‘Gunner Andrews, sir. Crime sheet as long as your arm. Sunburn.’
The man was dressed like most of the prisoners, wearing only green shorts above heavy boots and socks. The upper half of his body was bright red from the sun, as most of the men were sent out on working parties to cut grass or clear monsoon drains around the large garrison enclave.
‘S’me back, sir,’ was his only complaint and within seconds, the sickbay sergeant had slapped the paperwork before Tom, on which was already written the word ‘calamine lotion’, obtained a signature and harried the patient out through the door to wait for his treatment after the doctor had left. As he went, Tom saw that the blistered skin across his shoulders was peeling off in strips, but he was given no time to make any other examination.
The rest of the sick parade went in a similar fashion. For sunburn they had calamine, for foot rot they had anti-fungal powder or were ‘excused boots’ in favour of plimsolls for a few days. For alleged stomach ache they had magnesia, for headaches they had aspirin and for the ‘runs’ they were prescribed kaolin-and-morph mixture. All this was decided by Hooper and only if the medical officer suspected something more sinister were they examined more closely. Any really suspect conditions meant that they would have to be sent over to Casualty in BMH, a procedure which raised frowns from the prison staff, as it meant finding them an escort and disrupting the iron regime of the Military Corrective Establishment.
This morning, there was nothing to suggest any mortal conditions amongst the supplicants, most of whom used the sick parade to wangle an hour off grass cutting. Even the man with the bent back seemed to recover when screamed at loudly enough by the MP corporal.
As he walked back to the hospital, Tom wondered whether he had really needed five years in medical school for the sort of practice in which he now seemed to be involved. Even the prospect of a post-mortem seemed more attractive than signing chits for calamine lotion and ‘excuse boots’.
Back in his office, he spent what was left of the morning in checking the positive blood films for malaria and looking at the bacterial cultures which had grown overnight in the incubator. Sergeant Oates was equally as proficient at recognizing them and diplomatically speeded the process by gentle remarks such as ‘I think this one is Staph aureus, sir, don’t you?’ The malarial films had already been screened by Aziz, who only sent in the positive ones for the officer to check. In fact, the MOR had already confidently written the type of parasite on the form and Tom found later that he was never to catch Aziz out in all the time they were at BMH.
After another infusion of sweet tea, he sat signing report forms and waiting for the phone to ring, heralding the arrival of the autopsy delegation. At eleven thirty, the guardroom rang and he went down to the front of the hospital where he found Steven Blackwell and Inspector Tan waiting in Alf Morris’s office with Diane Robertson.
She wore a black skirt, perhaps as a concession to mourning, topped by a white silk blouse, but otherwise looked her usual glamorous self.
‘You’re the new pathologist — it’s Captain Howden, isn’t it?’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve seen you in The Dog once or twice.’
Tom mumbled something about being sorry to have to meet in these sad circumstances, but Diane appeared unfazed by the fact that he was shortly going to dissect her husband.
‘The Army police chaps will be along by twelve,’ volunteered Blackwell, intending to cover up any awkwardness in the situation.
‘So shall we get this over with first?’
As they left the office, Tom whispered quickly to the Admin Officer.
‘Alf, is the colonel coming to this?’
Morris shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know, though you never can tell with him. He’s told me to make sure everything is laid on. As a former public health wallah, I don’t think he’s too keen on dead bodies.’
They followed the two policemen and the widow up the main corridor, Diane taking Steven’s arm. Tom suspected that she was feeling that she ought to put on some sort of show of being a bereaved widow for the many curious faces that peered out of ward doorways as they went. She was never one to miss the chance to hold on to a man, even if he was a bald, middle-aged married policeman. At one point, Diane turned around and gave Tom a dazzling smile and asked if he was settling down well. In spite of the bizarre circumstances, he felt a twitch of desire as he appreciated again what a gorgeous woman she was.
At the point in the corridor level with where the mortuary lay, Lance Corporal Cropper was standing at attention. Tom Howden groaned at the sight, as the self-important technician had obviously appointed himself as guide. After he had jerked his hand up to his crumpled beret in salute, he marched in front of the posse across the stunted grass and the perimeter road. Tom felt that Cropper only needed a black top hat with a crepe band to look like an undertaker’s mute leading a funeral. When they reached the isolated hut, the corporal ceremoniously threw open the door and stood aside.
Alf Morris had seen to it that a couple of orderlies had brought the body out of the post-mortem room and arranged it on a ward trolley in the tiny anteroom just inside the door. Covered with a couple of clean sheets and with a vase of flowers temporarily borrowed from a ward placed on a nearby shelf, the scene was at least innocuous, if not actually dignified.
‘We’ll make this as quick as possible, Diane,’ said the superintendent gently. ‘It’s a legal requirement, I’m afraid. All I want you to do is to confirm to me and Dr Howden here, that this is the body of James Robertson, OK?’
He led her through the door and though Tom tried to block Lewis Cropper, the corporal dodged past him and advanced to the head of the trolley, taking the ends of the sheet in both hands.
Tom and Alf Morris stood at the foot and the stringy Inspector Tan hovered behind, as Steven Blackwell nodded at Cropper, who reverently folded back the sheet to expose the face of the dead man. There was a tense silence as they all looked at Jimmy Robertson, who even in death seemed to have a bad-tempered look on his face.
Tom waited for sobs, screams or moans, but Diane surprised them all.
‘I’ve never seen a dead person before,’ she observed conversationally. ‘But yes, that’s certainly my husband.’
As she turned and walked out into the brilliant sunlight, Diane asked Alf Morris about funeral arrangements. ‘I’ve no idea what to do. I’ve sent a cable to his brother in England, he’ll tell my mother-in-law.’
As they walked away, Tom heard the Admin Officer telling her that once the coroner had completed his formalities, the Church of England padre from the garrison was the best person to help her. He should have been here this morning, said Alf, but was on a long weekend leave in the Cameron Highlands.
The two policemen went to see her to her car at the front of the hospital, saying that they would be back in a few minutes and Tom was left with his officious corporal, though in truth, he was now quite glad of his help. They wheeled the corpse into the inner room, which was half filled with a white porcelain slab on a pedestal fixed to the concrete floor. A column of soldier ants was marching from somewhere in the corner, up the pedestal and down the other side, causing Cropper to pump energetically at them with a Flit gun, filling the air with a mixture of paraffin and DDT insecticide.
A large kitchen sink against one wall had a single brass tap, with a long wooden draining board attached to one side. A small table stood under the slatted window and a broom, a long-handled squeegee and two buckets stood in a corner. A pair of rubber aprons with chains around the neck and waist hung from a nail on the wall.