THE ROAD to RECOVERY

John Powell

I Normandy

A warm sunny morning in July 1944 about 7.30am. As I lay on my back in a grassy field near the Chateau de Fontaine in Normandy watching my comrades climbing to their feet after a brief mortar 'stonk' I realized that I couldn't move. I called weakly to them.

Our tank commander, Jackie Gallagher, came hurrying over, turned me on my stomach to dress the wounds in my back, told me that the wounds weren't too bad, and gave me a shot of the morphine which we all carried in our dressing packs. He then dispatched another crew member to search for medical help. While we waited he fed me with cigarettes and words of comfort, assuring me that I still had two legs although I couldn't feel anything of them. Years later I was able to thank him for what he did.

After what seemed eternity but was in fact about twenty minutes a medical corps Bren carrier drew up and within seconds I was on a stretcher and lifted into the carrier. How my crewmate had found help so quickly I never did know but was I grateful! A bumpy ride back to the tented field hospital and in no time I was immediately laid on the operating table, anaesthetised to welcome oblivion. Somebody somewhere had organised speedy medical help for casualties to perfection; it was only much much later that I discovered how many other casualties had been dealt with so expeditiously over those few momentous days in July 1944.

I awoke some time later to find myself in a cot with sheets - a luxury after nights of sleeping rough beside or under my tank! - encased from chest to groin in bandages, listening to a wailing and crying from the next bed. A French family were sitting around the bed of a badly injured eight year old daughter trying to comfort the poor child. An innocent victim of what was to prove a pivotal early battle in the breakout from the Normandy bridgehead. A few hours later when I re-awoke the bed was empty - the child had succumbed to her dreadful injuries and the family had left.

The next day or two I am unsure about as time passed in a haze. I found that I was paralysed from the waist down and experienced the joys of catheterisation, which the male nurse did his best to make a fun experience. The shrapnel wounds had penetrated my back, injured my spine and rather mangled my abdomen so I was on a very light liquid diet - a drop of tea now and again. But youth is resilient and I looked forward to a promised repatriation by air. At one stage the battalion chaplain and my squadron commander found time to visit me and assure me that the battle was going well (not wholly the truth!). How they were able to take time out to comfort a humble trooper in the middle of a major engagement against Panzer divisions including Tiger tanks I never shall know.

2. Oxford

Heavily sedated, I have dim memories of being loaded onto a military ambulance for a bumpy and painful drive to, I believe, Bayeux, where I was transferred to a Dakota, fitted-out with about 20 stretchers each side of the fuselage. As soon as loading was finished we took off for Kidlington airfield near Oxford where ambulances awaited to transport us in various directions. I finished up in a spotless bed in a spotless ward in St Hugh's College which had been converted into a military hospital for the head injured, which I presume was the best they could manage at short notice for a spine and stomach injured patient.

Was I grateful to be in a clean bed attended by efficient nurses? I suppose so, but by then my stomach injuries were so painful that my world was dominated by the pain. Another operation was quickly arranged to tidy-up the emergency field hospital treatment and I once again awoke to find myself encased in fresh bandaging and a more permanent catheter implanted in my lower abdomen.

The next month passed in a miasma of pain and sedation. I have vague memories of family visits (my mother having been notified by telegram of my condition and hospitalisation) including my brother who was ten days later shot down on a bombing raid over Stuttgart - as if my poor mother hadn't got enough to endure. A kindly WAAF volunteered her off-duty time to sit with me almost every evening, just to hold my hand and offer what comfort she could: she will never know how much strength she gave me. Between their normal duties the nurses spent their time helping the brain-injured patients to talk, walk and adjust to their world, as well as trying vainly to coax me to eat with rare wartime luxuries such as egg custard, steamed fish and poached chicken. Being a military hospital the ward ran like clockwork, everything shone and we were required to lie, as far as possible, at attention during the daily ward rounds although many of my fellow patients had difficulty in either understanding or obeying Sister's frantic instructions before Matron and the Brigadier-Surgeon i/c appeared.

After that first month it was decided that another abdominal operation was needed to sort out the cause of the pain. What was done I know not but when I came round again the worst of the stomach pains had disappeared and from then on progress was rapid. I started to sit up, take notice and eat properly. Bandages, clips and stitches were removed and, joy of joys, the catheter was extracted from my abdomen: I could pee again! From newspapers I learned that we were at last completing the breakout from the Normandy bridgehead and that Hitler had targeted some new pilotless aircraft bombs (V1 - 'doodlebugs') on London. As my family lived in Croydon this was a worry but I was assured that apart from broken windows all was well at home.

