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I
must have been made unconscious by the initial explosion that had been
just beneath the radar cabin, but on coming round, I was in no state even
to guess what had happened. When later I was able to talk to my colleagues,
I found that, being nearer the open cabin door, they had caught the power
of the successive explosions and been burned and scalded and concussed.
In their confused state, they had thought that I was following. All of
which was purely academic as I rapidly came to understand my predicament.
You don't think, you just go. While visual scenes are flash-bulbed
on my memory, the physical getting out is/was a blur. I was out on deck,
but there was yet another fire blocking the way. The sea was on
fire as well. I thought I was totally alone, until I looked up and saw
the Jimmy and the Bo'sun on an upper walkway - a sight that brought me
to my senses. And so I painfully skirted the fire, and made my way aft
towards the Sick Bay, not realising how many had been hurt - many much
worse than me - and how many had been killed.
More vivid in my memory now than much of what went before, is the recollection
of other people's acts of sympathy, of immediate care, which came in spite
of the main concern of putting out the fires and stopping the ship from
drifting ashore or sinking. The socks that were found and eased over my
flayed hands and forearms; the immediate brandy, and later, rum; the hug
of a young matelot when the pain was unbearable. Finally the morphine,
and a space on the deck, head cushioned on a dead Maltese steward. Then
it started to rain.
Evening brought transfer in ships' boats (please mind my hands!)
to an aircraft carrier in which a friend, David, was serving. More compassion
and practical care from him - better attempt at dressings, attention to
my face and a bucket held to receive the rum and brandy on their return.
Then, next day, taken on board a hospital ship, saying goodbye to my friend
whom I didn't meet again for another thirty-seven years, and then in the
oddest circumstances.
The hospital ship provides many, many memories. One, thankfully now just
a rueful recollection, is of the three-hourly penicillin injections -
for two hours you were getting over the discomfort of the last one, then
there was an hour to anticipate the next - for all of six days
(and at night, when you were wakened, desperately trying to remember which
cheek of your bum had received the previous one)! The most potent and
recalled memory is of the temporary dressings being removed and new ones
applied. Sedated I lay, arms immersed in warm saline solution, while the
old dressings were being gently teased away. What fills the picture are
the faces of the surgeon and nursing sister, one on each side, bright
in their working lights, faces that radiated concern, gentleness, tenderness
and a humour which bound them all together - a total compassion
so real that I could have reached out and touched it. Even now, more than
fifty years on, if I am feeling bruised by life I can recall their faces
and delicate touch, and derive comfort from the memory.
But, in the sequence of my narrative, I have reached 1976, thirty years
on almost to the day from when the ship was mined. My life and work have
been 'wrecked', devastated, albeit in different ways from when I was at
sea, but nevertheless, there is equally the crying need for help and compassion
and the gentle touch. Looking back at that time from the vantage point
of today, I can see how my need was met; not dramatically, immediately
as in the Navy, but imperceptibly like a reservoir being refilled after
a drought. The people who met my need were many and varied, and I doubt
whether at the time they knew what they were accomplishing - it might
even come as a complete surprise to them if ever they should chance to
read this. Most helped me by simply being themselves, absorbing me into
parts of their lives - or continuing to share what it was that they had
that was special, for some had been friends for many years.
Probably the most obvious and direct help came from my then G.P. - if
we are still numbering and counting he was about six or seven. I came
into his patch when I moved this house, and, as happens in our slower
moving rural lives, friendship developed. Sandy had a more open approach
to medicine than many, and we explored widely the possible causes and
factors contributing to a depression, and mine in particular, for that
is what we still believed ailed me. The first achievement was getting
rid of Valium, which we managed surprisingly smoothly, particularly so
when one considers the length of time for which I had been taking it.
Slowly, almost by stealth, we arrived at a day when I could truly say
that I was a drug free zone! Had I known then what I know now, namely
that, totally and completely, prescribed drugs and other clinical interventions
had been the cause of my trauma and personal tragedy, I would have decked
the house with flags and called for a national holiday to celebrate a
famous victory. But we took it in our stride, and continued working at
the strategy that previously we had only discussed in theory.
We had both come under the influence of Dr. Richard Mackarness and his
book Not All In The Mind. Mackarness, a psychiatrist, had achieved
quite dramatic and well-documented cures in patients with seemingly intractable
conditions, and had done so entirely through diet. Specifically, he had
identified foods or food additives which, when removed from the diet,
had resulted in the immediate improvement and ultimate cure of the individual.
(I have deliberately avoided use of allergy because I believe that
it has developed a blanket and unspecific meaning). Mackarness required
a five-day spring water fast. I didn't do this, but adopted a very limited
diet of foods which consensus said were those least likely to have any
adverse effects. It is my belief that the eliminating and cleansing effect
of the limited diet, together with my own natural water supply, and the
support of Sandy himself, were the prime reasons why coming off the drugs
was so comparatively painless.
Apart from a very short period when events were occurring that I shall
relate in sequence, and during a very brief emotional crisis, I have never
again taken any drug of any sort.
As is the case with most people, I had grown up eating what was the normal,
conventional, accepted diet of our time and situation. It was more a matter
of eating what one enjoyed, rather than eating with an analytical mind
that sought to ensure that all the natural substances that were needed
by the body and brain, were ingested in the quantities and proportions
which evolution said were necessary. The germ of thought implanted by
Dr. Mackarness' book, and the realisation that diet could so affect behaviour
and mood, have both influenced my thinking and dietary practice ever since.
