St Theresa’s Hospital, Kowloon City
My indisposition on the evacuation flight for the Emperor Bao Dai developed in intensity and on 26 April 1947 I collapsed. Dr Tony Dawson-Grove diagnosed it as typhoid fever and had me admitted to St Theresa’s Hospital, Kowloon City. Through my delirium I could hear him advising my wife Joyce against taking me there in a bone-shaking Army ambulance. He recommended a taxi that would be cheaper and smoother.
Nine weeks of almost complete unconsciousness followed, with almost continuous delirium. I imagined myself a Knight of the Realm and demanded visitors kneel in my presence. To the relief of my doctor I began to make a slow recovery. As a side effect, my toes had collapsed and I developed so-called electric feet, whose official designation is peripheral neuritis. Whatever its name it was absolute agony and even the gentle pressure of a bed sheet produced a scream.
At this time I was far from compos men tis but I knew enough to dread the arrival of a particular amah. She would sidle into my room and tweak those pinkies. I found myself screaming in agony even before she pinched them. That seemed to please her more than the final tweak. The commotion would bring the Nursing Director Sister Patrick on the run, but the amah, a cunning mover, would be well away, and I could never convince Sister Patrick that one of her girls was capable of such a dastardly deed. One day I made preparations, bending my knees and getting my toes to the right-hand edge of the bed, a move that took time and caused considerable pain. My tormentor came around the bed for a better go at them and as she slowly reached out swung and made contact with her chin. I can still see her disappearing through those swing doors. The amah, with black skirt up around her armpits and ghastly bloomers displayed began to scream that I had assaulted her. Sister Patrick arrived in a flurry of indignant wrath and demanded I explain my uncouth behaviour. Between groans I convinced Sister Patrick I was far too weak to have done the alleged villainous deed. It seemed to me that Sister Patrick accepted my version too easily - had she heard whispers? Whatever the reason the nauseating amah never came near me again.
My electric feet stayed with me for several years and I had to treat them with great care. A major hazard was showering in outport bathtubs for I had to stabilise myself by sitting on the bath’s edge. This amused the child in Dick Hunt who was then on his meteoric rise, so I couldn’t give him the slightest inkling that my health was in doubt. Probably, the understanding attitude of Roy Farrell and Syd de Kantzow that preserved my job caused him to tread lightly. Naturally he knew that they had paid all my bills, and for a new company, accountable for every penny, it was no small gesture. I remain forever grateful for the way they stood by me.
Nine weeks of almost complete unconsciousness followed, with almost continuous delirium. I imagined myself a Knight of the Realm and demanded visitors kneel in my presence. To the relief of my doctor I began to make a slow recovery. As a side effect, my toes had collapsed and I developed so-called electric feet, whose official designation is peripheral neuritis. Whatever its name it was absolute agony and even the gentle pressure of a bed sheet produced a scream.
At this time I was far from compos men tis but I knew enough to dread the arrival of a particular amah. She would sidle into my room and tweak those pinkies. I found myself screaming in agony even before she pinched them. That seemed to please her more than the final tweak. The commotion would bring the Nursing Director Sister Patrick on the run, but the amah, a cunning mover, would be well away, and I could never convince Sister Patrick that one of her girls was capable of such a dastardly deed. One day I made preparations, bending my knees and getting my toes to the right-hand edge of the bed, a move that took time and caused considerable pain. My tormentor came around the bed for a better go at them and as she slowly reached out swung and made contact with her chin. I can still see her disappearing through those swing doors. The amah, with black skirt up around her armpits and ghastly bloomers displayed began to scream that I had assaulted her. Sister Patrick arrived in a flurry of indignant wrath and demanded I explain my uncouth behaviour. Between groans I convinced Sister Patrick I was far too weak to have done the alleged villainous deed. It seemed to me that Sister Patrick accepted my version too easily - had she heard whispers? Whatever the reason the nauseating amah never came near me again.
My electric feet stayed with me for several years and I had to treat them with great care. A major hazard was showering in outport bathtubs for I had to stabilise myself by sitting on the bath’s edge. This amused the child in Dick Hunt who was then on his meteoric rise, so I couldn’t give him the slightest inkling that my health was in doubt. Probably, the understanding attitude of Roy Farrell and Syd de Kantzow that preserved my job caused him to tread lightly. Naturally he knew that they had paid all my bills, and for a new company, accountable for every penny, it was no small gesture. I remain forever grateful for the way they stood by me.
