Scotty had been famous for many things, including being the first Ansell’s Bitter man on TV. That had come about when, unbeknown to him, his girlfriend had sent in an application on the back of a beer-mat, together with a photograph. He passed the preliminary stages with flying colours – an altogether different kind of selection. When it came to the audition, his good looks were matched by his drinking prowess. Unlike Scotty, some of the most macho-looking men he was up against could not drink a pint down in one before the eagle eye of the camera without giving away some sign of strain – an exaggerated gulp, moisture in the eye, a quick catching of breath. Even those who could were unable to pass the second test – ambling up to a bar in a natural and unselfconscious manner. With his success, Scotty’s picture soon adorned advertising hoardings all around Hereford. To his dismay, trainee graffiti artists embellished his handsome features with moustaches, glasses and sexual organs of record-breaking dimensions. The first two additions really upset him! Yes, Scotty had been at the centre of many renowned escapades; his exploits were fabled. But this sangar took the prize.
The hallucinogenic atmosphere in the sangar had even made me forget the pain in my hand. Having not heard any mortars impacting for some time, I decided to leave Scotty and his bizarre illusion and return to reality to await the chopper. With Jimi Hendrix hitting the last bars of ‘Purple Haze’, I brushed aside the blanket door. As I stepped through it, my mind spun with the contrast between the scene I’d just witnessed and the ordinary world outside. I looked up and narrowed my eyes against the harsh glare of the Arabian sun.
8
Transfer
The fierce white light cut into my face and burned my eyes. My hand throbbed and ached with redoubled intensity. My mind was overloaded with sensory input. It short-circuited and for a few moments the electrical impulse messages crackled around my brain in chaotic disorder like dry leaves wildly spun around a dusty cul-de-sac by a twisting gust of wind. After a few moments the storm subsided and I gradually began to focus on the near distance. Tubular grey metal protruding from just beyond my feet against a whitewashed wall background. White sheets beneath my stretched-out-legs. A bed. A hospital bed. What had happened? I must be in FST Salalah already! Somewhere I’d lost a couple of hours. All I could think was that another incoming mortar must have blasted me into unconsciousness while I was awaiting the chopper.
‘Get your kit together, we’re transferring you to the general ward.’ The disembodied voice pierced through the chatter of noisy thoughts inside my head. General ward – what does he mean? I looked down at my tightly clenched fist and slowly unfolded the gripped muscles. Not a mark, no flesh wound to be seen. I looked up at the white-coated figure standing by the door, a hand still on the light switch. The neon strip hummed above my head.
‘What’s going on?’ I voiced the words indistinctly, as if I’d just been punched in the mouth and was speaking through swollen gums and dislodged teeth.
‘We’re transferring you to the general ward.’
I glanced outside. It was still dark. ‘What time is it?’
‘Six-thirty.’ Seeing my confusion, he added, ‘Wednesday morning.’
‘Wednesday morning!’ I couldn’t understand it. ‘But I thought I wasn’t due to change over until this evening. What’s all the rush?’
‘An urgent case has just come in. We need the room.’ He seemed reluctant to tender even this much information. I decided not to persevere.
I followed the nurse down the corridor. Our footsteps echoed in hollow rhythm over the pale-brown and yellow lino squares that covered the floors of the corridor in a monotonous symmetrical pattern. The drab walls were pockmarked as if they’d been hit by gunfire. Circular chunks of the smooth pale-green surface had fallen away to reveal grainy craters of white plaster beneath. We walked past narrow opaque windows reaching up to the high ceilings. We walked past red No Smoking signs and faded posters pinned to the wall exhorting anyone who cared to pay attention to eat the right food, to take the right amount of exercise and not to drink to excess. We walked past mysterious doors leading off in different directions marked ‘Private – No Entrance’. We walked past three tubular-steel trolleys parked up flush against the left wall of the corridor, their disproportionately small black wheels protruding at different angles.
Finally we turned left into the general ward. It was a bit like the spider back at Hereford. It was split into regular sections, each one providing dormitory accommodation for eight men. A small rectangular office was strategically positioned at the end of each section, with a sliding window overlooking the beds through which the nurses could monitor what was going on in the ward.
I couldn’t see a great deal. Two safety-lights glowed dimly high overhead to reveal only the general position of the beds and the vague bulk of their sleeping occupants. I was shown to my bed and the nurse departed without a word. I didn’t feel comfortable in this unknown environment. A thorough reconnaissance report on any new terrain was one of the first lessons of survival. I resolved to case the geography of the place and assess its inmates as soon as an opportunity arose.
The lights went on at 7.00am, and the world around me slowly began to stir, shuffle and cough into life. What a sight met my eyes! A bunch of bleary-eyed, burnt-out misfits, dishevelled and unshaven, endeavouring with trembling hands to struggle into their clothes and make themselves ready for breakfast. They were like bit-part actors in some slow-motion silent film version of Dante’s Inferno. A grotesque contrast to the early-morning urgency I was used to on operations. I felt completely separate from them. I felt sharp and alert. My mind was already working out how I could beat the system.
After breakfast and my reconnaissance of the ward area I barged into the office just at the end of my ward and fired impatient questions at the duty nurse.
‘What am I supposed to do around here all day? How can I pass the time?’
The nurse looked up from his contemplation of a set of LFT charts and replied vaguely, his mind on other things, ‘There are newspapers every day. And there’s TV, radio…’ and dropped his eyes back down to scrutinize the graphs.
‘That’s no good for me, mate,’ I insisted. ‘I’m an active person. I’m used to moving around, getting things done, being involved. As it is I’m stuck here floating round in a sea of flopped-out alkies. I can’t hack this.’
‘Well that’s how it is. I can’t see you’ve got a great deal of choice. And anyway it’s no good complaining to me – I don’t draw up the rules around here.’
‘But my body is used to regular physical exercise. I’ll lose my edge after a few days of this routine.’
‘There is a three-mile morning run each day that you’ll be taking part in from tomorrow onwards.’
‘Oh great! Three miles! That’s a stroll to the corner shop for me. I’m used to doing ten miles a day.’
There was a pause. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look up from the LFT charts.
I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere. I padded off to the lounge area and slumped in a chair. I picked up a newspaper and distractedly read what was going on in the outside world.
An hour went by, then two. I dropped the last paper onto my knees in despair. I contemplated with gloom the prospect that the burning fires of my motivation and energy, fuelled by excitement, adventure and action, were about to be smothered by the blanket of routine and monotony that was descending on me. I had to do something. Suddenly, as I flipped through an old publication on the Second World War, a faded black-and-white photo of a large gun in action jumped off the page and hit me right between the eyes. I realised how close the hospital was to the Woolwich Artillery Museum. I remembered passing the road sign pointing to it on the drive in. That was it! The Mirbat gun.