I have, or have had, several GPs as friends, and have discussed diet and
its influences with them on numerous occasions; they have all agreed that
far too little time in their training was allocated to the subject - sixteen
hours in a five year course, said one. It was as if diet and nutrition
were hived off into someone else's speciality, and that was that. The
myth of the 'Balanced British Diet' and its ability to provide all necessary
nutrients in correct proportions seems to have held sway. Unfortunately,
and for example, the level of vitamin C expected from the BBD was just
that which would prevent scurvy; levels far too low, as many authorities
now agree. While the intake recommended by Linus Pauling would overwhelm
many people, my own inclination has been to aim more for his levels rather
than those derived from the mythical BBD. However, I must move on, though
I am sure that diet and its influence will appear again.
Sandy and I also conversed widely on topics such as organic gardening
and alternative energy sources, and we each in our own way was heading
along the path of healthy unadulterated living. Part of my future eating
was in one of my fields in the shape of my beef-on-the-bone bullock, Bert
- or Berk, as young Toby would have it. Now Toby would gladden anybody's
heart. He and Ben were sons of Carole and Des, who had entered my life
in my response to an advert for a piano (somehow I seemed to have a surplus).
Before I knew it, I was fully absorbed into the family - and, totally
unplanned or by conscious intent, received more of the balm that I so
desperately needed. But, in that curious way which life has, we became
mutually supportive, for my new friends were experiencing a personal disaster
following a vicious redundancy.
A wooden pole, by itself, has limited strength and usefulness; however,
take three poles and make them into a tripod or sheer-legs and
you have a combined strength and potential use greater than that
of the three as individuals. And so it was, as is testified by the inscription
on the flyleaf of a bird recognition book that I possess - 'To one prop
from two props, with love'.
Two others who were always 'there for me' were Tricci and Peter. Farmers,
I had originally met them through my riding activities. To extol them
in the manner that they deserve would, I am sure, embarrass them, so what
can I say? Two more naturally caring and generous people would be difficult
to find, and their home has been a haven on so many occasions. Tricci's
profession of physiotherapist in a way completes a circle, for almost
daily she gave postural drainage to another of my 'carers'. Val, also
my Girl Friday at work, was herself a victim of unjust life. Pneumonia
in childhood had left her with one (incomplete) lung and she needed help
with its clearance, but yet, with her limited capacity, or in spite
of her limited capacity, she put more into, and got more out of life then
most people with all of their physical resources. Hers was yet another
home where, with her parents, I was always trebly welcome. How tragic
was her early death.
Take any road from beside my house and in a very short distance, you go
down a hill. At the bottom of the hill to the north, the road brings you
to the home and workshop of Klaus and Brenda. Klaus is an 'émigré'
from the Black Forest area of Germany, and is a wizard with metal - whatever
you want he will make it. Brenda comes from a village very near by here
and derives great satisfaction from their smallholding, and her Jersey
cows, fowls and garden. They both come into their own later as I shall
relate, but also at this time there was always a gentle welcome and wide
ranging discussion. And then there was Number-One Son, Patrick, who came
one Saturday to 'Bob-a-Job'. He worked with such gusto that would put
many adults to shame, that immediately I asked his parents if he could
become a regular. And so began an enduring friendship, based initially
on our intention to garden, but often devolving into peripatetic philosophy
of which Aristotle would have been proud. Patrick normally works all hours
now, but when he can spare the time and call, the resulting breadth of
discourse is to be marvelled at, and mulled over for several days.
Go down the hill to the west, and you arrive at the cottage where lived
someone who gave me so much in unassuming friendship. Bob had, with his
smile, given me the freedom of the Parish when I first arrived. A complete
book would not do justice to his life, and one of my great regrets is
that I never recorded him talking, telling the most wonderful anecdotes
of life in this parish where he had always lived. Another home into which
I was always welcome and where the 'crack' was always good and fascinating,
and where Maggie his wife was always glad to be part of it, in spite of
her speech limitations following a stroke (even if she did think
that I talked posh! - what me, with a Welsh accent?). Bob was probably
one of the best friends I have ever had, and from him, by 'infusion',
I achieved so much in confidence as to be able to set to work on my house
and make it the place that I desired it to be. I had little or no DIY
skills, but simply by seeing him at work, and realising that he, in turn,
had learned by 'doing', was largely self taught, made me realise that,
within reason, I was capable of doing, achieving anything that I chose.
From the window beside me, I can see the churchyard where Bob and Maggie
lie, though 'Rest in Peace' would be totally inappropriate for Bob, for
he just could not stand being idle - knowing him, he has probably re-roofed
Heaven and fettled all the down-spouts since he arrived. And wouldn't
it be wonderful to think of long-suffering Maggie, released from the crippling
effects of her stroke and wandering freely, picking her favourite snowdrops
that are so prolific at this moment?
Having said all this, it is quite probable that not much of what was happening
inside me was visible to the outside observer, and, from what my friends
have implied since, some were beginning to despair a little of my ever
regaining full control. Next time you see a chrysalis, why don't you spend
a little longer in looking at it, and try to imagine what is happening
inside? I doubt whether anyone, not even myself, was aware of my restructuring,
and what was about to burst forth. All will be revealed if you are patient,
but first please bear with me as I explore some concepts that the process
of telling my tale has forced me to consider
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