Category Archives: Arts

Arts, Books, History

Book Review: The Guinea Pig Club

REVIEW

IN the summer of 1940, during the early stages of the Battle of Britain, 21-year-old Geoffrey Page’s Hawker Hurricane was hit by several stray bullets from a German bomber. The gas tank behind the plane’s engine exploded and turned the cockpit into a blazing inferno.

“Fear became blind terror,” he recalled, “then agonised horror as the bare skin of my hands gripping the throttle and control column shrivelled up like burnt parchment under the intensity of the blast furnace temperature.

“Screaming at the top of my voice, I threw my head back to keep it away from the searing flames.”

With instinctiveness, Page’s tortured right hand groped for the safety harness and it was only as his parachute descended towards the sea that he noticed: “The colour of my burned flesh was so loathsome that I wanted to vomit. But there was too much to attend to.

“The coastline at Margate was just discernible six to ten miles away. Ten thousand feet below me lay the deserted sea . . . I began to laugh. The force of the exploding gas tank had blown every vestige of clothing off my thighs downwards, including one shoe.”

After Page hit the water, pieces of his flesh flaked off and floated away. His blood ebbed into the brine. His pain worsened after he had been rescued by a British merchant ship and he felt “acute misery” as “the salt dried about my face injuries and the contracting strap of the flying helmet cut into the raw surface of my chin.

“Buckle and leather had welded into one solid mass, preventing removal of the headgear.”

On arrival at the RAF’s main hospital in Halton, Page looked away as the medics injected morphine and, in doing so, caught sight of his reflection in the mirrors of the overhanging light.

“My last conscious memory was of seeing the hideous mass of swollen, burnt flesh that had once been a face.”

 

BUT Page was lucky. Before World War II, most serious burn victims died within days from a particularly virulent form of shock or unchecked infection. They were not even admitted to teaching hospitals for fear the hopelessness of their plight would dent the young medics’ morale.

But, by 1940, a series of clinical breakthroughs in the treatment of both burn shock and infection prevention saw a surge in the number of men surviving long enough to require the services of the four plastic surgeons then practising in the UK.

Chief among them was the extraordinary Archibald McIndoe, who treated casualties such as Page at a special hospital in East Grinstead. To be played by Richard E. Grant in a biopic scheduled for release this year, New Zealand-born McIndoe was not only a brilliant and innovative surgeon, but a hugely compassionate – and rather eccentric – character who never lost sight of the human beings within the battered bodies that he repaired.

McIndoe was ahead of the game in helping these men find comradeship. He often told jokes and encouraged his nurses to serve beer on the wards and by taking the time to chat. His 649 RAF patients were equal partners in their own treatment, invited to view operations, give honest feedback and support each other as part of a “Guinea Pig Club” (GPC), who continued to meet right up until 2007.

In this updated edition of her short and tender account of the GPC, Emily Mayhew reminds us that World War II changed Britain’s view of heroism.

Before 1939, we celebrated great battlefield victories. After 1939, we learned to celebrate the quiet, gruelling valour of those who pushed on with civilian life, despite the horrors they had seen and the horror they saw in the eyes of those shocked by their burned bodies.

“Those first sorties into the world outside the hospital were painful,” remembered Bill Simpson. “Without hands, for instance, it was embarrassing to have someone pouring beer down your throat, wiping your mouth, blowing your nose, handling your money. It was even more embarrassing to have to make for the gentlemen’s cloakroom in pairs.”

“Before 1940,” writes Mayhew, “the Armed Forces contained their most disfigured casualties away from the public gaze.”

However, Archibald McIndoe changed that: he made sure that his patients were treated with warmth and dignity by the people of East Grinstead.

His Guinea Pigs were served in cafes, invited to dances and billeted in local houses.

The community was considered so therapeutic that patients were actively discouraged from going home sooner than necessary.

McIndoe fought, too, for the employment rights of his patients. Prior to the war, the convalescent period was restricted to 90 days with full pay, after which the patient had to return to active service or leave the RAF.

This rule was quickly scrapped and, eventually, airmen undergoing plastic surgery remained on full pay until the end of their treatment.

McIndoe also refused to give his patients the regulation Convalescent Blue uniforms, encouraging them to dress in regular uniform in acknowledgement of the battle that they were still fighting.

Many Guinea Pigs did return to active service – Geoffrey page among them. After two years of treatment, he headed back into combat, determined to shoot down an enemy plane for every one of his 15 major operations.

At his funeral in August 2000, Air Chief Marshal Sir Christopher Foxlee-Norris declared: “Even by the Battle of Britain standards, he was the bravest of the brave.”

