The Army nurse comes to the end of his Army career, as his injuries, all resulting from accidents, eventually catch up with him

Part 14

My tour came to a sudden end when I was out running in order to maintain my fitness and was hit in the face by a piece of flying metal that cut off much of my nose. When I put my hand up to my face I actually put my finger through my nostril. This presented very practical problems with talking, particularly when I had to give details to the air/sea rescue people for my own evacuation. I was duly flown out by the same helicopter crew that I had come to know so well and arrived in Benbecula where, because there was no doctor, I was unceremoniously given a couple of glasses of whisky and dispatched to the local vet! He was off duty and had been indulging in the favourite, if not sole, pastime of Benbecula, namely consuming copious quantities of malt, and so was rather three sheets to the wind when I arrived. He decided that there would be no problem in sewing my nose back on, and I must say he did a pretty amazing job. He was certainly more adept at patching up people, drunk, than I had been at mending animals, sober.

When I arrived back at my unit my hair was long, there being no barber on St Kilda, and I had been there for over three months, and with my new nose-job I looked as though I had done ten rounds with Rocky Marciano. This proved to be the final straw for the Matron, who despaired that I was ever going to be her ideal of a nurse. This time I was posted to the RAMC training depot as a clinical instructor in its training wing. Another new phase of my career began.

Life in the training depot was exciting, and being involved in the training of the technical skills required by combat medics, from basic training through to paramedic level, was extremely rewarding. Having passed my senior NCO course and advanced instructor's course, I enjoyed the work in the division tremendously. There was a degree of friction between the field rats and a hospital wallah, as I was known. But the professionalism of these instructors is first rate and, through the leadership of a new officer commanding, who was a female major, led us to have a very positive effect on training.

At this time I continued my interest in NBC, and I can remember that on one occasion I was due to address the full unit on the chemical threat. The Army has a doctrine and policy relating to possible threats, the theory at that time being that the main threat was posed by the Eastern Block alliance. I researched my presentation thoroughly and decided that perhaps there could be a new approach to the seriousness of NBC, which in truth was not taken particularly seriously. In front of the unit I offered the scenario that, at some day in the future, British soldiers could be exposed to chemical or nuclear attack in the Middle East as part of a multi-national reaction force trying to secure the world's oil supply. You must remember that this was 1989 and this concept was not part of acceptable Army doctrine. My scenario was that a hostile force had taken and seized the oil fields in either Arabia or Iran. The Iraq/Iran war was in progress and it was not inconceivable to me that this could easily spill over, through the action of fundamentalism, into neighbouring states. The presentation was not well received and I was given a severe dressing-down by my commander. I wonder if, during the Gulf War in 1991, he reflected on his conversation with me?

My leg wound was causing me considerable difficulties; I had the feeling that something was not right. The commanding officer had decided that all staff NCOs would undergo physical training as part of the unit's assessment of fitness for role. I could not pass the simple basic fitness test, which required me to run in a squad for one and a half miles and then a free run of a further one and a half miles in ten minutes, followed by a combat casualty carry. As a result I was placed on remedial physical training which meant doing long runs across the training areas of Ash Vale. The pain in my leg grew steadily worse and I grew steadily sicker, I was certain that something was seriously wrong. On failing a retest, the commanding officer decided that he would make an example of malingerers, a category to which I was added. There was a public shame attached to a full sergeant not being able to pass a test which even the rawest recruit could achieve, and once again I was placed on remedial training and clearly told that if I didn't pass I would no longer be considered as fit for role and all prospects of promotion would vanish. There was no redress and, despite the fact that I was seeing the doctor every day, it was suggested that I lacked moral fibre. My anger and shame at this accusation burned deeply and I was determined to pass this basic fitness test.

The agony of the ensuing week was like a journey through hell. The pain was intense and I alternated between fever and vomiting, which the physical training staff put down to my just not being fit. However, the test day arrived and I ran in a cloud of agony. I passed and, immediately afterwards, collapsed. Later that evening my leg was operated on and I was cut from knee to ankle and one pint of pus was removed. To make matters worse, several of the tests showed that there was a suspicious growth in my bone which was thought to be an osteocarcinoma. During the next few months I had five more operations, during one of which my leg was broken. It was suggested at this stage that I might have to consider that I had a bone cancer.

My wife had been through tremendous turmoil with my being continually posted away, and this next episode caused her obvious concern. We discussed the possibility of my death at great length and decided that it would be nice to try for another child just in case the worse scenario was realised. We were incredibly lucky and she fell pregnant immediately. Her last pregnancy with our first son, James, was complicated, not only by circumstances and events but also by the fact that she had a problem with blood groups and blood pressure. Her second pregnancy must have been a personal nightmare for her, for I was admitted to hospital with yet another series of deep tissue abscesses and was extremely ill.

Our second son, Charles, was born and Elizabeth had an extremely rough time of things. However, she bore everything with great fortitude and I was incredibly proud of her. I was admitted again to hospital for a bone biopsy of my right tibia. The results were inconclusive and it was felt that the prime diagnosis should be chronic osteomylitis. This means the bone marrow has become infected and it is extremely hard to eradicate, requiring quite high levels of toxic antibiotics.

However, despite my having a clear diagnosis of an actual medical condition, the charge of being a malingerer would not go away and one of the QA sisters implied that I was interfering with my wound. This accusation was such an injustice that I demanded a case review and second opinion. I was duly transferred to another military hospital, in London, and this in turn led to more pressure falling on Elizabeth's shoulders. A condition now set in whereby the nerves in my leg became damaged and the scar tissue was such that I was unable to walk at all. The pain became chronic and too great for any analgesics. Pain was to be my constant companion for several years.

At this stage the Army decided that the damage done to my leg was such that I was no longer medically fit. I was given the choice of staying in the Army as a sergeant for the rest of my career or accepting a medical discharge, as the assessment board reckoned my disability at 50%. The latter seemed preferable to me so, at the age of 30, I was discharged from the Army, sick in both body and mind, and unable to walk. I could imagine sounder foundations on which to build a career in Civvy Street.

© J K Adler-Collins 2008