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In England Now

A Running Commentary by Peripatetic CorrespondentsONE odd effect of this war has been the disruption of

my peaceful life as a general surgeon by 120 urgent callsto sea. These, coupled with the worst winter for fortyyears, have yielded some experiences which at the costof a certain amount of personal discomfort have pro-vided me with a thorough break from routine and acurious cross-section of the progress of the war. Startingwith a Spanish tramp (changed to British owners to runcontraband during the civil war) the list ends with aNazi seaplane shot down in the late evening a few daysago. In between come ships of almost every maritimenation, of all shapes and sizes and each with its clinicalproblem. For instance, you find a patient seven milesfrom shore in a thick fog with a temperature of 10° F.and double pneumonia. His ship is outward bound toSouth America and there is no doctor on board. Theonly available transport is your small open boat half fullof snow and nothing bigger can land on the beach, thepier having been destroyed. What does A do ? In thiscase we blew various distress calls on the ship’s siren andeventually bagged an examination tug, put the patientdown the stokehold against the boiler, sent the smallboat on ahead and followed to within half a mile of theshore-as near in as wrecks and shallowing water wouldallow. Then we got back into the little boat and rushedthe patient, half stifled in three layers of oilskins, ashoreto a waiting ambulance and so to the hospital whereVI. and B. 693 and oxygen returned him convalescent toItaly a fortnight later.

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Boarding ships in rough weather is always an adven-ture. The ship may stay still; the boat and rope ladderdo not. The secret is to snatch the fleeting momentwhen all three are together and hang on, because the nextsecond may find the boat eight feet away. You thenclimb rapidly before it comes back and hits the place youjust left. Coming back is worse, especially if you alighton the anchor. Apart from a week off with a badlybruised tibia-a product of over-confidence-I was lucky,but I still breathe a sigh of relief for a safe landing,especially on dark nights. Someone once said to methat it must be very unpleasant to have the risk of minesand enemy action added to the normal behaviour of theNorth Sea, which was bad enough anyway. Actually,one rather offsets the other. I once had to take the life-boat out four times in twenty-four hours in some incrediblybeastly weather and it wasn’t till it had finally landedthat I realised that I had been much too frightened to besick. Most of the serious cases and all the major surgicalcases I was able to land and deal with on shore-theytotal sixty-five in this series. The rest, including minoroperative cases, received treatment on board, usuallywith the skipper and mate as first and second assistants.One memorable occasion was an operation on a handunder regional anaesthesia in the hold of the fishingtrawler Atlantic in a choppy sea. She had been held upwith a cargo of fish in contraband controls for threeweeks, and a red-hot stove kept the temperature downbelow at about 80° F. The remainder of the crew satround the stove and sucked oranges while I dealt with thepatient. Incidentally the best method of ensuringstability at sea is to sit on the patient so that you bothmove together. I don’t think that the bedding in thebunks around the hold had been changed since the shipwas built, and the atmosphere was beyond belief. I liketo think that it was the subtle discord of the oranges,rather than the motion of the ship, which so nearlyeffected a result that the life-boat had failed to achieve.But it was a near thing.

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I wonder what went on in the mind of Horatius thatday he kept the bridge ? Did he really feel as noble asMacaulay made out or was he cracking the odd joke withSpurius Lartius, wishing his left sandal didn’t rub hisheel, and thinking what a funny face old Tarquin hadonce you got a good look at it ? I suspect it was ratherlike that. At the moment we present an odd pictureat the other side of the Atlantic. Either we are braveHoratius or else we are the toad beneath the harrow,

it’s hard to know which ; but in any case people arethinking of us kindly and sympathetically and lookingafter our children and doing all they can to help. AnAmerican medical student writes with the sincere kind-ness of a sincere race : " My heart goes out to you, andI hope that some thought of mine may help you, especi-ally now when the clouds are getting darker and darker."Well of course it helps us, she can be sure of that. Andno doubt the clouds are getting darker and darker andwe all ought to be feeling uplifted on the eve of greatdoings ; only unfortunately we aren’t really built for it.The whole country seems to be in the de-bunkingCockney humour in which the troops fought the lastwar ; nobody looks at all noble and certainly nobodyfeels it. Having our tea rationed seems to have beenthe first serious blow of the war to many. but otherwisethe clouds seem to be holding up nicely, and we areenjoying ourselves in our own way like the lady on thesteamer. I don’t know whether we are adaptable ortorpid or merely dumb, but sreaking as a toad it seemsto be easily the most comfortable way of putting upwith a harrow.

