The Kind You Ride, Not the Kind You Smoke

Someone was knocking at the door. Mitchell stretched lazily upon awakening, enjoying the coolness of the early morning and the luxury of a comparatively soft bed. He turned his head, and found a set of large, dark brown eyes regarding him. They were lined with beautiful, thick lashes, which gave them a particularly soulful look. Her lips were slightly thick, and incredibly sensitive.

"Don't you look wonderful this morning," he said, stroking her cheek. She yawned, and Mitch withdrew his face hurriedly. "Ye gods, what stinking breath!"

The camel blinked and groaned softly, a good sign, as a complaining camel is generally a healthy one. The knocking he'd heard was someone pounding tent stakes into the ground more securely.

Mitchell Baker, MRCVS, fresh from the Royal Army Veterinary Corps Depot in Doncaster, England, had arrived at the No. 6 Hospital in Assam two days previously. The base hospital had been cleared from thick jungle, and hastily put together to make sure it was completed before the start of the monsoon. It had quickly become a sort of clearing house for reinforcement units and veterinary personnel; the sweltering heat, mosquitoes and wet weather made life for both men and animals uncomfortable and sometimes downright miserable. Roads and bridges washed out, hampering incoming supply trains, and malaria and dysentery were rampant. Pack mules and horses coming in from various parts were footsore, galled, and exhausted from labor and short rations. Mitch had worked ceaselessly from the moment he arrived, dressing sores, treating for parasites, and evaluating which animals needed to be shipped out for further treatment.

The Camel Corps were sending a unit to British Somaliland, and with a shortage of veterinary personnel due to jaundice and dysentery, had asked for an available officer to treat one of its camels for a suspected foreign body in the stomach. This was something that Mitch was willing to tackle; there had been many cases back home of cows who'd "swallowed a wire", and it was usually a messy but straightforward job.

It had taken an hour over rutted, jolting roads to get to the encampment. Betty, his camelid patient, had been a pleasant surprise; she was good natured, her stomach had proved to be roomy enough, and lacked the large amounts of liquid often found in a cow, since the camel's digestive tract is equipped to extract and recycle as much moisture as possible. It was a neat job, in spite of the primitive conditions in the field. As he'd finished late, and wanted to keep an eye on his patient overnight, he'd bedded down outside on a pile of blankets and fodder, and strung mosquito netting on ropes over the two of them. He'd slept reasonably well, was looking forward to breakfast, and then a lorry ride back to the No.6. Having a few minutes to spare, he pulled out a notepad and began a short letter home. The censors would no doubt remove any mention of where he was currently posted, but Mitch wasn't exactly inexperienced in getting around regulations.

After breakfast, he informed Major Winslow that he'd be transporting the camel back to the base hospital with him. The Major listened to him distractedly; a hoard of black market goods he'd carefully stowed away had gone missing, and he was much more concerned with finding his delicacies than a sick camel's travel plans.

"Yes, yes, alright," he replied, and went off to make some more discreet inquiries.

Mitch and Betty had an uneventful ride back to the base hospital. That evening, he and a few carefully chosen friends feasted on smoked trout, kippers, and pate, washed down with some fine malt whiskey.

"How'd you smuggle this stuff in here? Or shouldn't I ask?" said one of lucky diners.

"You shouldn't ask," Mitch replied with a smile.

As Mitch made his way back to his tent in a pleasant haze, he overheard his commanding officer speaking to one of the guards.

"You know, Charlie, I could have sworn that camel had two humps when she arrived. I must be losing my mind."