Vet in a Spin Read online

back. It had been a popular ditty at the parties.

  "My name is Sam my 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.

  Trifiing, 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 get tin' done tomorrow and I've

  been dread in' 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 premed

  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, Sam my - 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 h~m.

  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 o2 inmates of the ward broke into a ragged

  chorus of encouragement and I managed the risual 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 slimpse 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 tell ing

  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.

  "No thing 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 meet ing 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,

  mile.

  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 thc respectful glances we received that

  people thought we had been wounded in action.

  When a veteran of the First World 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 hC' go in for the arduous life of nursing. A

  concern for people's welfare? A natur caring instinct? Whatever it

  was, I was sure a person was born with it. This trait is part of the

  personalities of some animals and it was exemplifi in Eric Abbot's

  sheepdog, Judy.

  I first met Judy when I was treating Eric's bullock for wooden

  tongue.

  T1' .

  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 symptons 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 state, so that he not only

  looked pathetic but also slightly comic as though he were ma king 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," l 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 proce