It is an irony that, if you want to report sick, you have to make yourself even more sick if you don't pass the so-called "qualifications" for seeing the Medical Officer (MO).

I have just become a victim.

This morning would have been the second day of our minefield camp. Today my platoon is due to dig a minefield. I have recovered from yesterday's "ordeal", but only at a stage where I am fluctuating between total recovery or a plunge into another fever. Sergeant Wenhao advises me to report sick; at the rate I am currently going I can never dig close to a hundred holes, which each person will do. I'd probably concuss by the second hole under the hot sun.

The others set off at half-past seven. I chance upon William "Ah Kua (i.e. a man whose actions are like those of a woman)" Low and John Chua at their bunk. They have been excused from the camp: William having a foot injury and John Chua a deformed toenail, which has been ongoing for nearly two months now. They ask me what I'm reporting for. I tell them, flu. My fever seems to have subsided, but I am afraid that it will return anytime.

Suddenly, their expression seems to change. They begin to chastise me: you'll die there. You've got no fever, and especially when the MO finds out you have minefield camp today, he will send you back here as medically fit for duties. Then your platoon will condemn you as trying to chao keng (skive). Or worse, he might charge you for malingering.

What the fuck? In the civilian world you can visit the doctor anytime you please, tell him your problem and he'll give you medicine and an MC, no matter how serious your case is. That is, where we have the purchasing power for a visit. Here, much as the MOs like to sympathise with their patients and give them more rest, they are restricted by a standing order issued by the army towards how they should treat their sick soldiers.

But not all of them swear by helping their patients recover speedily. Samuel (previously from BMTC Jaguar Platoon 3) told me about this MO at Tengah Air Base was irked by the fact that his break was cut in order to attend to him; he was suffering from fever, with a temperature of about 39 or so at that time. The MO inexplicably gave him Attend A, deeming him fit for all duties. Which is total madness. He ought to have been sent home straight away. But no. Eventually, due to his medical status, Samuel was forced to attend the course exercise (described in the posts on 7 and 8 August), which he suffered through. At the end, he reported sick again. This time, the MO at our camp's medical centre sent him home immediately due to the seriousness of his illness. His Platoon Commander, a captain, wanted to charge the guy at Tengah Air Base for negligence.

I am supposed to carry my temperature further up. Their advice: go and fill your bottle with hot water, then drink it down.

I go to the water cooler outside, fill three-quarters of my water canteen with hot, boiling water, while the remaining quarter is topped with cold water. I cannot take raw, boiling water straight.

I return to the bunk and start drinking. "No, you must wait until you get to the Medical Centre first, otherwise it's ineffective! When you get there, you go straight to the toilet, go into one of the cubicles and drink it. Never mind about burning your tongue; maybe you can get Attend C."

Attend C? Never my intent. I'd be satisfied to get Attend B. I wouldn't have to take part in strenuous activities, which could further aggravate my illness. I just want a chance to rest, and I want medicine to cure me.

By all means, the hot water will be necessary if I want my medicine and rest.

At the time for reporting sick, I begin my trudge to the Medical Centre. I deliberately refuse to pee so that when I arrive there, I can go straight to the toilet with an expression that tells people: can't you see my bladder is full, and everything inside is going to leak out?

As soon as I enter the toilet, I make a beeline for one of the cubicles. I REALLY need to pee. After that, I take the bottle out, and prepare to take a sip. FUCK. So bloody hot; my lips denied the water entry into the mouth. I go to the sink to pour away some hot water and replace with cold water.

Back into the cubicle. I gulp down about half of the contents in the canteen. Praying that the duty medics would let me see the MO, I go outside and await my turn.

The medic calls me. I tell him everything: how I had a flu for the past two days, with mild sore throat and a little running nose; how a fever developed as I participated in the activities on the first day of the minefield camp; how the fever had somewhat subsided yester night, but seemed to return internally this morning.

The medic takes my temperature. Amazingly the numbers shoot up quite quickly. It hits the 36 mark. Come on, I urge inside. Exceed 37. Don't stop at 36.5.

Relief as the dial shows 37, then 37.1. Still climbing.

Now I'm beginning to get rather alarmed. The figures don’t show signs of slowing down. I'm afraid it might shoot past 38 or something and then they'll give me a jab and probably find out that I concocted this bout of fever. I start blowing air at the bulb of the thermometer under my tongue in an attempt to slow down the counting. I just need a figure that will provide me the bare minimum qualification to see the MO.

My final temperature: 37.4.

* * *

The MO tells me that it is the cause of a viral infection. He gives me lozenges for my sore throat; Panadol (!) for the fever; some gargle for what I don't know. I'm also provided with two days Attend B.

During lunch I run into John and William. John tells me I am stupid to blow at the thermometer. I should have just let it run its course (pun unintended). Then I can get Attend C and go home and spend a long weekend. But Attend C or not, I'm thankful that I can see the MO and gain back some rest in return.