The Crescent

By Chris Merle

This novel covers the period from 1980 to 1990 with the outbreak of the first Gulf War.

It is based on true and anecdotal stories from the author and ex-pats including a large Irish contingent who worked in Saudi Arabia.

The story is built around a mythical hospital, The Masalamah Hospital, based in Jeddah. Masalamah in Arabic means goodbye.

The majority of characters are based on real people but names have been changed to protect the guilty.

The story revolves around the central character Steve Lessinger, the new Administrator who arrives full of resolve to make this hospital the finest in Saudi, however did not allow for the depredations of the Saudis themselves. Through a series of adventures and mishaps both humorous and horrific which gradually wear him down.

He forms a friendship with Paddy McDowell, the dowty Hospital engineer from Dublin who is involved in the illicit manufacture of alcohol. A fire breaks out in his department with complications of the Saudi fire brigade.

His problems include Felicity Duncan Smith, a sister who provides sexual services to the Arab upper class. One of his staff, Ranjit Singh, assistant pharmacist becomes involved with a Saudi princess.

Erich Von Schweitzer is the chief pathologist whose love of cats lands him in a Saudi jail, involving Steve. His wife visits him and proves to be more than a handful for the Saudi authorities.

One of his staff, Herbie Offenbarker, Chief biomedical engineer, discovers desert diamonds and assumes he will make a fortune.

Steves problems are complicated by Tom McNab, a male nurse who escaped from pregnant problems in Scotland. He has an affair in the female quarters of the hospital and dies in flagrento. Fraser Fraser, Scots Chief surgeon and bosom pal of Paddy solves the problem.

Prince Ahlan Washlan

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 4, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467002363

Book preview

© 2008 Chris Merle. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/1/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4389-2163-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-0236-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Introduction

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Introduction 

This novel is dedicated to all the ex pats who had to leave their country and their wives and /or girlfriends to earn a crust in the 1980’s in Saudi Arabia, enduring the hardships and restrictions with stiff upper lips

CHAPTER ONE 

We will be landing at Jeddah International Airport shortly, there was a slight hesitation in the voice of the Stewardess of Saudia flight SV 723, Insh’allah ....... please extinguish all cigarettes and fasten your seat belts.

Steve Lessenger shuddered ‘Insh’allah’ - ‘By the will of Allah’. To the unwilling cynics who had to fly by Saudia, the national airline of the Islamic state of Saudi Arabia, as decreed by the government to all foreign companies. The term had a more sinister slant to it. ‘If you are bloody lucky and some Arab prat of an engineer has not forgotten to replace some critical component of the aircraft’.

The Saudia 747 from New York slammed down onto the concrete, the pilot, clutching his worry beads in his hand, decided it was not wise to keep the aircraft airborne for a moment longer than was necessary. He was only too familiar with the shortcomings of the Saudia Arab maintenance crew.

Twin puffs of blue smoke erupted from the tyres as they bit. Steve chewed on his unlit Havana cigar, ignoring the pretty Mauritian hostess glaring at him, and looked out at the apron as they taxied from the runway. Well, it had been a long flight, thirteen fucked up hours. His bosom pals of short standing had poured him, four fifths of a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon loaded, on to the flight at Kennedy Airport just answering the last irate call for ‘Passenger Lessenger!!!’

There is no alcohol on this aircraft, and NONE in Saudi Arabia either! spat the Saudia flight stewardess, gagging on the fumes from his breath as he ricocheted his way down the aisle, dislodging a few ghoutras, the red and white chequered headgear worn by Saudis.

Ah, piss off will ya! muttered Steve as he staggered to his assigned seat, luckily near one of the toilets. Lawyers bills, alimony for three irate mercenary ex wives in the good old US of A and others elsewhere plus Mafioso gambling debts were a few of the plethora of problems which urgently drove him to find new pastures green or brown as it turned out.

In the depths of financial despair, he was perusing the pages of the New York Times when his eyes fell on an advert, ‘Hospital Staff required for a prestigious Hospital in the Middle East’ - advertised by the Nemesis Biosystems Group – ‘Jesus! he thought, Salvation!’