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When the war began we realised that our area waslikely to be

" for it " as soon as the Germans got acrossHolland and Belgium, but in the meantime, with theexception of a number of preparatory schools and asmaller number of convalescent homes which wiselyevacuated themselves, most of the population stayedput, and we had on the whole a quiet winter. But withthe invasion of France and the ending of the continentalcampaign a larger migration of the people naturally tookplace, and its effects on the economic life of the districthave been terribly complete, though there has been nocomplaining. With the closing down of trade, themedical profession has inevitably suffered. Patientshave departed and institutions have closed, and a oncebusy colleague of mine told me that his visiting list hadshrunk to about three a day. Our heavily evacuatedarea is only one of hundreds. What, especially in viewof the likelihood of a pretty full measure of socialismbeing applied to public services, is to be the policy of usdoctors and the Ministry of Health ?With regard to the emergency hospital services, while

private practice was still in being, the rates of pay,whether on a sessional or on a capitation basis, weremerely subjects for academic discussion or protest ; butwhen private practice disappeared such payment wasobviously of no use to doctors deprived of their meansof subsistence, and now a number of whole-time appoint-ments to institutions have begun to be made, with auniform rate of pay of 550 a year plus .6100 in lieu ofboard and lodging. For those, of whom I was one, whowere on the waiting list for service in the Royal Navy,R.A.M.C. or R.A.F. it now became impossible to awaitan appointment to a post either on active service or inthe E.M.S., and it was galling to find that, in one’sabsence in search of a living elsewhere, another doctorhad been appointed at a salary to the post which onehad filled in an honorary capacity for many years. Isuppose these anomalies are implicit in war, but it doesseem regrettable that the effect of evacuation on medicalpractice could not have been anticipated.Whether there is any complete solution for so wide a

geographical and sociological problem except a stateservice may be doubted ; no one would like to see theprofessional life of the country immersed in a flood ofbureaucratic memoranda, but since the National HealthInsurance Act has worked fairly well we should at leastconsider a general hospital service. All of us who haveserved on the staffs of voluntary hospitals would regretthe passing of the voluntary principle, but economicconditions are beginning to weigh so heavily on us thatwe may have to accept further drastic modifications ofit. It is difficult to see how so large a problem can betackled piecemeal, and I for one have no ready-madesolution. Will all doctors residing in the evacuationareas be drafted into a single state service so that theycan be kept out of the workhouse until their respectivetalents are scheduled for their most appropriate use ?Fortunately there are wise heads that have the geniusto shadow forth schemes for such monumental changesas we are passing through. Let me merely express thehope that these may find expression, when they do

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come to light, in everyday English rather than in that ofthe Home Office.

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My experiences as an interim evacuee have beenencouraging. Doctors in the area where, for the timebeing, I am getting a little work in pursuit of my ownevacuated patients have been generally kind and helpful.True, one practitioner who was approached by a colleaguewith a view to my participation in local A.R.P. measuresat the hospital said that I had come in as a competitorand that he had no wish to meet me ; but I have receivedwork from several of the other local men and their familiesand am glad to bear witness to the fact:We certainly had a fine finale before the last exodus

began. On Intercession Sunday a padre who had beenthrough the last war told our trembling ears that we hadno faith if we did not believe that God could still workmiracles ; he had known poison-gas rolled back amongthe ranks of the enemy against all the probabilities fore-told by meteorological advisers. I sustained my ownsmall part of the national anxiety by reading the storiesof the Red Sea deliverance and of Sennacherib. But onthe Tuesday King Leopold appeared to have made thesituation even more desperate and anxiety grew worse,if possible. Then from the sea-shore of our local townswe began to witness those days of sea-circuses, when everysort of craft set off through the mine-fields and returnedloaded with hundreds of rescued Englishmen and French-men. They were fed by women who exhausted theirphysical powers in merely cutting bread continuously fordays on end ; they were moved on and their places weretaken by freshly evacuated troops all hungry, tired andcheerful. We got many severely wounded men at thelocal hospitals.On the Saturday night, after reading on a news-sheet

that 330,000 had been returned from Dunkirk, I wasassisting the surgeons in the operating-theatres and thewards until 5 a.m. on Sunday ; and I got to bed, onlyto be woken up at 7.30 by a curious sound as of a bird-chorus. I shall never forget that noise-the noise ofhundreds of children being sent to a safer place. Somust the children have sounded as they followed thePied Piper of Hamelin. I was wide awake, and goinginto the church in which I had heard the preacher onthe previous Sunday I realised with awe that IT hadactually happened : the seemingly impossible, theprayed-for miracle, was an accomplished fact. One had

...

lived to witness that. I am not a betting man, unfor-tunately, but I can only suppose that so would a manfeel who had been given a tip for a certainty. That iswhat we received that week-a guarantee of a victorythat is inescapable-we have only to hold on for all weare worth.

