James Herriot (49 page)

T
HE DOCTOR PUT DOWN
the folder containing my case history and gave me a friendly smile across the desk.

“I’m sorry, Herriot, but you’ve got to have an operation.”

His words, though gentle, were like a slap in the face. After flying school we had been posted to Heaton Park, Manchester, and I heard within two days that I had been graded pilot. Everything seemed at last to be going smoothly.

“An operation … are you sure?”

“Absolutely, I’m afraid,” he said, and he looked like a man who knew his business. He was a Wing Commander, almost certainly a specialist in civil life, and I had been sent to him after a medical inspection by one of the regular doctors.

“This old scar they mention in your documents,” he went on. “You’ve already had surgery there, haven’t you?”

“Yes, a few years ago.”

“Well, I’m afraid the thing is opening up again and needs attention.”

I seemed to have run out of words and could think of only one.

“When?”

“Immediately. Within a few days, anyway.”

I stared at him. “But my flight’s going overseas at the end of the week.”

“Ah well, that’s a pity.” He spread his hands and smiled again. “But they’ll be going without you. You will be in hospital.”

I had a sudden feeling of loss, of something coming to an end, and it lingered after I had left the Wing Commander’s office. I realised painfully that the fifty men with whom I had sweated my way through all those new experiences had become my friends. The first breaking-in at St. John’s Wood in London, the hard training at Scarborough ITW, the “toughening course” in Shropshire and the final flying instruction at Winckfield; it had bound us together and I had come to think of myself not as an individual but as part of a group. My mind could hardly accept the fact that I was going to be on my own.

The others were sorry, too, my own particular chums looking almost bereaved, but they were all too busy to pay me much attention. They were being pushed around all over the place, getting briefed and kitted out for their posting and it was a hectic time for the whole flight—except me. I sat on my bed in the Nissen hut while the excitement billowed around me.

I thought my departure would go unnoticed but when I got my summons and prepared to leave I found, tucked in the webbing of my pack, an envelope filled with the precious coupons with which we drew our ration of cigarettes in those days. It seemed that nearly everybody had chipped in and the final gesture squeezed at my throat as I made my lonely way from the camp.

The hospital was at Creden Hill, near Hereford, and I suppose it is one of the consolations of service life that you can’t feel lonely for very long. The beds in the long ward were filled with people like myself who had been torn from their comrades and were eager to be friendly.

In the few days before my operation we came to know each other pretty well. The young man in the bed on my left spent his time writing excruciating poetry to his girl friend and insisted on reading it out to me, stanza by stanza. The lad on the right seemed a pensive type. Everybody addressed him as “Sammy” but he replied only in grunts.

When he found out I was a vet he leaned from the sheets and beckoned to me.

“I get fed up wi’ them blokes callin’ me Sammy,” he muttered in a ripe Birmingham accent. “Because me name’s not Sammy, it’s Desmond.”

“Really? Why do they do it, then?”

He leaned out further. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. You bein’ a vet—you’ll know about these things. It’s because of what’s wrong with me—why I’m in ’ere.”

“Well, why are you here? What’s your trouble?”

He looked around him then spoke in a confidential whisper. “I gotta big ball.”

“A what?”

“A big ball. One of me balls is a right whopper.”

“Ah, I see, but I still don’t understand …”

“Well, it’s like this,” he said. “All the fellers in the ward keep sayin’ the doctor’s goin’ to cut it off—then I’d be like Sammy Hall.”

I nodded in comprehension. Memories from my college days filtered back. It had been a popular ditty at the parties. “My name is Sammy Hall and I’ve only got one ball …”

“Oh, nonsense, they’re pulling your leg,” I said. “An enlarged testicle can be all sorts of things. Can you remember what the doctor called it?”

He screwed up his face. “It was a funny name. Like vorry or varry something.”

“Do you mean varicocele?”

“That’s it!” He threw up an arm. “That’s the word!”

“Well, you can stop worrying,” I said. “It’s quite a simple little operation. Trifling, in fact.”

“You mean they won’t cut me ball off?”

“Definitely not. Just remove a few surplus blood vessels, that’s all. No trouble.”

