Another reason was that I didn’t like the look of the sick parade. As I went out to the corridor with my towel round my shoulders a sergeant was reading a list and inflating his lungs at the same time.
“Get on parade, the sick!” he shouted. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s be ’avin’ you!”
From various doors an unhappy group of invalids began to appear, shuffling over the linoleum, each draped with his “small kit,” haversack containing pyjamas, canvas shoes, knife, fork, spoon, etc.
The sergeant unleashed another bellow. “Get into line, there! Come on, you lot, hurry it up, look lively!”
I looked at the young men huddled there, white-faced and trembling. Most of them were coughing and spluttering and one of them clutched his abdomen as though he had a ruptured appendix.
“Parade!” bawled the sergeant “Parade, atten-shun! Parade stan’ at ease! Atten-shun! Le-eft turn! Qui-ick march! ’Eft-’ight, ’eft-’ight, ’eft-’ight, ’eft-’ight!”
The hapless band trailed wearily off. They had a march of nearly a mile through the rain to the sick quarters in another hotel above the Spa, and as I turned into my room it was with a renewed resolve to hang on as long as possible.
Another thing that frightened us all for a spell was the suggestion, drifting down from somewhere on high, that it wasn’t enough to go jogging around Scarborough on our training runs; we ought to stop every now and then and do a bit of shadow boxing like fighters. This idea seemed too outrageous to be true but we had it from the sergeant himself, who came with us on our runs. Some VIP had passed it down, claiming that it would instil belligerence in us. We were thoroughly alarmed for a while, including the sergeant, who had no desire to be seen in charge of a bunch of apparent lunatics dancing around punching at the air. Mercifully, somebody had the strength to resist this one and the whole thing fell through.
But of all these brilliant schemes the one I remember best was the one that decided we had to scream at the end of our physical training session. Apart from running miles all over the place, we had long periods of PT down on the rain-swept prom with the wind cutting in from the sea on our goose-pimpled limbs. We became so good at these exercises that it was decided to put on a show for a visiting air marshal. Not only our flight but several squadrons all performing in unison in front of the Grand.
We trained for months for the big day, doing the same movements over and over again till we were perfect. At first the barrel-chested PT sergeant shouted instructions at us all the time, then as we got better all he did was call out “Exercise three, commence.” And finally it all became so much a part of our being that he merely sounded a tiny peep on his whistle at the beginning of each exercise.
By spring we were really impressive. Hundreds of men in shorts and singlets swinging away as one out there on the square, with the PT sergeant up on the balcony above the doorway where he would stand with the air marshal on the day. The thing that made it so dramatic was the utter silence; the forest of waving limbs and swaying bodies with not a sound but the peep of the whistle.
Everything was lovely till somebody had the idea of the screaming. Up till then we had marched silently from the square at the end of the session, but that was apparently not good enough. What we had to do now was count up to five at the end of the last exercise, then leap into the air, scream at the top of our voices and run off the square at top speed.
And I had to admit that it seemed quite a brainwave. We tried it a few times, then we began to put our hearts into it, jumping high, yelling like dervishes then scuttling away into the various openings among the hotels around the square.
It must have looked marvellous from the balcony. The great mass of white-clad men going through the long routine in a cathedral hush, a few seconds of complete immobility at the end then the whole concourse erupting with a wild yell and disappearing, leaving the empty square echoing. And this last touch had another desirable aspect; it was further proof of our latent savagery. The enemy would have quaked at that chilling sound.
The sergeant had a little trouble with a lad in my flight, a tall gangling red-haired youth called Cromarty who stood in the line in front of me a few feet to my right. Cromarty seemed unable to enter into the spirit of the thing.
“Come on, lad,” the sergeant said one day. “Put a bit of devil into it! You got to sound like a killer. You’re floating up and down there like a ruddy fairy godmother.” Cromarty did try, but the thing seemed to embarrass him. He gave a little hop, an apologetic jerk of his arms and a feeble cry.
The sergeant ran his hand through his hair. “No, no, lad! You’ve got to let yourself go!” He looked around him. “Here, Devlin, come out and show ’im how it’s done.” Devlin, a grinning Irishman, stepped forward. The scream was the high point of his day. He stood relaxed for a moment then without warning catapulted himself high in the air, legs and arms splayed, head back, while a dreadful animal cry burst from his gaping mouth.
The sergeant took an involuntary step backwards. “Thanks, Devlin, that’s fine,” he said a little shakily, then he turned to Cromarty. “Now you see how I want it, boy, just like that. So work at it”
Cromarty nodded. He had a long, serious face and you could see he wanted to oblige. After that I watched him each day and there was no doubt he was improving. His inhibitions were gradually being worn down.
It seemed that nature was smiling on our efforts because the great day dawned with blue skies and warm sunshine. Every man among the hundreds who marched out into the square had been individually prepared. Newly bathed, fresh haircut, spotless white shorts and singlet. We waited in our motionless lines before the newly painted door of the Grand while, on the balcony above, gold braid glinted on the air marshal’s cap.
