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Masirah had developed a slang of its own that had been handed on from
generation to generation of those lucky enough to be posted there. For
example, we were subject to a syndrome known as a "wobble". This could
be anything from mild irritation on discovering that it was bloody
crayfish for dinner again (sometimes known as a mini-wobble or
"teeter") to a major affective disorder brought on by discovering
that your replacement, due in seven days, had just thrown himself
under a bus to avoid the posting. I once wrote a learned paper for
distribution to section commanders on "The Wobble and how to deal with
it when not in possession of live ammunition". It was well received,
especially by the Padre, to whom the medical officers sent their
incurable cases.
Another of our local slang terms was a "rubber dick". The etymology is
shrouded in history, but those of you who have served the Flag will be
able to make a stab at it. It had come to mean a practical joke, the more
devious the better. For many of the servicemen on Masirah, only just staving off alcoholism and insanity, the creation of
rubber dicks had become their raison d'etre. This was true for
none more so than the Medical Officers.
One of our fellow officers thought it great fun to slip into someone's
room, switch off the ceiling fan and place little heaps of talcum
powder on the blades. When the victim returned to his room he would
curse the heat, switch on the fan and spend the next 10 days dusting. We
cured this fellow by the simple expedient of inflating a meteorology
balloon in his room with a compressor hose passed through the window.
When he returned and found that he couldn't open the door because the
balloon had infiltrated every nook and cranny of his room, he resorted
to stabbing the balloon with a kitchen knife through a tiny gap in the
door. This was when he discovered we had filled the balloon with 10 kg of
flour.
My surgical colleague, GS, had been brought up without the company of
dogs, resulting in a pathological fear of the species. As we were also
the de-facto veterinary surgeons for the island, we were often
consulted by the Chief Doggie (CD for short, but, more formally, the
Flight Sergeant Dog Handler), who quickly saw my colleague's
weakness and naturally sought ways to embarrass him. He told GS that
one of the dogs had a very painful ear and was scratching and rubbing it.
A vet would probably have prescribed antibiotics over the phone, but
GS felt obliged to visit the dog section and attempt an otoscopic
examination of the left ear of a 60-kg german shepherd called Rex. The
"Doggies" couldn't wait to tell all and sundry about the pale,
sweating "Doc" with his face 50 mm from a slobbering mouthful of teeth.
They had a great laugh at GS's expense -- but they should have taken note
of the glint in his eye.
Some days later a signal (apparently) arrived for the Chief Doggie
from his counterpart in Gan, another isolated station in the Indian
Ocean. Masirah had just lent two dogs to Gan, and the signal said that
the visiting dogs had come down with "a nasty case of anal strictures"
and suggested that our dogs should be checked out, as the condition was
"very infectious". Naturally, the first place our CD took advice was
the medical section, which was only too ready to confirm the
seriousness of the situation and offer advice on diagnosis. A
somewhat white-faced CD left the medical centre with several
examination gloves and a tube of lubricating jelly. Of course, we
followed him back to the dog section and were peeking round the corner
of the building when he completed the first examination, on Sheba, who
at 40 kg was the smallest dog he could find. She was not amused, and let it
be known in no uncertain manner. While we were looking forward to Rex's
examination we decided that, as we would be the ones to suture the CD's
wounds, we should probably admit to the rubber dick before any serious
damage was done. The CD was so relieved that he forgot to swear undying
enmity with the medical section.
GS eventually served his time, and was sent home. He was replaced by DJ,
who was living proof of the old adage that "You can always tell a Guy's
man, but you can't tell him much". He was, however, the master of the
rubber dick.
DJ earned his spurs with a few notable ploys. He convinced the OC Admin
Wing that paper mites were infesting the island and that he should not
handle paper without rubber gloves. This reduced the number of
minutes sent from his office by at least 90%. But we eventually had to
own up when we were at risk of running out of gloves for surgery.
DJ operated on one of the police dogs (with my anaesthetic) and became
CD's hero. He operated on a camel and became my hero when it got
"a bit light" and spat in his face. He won undying fame for successfully
treating one of the Pakistani staff who had "gas in my stomach, which
goes up through my heart to my head where it makes a ticking noise".
(Diazepam 2 mg three times daily, should you ever come across the
condition.)
But there's no doubt that DJ's career best was the international
vulcanised rubber dick of 1976.
When DJ heard that we were to refuel a Vulcan bomber which was en
route for the independence celebrations of a former colony, he
decided that this opportunity for relief from boredom should not be
allowed to pass.
When the Vulcan joined the circuit to land, Air Traffic Control
confirmed that its last port of call had been Cyprus. The pilot was
cleared to land but told to taxi to the "disinfestation area" and await
the arrival of the medical team. When the aircraft shut down, DJ, in
full surgical garb, and backed up by every vehicle on the base that had a
flashing light, plugged into the aircraft's intercom and spoke to the
crew. He explained that there had been an outbreak of the
Mediterranean date louse in Cyprus, and as dates were the only crop
grown on Masirah the crew would have to be disinfested to satisfy local
quarantine regulations. The pilot readily agreed to cooperate, and
it was explained that the parasite was most commonly carried on the
feet and hands. The crew were instructed to dangle their feet out of the
hatch on the belly of the aircraft. Five pairs of desert boots appeared
through the hatch and were duly sprayed with a sticky white powder from
an ancient insecticide gun. They were then told to disembark, which
they did, and DJ painted their arms from the elbows down with
mercurochrome. So, with pink arms and white feet, they arranged with
the ground staff for the refuelling of the huge bomber and headed for
the mess for a nerve tightener.
All parties were enjoying a drink when one of the crew sidled up to DJ and
inquired quietly if there was anything else he ought to do to ensure his
good health, as "I don't want to take anything home to the missus". This
seemed like a good time to let them know they had been "had", and the
party became more raucous than ever. They seemed to take it all with
good grace, and left the next day, with appalling hangovers, for the
independence celebrations.
It was only after the Vulcan had been included in all the official
photographs that the crew noticed the large phosphorescent orange
cut-outs of a phallus our groundcrew had attached to both sides of the
aircraft's tail. They seemed to take this with good humour too and,
over another mammoth session in the mess on their way home, asked DJ for
an official certificate of "disinfestation" as a memento for their
crew-room in the United Kingdom.
DJ and I thought this was the end of the matter, but two days later we were
summoned to the CO's office. He slid a signal across the desk. It was
from Principal Medical Officer, Strike Command. It said:
"Understand you are taking precautions against Mediterranean date
louse. State precautions and authority for use." The CO proffered the
view that it was the glowing orange phallus that had done it, and
suggested that our postings to Masirah should now be considered
open-ended.
Douglas N Gow
Anaesthetist, Valley Heights, NSW
©MJA 1998
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