He fell back on the pillow and gazed ecstatically at the ceiling. “Thanks, mate,” he breathed. “You’ve done me a world o’ good. I’m gettin’ done tomorrow and I’ve been dreadin’ it.”

He was like a different person all that day, laughing and joking with everybody, and next morning when the nurse came to give him his pre-med injection he turned to me with a last appeal in his eyes.

“You wouldn’t kid me, mate, would you? They’re not goin’ to …?”

I held up a hand. “I assure you, Sammy—er—Desmond, you’ve nothing to worry about. I give you my word.”

Again the beatific smile crept over his face and it stayed there until the “blood wagon,” the operating room trolley pushed by a male orderly, came to collect him.

The blood wagon was very busy each morning and it was customary to raise a cheer as each man was wheeled out. Most of the victims responded with a sleepy wave before the swing doors closed behind them, but when I saw Desmond grinning cheerfully and giving the thumbs-up sign I felt I had really done something.

Next morning it was my turn. I had my injection at around eight o’clock and by the time the trolley appeared I was pleasantly woozy. They removed my pyjamas and arrayed me in a sort of nightgown with laces at the neck and pulled thick woollen socks over my feet. As the orderly wheeled me away the inmates of the ward broke into a ragged chorus of encouragement and I managed the ritual flourish of an arm as I left.

It was a cheerless journey along white-tiled corridors until the trolley pushed its way into the anaesthetics room. As I entered, the doors at the far end parted as a doctor came towards me bearing a loaded syringe. I had a chilling glimpse of the operating theatre beyond, with the lights beating on the long table and the masked surgeons waiting.

The doctor pushed up my sleeve and swabbed my forearm with surgical spirit. I decided I had seen enough and closed my eyes, but an exclamation from above made me open them.

“Good God, it’s Jim Herriot!”

I looked up at the man with the syringe. It was Teddy McQueen. He had been in my class at school and I hadn’t seen him since the day I left.

My throat was dry after the injection but I felt I had to say something.

“Hello, Teddy,’’ I croaked.

His eyes were wide. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell do you think?” I rasped crossly. “I’m going in there for an operation.”

“Oh, I know that—I’m the anaesthetist here—but I remember you telling me at school that you were going to be a vet.”

“That’s right I am a vet.”

“You are?” His face was a picture of amazement. “But what the devil is a vet doing in the RAF?”

It was a good question. “Nothing very much, Teddy,” I replied.

He began to laugh. Obviously he found the whole situation intriguing.

“Well, Jim, I can’t get over this!” He leaned over me and giggled uncontrollably. “Imagine our meeting here after all these years. I think it’s an absolute hoot!” His whole body began to shake and he had to dab away the tears from his eyes.

Lying there on the blood wagon in my nightie and woolly socks I didn’t find it all that funny, and my numbed brain was searching for a withering riposte when a voice barked from the theatre.

“What’s keeping you, McQueen? We can’t wait all morning!”

Teddy stopped laughing. “Sorry, Jim old chum,” he said. “But your presence is requested within.” He pushed the needle into my vein and my last memory as I drifted away was of his lingering amused smile.

I spent three weeks at Creden Hill and towards the end of that time those of us who were almost fully recovered were allowed out to visit the nearby town of Hereford. This was embarrassing because we were all clad in the regulation suit of hospital blue with white shirt and red tie and it was obvious from the respectful glances we received that people thought we had been wounded in action.

When a veteran of the first war came up to me and asked, “Where did you get your packet, mate?” I stopped going altogether.

I left the RAF hospital with a feeling of gratitude—particularly towards the hard-working, cheerful nurses. They gave us many a tongue lashing for chattering after lights out, for smoking under the blankets, for messing up our beds, but all the time I marvelled at their dedication.

I used to lie there and wonder what it was in a girl’s character that made her go in for the arduous life of nursing. A concern for people’s welfare? A natural caring instinct? Whatever it was, I am sure a person is born with it.

This trait is part of the personalities of some animals and it was exemplified in Eric Abbot’s sheepdog, Judy.

