It's amazing how you can be afraid of someone without exactly knowing why - but you dare not try to find out.
That was the kind of fear all the house officers had for colonel B. You just didn't try to disobey him, period.
Col. B was a Military Doctor and we were all interns in a Military hospital.
He had a lean physique, with a well groomed moustache that would make even Hercule Poirot green with envy, his uniform was always well starched with the creases in perfect alignment as if on attention; his army beret perched perfectly at an angle as if in a constant salute of its own
The most intriguing aspect of Col. B's dressing was his writing pens:
He had about five different pens, all neatly aligned in his breast pocket below his army badge; each with a different ink colour, each with a different function. He had them all - green, black, red, one was even a stamp. It was a delight to watch him select the pen he wanted to use for a particular function, signing or writing.
Col. B never took any nonsense; you had to have reviewed and made a summary of your patients before 0800 hours (8 a.m); Col B arrived for his ward round at 8 a.m - not 7:59am and not 8:01am.
Col. B walked briskly, it was a common sight to see house officers with their stethoscopes and papers flying, running, trying to keep up with him. But by far the most peculiar thing about Col. B was his car. It was a tiny open air vehicle, I restrain from calling it a convertible, with just enough room to fit his frame, smaller than any other vehicle in the hospital, probably a well kept relic of colonialization. It looked something like this: