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a General Duties Medical Officer – which meant that he was too junior to have a speciality and was a medical dogsbody in the hospital. He ran the Casualty Station during the day, as well as the Families Clinic, though there were relatively few of those, apart from the dependants of the Malay-enlisted Other Ranks and some Gurkhas.
    They ploughed through the soup course, which came straight out of Campbell’s tins, then a tough piece of local chicken that the sardonic Percy claimed must have died of senility. The best part was the dessert, which was a fruit salad of fresh mango, papaya and pineapple, the first two being a totally new experience for Tom Howden.
    After the meal, they went through the door at the other end into the anteroom, which like the dining room, was across the width of the long narrow hut, louvred doors running down each side. Most of these were open, letting in the heavy scent of the tropical night, along with the incessant twitter of the cicadas and monotonous burp of a bullfrog lurking in a nearby monsoon drain.
    Number One glided in with a tray of coffee which he put on one of the low tables within the rectangle of easy chairs that filled the centre of the room. Another table at one side carried outdated magazines, the
Lancet, British Medical Journal
and a few copies of the airmail edition of the
Daily Telegraph
, as well as the
Straits Times
. Apart from a faded picture of the Queen on one wall, a clock and a shelf of books abandoned by former residents on the other, the room was bare. All the furniture was uniform Barrack Store issue, plain no-nonsense wood with anaemic fabric on the foam cushions.
    There was a sleepy silence while they all sipped their coffee, which was blatantly Nescafé with a dash of Carnation tinned milk. When they had finished, Number One came to collect the tray and take orders for drinks. They all ordered a beer, except for Alec Watson who regretfully shook his head.
    â€˜Sorry, I’m OMO tonight, Number One.’
    Two days ago, Tom might have thought that the young Scot was confessing to being queer, but now he knew that it stood for ‘Orderly Medical Officer’, the doctor permanently on duty overnight – which explained why he was the only one in uniform.
    Alec must have read his thoughts.
    â€˜Soon be your turn, Tom! Everyone under field rank has to go on the rota. As there’s only five of us lieutenants or captains, it comes round more than once a week.’
    Howden grinned. ‘Don’t know that I’ll be of much use. I haven’t seen a live patient for over a year.’ After qualifying, he had been able to delay his call-up for National Service by getting deferment for another twelve months. This allowed him to get a pathology training post in Newcastle’s Royal Victoria Infirmary and come into the Army as a junior specialist on a Short Service Regular Commission.
    When the Tigers arrived, there was another long silence. Percy Loosemore, the wiry Essex man with the long, leathery face, studied the Appointments Vacant section of the
Lancet
, while Alfred Morris dozed in his chair with a handkerchief spread over his upturned face.
    The young Scot, who to Tom looked about sixteen, sat immobile, staring out through an open door into the velvet darkness, listening to the cicadas and thinking inscrutable thoughts. The new arrival began to think that the main danger of Active Service was not being shot by terrorists, but dying of boredom. It was hardly eight thirty, but everyone seemed ready for bed. The only socializing influence in TT seemed to be The Dog and in an effort to break the ennui, Tom brought up the subject.
    â€˜Who exactly can be members?’ he asked. ‘That chap with the loud voice said it had been there since the nineteen-twenties.’
    Alf Morris, who was not asleep after all, gave a snort of amusement.
    â€˜That was James Robertson – self-appointed squire of Tanah Timah! Though at least