My time as the 3Cdo medic which lasted for nearly 18 months was life-changing. I matured from a schoolboy with little direction in life to a man with skills that were respected and relied upon by real mates. I attended a parachute training course in Bloemfontein, South Africa, and thereafter jumped into Mozambique and Zambia on external operations.
I was selected to attend a six-week MA2 course at Llewellin Barracks. This was a very different experience from the MA3 with less than ten delegates all of whom were living in the sergeants mess. Lectures were held during the first two days of the week while the rest of the time was on the job training at Mpilo Hospital.
My first two weeks at Mpilo were spent in the trauma and surgical wards followed by a stint in the mortuary. I recall one of the patients that I had looked after during my time in the surgical ward ending up in the mortuary on the slab undergoing a post mortem. Talk about the consequences of making a wrong diagnosis!
A key objective during our time at Mpilo Hospital was learning to intubate patients about to undergo a surgical procedure that required an anaesthetic. We were allowed (under supervision) to administer the paralyzing drugs, insert the tube, connect the Boils machine, manage the gasses during the procedure and lastly bring the patient around.
On my return to the battalion I was posted to the mobile surgical unit. This unit was staffed by a medical doctor, myself and, when available, a medic in training. We were normally deployed to one of the Fire Force bases and on all external operations.
Troops were generally pleased and reassured by the presence of the mobile surgical unit. I spent many enjoyable hours in choppers en route to collect casevacs. My heart always started pounding as we came in to land often with a firefight still in progress. The pilot would normally wait on the ground while you ran to the patient. If I was required to insert a drip and stabilize the patient he would normally take-off and orbit close by; if not he waited on the ground. By the time you had the patient back in the chopper you were mentally and physically exhausted. The chopper ride back was always intense, especially when you were looking after one of your seriously injured mates.
I was asked to go into Zambia to collect between eight to ten soldiers that had shrapnel wounds when a number of mortar bombs exploded in their vicinity. A fierce firefight was on the go as we arrived over the area so time on the ground was limited to getting all of them on board. Within three minutes we were airborne and heading for the safety of Lake Kariba. I had little time to enjoy the ride as I inserted drips, administered morphine and patched as best I could. I can still see the faces of those soldiers sitting or lying in the Bell chopper holding their own drips grinning as we skimmed over a pod of hippos running in the shallows of Lake Kariba as the sun set.
By the end of the war we were working so close to Salisbury that the Andrew Fleming Hospital was normally the destination of choice. I remember flying across the suburbs one Sunday around lunchtime with two seriously injured soldiers on board watching families enjoying a braai with fighting taking place less than 20kms away.
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