Surgeon at Arms (5 page)

‘Good morning, Flight-Lieutenant Jardine.’ A young nurse with a mature air, holding a board with a clip of notes, approached as he stood at the ward door trying to take it all in. ‘We’ve put you in the far end bed. That’s a bit of an honour, you know. It’s supposed to be quieter.’

Bluey looked round anxiously. It was certainly a change from the last hospital. The long narrow lower ward of the annex was crammed with beds, though the patients were mostly dressed and lounging about, smoking, laughing, or chatting noisily. They struck him as an odd bunch. The majority were bandaged heavily about the head, some wore slings and plaster casts, others had their hands in bulky dressings like boxing-gloves. The ward radio was at full blast. It always was at Smithers Botham, from early tea to lights out, right through the war. Graham often idly wondered how many people died to the strains of Geraldo.

‘Do you want me to turn in?’ Bluey asked.

‘Not unless you’re tired. In the annex we like to keep everyone up and about. Dr Bickley thinks it stops you getting bad chests.’

‘Who’s Dr Bickley?’ asked Bluey warily. You never knew how many of these medical jokers were waiting to have a go at you. ‘I’m under Dr Trevose.’

‘Dr Bickley’s the Gasman. The anaesthetist. You’ll meet him later. You can smoke whenever you like, there aren’t any rules. Have you got enough cigarettes? The boys’ll help you light them.’

‘I’m all right.’ He wasn’t going to feel gratitude towards anybody.

‘Is there anything special you like to eat? We’ll try to get it, but we can’t guarantee results.’

‘I’m not particular.’

‘Here’s Peter.’ The nurse smiled. ‘He’ll look after you. He’s the oldest inhabitant.’

The nurse left Bluey with another man in flight lieutenant’s uniform, his tunic hanging from his shoulders and his sleeves pinned to the pockets. Bluey inspected him with fascination. His face was mostly hidden in crêpe bandages, but a strange yellowish-pink sausage sprouted from the middle of it. This was fixed to his left wrist, held against his cheek by a plaster cast. His hands were bandaged, but his thumb was free enough to grasp a cigarette in a long holder.

‘I’m Peter Thomas,’ announced the apparition amiably. ‘Welcome to the mausoleum. You’re the

Australian, aren’t you? I remember seeing you in the
Daily Mirror.
If I recollect aright, you were sharing the page with Jane.’

‘What do they do to you in this place?’

‘Make you look like an advert for Brylcreem.’

Bluey stared round. ‘How long before they let you out?’

‘Well, it’s inclined to be a long job, as possibly you can see for yourself. The Wizz doesn’t believe in rushing things.’

‘The Wizz?’

‘The Wizard.Trevose. He made this elephant’s trunk affair. It’s a wrist pedicle. It started life as a slice of skin from my belly. The Wizz kept my wrist attached to my navel for weeks, before raising it to higher things. It’s all a matter of re-establishing the blood supply before making the next move. You’ll soon pick up the lingo. We become very professional here, you know. The pedicle’s going to be part of my nose, incidentally.’

The two officers started walking along the line of beds. ‘It’s noisy,’ observed Bluey. ‘The place I came from, they shut me up alone in a room.’

‘Life is very informal in annex D. Everyone mucks in together, all Services, all ranks. It’s the Wizz’s idea. Good for morale, he says. Though I rather think he does it to annoy the brass-hats. We had an admiral in here last week. He fell on his face down a ladder. Drunk, doubtless. I don’t think he cared for the atmosphere much. The only gentleman enjoying privacy at the moment is a German bastard shut in the padded cell. ’
As Bluey stopped short his companion gave a laugh. ‘Didn’t you know? This used to be a nuthouse. The change isn’t always apparent. Which part of Australia do you come from?’

‘Outside of Melbourne. My people own a sheep-station. I came over to join up before the war.’ His near-lidless eyes stared round. ‘Maybe all this means I’m on my way back again?’

‘They’ll notice a change in you,’ said Peter Thomas crisply.

It was a remark in the spirit of annex D. The men had grown a shell of arrogance towards the world which had brought them to such straits. To be pitied was so unbearable, any eye sensed to be softening with compassion fired only an explosion of rudeness. The nurses got used to it—if they didn’t, Graham had them shifted to more conventional wards. The elderly hospital padre found his attempts to ‘cheer up the poor boys’ so unwelcome, his Christian fortitude collapsed beneath him and he avoided the place. Even well-meaning ladies with baskets of gifts saw them accepted without a flicker of gratitude.'After all, the patients felt the country owed them more for their pains than a few bars of chocolate.

‘I suppose I’ve caught it pretty badly?’ Bluey hazarded.

‘Oh, I’ve seen worse,’ Peter Thomas told him with an air of authority.

‘When did they get you?’

‘I was one of the earliest. I’ve been in here so long I’m practically one of the staff.’

‘What’s happening outside? Nobody’s told me any news.’

‘The Germans seem to be crying off. In daylight, at any rate.’