He applied for the position of Hospital Administrator at the Masalamah Hospital in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, part of the Red Crescent Society. After a very short interview with an agent, he was informed two weeks later that he had been approved for the job. He was told to proceed immediately and apply for a visa at the Saudi Embassy and fly to Jeddah as soon as possible.

The flight out had been uneventful, apart from the odd time he was called upon by his rebelling system to empty the contents therein. He discovered he was flanked on one side by a fellow American, Elmer from Arkansas, a thin, tall, lanky, laconic former cowhand, now a ground engineer for Saudia Airlines in Jeddah. On the other side, a tubby boisterous Dubliner, Paddy Macdowell, who had joined the flight at London’s Heathrow. Returning reluctantly to Saudi after a lengthy liquid leave enjoying the black stuff in Kinsale, Ireland.

Steves’ tonics supplied by the reluctant stewardess were liberally supplemented from an apparently inexhaustible supply of half bottles of gin. They are stashed all over this here aircraft, confided Elmer whispering. He snorted, chuckling to himself, These little Saudi greaseballs have been sairchin’ for months, and found nuttin’! Hee! Hee!, he nudged Steve painfully in the ribs. Ma oppos regularly stow them on board for me at Kennedy!.

He looked around and gripped Steves’ arm and sniggered, Ah tell ya, see if we had to use the oxygen, he paused conspiratorially looking all around him to see if anyone was listening, Why! we would all be crowned with dozens of bottles of booze stowed there! Hee! Hee! guess what! I am servicing this fucking flying machine tomorrow and ah am in booze for the next year! and promptly fell asleep snoring loudly. Steve gazed up at the oxygen panel above his head, ‘life saving’ now had a totally new meaning.

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After a lengthy delay drivers were woken up and the Saudia Airline buses driven out to the parked aircraft. Steve glanced at his watch, two a.m. local time. His mouth felt like camel’s crutch and tasted the same. Despite the announcement for all passengers to remain seated, the Saudis on board ignored the protest of the cabin staff, and using their hand luggage as weapons, fought their way to the front of the aircraft, trampling women and children underfoot. The Arab women, dressed totally in black from head to foot in their abaayas, whispered together. Steve had noticed that when they had originally boarded they were wearing the latest Paris fashions, but as soon as it was announced by the pilot that they were entering Saudi airspace there was an immediate stampede to the toilets clutching voluminous bags. It reminded Steve of the time he visited Calgary. Minutes later they emerged as ‘Guinness’ bottles.

The buses, spider like had raised their passenger cabins on scissor legs to the level of the aircraft doors.

Steve staggering with his grip, stepped onto the bus and collapsed exhausted. After the shouting and screaming on the aircraft it was suddenly strangely silent. As he glanced around seeing the apprehensive looks of the ex pat workers, it dawned on Steve.

They were now in Saudi Arabia.............

The buses slotted into the terminal and disgorged their contents. There followed the inevitable queues of travel weary passengers queuing for Customs formalities. Steve quickly realised that he was now the foreigner in a very foreign land, and inferior to boot. Eight lines of Arabs herded their families forward, while one line only was reserved for foreigners. One expat inebriated passenger ahead of Steve swayed alarmingly, and on reaching the Immigration desk slid gracefully to the ground as gravity exerted its inevitable force. Unfortunately he had failed to sober up sufficiently to stand reasonably steady in the queue. Two plainclothed Saudis quickly appeared and he was carried off, down to the well used cells, there to be subjected to abuse as an infidel. Steve was told by Elmer that eventually he would appear at the Sheria court and tried under Islamic law. It was very likely he would spend three months in prison and be awarded with a bonus of ninety lashes on his back wielded by enthusiastic prison staff during his stay. Then he would be ignominiously ejected from Saudi Arabia to whence he came.

Sheria law stated, ‘Drunkenness is punishable by a six months jail sentence and a public whipping’. It gave a totally new meaning to the phrase, ‘Having a whip round for a piss up’.