He stood among a knot of the top RAF brass of Scarborough, while in one corner I could see our sergeant, erect in long white flannels, his great chest sticking out farther than ever. Beneath us the sea shimmered and the golden bay curved away to the Filey cliffs.
The sergeant raised his hand. “Peep” went the whistle and we were off.
There was something exhilarating about being part of this smooth machine. I had a wonderful sense of oneness with the arms and legs which moved with mine all around. It was effortless. We had ten exercises to do and at the end of the first we stood rigid for ten seconds, then the whistle piped and we started again. The time passed too quickly as I revelled in our perfection. At the end of exercise nine I came to attention, waiting for the whistle, counting under my breath. Nothing stirred, the silence was profound. Then, from the motionless ranks, as unexpected as an exploding bomb, Cromarty in front of me launched himself upwards in a tangle of flailing limbs and red hair and unleashed a long bubbling howl. He had put so much into his leap that he seemed to take a long time to come down and even after his descent the shattering sound echoed on.
Cromarty had made it at last. As fierce and warlike a scream, as high a jump as ever the sergeant could desire. The only snag was that he was too soon.
When the whistle went for the last exercise a lot of people didn’t hear it because of the noise and many others were in a state of shock and came in late. Anyway, it was a shambles and the final yell and scuttle a sad anticlimax. I myself, though managing to get a few inches off the ground, was unable to make any sound at all.
Had Cromarty not been serving in the armed forces of a benign democracy he would probably have been taken quietly away and shot. As it was, there was really nothing anybody could do to him. NCOs weren’t even allowed to swear at the men.
I felt for the PT sergeant. There must have been a lot he wanted to say but he was grievously restricted. I saw him with Cromarty later. He put his face close to the young man’s.
“You … you …” His features worked as he fought for words. “You THING you!”
He turned and walked away with bowed shoulders. At that moment I’m sure he felt like a pawn too.
CHAPTER 16
THERE IS NO DOUBT that when I looked
back at my life in Darrowby I was inclined to bathe the whole thing in a rosy glow, but occasionally the unhappy things came to mind.
That man, distraught and gasping on the surgery steps. “It’s no good, I can’t bring him in. He’s stiff as a board!”
My stomach lurched. It was another one. “Jasper, you mean?”
“Yes, he’s in the back of my car, right here.”
I ran across the pavement and opened the car door. It was as I feared; a handsome Dalmatian stretched in a dreadful tetanic spasm, spine arched, head craning desperately backward, legs like four wooden rods groping at nothing.
I didn’t wait to talk but dashed back into the house for syringe and drugs.
I leaned into the car, tucked some papers under the dog’s head, injected the apomorphine and waited.
The man looked at me with anxious eyes. “What is it?”
“Strychnine poisoning, Mr. Bartle. I’ve just given an emetic to make him vomit.” As I spoke the animal brought up the contents of his stomach on to the paper.
“Will that put him right?”
“It depends on how much of the poison has been absorbed.” I didn’t feel like telling him that it was almost invariably fatal, that in fact I had treated six dogs in the last week with the same condition and they had all died. “We’ll just have to hope.”
He watched me as I filled another syringe with barbiturate. “What are you doing now?”
“Anaesthetising him.” I slipped the needle into the radial vein and as I slowly trickled the fluid into the dog’s bloodstream the taut muscles relaxed and he sank into a deep slumber.
“He looks better already,” Mr. Bartle said.
“Yes, but the trouble is when the injection wears off he may go back into a spasm. As I say, it all depends on how much of the strychnine has got into his system. Keep him in a quiet place with as little noise as possible. Any sound can bring on a spasm. When he shows signs of coming out of it give me a ring.”
I went back into the house. Seven cases in a week! It was tragic and scarcely believable, but there was no doubt left in my mind now. This was malicious. Some psychopath in our little town was deliberately putting down poison to kill dogs. Strychnine poisoning was something that cropped up occasionally. Gamekeepers and other people used the deadly drug to kill vermin, but usually it was handled with great care and placed out of reach of domestic pets. Trouble started when a burrowing dog came across the poison by accident. But this was different.
I had to warn pet owners somehow. I lifted the ’phone and spoke to one of the reporters on the Darrowby and Houlton Times. He promised to put the story in the next edition, along with advice to keep dogs on their leads and otherwise supervise pets more carefully.
Then I rang the police. The sergeant listened to my account. “Right Mr. Herriot, I agree with you that there’s some crackpot going around and we’ll certainly investigate this matter. If you’ll just give me the names of the dog owners involved … thank you … thank you. We’ll see these people and check round the local chemists to see if anybody has been buying strychnine lately. And of course we’ll keep our eyes open for anybody acting suspiciously.”
I came away from the ’phone feeling that I might have done something to halt the depressing series of events, but I couldn’t rid myself of a gloomy apprehension that more trouble was round the corner. But my mood lightened when I saw Johnny Clifford in the waiting room.
Johnny always made me feel better because he was invariably optimistic and wore a cheerful grin which never altered, even though he was blind. He was about my own age and he sat mere in his habitual pose, one hand on the head of his guide dog, Fergus.
