This all happened back in the distant year of 1995. At the time, I was a student at the Royal Military Academy in Sandhurst. One afternoon, right in the middle of my lessons, I was suddenly called out of class and summoned to the headmasters office. Inside that wood-panelled room, a woman sat sobbing quietly, dabbing her cheeks with a lace handkerchief. Her whole bearing was steeped in sadness, her shoulders shaking now and then as she tried to compose herself.
Our headmaster was a distinguished Major General, a decorated officer whod served bravely through the grim days of the Falklands. He was a stern but just man, someone we respected deeplyand, truth be told, feared a little as well. I had never seen him like that before. He stood by the window, his jaw set but his eyes troubled.
He walked over to me and, with a voice both heavy and earnest, said, Son, Im not speaking to you now as your superior, but as a friend. I need your help.
Im ready, I replied instantly. Tell me what needs doing.
My nephew is dying, the General continued, his words thick with worry. He finished at Sandhurst a year agoyou must know him. Went on to study at St. Georges Medical School, and now something terribles happened. Our last hope is your grandfather. Please, help us. Maybe hell agree to see the boy and work out whats wrong.
I didnt ask for any more details. Within minutes, a call was made to my granddad, and the three of us sped off in the Generals old Jaguar to his house. As luck would have it, Granddad was just starting his first day of holiday and we caught him a mere half hour before he was off to his cottage in Kent.
The patient was with us. Though I knew his face from the Academy, I barely recognised him. His eyes were wild and empty, his whole demeanour drained of life. He seemed utterly losta hollow shell. It was, truth be told, a little unsettling.
We arrived swiftly, and upon climbing the steps, Granddad greeted us at the door, listening carefully as the tearful mother poured out her heartbreaking story.
Seven months prior, her son had started at medical school. Out of nowhere, hed suffered a strange fit in the middle of a lecture. He was admitted to hospital, examined top to toe, but the doctors came up with nothing. He barely left the ward before suffering another attack, then another, and another after thatno one could understand what was happening. All hopes now rested on my grandfather, one of the countrys leading experts in neurology and psychiatry.
And then, the most extraordinary thing happened. Granddad took the young man into his study, and fifteen minutes later returned alone.
Thats it. You may all go home, he said to the General and the boys mother, his tone calm and measured.
But… what about my son? He needs treatment! the woman pleaded.
Go on home, Granddad replied. He and I are off to my cottage in Kent. I could use a hand splitting logs for the fireplaceand theres no good letting a big, strong lad go to waste.
With some difficulty, he ushered us out, then set off with his new patient for a month in the countryside.
A month later, I was summoned again to the Generals office. This time the womans face was alight with joy; beside her stood the now completely changed young man. The illness had vanished without a trace. He shook my hand, thanking me warmly, and the General did the same, his eyes glistening with relief. The boy whod baffled every doctor had been restored to health in less than a month. To them, it seemed a miracle. They could hardly know just how many miracles my grandfather had worked throughout his life.
Later on, I asked Granddad how hed managed it. It turned out that after the relentless mental strain of a brutal medical curriculum, the lads mind had buckled. Overloaded, his brain had outright refused to take in any more information. Granddad caught on right away, and simply enforced total rest for the mind. He took him to Kent, gave him nothing but solid physical laboursplitting logs, fetching water, helping with repairs. No books, no thinking. The young man woke with the sun, doused in cold water, ate breakfast, and set to work outside. By evening, he was so worn out that he collapsed straight into deep sleep. Day in, day out, no mental strain, just honest graft.
After a while, his mind began to recover. Not a single pill was givenjust the steady, healing rhythm of hard work and country air.
Thats the story, in all its peculiarity.