He’ll be bloody sober when he comes out, ah’ll tell ya, murmured Elmer, apparently none the worse for the consumption of the best part of two bottles of gin. Steve, old son, here’s my card. Ah’m stayin’ at Saudia City in Jeddah. This was the official residence for all Saudia personnel. He winked sometimes known as Sin City, he chortled, nudging Steve in the ribs again. Give us a ring, and we’ll have a wee hoolie!, and with that he slapped his passport on the desk of the morose Immigration officer. Kay phallic!, deliberately mispronouncing the greeting, ‘How are you’ in Arabic as he grinned at the officer who ignored him. Elmer nudged Steve, That means, how big is your prick!!, and roared with laughter. Punching the data into his computer from Elmers’ passport and entry card, the officer hoped vainly for a red alert to appear on his screen for this infidel pig who so abused the Arabic tongue.

The officer thrust back his stamped passport and waved him on, Elmer still convulsed at his own joke, waved goodbye to Steve.

The rotunda spewed out battered luggage, if it was not battered to begin with it certainly was now. Happily mishandled by the baggage staff of Third Country Nationals known more familiarly as TCN’s. Comprising mainly Thais, Filipinos and Bangladeshis, they were liberally employed by the Saudis for a pittance.

After half an hour Steve finally spotted his two soft sided cases scarred from much use and abuse from his tours in Vietnam. He joined the queue for Customs clearance, studying the officers who diligently searched for booze, pornography, religious objects, banned literature and anything else they decided to confiscate by personal whim or avarice.

At one customs bench Paddy was in deep discussion with the officer as his bags disgorged their contents, can after can of Heinz tomato soup. Oi’ve got a delicate stomach!, he declared, patting his enormous belly. Me mother gave them to me, bless her darlin’ heart!. The officer shook the tins looking puzzled. Steve looked on totally mystified. Paddy glanced up and gave him a broad wink. There’s few of us left!. Dublin had few Protestants in the predominantly Catholic city.

It was not until much later that Steve discovered that the tins contained brewers malt, an essential ingredient used for making beer. The labels carefully substituted for that of a lesser potent brew.

Once upon a time the shelves of large and small supermarkets groaned with the product, but sadly now no longer available in Saudi Arabia. Several years earlier, a smart assed cub reporter from the illustrious paper, the ‘Times’, after a visit to the Kingdom had smugly reported that ex-patriate workers from the West had no problems in enjoying their favourite tipple, beer, as malt was readily available.

In fact, as the ex pat left the store laden down with malt and sugar for his next brew, he would be politely asked at the checkout by a smiling Indian shop assistant, if he had forgotten his yeast! Within twenty four hours of the article appearing in the newspaper, by emergency Royal Decree the malt vanished from the shelves.

Thoughts of murder lurked in the hearts of all ex pats incarcerated in Saudi. Discussions raged around subjects of physical dismemberment, to crude operations on the more sensitive parts of the reporter’s anatomy if they ever had the opportunity to lay malevolent hands on him. Amazingly there was an unexpected and surprising bonanza when a miniature mountain of tins of Blue Label malt, dumped by fearful supermarkets was discovered in the desert nearby by an intrepid Scot. For weeks after, tyre tracks grooved their way ever deeper to this new Mecca.

After finally extricating his baggage from a truculent Customs official, frustrated in not finding anything incriminating, Steve scanned the assembled brown ranks of Saudis and TCN’s jumping up and down to see who was lucky enough to emerge unscathed from Customs. With their long flowing white robes and chequered ghoutras held in place by their igaals, a kind of fan belt, the Saudis reminded Steve of a flock of flamingos flapping their wings.

A group of Indians were waving placards, and for an incredulous moment, Steve thought it was a protest rally, which of course was banned. He noticed one sign barely legible which read ‘Steef Lesjer’ scrawled across it. Steve towered over the little man resplendant with black oily hair, filthy slacks and a stained chequered shirt. Yeah?.

Misser Lesjer?, Steve had to bend down to hear what he was saying, and was greeted with a noseful of rotten curry and garlic breath. Blackened stumps beamed up at him.

Most humble greetings from Nemseez companee and without a pause, turned, Thees way! and trotted off, making no attempt to help Steve with his bags.

