Abstract
Once upon a time, when I was acting as medical officer for an infantry battalion enduring the rigours of garrison life in Gibraltar, a soldier came to see me because he was worried about his drinking. He was an ordinary rifleman in his early 20s, properly concerned that most evenings he was getting through 12 to 16 pints of beer. I listened to him, read some regulations, made a telephone call or two, and arranged for him to be flown home for a couple of weeks on a services alcohol rehabilitation programme which seemed to get good results. Then another young rifleman came …
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