For a time I became something of a thinker, or perhaps brooder might describe it best. Convalescence guided my thoughts into channels deeper than usual. I’m not deeply religious but, realising I need an Interceder from on high, I have accepted God without question. I feel no embarrassment when I record that at times I have been terrified, mainly by the contrary whims of the weather, and regard prayer as having been my salvation on numerous occasions.
My thoughts were morbid to a degree when I considered the many situations that an accomplished aviator could not handle even with a peerless knowledge of emergency procedures.
As an example; an uncontrolled engine fire at 30,000 feet on a stormy night 20 minutes from land. Emergency descents from these altitudes are a recurrent requirement of training and one can get to sea level quickly. Yet, by this time fire may have spread to the wing spar, and the fuel carried there! In the given weather conditions the sea will be rough, so it seems likely even a copy book ditching will result in loss of life with only luck determining the extent.
With such negative thoughts I developed an interest in the arcane, and spent more money than I could afford to explore it. I became a Rosicrucian, contributed to a magazine called Prediction and acquired some beautiful books. One was J.C. Street’s The Hidden Way Across the Threshold. I still enjoy reading it; his name and the title seem such a providential mating. I read with avid interest books on palmistry, analysed my dreams, soaked up the prediction of the great Cheiro, and sent prints of my palmsand even my feet for analysis. Most bizarre of all I sent for summaries of my past and future lives on this earth.
This was to Abdurahman, an Indian gentleman who operated from 41 Pembridge Road, London. Had I been less naive I might have realised this was a questionable address where dwelt the occult. My sage proclaimed himself a specialist in Oriental psycho-astrology, and although he dealt with matters not of this world, he put a high earthly value on his service. In writing, he assured me that my previous incarnations took place in Italy, England, Greece, India, Egypt, Tibet and Peru, but the one I liked best had me inhabiting the ancient Ur of the Chaldees during the 12th century B.C. Then, I was tall and slender, with high cheekbones, large beautiful black eyes, long thin neck, long arms and fingers, a lightly sun tanned shining complexion, aristocratic beautiful facial features and physical excellence - and best of all - I was female. I guess I had complete control of the studs of that era! Of course, not one of those glorious adjectives applies to my current incarnation! Yet, when one ponders that time range of 12th century B.C. one realises that beauty is not only skin deep but of moments transient.
If I sound somewhat derisive of my sage it is out of embarrassment. Anybody that extracts payment for that type of nebulous service needs no protection. His clients need it more, and I had become one of the most gullible of men and a thorough pain in the arse.
Another startling development dates from my recovery. Where I had been a contented and happily married man, rarely looking at another woman and lusting after none of them, I now found myself eager to make conquests at every opportunity. Joyce and I began the slow drift towards the eventual dissolution of our marriage, a dissolution not legalised for many years. This breakdown of our nuptial relationship was entirely my fault. To the best of my knowledge Joyce remained true to her vows until the day she died. She, like any woman who trusted herself to my care, was invariably far too good for me!
My thoughts were morbid to a degree when I considered the many situations that an accomplished aviator could not handle even with a peerless knowledge of emergency procedures.
As an example; an uncontrolled engine fire at 30,000 feet on a stormy night 20 minutes from land. Emergency descents from these altitudes are a recurrent requirement of training and one can get to sea level quickly. Yet, by this time fire may have spread to the wing spar, and the fuel carried there! In the given weather conditions the sea will be rough, so it seems likely even a copy book ditching will result in loss of life with only luck determining the extent.
With such negative thoughts I developed an interest in the arcane, and spent more money than I could afford to explore it. I became a Rosicrucian, contributed to a magazine called Prediction and acquired some beautiful books. One was J.C. Street’s The Hidden Way Across the Threshold. I still enjoy reading it; his name and the title seem such a providential mating. I read with avid interest books on palmistry, analysed my dreams, soaked up the prediction of the great Cheiro, and sent prints of my palmsand even my feet for analysis. Most bizarre of all I sent for summaries of my past and future lives on this earth.