The sauna hit him as soon as he emerged from the air-conditioned terminal. It was cool for that time of year, around forty degrees celcius with ninety nine percent humidity and it was only May. Before he had taken two steps he was soaked to the skin with persperation. Half a mile later, panting with exhaustion, Steve finally clambered into a dilapidated Toyota pickup. After tossing his bags into the open back, he collapsed into the passenger seat. As he stared at the slowly waving palm trees, a thought crossed his mind, What the fucking hell am I doing here!.

They roared off at breakneck speed onto the main highway totally ignoring all other road users who greeted them with squealing brakes and blaring horns. Driving in Vietnam under enemy fire had been an unforgettable experience, but this added a totally new dimension to the word ‘terror!’

The tortured rending of metal on metal as the Indian hit the brakes, announced their arrival at a tower block of flats owned by Nemesis Biosystems. Heart pounding, bile in his mouth, Steve retrieved his luggage, amazingly still relatively intact.

Lights glared at them as they pushed open the doors. Steve was suddenly transported to the Arctic in mid winter his clothes froze to his skin as the blast of air conditioning hit him.

Two Korean guards stared at him impassively from the reception desk, as he stood there shivering.

Theese way!, the little Indian’s vocabulary seemed to be limited to those two words. He tugged at Steve’s sleeve, nodded to the guards, and pointed a dirty broken nailed finger at Steve, -Meeser Lesjer.

They silently scanned the printed sheet in front of them and nodded beaming, their silver edged teeth welcoming. Steve noticed that their slant eyes did not smile. He had seen that identical smile in Vietnam.

A key was handed to him and he was ignored, their duty done. The little Indian had vanished also. He sighed, picked up his bags and trudged over to the elevator and pressed the button. Nothing happened. He looked dispiritedly at his key - the 7th floor! Shee-it!!.

Humping his bags over his shoulder he climbed the stairwell, un-airconditioned he immediately noticed. By the light of ten watt bulbs, he slowly ascended sweat pouring down his face. Eventually, almost gasping his last he found his room.

Working on the simple principle that if you expect nothing to go right, you are pleasantly surprised when it does. As he had anticipated, he was not surprised. The flat was a mess, the toilet unflushed with contents from what appeared to be several previous occupants. In the kitchen ravenous cockroaches devoured the mouldering remains of countless meals. Flopping down on the dust covered bed, he curled up dressed as he was and immediately fell asleep.

He was wakened seemingly minutes later by a rasping phlegmy cough in his ear.

ALLAH WAGBAR!!! GOD IS GREAT!! it screamed. He sat bolt upright, as the coughing, expectorating voice continued with exhortations to prayer. Steve staggered to the window. Oh NO!! he moaned.

His room looked out onto the roof of the Mosque next door, speakers level with his window.

As he drifted back to an uneasy troubled sleep, a Dickens classic filled his mind, what was it , ah, ‘Great Expectorations’.

CHAPTER TWO 

In darkest Jeddah It was yet another sunny day at the private three hundred bed Masalamah Hospital. Fraser Fraser, the rotund cherubic red haired Scots surgeon, stretched and yawned as the door of his office opened. He smiled down at the diminutive theatre sister Gladiola Gomez from Manila, who flashed a beautific smile in return.

Good morning Sister!, he bowed flamboyantly, and who is unfortunate enough to be on my list this morning, mmmh?

Gladiola known as ‘Gee Gee’ laughed, covering her smile with her hand, eyes flashing.

Thees ees the leest for to-day seer!, handing him the operations notes with a delicate brown hand. He studied them for a few moments, humming and humphing.

Ah, the usual, two caesareans and the general mixture of D & C’s’, he looked up from the list raising his eyebrows, OK for to-night?

She put a smiling finger to her lips and nodded.

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Mansour Ali Al Khathani, the corpulent Hospital Director, belched, his jowls shuddering slightly, while his Saudi staff regarded him adoringly.

Allah has blest you with a good breakfast, beamed Abdul Rahman, the Stores Superintendent, who also doubled up as the religious leader, the Matawah, responsible for keeping the Arabs in line. His income was also supplemented as the local representative of the Secret Police.

The Kingdom had an amazing number of Police forces, the Royals paranoid over security at every level.

