Seated with a pint, down at the legion, amidst army veterans of several eras and regiments, you might feel just a tad under gunned when, inevitably, the war stories get rolled out again. Look, if you were armed with a syringe, there are going to be limits on the war stories front aren’t there? You might even feel a different sort of veteran altogether, having been part of the ‘little army’, rather than the ‘big army’, the teeth arms (no, not the dental corp). But in support of you all, keeping the side up I want to assure you that I did once try. Down at the legion I trotted out some of my war stories, about the tour I completed in west Belfast with the Scots Guards. That should impress I thought, you know, the Guards division.
It started very well. The medical team consisting of a very experienced Colour Sergeant who had been with them since they tackled mammoths, a lugubrious Corporal Gibson (Gibbo) and an eager guardsman who had trained up in first aid were in place already. I commanded one Saracen armoured ambulance and the Colour Sergeant the other. Within days I had my first proper casualty. In the ambulance we monitored both the civilian ambulance network and our battalion one. I think we muddled to two up. So, when I heard that there was a major casualty in the White Rock community centre Gibbo and I were straight there. The guy had been knee capped, and I got a tourniquet on the leg where he was bleeding from an artery. Off to the Royal Victoria Hospital we went, quick step, to the applause of onlookers who were astonished to see the army picking up a civilian. Afterwards, I got roasted by the CO. I hadn’t waited to get a platoon in place, to cover our evacuation. He reminded me that (logically) it could have been a trap. But there was a certain kudos afterwards. It was said on the street, that the new battalion couldn’t be such a bad lot, if we showed that amount of compassion for a local. Our guys reckoned in retrospect it was a useful (if ill planned) move. We finished the tour without one soldier being shot in West Belfast.
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| Saracen Armoured Ambulance Curtesy Army Medical Services Museum |
Conflict can be dull they say, most of the time, and so it was for us. I completed public health inspections of the various camp canteens and shops and a daily sick parade. Then though (the legion men waited with bated breath) I collected a guardsmen from the basement of a block of flats who had broken his ankle, searching for stashed arms. We reversed the Saracen in, almost beneath the overhang, to limit the risk of being shot at. The casualty retrieved; we were about to move off to the military wing Musgrave Park Hospital when there was an almighty bang! I thought the opposition had shot a shoulder launch missile at us. Travelling at pace down the Falls Road the radio came up, ‘Hello 83 (our call sign) this is 0 ( battalion ops), do you realise that you have a calor gas cooker on your roof?’ They’d dropped it from the top of the flats and the door had caught on the Saracen railings. Now it flapped like a dog’s lop ear as we retreated to hospital. How astonishing were the traffic cameras, that they could tell it was a calor gas model. Must have been the trailing piping.
Complete blank expressions. I hadn’t moved the veterans a jot! For pete’s sake, what did it take? I’d been under fire, hadn’t I? ‘Cooking on gas?’ one of them asked cynically. Right, I thought, share the camaraderie humour memoire, that will please. It was customs in the guards division for the men (out of direct earshot) to refer to their commanding officer affectionately by his rank and first name. So, our CO was Colonel Johnny. I struggled with it at first, having spent some time working in a venereal disease clinic you see. Anyway, the Colonel was hugely popular, greatly respected, and I thought, goodness, wouldn’t it be good for me to have a nickname used amongst the men? But it wasn’t going to be won checking sweat rashes, was it? Nor would I win it for completing a pre and post interview medical check when the authorities’ interviewed suspects, some of them subsequently very famous.
Then it happened. By chance I overheard one of the platoon commanders assure his men that ‘Doctor Bob’ and his ambulance would be in close attendance when they went to check out a disused factory building. Doctor Bob….I’d arrived! The men loved me! Gibbo smiled. Yes, he assured me I was popular with the troops. I taught in a ‘weird way’ and I was diligent responding to concerns. I glowed for the rest of the day. That night Gibbo put me straight. ‘You do know sir, where Doctor Bob comes from don’t you?’ I shook my head. ‘He was a mad surgeon in the Muppets and Miss Piggy was the theatre sister.’
You’d better get the next round in mate,’ said one of the proper veterans at last. Look, I tried, I really did.
Bob Price did one RMO(A) tour in Northern Ireland, some of you did many more. Yet he ventures that such tours made a real difference, to health, morale, as well as humour.
