John story for you. spacedmonkeyOctober 7 2012, 07:31:50 UTC
It is at the worst of times, when lying in some god forshaken army hospital in Peshawar, that a man realises that all he really craves in life is a hot bath, a good beer and a clean bed.
“Not really what one expects from the scourge of three continents.”
“Stop reading over my shoul...’Scourge’? Since when was I a scourge?”
“You said so yourself.”
“I said a knowledge of, not a scourge of. I’m going to ban you from reading The Strand if you carry on.”
“I mainly look at the illustrations. Back to your scribbles.”
The stench of my own wound brought me to my senses in a way that no-one really wants. My experience of treating wounds in the heat of Candahar had taught me well enough what a necrotic wound smelt like and the fact that it was, more or less, right under my nose was quite disconcerting. On closer inspection I found that my wound was riddled with maggots and my stomach was not quite strong enough to deal with that.
“Maggots?”
“Go away, Holmes.”
Unbeknown to me, the maggots were more help than hindrance and had been introduced to my wound on purpose to remove the dead tissue. Murray had been aided in my care by some local men who practised “Greek Medicine”, handed down by their forefathers from the time of Alexander the Great. Without Murray’s determination and their antiquated skill, my arm would not have made Candahar, let alone Peshawar. The hospital was an overcrowded, undermanned place that stank of sweat, vomit and other fluids more suited to the outhouse than a place of recovery. In the revoltingly dry heat of the day, one longed for a fan and dreamt of a light breeze. It was a folly we all partook of on a daily basis. Once parted from my maggots, life on the ward was filled with dull days of recovery. As my wounds closed I became more able to take in my surroundings and even stroll on the veranda and converse with my fellow invalids. It was rather like finding myself back in my old dorms at Winchester, with slightly more colourful language and less chance of frostbite.
“You never got frostbite at Winchester. You have the tips of all your fingers and toes!”
“One year we built a snowman in the middle of the dorm!”
“And yet Mycroft insists I missed nothing by having a private tutor.”
With that general air of school life thrust back upon us, many fell back into old ways. Paper darts were often thrown, along with insults, and gambling took up part of the day where pain and boredom did not. We had little tin to waste but made do with tokens.
“Was it school or the army that set you on that path?”
“Which do you deduce?”
“I always rather assumed you’d picked up that habit as a boy in your travels.”
“Quite so.”
“Mmm.”
“Try not to look so smug, old boy.”
I suppose, after the horror of Maiwand, the ward should have been some blessed respite and yet it was quite a hellish place where death loitered at every bed. Some fellows slipped away, others left this world in the same manner in which they entered it; kicking and screaming and somewhat bloodied. You could be at cards with a lad in the morning and watching him be wrapped in a shroud by nightfall. Foolishly, you never see Death step towards you, even in these situations.
Enertic fever was the curse of our occupation and the greatest cause of mortality in the hospital. It has a delightful four week lifespan, if you’re lucky enough to get your lifespan to outlive it. In Peshawar, the fever often wins.
“Fever”, of course, is a generalisation. It starts with a cough and a loss of appetite which is quite common on the ward and often over looked when the air is dry and the food is awful. By the time the less savoury aspects of the disease had reared their ugly heads, I was quite removed from the reality of the world and my life was despaired of for the next two months.
“Not really what one expects from the scourge of three continents.”
“Stop reading over my shoul...’Scourge’? Since when was I a scourge?”
“You said so yourself.”
“I said a knowledge of, not a scourge of. I’m going to ban you from reading The Strand if you carry on.”
“I mainly look at the illustrations. Back to your scribbles.”
The stench of my own wound brought me to my senses in a way that no-one really wants. My experience of treating wounds in the heat of Candahar had taught me well enough what a necrotic wound smelt like and the fact that it was, more or less, right under my nose was quite disconcerting. On closer inspection I found that my wound was riddled with maggots and my stomach was not quite strong enough to deal with that.
“Maggots?”
“Go away, Holmes.”
Unbeknown to me, the maggots were more help than hindrance and had been introduced to my wound on purpose to remove the dead tissue. Murray had been aided in my care by some local men who practised “Greek Medicine”, handed down by their forefathers from the time of Alexander the Great. Without Murray’s determination and their antiquated skill, my arm would not have made Candahar, let alone Peshawar.
The hospital was an overcrowded, undermanned place that stank of sweat, vomit and other fluids more suited to the outhouse than a place of recovery. In the revoltingly dry heat of the day, one longed for a fan and dreamt of a light breeze. It was a folly we all partook of on a daily basis.
Once parted from my maggots, life on the ward was filled with dull days of recovery. As my wounds closed I became more able to take in my surroundings and even stroll on the veranda and converse with my fellow invalids. It was rather like finding myself back in my old dorms at Winchester, with slightly more colourful language and less chance of frostbite.
“You never got frostbite at Winchester. You have the tips of all your fingers and toes!”
“One year we built a snowman in the middle of the dorm!”
“And yet Mycroft insists I missed nothing by having a private tutor.”
With that general air of school life thrust back upon us, many fell back into old ways. Paper darts were often thrown, along with insults, and gambling took up part of the day where pain and boredom did not. We had little tin to waste but made do with tokens.
“Was it school or the army that set you on that path?”
“Which do you deduce?”
“I always rather assumed you’d picked up that habit as a boy in your travels.”
“Quite so.”
“Mmm.”
“Try not to look so smug, old boy.”
I suppose, after the horror of Maiwand, the ward should have been some blessed respite and yet it was quite a hellish place where death loitered at every bed. Some fellows slipped away, others left this world in the same manner in which they entered it; kicking and screaming and somewhat bloodied. You could be at cards with a lad in the morning and watching him be wrapped in a shroud by nightfall. Foolishly, you never see Death step towards you, even in these situations.
Enertic fever was the curse of our occupation and the greatest cause of mortality in the hospital. It has a delightful four week lifespan, if you’re lucky enough to get your lifespan to outlive it. In Peshawar, the fever often wins.
“Fever”, of course, is a generalisation. It starts with a cough and a loss of appetite which is quite common on the ward and often over looked when the air is dry and the food is awful. By the time the less savoury aspects of the disease had reared their ugly heads, I was quite removed from the reality of the world and my life was despaired of for the next two months.
tbc
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