good news was that I was deemed to have made a complete recovery and was now immune to that specific strain of dengue fever. The bad news was that my immunity against other strains of dengue was now compromised and if I contracted a different strain, it could develop into the more severe dengue haemorrhagic fever that could be life threatening.
Saturday morning was spent, running around trying to get my discharge clearance forms signed and arrange transport back to FTC Kota Tinggi, which took until after midday. When I arrived back at camp, I found the place deserted. In my absence, the battalion had embarked for Borneo to undertake a joint training exercise with the US Marine Corps. Despite my close encounter with the ‘Grim Reaper,’ I reckoned five weeks in hospital, and two weeks holiday in the Cameron Highlands, had been a far better deal than playing war games with the Americans in the jungles of Borneo. With this thought in mind, I collected my kit, ensured my ‘light duties’ status was recorded, and re-hung my “Demob Calendar.” I was astonished to discover I only had sixty days left to serve in the Far East Land Forces, the first fourteen on light duties.
As I sat in the empty barrack room, I contemplated my two years of National Service. Except for my time on leave, in hospital, and at sea, serving in a dysfunctional infantry battalion had been an ordeal rather than an adventure—and my bout with dengue fever and meningitis an unforeseen peril of serving one’s country. Later in life, though, I conceded (albeit grudgingly), that I did not regret having served. I came to realize that, while it had been far from an enjoyable learning experience, the Army taught me a lot about life and people.
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After completing his National Service, the author graduated from the University of Cambridge before embarking on a peripatetic journey from England to Scotland to Canada and, finally, to Australia, spanning careers in town planning and consulting to the tourism and leisure industries before completing a PhD critiquing government funding of tourism ventures. He is now retired and lives in Brisbane, Australia.
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