Saturday, 22 September 2012

Storm in a T* Camp

Image By John Buchanan

When I look back through my life and remember places I have lived in they generally fall into two groups; places I liked and places I didn’t. There is however one place that was so uncomfortable that I feel it is unfair to taint all the other places I did not like by placing it in the same group as them. This place was a port in Croatia called Ploče, the year 1995.

The area surrounding the port was little more than a dumping ground for dead animals, toxic waste and anything unpleasant that someone didn’t want to pay to dispose of. The Royal Engineers reclaimed a sizable tract of land from this mozzie infected, swamp riddled, dump and turned it into a mozzie infected layer of white hardcore (which reflected the suns blinding light and scorching heat). It was here that a tented camp housing several thousand British troops was built. My lasting memories of Ploče include;

Accommodation was sparse; initially a couple thousand troops were crushed into a warehouse which had been shelled during an earlier raid on the port. Each person (male or female) had the width of their roll mat plus 2 feet to turn into a home. Once sufficient land had been reclaimed we moved into a tented camp which was more spacious, but came with its own issues. Towards the end of the tour (as winter approached) some Corimec (portakabins) arrived (pure luxury and as with all things of that nature ‘too little too late’).

Bordering the complex was a factory which belched choking smoke over us 24/7. It was rumoured that it was burning asbestos brake linings although that was hotly denied. That said a significant proportion of the force suffered from really unpleasant respiratory problems of one sort or another during their stay.

For the majority of the tour the living conditions were so bad there that there was a constant need for innovation, and ISO containers, shipping pallets, cardboard boxes and any other item not physically strapped down, quickly found itself being turned into part of a home improvement scheme.

Keeping thousands of troops clean in such a place was next to impossible, the Royal Engineers came up with the idea of using the cattle sheds as showers, The sheds, which had been used to keep cattle in until they were loaded on to ships had water pipes overhead, the Engineers found that a strategically placed nail every meter or so was sufficient to make a cold shower for a couple hundred folk at a time. Later in the tour a Territorial Army Bath and Laundry unit deployed and were quickly elevated to hero status along with the Posties and some of the Chefs as they bought with them the capability of producing a somewhat irregular supply of hot water.

I guess the presence of the French Foreign Legion was perhaps the greatest indicator as to just how unpleasant Ploče was.

The following poem outlines an event which I believe will be seared onto the mind of anyone who was there. It was this event that ultimately earned the camp its nick name ‘Ploče Death Camp’.

Storm in a T* Camp

MET said the wind would be high that night
airframes would need tie downs
Two thousands troops in the tented camp
were going to be blown around.

The sound of ratchets and sledge hammers
was a common theme that day;
as teams of sweating soldiers
toiled to square the camp away.

The tents were lashed inside and out
and nailed to the ground
with two foot long metal spikes
So they’d not be tossed around.

The girls in the tent next to us
were working on their tans;
we offered to assist them
but that wasn’t in their plans.

That night’s storm was vengeful
it hit hard and lasted long
and from the tent next to ours
came a noise most forlorn.

As four bronzed ladies struggled,
to bang stakes into the ground,
to stop their tent taking off
leaving them half drowned.

To venture out was lethal
as sharp debris flew around.
The generator kept failing,
and cables sparked upon the ground.

A sentry had his arm shattered
as he patrolled the camp that night.
The church had broken loose
and it hit him in full flight.

The cook house, a large big top,
was rent from floor to ceiling
its wooden posts were split in two
and through the air sent reeling.

The camp latrine made quite a mess
as the tanks bobbed from the ground
then tipped their fetid contents
into the water flowing round.

Things got very lively
as we fought against that storm
and kept our kit above the flood
whilst holding canvas down.

A hurricane lamp fell to the floor
and everything went pitch black,
the scent of kero on the wind
caused a mild anxiety attack.

Howling wind, lighting flash
driving rain and thunder
flapping canvas, shorting cables
and now the fear of fire.

That night lasted an eternity -
dawn bought an eerie calm
over the stinking cess pool
which our home had become.

The cooks’ stoves were under water
which meant it was three foot deep.
It also made them hard to light
So breakfast was real bleak.

While the water subsided
we broke out the canoes
to keep tired and hungry troops busy
and stop them blowing a fuse.

As soon as we were able
the clear up began full tilt
but it was several days before
the camp was totally rebuilt.

The storm was not the only one
that we endured that summer.
It left its mark upon that camp
Oh and what a bummer.

The camp had been called Red Dwarf
before the first storm hit,
but the troops re-named it‘Ploce Death Camp’
after it had been covered in shit.

Now, if you’re planning on camping
I have some tips for you
they were learnt the hard way
but, they come free to you.

Listen to the Met man’s forecast.
Build cess pits above the water table.
Shelter comes before the tan.
In high wind even churches fly.

But, perhaps the most important
The lesson I’d heed most
take this seasoned camper’s advice
and - Book into a hotel.

John Carré Buchanan
21 September 2012

Friday, 7 September 2012

The Review

Image Source

One of the factors of living with chronic pain is the need to constantly review where you are in relation to Goals, Drugs and Exercises. This week I have been working with my support team to confirm that I am getting the most out of the regimes that I use.

I keep a written record of my pain management which I use on a daily basis to pace myself and then on an ad hoc basis to inform the team. This covers which exercises and stretches I do, my pain levels at start and end of the day, the drugs taken, hours slept and activities undertaken.

This type of record is very useful as it provides hard data against which comparisons can be made, preventing emotion and feelings from getting in the way of what is really happening.

The multidisciplinary team discussed how things had been going. We agreed that there was a need to change both the medication and exercise regimes. We also discussed how attitude toward recovery, specifically my determination to minimise drug use and maximise the amount of exercise and activity I was doing, could affect recovery.

During an excellent, month long, pain management course I attended in the UK I was taught the importance of coming off drugs and making every effort to improve my personal fitness. Under normal circumstances this is widely accepted as being the best practice approach toward pain management.

However it would appear that the principles are intended as a guide rather than a set of rules. They are designed for the average man or woman in the street, and not someone with the drive and determination that has served me so well in the past.

Whilst the logic of what was being said was unquestionable, it was very difficult for me to accept. The turmoil it created in my mind drove me to write the following poem, perhaps other pain sufferers might find it interesting.

The Review

Today we talked meds again;
the doctors are giving me more.
They think a higher dose,
will make me happier than before

They haven’t factored in failure
the feeling that I bear;
when my body is so doped up
I feel like I’m not there.

They tell me how impressed they are
with the way that I’ve got on
pushing through the barriers;
but they say that way is wrong.

I learnt the hard way,
success requires hard work.
without pain there is no gain,
for glory you can’t shirk.

I strive to be a person
who will not accept defeat.
Who through sheer determination
This chronic pain I’d beat.

I was taught; to keep my body clean;
To avoid drugs where I can;
that morphine can not cure my pain
so exclude it from my plan.

The doctors say that normal folk
would find these rules so true.
but it’s my determination -
that’s made my plans fall through.

Now they’re going to dope me up
so I will not feel the pain,
but I sense the weight of failure
will drag me down again.

So if I make my next review
it’s likely I’ll be told;
to increase the dose of happy pills;
and they’ll see my world implode.

John Carré Buchanan
07 September 2012