This was to Abdurahman, an Indian gentleman who operated from 41 Pembridge Road, London. Had I been less naive I might have realised this was a questionable address where dwelt the occult. My sage proclaimed himself a specialist in Oriental psycho-astrology, and although he dealt with matters not of this world, he put a high earthly value on his service. In writing, he assured me that my previous incarnations took place in Italy, England, Greece, India, Egypt, Tibet and Peru, but the one I liked best had me inhabiting the ancient Ur of the Chaldees during the 12th century B.C. Then, I was tall and slender, with high cheekbones, large beautiful black eyes, long thin neck, long arms and fingers, a lightly sun tanned shining complexion, aristocratic beautiful facial features and physical excellence - and best of all - I was female. I guess I had complete control of the studs of that era! Of course, not one of those glorious adjectives applies to my current incarnation! Yet, when one ponders that time range of 12th century B.C. one realises that beauty is not only skin deep but of moments transient.
If I sound somewhat derisive of my sage it is out of embarrassment. Anybody that extracts payment for that type of nebulous service needs no protection. His clients need it more, and I had become one of the most gullible of men and a thorough pain in the arse.
Another startling development dates from my recovery. Where I had been a contented and happily married man, rarely looking at another woman and lusting after none of them, I now found myself eager to make conquests at every opportunity. Joyce and I began the slow drift towards the eventual dissolution of our marriage, a dissolution not legalised for many years. This breakdown of our nuptial relationship was entirely my fault. To the best of my knowledge Joyce remained true to her vows until the day she died. She, like any woman who trusted herself to my care, was invariably far too good for me!
Recovery
After a brief convalescence in Australia I managed to convince the department’s medical examiner, Dr. Hood-Stobo, that I felt in top form even though my stocky frame had shed 52 pounds. 13 October 1947 found me at the Royal Aero Club of New South Wales now operating from Bankstown. My old pal, Keith Robey, now a flying instructor, checked my spin recovery technique and circuits and bumps. After 30 minutes of rounding out too high he grunted that it seemed counterproductive to flog a dead horse and sent me off to accumulate the five hours solo needed to renew my licence. His parting words of encouragement gave me the distinct impression that my personal welfare was secondary to his beautiful Tiger Moth registered VH-BGK. I flew to the training area where the birds abandoned the area and the rabbits stayed in their warrens. My first slow roll was almost a disaster but survival brought an improvement. The more enterprising birds returned and an occasional rabbit, obviously famished, ventured out. In the course of the day I returned for refuelling but Keith always seemed otherwise engaged. As evening approached I presented him with my logbook. He endorsed it with a shaking hand and personally escorted me to my car. I pondered that perhaps we were not as close as I had assumed!
Four days later I was strapped into the co-pilot’s seat of Cathay’s C47 VR-HDJ doing the instrument approach into Cloncurry. The next was at Darwin followed by Koepang, Surabaya, Singapore, Bangkok, and on 22 October our wheels skimmed the tarmac of Kai Tak and I was home!
Four days later I was strapped into the co-pilot’s seat of Cathay’s C47 VR-HDJ doing the instrument approach into Cloncurry. The next was at Darwin followed by Koepang, Surabaya, Singapore, Bangkok, and on 22 October our wheels skimmed the tarmac of Kai Tak and I was home!
Keith Robey shows
how to do it!
Chic Recovering from Typhoid Fever.
1/4/47 taken from Mody Guest House - Mody Road where I was staying before I contracted Typhoid fever on 28/4/47. Looking across Chatham Road Kowloon Canton railway towards HK Whampoa docks.
Note: Rickshaws across Chatham Road.
15/8/47 - Became sick 28/4/47, Admitted to hospital 29/4/47, Probably in hospital 3.5 to 4 months.
Arrived in Australia for sick leave convalescence 9/9/47.
This photo probably taken middle of August.
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15/8/47 - La Salle College Boundary Street. Taken from my room in St Theresa's Hospital 327 Prince Edward Road Kowloon looking N.W.
15/8/47 - Chic shaving just after recovering from Typhoid fever - St Theresa's Hospital 327 Prince Edward Road Kowloon.
Still too weak to work properly.
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Australian Oriental Line
Commonwealth Government document required when Chic left Australia for Hong Kong following his recouperation from typhoid fever.
Australian Oriental Line
Commonwealth Government Document - 1947