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My small house contains four people whose massedages are 260 years and we are on the direct line toCrowdville and Merryport. vVe have only a primitivecellar and I was rather hampered by the most ancientof us. as you can imagine. We hear the unmistakablesound of the Bumble Jerries as they go across and thebombs even some miles away shake the place ; seven ofthem that dropped a quarter of a mile away, thoughthey only killed a cow, made the household leap a bit.It is strange to think that years ago I used to tuck mysmall daughter into a wine cellar in Devonshire Placeand now once again am visited by these odious inven-tions. Perhaps this is a judgment on me for giving thefirst lantern dissertation in this country on the historyof flight, and for pointing out some twelve years ago tothe Royal Society of Medicine the difficulty of protectingLondon. At one time I had one of the first collectionson these subjects in Europe ; some of them are now givento the Royal Aeronautical Society and the ScienceMuseum. I have still a period French Table, ca. 1783,inlaid with the first aerial journey ever made, by deRozier and d’Arlandes in 1783 across Paris. Quiteunique.

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The hop vine twists with the sun, clockwise ; thesinister bindweed and the scarlet runner the oppositeway. Rarely, they say, you get freaks-hop vines thattwist against the sun. I wonder if the beer from thesetastes different and what the origin of the abnormality is.A mere chance ? Certainly not. A provident mutation

in case the world starts twisting the other way ? Iwonder what these things do in the southern hemisphere.Is dextrocardia more common in Australian aborigines ?What a subject for an essay :

"

Twisting," tracing inlogical sequence the connexion between dextro- andleevo-rotatory crystals and the girl who took the wrongturning !

ObituaryROBERT BRYSON RUTHERFORD

M.C., M.B. EDIN. ; MAJOR, R.A.M.C.

Major Robert Rutherford who died from woundsreceived in France on May 28 was second in command ofthe 183rd Field Ambulance. He was standing talkingwith the commanding officer and the quartermaster ofthe unit near an ambulance when a shell burst on theother side of it, and all were wounded in the legs. MajorRutherford died from haemorrhage before they couldreach Dunkirk.

" Bobbie " Rutherford was born 49 years ago atBerwick-on-Tweed. He graduated M.A. at Edinburghin 1908, and M.B. in 1912. He came to the RoyalInfirmary, Sheffield, as a house-surgeon in 1912 andendeared himself to his resident and senior colleagues byhis comradeship, his enjoyment of the work and zest inlife. Just before the last war he became partner in amedical practice in the city but joined up directly war wasdeclared. He served in France and was awarded themilitary cross in 1917. He retired from the Army afterthe war with the rank of major. Later when theTerritorial Army was re-formed he joined the local unitof the Royal Engineers as the medical officer and retiredin due course when he reached the time-limit. Herejoined in July of last year and went to France in April.

Besides running a busy practice he acted as " recruiting

medical officer " for Sheffield, and for the last 14 years hehad been one of the local medical officers to the PostOffice. In 1921, he was elected a freeman of the Boroughof Berwick on Tweed. He was buried with militaryhonours at Shorncliffe on June 4.He leaves a widow and three daughters.

JOHN REID MUIRM.B. EDIN., F.R.C.S.E. ; LIEUTENANT, R.N.V.R.

SURGEON REAR-ADMIRAL, R.N. (retd.)When he was 13 John Reid Muir was already sailing

a yacht in the Caribbean Sea, and while studying medi-cine at Edinburgh he sailed single-handed from the Firthof Forth to the Dutch coast. He had qualified as amaster mariner and when at the outbreak of this warthe retired surgeon rear-admiral, then aged 66, volun-teered for service again he was commissioned sub-lieutenant in the R.N.V.R. and appointed to H.M.yacht Carnpeador 17 as navigator and watch-keeper.Later he was promoted lieutenant. He was killed inJune by enemy action when his ship was sunk by aGerman mine.Muir graduated M.B. from the University of Edin-

burgh in 1894 and after holding house posts there andserving with the P. & 0. he joined the navy in 1900.He was promoted to the rank of surgeon commander in1914 and when war broke out was appointed to H.M.S.Tiger. For his services in the battle of Jutland he wascommended by the commander-in-chief of the GrandFleet and awarded the croix de guerre. In 1917 hebecame medical officer at Wei-Hai-Wei, and servedthere till he was invalided home in 1919. Soon after hisreturn he was appointed to the R.N. hospital at Haslarfor surgical duties, for he was a first-rate operator. Hebecame surgeon captain at the end of 1923 and continuedhis work at Haslar until he was placed on the retired listin 1928 with the rank of surgeon rear-admiral. He wentto live at Paignton where sailing and writing filled hisdays. He described his experiences in the last war in" Years of Endurance," and his hobby in " Messingabout in Boats." Early this year we reviewed his newlife of Captain Cook. -

PROFESSOR PLAUT

Dr. Felix Plaut, who took his life on June 27 ratherthan enter an internment camp, was director of thepsychiatric research institute at Munich, under the