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BMJ No 7102 Volume 315 Soundings Saturday 26 July 1997 Hello sailorHe flounced into the sick bay, sat down, crossed his legs, and gazed across the desk into my eyes. "Honestly, sir, I don't know whether I need a psychiatrist or a gynaecologist." Then, to my relief, he laughed. He was not a proper sailor. He was a merchant seaman, actually the wardroom bar steward in a helicopter training ship manned by a mixture of civilian and service personnel. It was nothing serious, certainly nothing requiring a specialist referral, and the consultation ended with an agreeable chat about the ship's programme. In another ship and another ocean a very young stoker looking for something for his acne turns out on examination to have, in addition to the odd pustule on his face and forehead, a couple of love bites on his neck. Nothing strange about that, you might think. Well, no, except that they're quite fresh and we've been at sea for six weeks. He gets his tetracycline. Then, as a faintly conscientious ship's medical officer with perhaps not enough to do, I begin to worry a little about the love bites. Are things going on and young lads being taken advantage of? Had the stoker come about his spots hoping I might notice the stigmata of abuse? Little in his demeanour to suggest it. Unconscious cry for help, then? Something a properly trained GP might pick up? Or simply the kind of the thing to which any experienced naval medical officer would turn a Nelsonian blind eye? A compromise occurs to me. The chief stoker, a fatherly family man of renowned commonsense, could check things out. He does. "A bit of skylarking in the messdeck, sir. Nothing to worry about. But I'll keep an eye on it." The messdecks are a world apart, but I am assured that the usual semblance of good order and naval discipline is being maintained. Next case. A heavy knock on the door. The assistance of the medical officer is required in relation to a serious disciplinary matter. Statements have been taken. ("I was proceeding aft down the Burma Way when I was approached by Stores Assistant Witherspoon, known as Googie, who addressed me with the words \`Do you fancy a quick chew?'") A medical report is required. A special set of Defence Council Instructions-printed, unbelievably, on pink paper-needs to be consulted. A dumbly bewildered blond of 23 slowly bares his soul. Seduced at the age of 13 by a neighbour, he had joined the navy and happily conducted discreet liaisons for years. He was popular and, in his storeman role, modestly effective. He still loved the navy but knew his time was up. Dishonourable discharge loomed for SA Witherspoon. Poor Googie. Wrong sailor, or just wrong place. Others, and luckier. A couple of languid cavalrymen on attachment to
the Royal Marines are inseparable in the mess anteroom of the
Amphibious Training Unit. Each evening they share a sofa to do the
T A few brave recent dissidents have challenged the forces' traditional
uneven mix of blind eye and blind injustice. Good luck to them. Perhaps
the worldly practical tolerance already widespread can be legitimised;
the random vengeance eliminated. So I hope the lawyers and the admirals
get to work on it soon. And they should have a chat with the chief
stoker: "After all, nobody's a hundred per cent anything.
E
Colin Douglas,
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