The Traffic Police cruised around in their green Chevrolets making life difficult and at times impossible for the motorist. They operated on the class system, Saudis at the top, followed by Americans lower down, then Europeans, followed by Pakistanis and Indians, Filipinos, Koreans and Thais in descending order.

The Arabs had their own hierarchy: Egyptians, Peninsular Arabs, Palestinians and at the bottom of the ladder the ever resourceful Yemenis! A proud and shrewd people allowed to work in the Kingdom as they wished, until recently.

If you were a Saudi, then you could do no wrong, such as running into a stationary vehicle driven by a sub species, say a Filipino. This would result in the Filipino being charged with the responsibility for the accident, and having to find the money to pay for the repairs, or more often having to spend an indeterminate time in prison. The latter was normally the case, as almost all their paltry wages were repatriated to the Philippines to support their needy families. The loss of the wage earner, even for a short time could bring disaster.

The Kingdom of course being the Guardians of Islam, very little official crime was ever admitted, but in reality, every crime in the book was committed. The Security Police slithered around in Blue Chevrolets, their main task to solve crime, successful only when the unfortunate victim was caught red handed or confessed to his sins under extreme duress.

The Military Police concerned themselves with all things military, like the assassination of rebellious officers by herding them out of the back of a C140 transport aircraft while flying over the Empty Quarter, a desert wilderness in the South West extending over thousands of square miles.

Saudi Arabia was unique in having one other police force, the largest of all, the Religious Police force to ensure that the faithful remained faithful. Conspicuous in their red Land cruisers with loudspeakers mounted on the roof, the Police were able to drive over the most difficult terrain diligent in their search of religious miscreants. At ‘Salah’, the compulsory prayer time, the loudspeakers harangued the shopkeepers to close their shops immediately if not sooner. The ‘Matawah’, the religious leader, protected by two uniformed and armed police would march through the markets and souks wielding a stick freely on the backs, legs and heads of those who were not quick enough to comply. Beating women whose dress they considered to be indiscreet, an ankle showing, for example, was enjoyed with a malevolent religious fervour.

And lastly, the Secret Police, dark, devious and dangerous, doing their dastardly deeds in secret. They monitored and wrought retribution on those caught thought to be causing unrest in the political and extreme religious factions.

As one cynic put it laconically, You could disappear out here without a trace, and many people very often did just that.

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At the ‘Accident & Emergency’ department, Felicity Duncan-Smythe, blond, blue eyed, peaches and cream complexion, with a figure that had the desert dogs howling, the absolute epitome of the popular image of an aristocratic English girl, checked her make up for the umpteenth time. Finally satisfied, she turned to her staff, principally Filipinos and Indian nurses, and gave them a dazzling smile.

Everything under control?.

Yes, seester!, they all dutifully chorused.

Right, well you wont need me for a while, regarding them with affection. She looked at the diamond Rolex watch on her slim wrist, I’ll be in the staff room if you need me.

Yes seester!, they sang again, as she trotted away on her high heeled shoes, strictly forbidden under hospital rules. The fat Egyptian doctor on duty, Mohammed Fauzi from the back streets of Cairo, drooled after her oscillating retreating figure, the bulge in the front of his trousers quite noticeable.

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The Pharmacist Bob Wimpole studied his petty point critically in his office. Tell me Anis, he simpered at the young handsome Indian assistant, Do you think these colours match my skin tones, mmmh? and placed his hand on his thigh.

Anis smiled out of deep liquid brown eyes and sighed, Ett ees the vurk of a masteer, sahib!

Oh goody!, said the Wimp wriggling with pleasure.

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Vair are those results I asked for an hour ago!, screamed Erich Von Schweitzer, the Consultant Pathologist, Zay should have been on my desk at 8.00 this morning, looking pointedly at his watch. The Egyptian laboratory technician, shivered in his shoes, turning a whiter shade of grey, his sphincter muscle vibrating uncontrollably.

It is now precisely five past eight, vair are zay!, thumping the desk. Ahmed’s sphincter relaxed a fraction under the rapidly building pressure and a stench filled the office.

Get out!!, screamed Von Schweitzer, Get out you schweinhund!, grabbing a handkerchief and stuffing it into his nose.