I first met Judy when I was treating Eric’s bullock for wooden tongue. The bullock was only a young one and the farmer admitted ruefully that he had neglected it because it was almost a walking skeleton.

“Damn!” Eric grunted. “He’s been runnin’ out with that bunch in the far fields and I must have missed ’im. I never knew he’d got to this state.”

When actinobacillosis affects the tongue it should be treated right at the start, when the first symptoms of salivation and swelling beneath the jaw appear. Otherwise the tongue becomes harder and harder till finally it sticks out of the front of the mouth, as unyielding as the wood which gives the disease its ancient name.

This skinny little creature had reached that stage, so that he not only looked pathetic but also slightly comic as though he were making a derisive gesture at me. But with a tongue like that he just couldn’t eat and was literally starving to death. He lay quietly as though he didn’t care.

“There’s one thing, Eric,” I said. “Giving him an intravenous injection won’t be any problem. He hasn’t the strength to resist.”

The great new treatment at that time was sodium iodide into the vein—modern and spectacular. Before that the farmers used to paint the tongue with tincture of iodine, a tedious procedure which sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. The sodium iodide was a magical improvement and showed results within a few days.

I inserted the needle into the jugular and tipped up the bottle of clear fluid. Two drachms of the iodide I used to use, in eight ounces of distilled water and it didn’t take long to flow in. In fact the bottle was nearly empty before I noticed Judy.

I had been aware of a big dog sitting near me all the time, but as I neared the end of the injection a black nose moved ever closer till it was almost touching the needle. Then the nose moved along the rubber tube up to the bottle and back again, sniffing with the utmost concentration. When I removed the needle the nose began a careful inspection of the injection site. Then a tongue appeared and began to lick the bullock’s neck methodically.

I squatted back on my heels and watched. This was something more than mere curiosity; everything in the dog’s attitude suggested intense interest and concern.

“You know, Eric,” I said. “I have the impression that this dog isn’t just watching me. She’s supervising the whole job.”

The farmer laughed. “You’re right there. She’s a funny old bitch is Judy—sort of a nurse. If there’s anything amiss she’s on duty. You can’t keep her away.”

Judy looked up quickly at the sound of her name. She was a handsome animal; not the usual colour, but a variegated brindle with waving lines of brown and grey mingling with the normal black and white of the farm collie. Maybe there was a cross somewhere but the result was very attractive and the effect was heightened by her bright-eyed, laughing-mouthed friendliness.

I reached out and tickled the backs of her ears and she wagged mightily—not just her tail but her entire rear end. “I suppose she’s just good-natured.”

“Oh aye, she is,” the farmer said. “But it’s not only that. It sounds daft but I think Judy feels a sense of responsibility to all the stock on t’farm.”

I nodded. “I believe you. Anyway, let’s get this beast on to his chest.”

We got down in the straw and with our hands under the back bone, rolled the bullock till he was resting on his sternum. We balanced him there with straw bales on either side then covered him with a horse rug.

In that position he didn’t look as moribund as before, but the emaciated head with the useless jutting tongue lolled feebly on his shoulders and the saliva drooled uncontrolled on to the straw. I wondered if I’d ever see him alive again.

Judy however didn’t appear to share my pessimism. After a thorough sniffing examination of rug and bales she moved to the front, applied an encouraging tongue to the shaggy forehead then stationed herself comfortably facing the bullock, very like a night nurse keeping an eye on her patient.

“Will she stay there?” I closed the half door and took a last look inside.

“Aye, nothing’ll shift her till he’s dead or better,” Eric replied. “She’s in her element now.”

“Well, you never know, she may give him an interest in life, just sitting there. He certainly needs some help. You must keep him alive with milk or gruel till the injection starts to work. If he’ll drink it it’ll do him most good but otherwise you’ll have to bottle it into him. But be careful—you can choke a beast that way.”

A case like this had more than the usual share of the old fascination because I was using a therapeutic agent which really worked—something that didn’t happen too often at that time. So I was eager to get back to see if I bad been able to pull that bullock from the brink of death. But I knew I had to give the drug a chance and kept away for five days.