Professor Christopher Bulstrode is busy dismantling any notion of his heroic
qualities. He insists that his last fantasy of derring-do evaporated in the
heat of Afghanistan when what he thought were two suicide bombers landed
spreadeagled at his feet.
Stunned by gunfire that had knocked the men - innocent and unhurt, as it
transpired - from their moped at a roadblock, surrounded by soldiers half
his age, he offers: “I told myself, ‘Bulstrode, you’re facing the wrong way.
You haven’t got a clue what’s going on. You’re never going to be Bruce
Willis’.”
Possibly so, but how many other 56-year-old consultant surgeons and, hitherto,
committed pacifists would volunteer as an army medic to fight off
middle-aged ennui? He now holds the record as the oldest man to have passed
officer training at Sandhurst.
Professor Bulstrode served in the field hospital at Camp Bastion, the British
base in Helmand province. He returned from Afghanistan in the spring after
twice extending his tour of duty to nine months, but until now has preferred
not to talk about his experience. “I was so blurred by what I’d seen and
done and the process of adjustment back to civilian life that I needed time
to assimilate it all.
“I’d been sleeping in a tent with seven other men. My possessions were boiled
down to absolute essentials: what could be contained in a rucksack and four
canvas shelves. There are plenty of things I don’t miss about the Army, like
the staggering physical weight of full combat gear and the gut-churning
responsibility of going out on patrol, but I did savour the absolute
simplicity of the life.
“I had told myself in the past, as someone who went on peace marches, that
soldiers were stupid and unreasoning. In fact, I liked and admired many of
the men and women I met. They’re a team of hugely loyal, talented, committed
individuals who are passionate about their job.”
An Oxford professor of orthopaedics, he enjoys his work and appreciates its
privileges but was bored by the creeping tedium of meetings. He was
complaining at home one night about being stuck in a rut when his partner of
eight years, Victoria Hunt, snapped.
“She turned to me and said, ‘Actually, you are getting a bit pompous and dull.
If you don’t do something now you’ll just freewheel into retirement and
oblivion.’ Basically she dared me to offer the Army my services, and I find
dares irresistible.”
If she understood his need for action, his three children, aged 25, 23 and 19,
by his former wife were initially less supportive. His middle son was said
to be “incandescent” that his father was putting himself in danger. “He’s
more relaxed about it now,” Professor Bulstrode said.
When he phoned the Army to offer his services as a trauma surgeon the response
was positive, until he gave his age. After the sniggering at the other end
of the line subsided, he persuaded them that he was serious and was told to
report to the Territorials.
“To say it was a shock to the system is something of an understatement. The
Army breaks you down, to build you up again. There was a point, when I was
cold and tired and very, very angry at being shouted at by some 20-something
NCO after a horrendous training exercise that I thought, ‘I’m a professor.
People don’t speak to me like that!’ But, of course, to him I was just an
elderly new recruit.”
It required similar humility to work as a junior “front-door doctor”,
assessing injuries at Camp Bastion for three months. “If I ever felt it was
beneath my dignity, I’d slap myself on the wrist and get on with it.
Actually, the efficiency of the place and the levels of equipment were
astonishingly high, so some of the frustrations of working in the NHS were
removed.
“But the injuries suffered by these young men were dreadful: faces destroyed;
limbs blasted off. Last Christmas Eve, one of the guys came in with both
legs and an arm missing. He had a 20-month-old daughter at home. We got him
stabilised and I was just preparing to report to the next doctor when he
started swearing and shouting. I rushed to him and said, ‘What is it? Are
you in pain?’ And he said, ‘No. I’ve just realised that I spent £120 on some
Nike trainers and I haven’t got any legs, have I?’ That joke indicates the
level of bravery.”
British casualties are taken to the hospital by helicopter, treated and
transferred, anaesthetised, to Birmingham within six hours on an aircraft
fitted as an intensive care unit. Afghans had no such option and their
plight raised uncomfortable ethical issues. Only those hurt as a result of
incidents involving the British were supposed to be treated.
The professor recalls a 20-year-old soldier with the Afghan National Army, who
was shot through the spine. “I could see straight away that it was hopeless.
He was paraplegic and never going to get better - and this in a country with
no spinal injuries service, rehabilitation or aftercare.
“We should have let him go but it’s the heat of the moment and someone says,
‘We can save him!’ So we fix him up and remove the bullet, and then what? He
can’t go back to Britain. He’s dead: it’s just a question of whether it
happens now, or slowly in the future from septic bed sores. We gave him
antibiotics for the inevitable chest infection and we kept him alive for six
weeks, holding a bed in an intensive care unit, by which time everyone was
tremendously fond of him and he’d started to learn English. Eventually we
had no choice but to let him go and it was heartbreaking.”
Professor Bulstrode remembers a girl with facial burns. Her parents at first
refused to take her back because she was scarred and therefore
unmarriageable. He believes that they killed her. “The culture is utterly
different and you try very hard not to judge but the treatment of women, up
to 25 per cent of whom die in childbirth, who are isolated in an essentially
feudal society, was hard to stomach. There are so very many problems; a
quarter of children under the age of 5 also die. The people are exhausted by
war and occupation.”
Instead of returning to his home in Stanton St John, near Oxford, once his
three months at Camp Bastion were up, he was invited to stay for a further
six months, working for the Department for International Development. He
acted during that time as a medical adviser to Bost hospital in Lashkar Gah.
“There was huge satisfaction in trying to improve the lives of ordinary
Afghans. We managed to get 10,000 mosquito nets, impregnated with
insecticide, distributed with the help of typical army can-do efficiency.
That simple thing alone dramatically cuts mortality. We nearly managed to
get into the primary schools to encourage the children to take ownership of
and maintain their own wells but we were told that the Taleban would take
out the schools if we did. You are forced to conclude there is only so much
you can do.”
And yet Professor Bulstrode would like to return. “I was sort of hoping that
the Army would ask me,” he said. “If they did, I’d be out there like a shot.
I do realise, however, that Oxford University might not have a job for me
when I get back.”
His quest for new challenges has yet to be satisfied. A few days ago,
Professor Bulstrode embarked on a four-week posting as doctor to tourists
and explorers - in Antarctica.
