Personal View: Caught on the wrong foot
Authors: T E Ormerod
Journal: BMJ (2003)

After I qualified in 1947 and had done my two house jobs I was called for national service, being previously deferred while at medical school. I was posted to Bovington Camp in Dorset, and so started two years of medical stagnation. After the hectic year in hospital it was a great comedown to be treating minor ailments of fit young men, half of them anxious to avoid guard duties.

Each month the War Office sent us a questionnaire asking about the numbers of infectious diseases and deaths, the condition of the swimming pool, morale, and so on. The last question asked about research, and every month we answered “None.”


The plates were covered and overflowing with fungus growths of all shades and shapes


One of our main duties was to examine soldiers returning from the Far East and certify them fit before they were demobbed. Most were indeed fit, except that they all had athlete's foot. One week we were sent an advertisement for Asterol cream that claimed a revolution in the treatment of Tinea pedis and offering samples. I took up the offer, and at the end of the month when the questionnaire came I entered “Research: comparison of Asterol cream and Whitfield's ointment in the treatment of Tinea pedis in troops returning from duty in the Far East.” This was a bit premature, as we had not yet set up the programme. I discussed it with the sergeant and made sure we had plenty of Whitfield's ointment, our standard treatment.

“We will treat every alternate case we get, the one with Asterol and the other with Whitfield's, and bring them back after two weeks,” I said. The sergeant asked, “How will we know that they are all the same fungus?” I had not thought of that. I rang the lab at the hospital in Dorchester. “That's easy,” the pathologist said. “Get a scrape on a wire, stick the end in proof alcohol to kill the bacteria and swipe it on an agar plate. Incubate it at room temperature in the dark and you should be able to identify the particular fungus macroscopically in about two weeks. I will send you out some agar dishes.”

For about three weeks it all worked well. We had treated about 20 cases and had 20 pots in the cupboard incubating. Several things then happened that took our eyes off the ball. For one thing, no more soldiers were coming back from the Far East to be demobbed, and then when one turned up he had already treated his feet and had to be excluded. And then what with sailing in Poole Harbour and an unexpected 10 days' leave the research was put on the back burner. Two months later I was finishing the sick parade when the phone rang. “Major Bates here from the War Office. Look here, Ormerod, the brigadier is very interested in your research. We must have your report by next week. Got that? By next week.”

“Ah. I am afraid that it is not yet finalised.”

“Never mind, send what you've got. The brigadier is most keen to have it in the Army Report. Now get to it.”

“Well, it's all very well to...” But I was talking to myself: the line was dead.

I told the sergeant the bad news. “We had better mug up some figures and send some sort of report,” I said. “Have you looked in the cupboard recently?” What a shock. The plates were covered and overflowing with fungus growths of all shades and shapes. One of the plates had a lovely round growth of fungus with a dimple in the centre. “This one must be something,” I told the sergeant. “Send it to the lab for identification.”

While we waited for the lab report I got busy with the few data we had. I was keen not to give false information, and in all honesty I was able to conclude that the findings were inconclusive. I did intend to include all about the taking of specimens and the incubation and identification, but when we got the lab's report to say that the specimen was penicillin and a contaminant I decided to leave that bit out. We sent in the report, and nothing happened. For two months.

One morning our door swung open, and the room was suddenly filled with a brigadier, two majors, and our own commanding officer. “Which one is Ormerod?” asked the brigadier, almost shouting. I jumped up. “Me, sir. It is I,” I answered oddly, nervously assuming that I was about to be carted off to be courtmartialled. The brigadier set off again: “Have read your report, Ormerod. Very interesting. Printed in the Army Review. Seen a copy?”

“No, sir.”

“Send him a copy, Crowther,” he said, turning to the left hand major. “You know, Ormerod, yours was the only research done in the British army this year!”

“Right, sir.”

“You are national service. Are you staying on for a short time commission?”

“No sir, I'm afraid not.”

“Pity,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “We could do with more men like you in the army!”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir”

And with that he swept out.