– The Guinea Pig Club, by Emily Mayhew, is published by Greenhill for £17.99, 240pp

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Arts, History, Philosophy

(Philosophy): Machiavelli on Religion and Faith

‘THE PRINCE’

Machiavelli, (1469-1527): ‘God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us.’

MACHIAVELLI was an Italian philosopher, politician and historian, who is regarded as the father of political science and of philosophical idealism. Prior to Machiavelli, the prominent form of philosophy had been idealism, but Machiavelli, born during the Italian Renaissance period, adopted a more objective, realist view of mankind, examining how the world was as opposed to ideals of how it should be.

Machiavelli described his political philosophy in The Prince (1513). The term ‘Machiavellian’ is often used to describe political leaders who seize power through cunning opportunism and unscrupulous means and has often been applied to despotic dictators presiding over cruel and callous regimes. However, many critics and scholars have argued that The Prince has been largely misinterpreted as a supposed guidebook of totalitarian tactics. The text’s analysis of how to gain and maintain political power has been overemphasised to the detriment of some of the more politically moderate viewpoints. The Prince is in fact an intricately layered, complex analysis of the human condition, encompassing a critique of religious doctrines and ethics, as much as it is a treatise on the acquisition of power.

Machiavelli was writing during a period of extreme political volatility in his native state of Florence and it is possible that The Prince is a direct result of Machiavelli’s frustration with the constant warmongering and insurrections. The principle theme of The Prince concerns a treatise on what makes an effective ruler (the prince of the title). In contrast to earlier philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle, who both believed political power was a divine right, Machiavelli argued that power was there for any person who had the ability to seize it. Machiavelli’s philosophy focused on the end result, not the means used to attain power, which he believed were irrelevant to the outcome. Machiavelli suggested that there are two forms of morality or virtue: those adopted by the ruler (the prince) and those adhered to by his subjects. The prince’s morality should be governed not by universal virtues or religious doctrines but be judged by his effectiveness as a ruler. In making political decisions the only factor that the prince should consider is which outcome will be most beneficial for the stability of his state and the maintenance of his power.

Although Machiavelli seemed to be advocating a separation of church and state, he nonetheless recognised the important role religion must play in maintaining order. For Machiavelli it was wise for the prince to present himself to his people as religious and virtuous even if, in practice, he was not. Having served and witnessed at first hand the brutal regime of Cesare Borgia, son of Pope Alexander VI, Machiavelli recognised the Catholic Church as a powerful, albeit corrupt tool for controlling the people. Indeed, Machiavelli used Cesare Borgia as an example of a ruler who was cunning and clever in his quest to attain power. Although the Borgias relied upon Papal patronage to maintain their power, Machiavelli refuted the belief that the actions of a ruler simply upheld the will of God on earth, claiming that man can (and does) exercise free will for his own ends, with or without the implicit consent of God or religion.

Although there are some dubious elements presented in The Prince, not least the advocation of cruelty and murder as a legitimate means to gain power, Machiavelli’s work represents a radical shift from idealism to realism and stands as a historically important reflective commentary on the political culture of the time in which it was written.

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Arts, Philosophy

(Philosophy) The Stoic: ‘Anger is bad fuel’

PASSIONS & EMOTIONS

“There is no more stupefying thing than anger, nothing more bent on its own strength. If successful, none more arrogant, if foiled, none more insane – since it’s not driven back by weariness even in defeat, when fortune removes its adversary it turns its teeth on itself.” – Seneca, On Anger, 3.1.5

AS the stoics have said on countless occasions, getting angry almost never solves anything. Usually, it makes things worse. We get upset, then the other person gets upset – now everyone is upset, and the problem is no closer to getting solved.

Many successful people will try to tell you that anger is a powerful fuel in their lives. The desire ‘to prove them all wrong’ or ‘shove it in their faces’ has made many a millionaire. The anger at being called fat or stupid has created fine physical specimens and brilliant minds. The anger at being rejected has motivated many to carve their own path.

But that’s shortsighted. Such stories ignore the pollution produced as a side effect and the wear and tear it puts on the engine. It ignores what happens when that initial anger runs out – and how now more and more must be generated to keep the machine going (until, eventually, the only source left is anger at oneself). ‘Hate is too great a burden to bear,’ Martin Luther King Jr. warned his fellow civil rights leaders in 1967, even though they had every reason to respond to hate with hate.

The same is true for anger – in fact, it’s true for most extreme emotions. They are toxic fuel. There’s plenty of it out in the world, no question, but never worth the costs that come along with it.

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