He looked imploringly at the ceiling, Gott in Himmel, give me strength and stormed out of his office to get some badly needed fresh air.

The ten other technicians bent religiously to their tasks, shoulders heaving.

Fen I get back, those results had better be on my desk!, he shouted over his shoulder and headed off in the direction of the Staff room.

Paddy Macdowell, Chief Engineer for the Hospital, puffed happily at his cigarette, the fifth of that day clutching in his grimy hand a large mug of coffee, laced with four spoons of sugar,.

Felicity me darlin’, sure the angels smiled on you when you were born, and laughed placing a friendly hand on her knee.

Paddy!, you old rogue, you are incorrigible!,

No, encouragable, that’s what!, and roared with laughter.

The door burst open at that precise moment with such violence that Felicity spilled her coffee, as Von Schweitzer strode in face like thunder.

How is Stalag 17, this mornin’, me boyo?, enjoined Paddy, wreathed in smiles, not fazed in the slightest. Von Schweitzer glowered at him.

Doctor Von Schweitzer to you! he growled menacingly, but Paddy ignored the jibe.

Park your arse over there, and have some coffee.

Von Schweitzer slumped into a chair and put his head in his hands.

Zis hospital vill be the death of me! he exclaimed, pouring his coffee.

Be Jasus! it’s been the death of a lot of people in here! chortled Paddy, always prepared to look on the bright side of any situation.

When will the new Administrator arrive? said Felicity, stirring her coffee idly, deftly switching the conversation onto a safer subject. Von Schweitzer glanced at his watch. He should be here anytime, Paddy looked soulfully up at the ceiling adding, And God help him, the poor ignorant bastard.

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Back at the Nemesis flats, Steve rolled over in bed and groaned. The room was stiflingly hot as the sun seared in through the window. He glanced at his watch.

Nine o’clock !!, and sat up, his head throbbing. Staggering over to the controls of the air conditioning, he jiggles the switches - nothing!

Bastard!!, he swore under his breath, and grabbed a grubby towel left by the last unfortunate. In the toilet a cockroach was vainly trying to escape from the cracked, stained shower bowl.

Shee-it!!, and belted it with a shoe.

‘Christ!, what a God forsaken hole!!’, he thought, as a muddy brown trickle of water oozed out of the shower head.

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The taxi weaved alarmingly through the traffic as the Yemeni driver kept up a non stop conversation, looking backwards all the time to see the reaction of his comments. He was suitably impressed, as Steves eyes were popping out of their sockets in horror.

I am from Sa’ana in the Yemen, I have seven brothers and six sisters. We all like Americans, especially Pepsi....

Steve groaned as the taxi thundered through down town Jeddah, only to be amazed at the various objects surmounting the various roundabouts as they shot through them at breakneck speed. All were adorned with Avant garde sculptures ranging from massive old gear wheels rescued from construction tips, to coastguard cutters sailing in the wide blue yonder going nowhere, one, a massive globe of the world, blocking any view of oncoming traffic.

All, he gathered from the vociferous Yemeni, provided by grateful contractors who had made obscene fortunes ripping off the Saudis.

They finally turned into the gates of theMasalamah hospital, a four storey affair. Certainly at first impression, looked modern and efficient.However like many things in this life, Steve soon found out this was only skin deep.

A young Saudi guard sauntered over to the taxi with a weeks growth of beard on his face. His sweat stained shirt smelled and looked about the same age. A cigarette slotted in the corner of his mouth as he muttered something unintelligible in Arabic to the driver who immediately gesticulated wildly, and a heated discussion followed. Finally the guard waved them on with nicotine stained fingers.

They found a parking spot amongst the myriad of Japanese cars, occasionally embellished with a darkened window Mercedes or Cadiallac. Already sweating in his lightweight suit, Steve grabbed his briefcase, paid off the taxi and stood surveying the hospital, chewing on his inevitable wag of gum.

In a fit of jet lagged overconfidence, he spread his arms wide, and looking up at the sky announced to two moth eaten pigeons, Ah am gonna make this heah hospital the finest in the ho-al of Sodee Arabia!!, and with that impossible thought firmly implanted in his mind he strode over to the Hospital entrance.