3. Basingstoke

As my health improved I was told that a transfer to a specialist spinal injuries unit was indicated so one hot sunny August day I was loaded into another ambulance and off we went to Basingstoke. A lunch break beside the Thames at Runnymede gave us the pleasure of seeing that historic spot and wonderful river on such a sunny and happy day! Despite the paralysis I began to feel very positive about the future.

Park Prewett Hospital, Basingstoke, was very different from St Hugh's College. Formerly a mental hospital, it had been taken over by Hammersmith Hospital for the duration providing a spinal injury unit and a burns unit. As a 'civvy' hospital I found the atmosphere more relaxed than in the military hospital although the medical and nursing staff were equally dedicated to their charges. All in the ward suffered from spinal injuries with paraplegia or quadriplegia so we were able to offer mutual support and encouragement, ably assisted by splendid nursing and therapy staff. In spite of some horrific injuries an atmosphere of humour and hope pervaded the place. I watched as others began to move their limbs - a signal for general jubilation when first one and then another detected voluntary toe movement, to be followed, hopefully, by extended control and feeling. Sadly one or two, finding no improvement in their condition, turned their faces to the wall and gave up the ghost. The nursing battle against the threat of pressure sores was constant but some poor chaps suffered months of discomfort. Larval therapy was not unusual but those of us unafflicted dreaded the prospect of being exposed to those healing maggots!

Visits from family and friends continued despite wartime transport difficulties. The day came when I was lifted out of bed to sit in a chair; to my horror I found it so discomforting that I pleaded to be put back to bed! Then my turn came for the feeling to partially return to one leg, accompanied by a wiggle of the big toe. Oh, happy day! With lots of physiotherapy I gradually managed to move one leg, and then the other. By the time of my 20th birthday in November I was learning to walk, first supported by a nurse on each side and then with a walking frame. Daily sessions on the exercise cycle strengthened my limbs. Old-fashioned wicker wheel chairs gave us some mobility so we managed to get down to the local pub and meet one or two old comrades like Ray Gordon who were in the burns unit for the long haul of much plastic surgery. On balance we preferred paraplegia.

Christmas came and went. Letters from friends and reports from visitors gave news of frequent 'gas explosions' in London, which were revealed to be Hitler's secret weapon, the V2 rockets. The Allied armies were racing to reach and capture the firing sites before too much damage was done.

4. Back in Civvy Street

By early summer '45 I had one fairly usable leg and one less lively but was considered fit enough to be allowed home on indefinite leave. With the aid of two walking sticks I hobbled from the taxi to the station and made my way home to the warmest of welcomes. Unable to resume work, to supplement a 100% war pension of £2 per week (determined by extent of injury and service rank) I started a small business at home producing leather goods with the techniques that the occupational therapists in hospital had taught me. A helpful uncle put me in touch with an East End supplier of leather and in no time I had a thriving business selling wallets, purses and handbags. With that and the war pension I managed nicely. I still needed regular treatment and therapy at the local hospital but life was beginning to look good and I was adjusting to life as a paraplegic. The local hospital continued to provide for my physiotherapy needs until that sort of help was no longer needed.

But there were snags. When I started to go out to the cinema etc I was frustrated to miss many a bus because I couldn't run for it. My old friends were all away serving in army, navy and air force. My mother and sister were most supportive but leatherworking at home was a bit boring and I needed to look to the future. By 1946 I was ready to find a 'proper' job. Then a much-loved aunt suggested that I had a chat with her employer who was involved in the resettlement of disabled ex-servicemen. As a result I took up a place at a re-opened teacher training college in Abingdon, a decision that I have never had cause to regret. College life amongst other ex-servicemen was fulfilling and enjoyable and my subsequent teaching career was satisfying and reasonably rewarding.

On qualifying as a teacher in 1948 I had no problem finding a job and few difficulties in fulfilling the required duties, other than taking P.E. lessons where I had to follow the policy of 'don't do as I do, do as I say!' Life has continued uneventfully with a happy marriage to a splendid wife, two lovely children and a successful career. Time is a great leveller: when I meet fellow electric scooter users we swap notes - hip replacements, arthritics, birth or medical handicapped and war disabled - all being in the same boat. The war pensions people have been most supportive and that foreign field of 1944 seems a long long time ago. But comradeship through the Qui s'y Frotte Association remains.