I wake up. I’ve managed to snatch a few minutes or hours of blessed sleep. I haven’t slept in a couple of days. I’ve got a whole body rash. In and out of ice-baths and I cannot stop scratching. If that’s not bad enough I can’t sleep as well. Don’t know why. I blame the itching but I’m pretty wired. My hands are covered in scratches. What happened there?
I’m bored. I look around for some alcohol swabs to put on my cut-up hands. There’s none near my bed but the little box is in its place, it’s just happens to be empty. At the next bed, the same story, no swabs. I don’t want to pinch the other bloke in the wards stuff but I’m desperate. I peek over. His are gone too? Curious I go out for a walk to find the duty medic. I know her. We lived together in the same Barracks when I was posted to the BASC unit the previous year.
“Hey T*, you got any alcohol swabs?”
“Sure” she says. She comes over and checks my hands. “Ouch, I saw these when you came in”. She smiles. “Must have been a bit of a scrap?”
I just smile. It’s all a bit fuzzy.
“Anyway, I shouldn’t tell you… but you know that that bloke in the ward with you?”
“Yeah” I reply. I’m interested now. I’ve always loved gossip.
I lay my hands flat on the counter while T* gently cleans the fine wounds. It stings a little.
“Ok, the reason why you don’t have any alcohol swabs is that bloke has been chewing them all. We had to take all the alcohol swabs out of the ward. Must have a big drinking problem, do you think?”
I shrug “Makes sense, I suppose”.
Not really but we all see lots of silly shit in the Army. Medics see it more than most.