Steve Lessinger stood six feet four inches in his bare feet, wore size nine Texan shoes. Lean and tanned by the perpetual sun in California, dark hair, grey eyes and ensured that his teeth flashed when he smiled, exhibiting thirty thousand dollars of investment in a San Diego dentist. Steve made damn sure he smiled often, he had paid handsomely for it. His ever expanding string of female admirers appreciated it also. That was until they knew him better.

Now thirty seven years on, and six wives later, three in the States with others spread liberally throughout the Far East. Where some of them still fondly imagined that they were still married to him. Unfortunately in reality they had not seen their errant husband for some considerable time. Amazingly enough Steve considered himself to be single and therefore free to explore further new pastures. And a new hospital provided just that. Born a perpetual optimist Steve still believed in the illusory idea of true love. Hollywood films in his youth had made a lasting impression on his libido. He always felt a longing for a woman, either to hire on occasions, or on a semi permanent basis notionally called marriage.

In Vietnam he had completed three tours for the U.S. Corps of Marines, and quickly rose in the officer ranks as an audacious if somewhat crazy commander. Finally as Lieutenant Colonel his odd behaviour was drawn to the attention of the CIA, who considered him a perfect candidate to occasionally carry out assignments for them in a crazy world full of crazy people. He was technically still on the active list, but as far as the CIA was concerned he had never retired.

On his first tour in Vietnam he discovered LBFM’s, as he fondly called them, Little Brown Fucking Machines, the delicious and tiny tantalising nubile women of the Far East, and this hospital should have its fair share. He drooled slightly at the salacious thought.

Now retired, his last tour had ended with a rather severe dose of gonorrhoea, a virulent strain he had contracted during his first week on duty.

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The office of Mansour Ali Al Khathani the Hospital Director was crowded with the usual early morning layabouts, sipping the ubiquitous sweet Arab mint flavoured tea in miniature glass cups, alternatively scratching their crotches and hawking politely.

Steve knocked at the door and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder this time. Still no response. Finally he grabbed the handle and walked in and was hit by a wall of cacophony. All the Arabs were talking animatedly at the same time, while not listening to a single word of his neighbour.

Mansour had the telephone stuck against one ear and his hand jammed against another, jabbering away in the mouthpiece.

Steve was totally ignored. After five minutes Mansour put down the telephone and was immediately assailed by seven Arabs yelling and demanding immediate attention.

Steve waved his arm ineffectively in a vain attempt to attract Mansour’s attention but he knew deep inside he was wasting his time. Walking out of the office, leaving the bedlam behind he saw a white face walk by.

Excuse me!.

Yes cobber, what can I do for you?, smiled Sheila, the Australian secretary. Sheila known as ‘Sheelah’, was from Sydney, tall, tanned, dark auburn hair, a ready smile and a mind of cast iron.

She held the clipboard she was carrying defensively against her ample bosom. Mainly as Steve found out later, to protect herself against the depredations of the Arab male who thought that according to the Holy Koran, all white women were prostitutes. No doubt reinforced by their frequent visits to the slime pits of Europe. In their minds all white women were ‘fair game’, well that is what was preached by the Matawah, and what Arab in his tiny right mind would disbelieve a Matawah!?

Look, I’ve just arrived, said Steve, giving one of his soon to be famous in the hospital, flashing smiles. Sheila felt that she should have put on her dark glasses then realisation dawned on her face.

You must be the new Administrator!, Gee welcome!!, and gave Steve her hand.

Why thank you ma’am, he ingratiated, holding on uneccessarily.

Could I have my hand back please.

Oh, sure sorree, look I am supposed to report to the Director but it’s bloody near impossible to get his attention.

Sheila chuckled, Don’t worry, follow me over to the Staff room and have a coffee, I’ll phone him from there and let him know you have arrived.

Thanks a lot said Steve, relieved that situation now appeared to be getting under control.

Von Schweitzer had left in high dudgeon, still smarting at Paddy’s remarks. Paddy and Felicity were in deep conversation and looked up as Steve walked in.

I don’t believe it!, exclaimed Steve recognising Paddy from the