“Hi, my name’s Ken, what’s yours?” Thus, I first met Captain Ken Kirk, a nursing officer in 212 Field Hospital RAMC (V). I was a lieutenant in 205 Scottish General Hospital on attachment to 212 for the summer camp. My work at the University of Edinburgh prevented me from joining my own unit for summer camp in Germany. Instead, I drove to Saighton Camp, which no longer exists, on the outskirts of Chester for a fortnight of military medical exercises. I knew nobody, and Ken was quick to spot that and make friends.
He introduced me to his close friends, and we spent a hilarious couple of weeks practising skills that most of us thought we would never use. Ken, it transpired, knew everything that anyone needed to know about these exercises, having had many years in the Territorial Army. He looked after me, a fairly new recruit, and I learned a great deal. He was resourceful, a talented artist, an excellent mimic, and hilarious company. I felt lucky to have got to know him. But you never knew what was coming next.
On a training run, I aggravated an old foot injury which was so painful I was unable to walk. On the final evening of the camp, there was a party at Chester Zoo, and I made my apologies as I would be unable to join in the fun. Ken and friends insisted I come. When we got to the zoo, they procured a wheelchair and, with great enthusiasm, started wheeling me around the zoo. Of course, they spoke to me like a simpleton and explained to anyone who would listen that they had me out for the day.
I was suspicious of their enthusiasm and soon found out why. They took me to the highest point of the zoo, pointed the wheelchair down the path, and let me go. They then retrieved me from the bushes at the bottom. I refused to speak for quite a while as they wheeled me on. It took some masturbating monkeys to put a smile back on my face.
I lost contact with Ken and friends after the camp, but I always recalled his kindness and never expected to see him again. But I did.
December 1990 saw my unit mobilised for what transpired to be the First Gulf War. I found myself back at Saighton for several weeks brushing up on nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons procedures and generally learning how to survive in a war zone. My unit, 205, formed the core of the military general hospital that was established at Terminal 3 of King Khalid International Airport (KKIA) in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. We drafted expertise from other units and, while greeting the new arrivals at Saighton Camp, I was delighted to see Ken getting off the bus, accompanied by Captain Francis Comiskey, also of 212.
Ken’s natural friendliness and obvious competence made him popular with members of my unit, and we spent a lot of time together before being transported to Saudi. There were many stops and starts, discomforts, and delays before we finally got going on Kuwait Air’s only surviving 747 escorted by two Tornado fighter jets.
Ken took everything in his stride then as he did when we were deployed. Where others, including me, would bemoan the lack of equipment for shelving our medical supplies, Ken went off around the airport collecting things, anything, from which he could make shelves.
We were supporting 7th Armoured Brigade (the Desert Rats), but as our hospital was outside their location, we were prohibited from wearing the coveted Desert Rats badge on our uniform. In honour of the fact that we were located in the bowels of KKIA, someone designed a red Cellar Rat with the RAMC logo incorporated. We were prohibited from wearing that on our uniform too, but Ken designed a shield commemorating 205 in the Gulf and incorporated the Cellar Rat in the design. Most former officers have one on display.
Ken was in the room next to me in Riyadh with our friend from 212, and all I recall is laughter from early morning until late at night. Even when cowering under a table in the dining room with a SCUD missile whistling in, Ken had something funny to say. The SCUD missed, so we were able to laugh.
Ken, an accomplished clinical nurse and nurse manager in the NHS in Nottingham, answered the call to serve in the Second Gulf War. I was out of the Territorial Army by that time, but he phoned me nevertheless to see if I was coming too. The last time I saw him was at my 50th birthday party eighteen years ago, but we kept in contact by Christmas cards and the occasional email.
An email from his son Matthew this week informed me that a massive stroke had called Ken from the parade ground on 9th June. I have not shed a tear for many years; I did that day. Job well done, Ken. Dismissed. Rest in peace.
Roger Watson is a retired academic, editor and writer. He is a columnist with Unity News Network and writes regularly for a range of conservative journals including The Salisbury Review and The European Conservative. He has travelled and worked extensively in the Far East and the Middle East. He lives in Kingston upon Hull, UK.
This piece was first published in Country Squire Magazine, and is reproduced by kind permission.
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Thanks that was lovely
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