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What about this Command Psychiatrist job?
I had to get on with my command performance, so we did not dally over much but moved on to the hospital where all was well organized and miserable. I asked one man what he was doing. He was doing “Occupational Therapy”. This sounded as if it were something similar to what I was supposed to be doing; ‘therapy’ at least sounded familiar although I had no idea what my ‘occupation’ was.
“Yes, but what are you doing?”
He seemed sheepish as he said he was sewing a doll's dress. I looked at his steel helmet, his rifle and bayonet and other kit; it was all laid out in meticulously correct order. There was nothing wrong with that military hospital; nothing wrong with the ‘military’ part of it anyhow.
“Do you use these” – I pointed to his helmet and rifle – “for sewing dolls' clothes?”
He looked puzzled and I checked myself. After all he could hardly be held responsible for his equipment. And for me to press the point would have seemed to be verging on sarcasm. Anyhow, what was I doing with my military insignia? Loafing around Western Command?
At my next unit the commanding officer suggested we should take a stroll together. He would bring his gun because he might be able to augment the mess rations if he shot some pigeons.
“But they are cunning beggars I can tell you. If I were to point my cane at them they wouldn't mind in the least. Yet if I point my gun – or even carry the thing – you can be sure they won't wait to see. But they'll be around again immediately I go into the next field.”
Pigeons know the difference between a gun and a walking stick; they would not be impressed by a social symbol of officer's rank – not
enough to fall down dead, though I have known a partridge with chicks trail an apparently wounded wing away from its brood. In the meantime what was I to do to justify my rank and prestigious title of ‘Command Psychiatrist‘? Theirs not to do but die; theirs but to command and fly.
J. R. Rees came to see me. He wore brigadier