“Is it inspection time again already, Johnny?” I asked.
“Aye, it is that Mr. Herriot it’s come round again. It’s been a quick six months.” He laughed and held out his card.
I squatted and looked into the face of the big Alsatian sitting motionless and dignified by his master’s side. “Well, and how’s Fergus these days?”
“Oh he’s in grand fettle. Eatin’ well and full of life.” The hand on the head moved round to the ears and at the other end the tail did a bit of sweeping along the waiting-room floor.
As I looked at the young man, his face alight with pride and affection, I realised afresh what this dog meant to him. He had told me that when his failing sight progressed to total blindness in his early twenties he was filled with a despair which did not lessen until he was sent to train with a guide dog and met Fergus; because he found something more than another living creature to act as his eyes, he found a friend and companion to share every moment of his days.
“Well, we’d better get started,” I said. “Stand up a minute, old lad, while I take your temperature.” That was normal and I went over the big animal’s chest with a stethoscope, listening to the reassuringly steady thud of the heart As I parted the hair along the neck and back to examine the skin I laughed.
“I’m wasting my time here, Johnny. You’ve got his coat in perfect condition.”
“Aye, never a day goes by but he gets a good groomin’.”
I had seen him at it, brushing and combing tirelessly to bring extra lustre to the sleek swathes of hair. The nicest thing anybody could say to Johnny was, “That’s a beautiful dog you’ve got.” His pride in that beauty was boundless even though he had never seen it himself.
Treating guide dogs for the blind has always seemed to me to be one of a veterinary surgeon’s most rewarding tasks. To be in a position to help and care for these magnificent animals is a privilege, not just because they are highly trained and valuable but because they represent in the ultimate way something which has always lain near the core and centre of my life: the mutually depending, trusting and loving association between man and animal.
Meeting these blind people was a humbling experience which sent me about my work with a new appreciation of my blessings.
I opened the dog’s mouth and peered at the huge gleaming teeth. It was dicing with danger to do this with some Alsatians, but with Fergus you could haul the great jaws apart and nearly put your head in and he would only lick your ear. In fact he was at it now. My cheek was nicely within range and he gave it a quick wipe with his large wet tongue.
“Hey, just a minute, Fergus!” I withdrew and plied my handkerchief. “I’ve had a wash this morning. And anyway, only little dogs lick—not big tough Alsatians.”
Johnny threw back his head and gave a great peal of laughter. “There’s nowt tough about him, he’s the softest dog you could ever meet.”
“Well, that’s the way I like them,” I said. I reached for a tooth scaler. “There’s just a bit of tartar on one of his back teeth. I’ll scrape it off right now.”
When I had finished I looked in the ears with an auroscope. There was no canker but I cleaned out a little wax.
Then I went round the feet, examining paws and claws. They always fascinated me, these feet; wide, enormous, with great spreading toes. They had to be that size to support the big body and the massive bones of the limbs.
“All correct except that one funny claw, Johnny.”
“Aye, you allus have to trim that ’un, don’t you? I could feel it was growin’ long again.”
“Yes, that toe seems to be slightly crooked or it would wear down like the others with all the walking he does. You have a great time going on walks all day, don’t you, Fergus?”
I dodged another attempted lick and closed my clippers around the claw. I had to squeeze till my eyes popped before the overgrown piece shot away with a loud crack.
“By gosh, we’d go through some clippers if all dogs had claws like that,” I gasped. “It just about does them in every time he calls.”
Johnny laughed again and dropped his hand on the great head with that gesture which said so much.
I took the card and entered my report on the dog’s health along with the things I had done. Then I dated it and handed it back. “That’s it for this time, Johnny. He?
??s in excellent order and there’s nothing more I need do to him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Herriot. See you next time round, then.” The young man took hold of the harness and I followed the two of them along the passage and out of the front door. I watched as Fergus halted by the kerb and waited till a car had passed before crossing the road. They hadn’t gone very far along the road when a woman with a shopping bag stopped them. She began to chatter animatedly, looking down repeatedly at the big dog. She was talking about Fergus and Johnny rested his hand on the noble head and nodded and smiled. Fergus was his favourite topic.
Shortly after midday Mr. Bartle rang to say Jasper showed signs of returning spasms and before sitting down to lunch I rushed round to his house and repeated the barbiturate injection. Mr. Bartle owned one of the local mills, producing cattle food for the district. He was a very bright man indeed.
“Mr. Herriot,” he said. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I have every faith in you, but isn’t there anything else you can do? I am so very fond of this dog.”
I shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do any more.”
“But is there no antidote to this poison?”
“No, I’m afraid there isn’t.”
“Well …” He looked down with drawn face at the unconscious animal. “What’s going on? What’s happening to Jasper when he goes stiff like he did? I’m only a layman but I like to understand things.”
“I’ll try to explain it,” I said. “Strychnine is absorbed into the nervous system and it increases the conductivity of the spinal cord.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the muscles become more sensitive to outside stimuli so that the slightest touch or sound throws them into violent contractions.”