‘That’s funny. I thought we’d go on like that. Flying every day till the end of the war.’ They stopped at Bluey’s bed, the last before the partition dividing off the operating theatre. ‘I was just starting to believe in my luck.’

‘If you like, I’ll see if I can find a newspaper,’ Peter Thomas offered helpfully. ‘Though the selection isn’t very uplifting. There’ll probably be a
Daily Press,
which is good for at least one laugh.’

‘Thanks. I reckon I’ve a lot to catch up.’

Bluey sat on his bed and inspected his surroundings. There was no need for mirrors in annex D. He could see himself in the monstrosities all round him. He suddenly realized he was an outcast, a frightening object, something to make any man wince and any woman run away in horror. For the first time the bitterness of his humiliation swept over him. He wanted to cry in self-pity. But his lachrymal glands were burnt, and even to weep was impossible.

CHAPTER SIX

BRIGADIER HAILEYBURY was a fair-minded man. He knew Trevose was a prima donna, unwilling or temperamentally unable to fit into any co-ordinated effort, even to win a war. And of course Pile didn’t help. The fellow was unbelievably stupid. But the line must be drawn somewhere. Authority must be established. On the morning following Bluey’s arrival he appeared at Smithers Botham to make his first inspection of the annex.

He could readily believe Pile’s account of indiscipline among Graham’s patients. He needed only to recall the notorious laxity of Graham’s own life before the war. It would have to be checked, even if it meant a row. Haileybury was aware that he and Graham had quarrelled every second time they met and recalled uneasily that he himself generally got the worst of it. Trevose had a quick tongue, and a slick way of putting things. But now Haileybury told himself he was dressed in authority —which was neither little, nor, in view of the summer’s military disasters, likely to be brief.

He marched across the lawn with Captain Pile, admiring the flower-beds. As the operating theatre now blocked one end of the annex, entrance was between the horse-box lavatories and the kitchen, where twice daily the nurses portioned out food dispatched from the central Smithers Botham kitchens in reputedly heatproof trolleys. As the pair entered, the door of the washroom opened and Graham himself appeared. He was wearing a surgeon’s green gown with a gauze mask dangling below his chin, and seemed busy.

‘Haileybury, I was delighted to learn of your impending visit,’ he began affably. ‘I’d been hoping you’d look us up all summer.’

‘I’m glad to find you so cheerful, Trevose. No one knows better than myself the difficulties under which you’ve been obliged to work.’

‘I agree, we haven’t sufficient equipment, sufficient room, sufficient staff, or a sufficient number of hours in the day, but we manage. I’d like you to see our star turn,’ he invited. ‘Nurse, give these two gentlemen masks and gowns. Step inside. It’s the saline bath unit.’

In a partitioned corner of the wash-house one of the bathtubs was in use. Sitting up to his waist in water was a man—or so it was to be assumed, the creature being without hair, eyebrows, or nose, the skin of his face and even his eyelids burnt away. There were two nurses working on him in white gowns and rubber gloves. One was moistening the man’s head with a trickle of clear solution running from a glass vessel suspended near the ceiling. The other was manipulating a pair of forceps in the stream, picking away plaques of hard black material embedded in the pus and raw tissue. Captain Pile, whose eyes had become used to inspecting official rather than human material, felt his stomach turn over.

‘Very interesting,’ said Haileybury.

‘Somewhat Heath Robinson, but it works,’ Graham explained. ‘It’s got plenty of snags. For one thing, the saline solution in the carboy up there cools too quickly. It’s a nuisance for the nurses to keep replacing it.’

‘Doubtless,’ said Haileybury.

They watched the operation in silence. After a few minutes Graham led them out. ‘Why do you do it to them, Haileybury?’ he demanded.

Haileybury untied the tapes of his surgeon’s gown. ‘Do what?’

‘Plaster those burns with tannic acid jelly. Do you know what I feel when I look round my wards? No hatred of the Germans. Their fellows are getting even worse treatment, I know that well enough, I lectured there before the war. No, I simply writhe with indignation over the stupidity of my own countrymen.’

‘So you think tannic acid is stupid, do you?’ Haileybury asked drily.

‘I think it’s criminal.’

‘But you must know perfectly well, Trevose, it happens to be the regulation treatment. And what else would you suggest? That the dressing-stations do nothing in the way of first-aid at all?’

‘That’s exactly what I do suggest. I’m charitably assuming you treat burns with the equivalent of grannie’s cold tea because, one, you can’t think of anything better, and two, you want the casualties to feel something’s being done for them. Well, something’s being done, all right. Medieval mutilation.’

‘I really don’t think I need comment on that,’ said Haileybury wearily. ‘Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve ruined your advocacy of any cause, worthy or not, with the extravagance of your language.’

Graham suddenly felt angry. ‘This situation doesn’t need any language at all.’ He pointed to the closed door of the wash-house. ‘Haven’t you eyes to see for yourself? That patient’s a pilot officer, observer in a Blenheim, which failed to take off properly for some reason or other. The pilot was burnt to a cinder. By the time that poor devil turned up here his head and neck had skin like an elephant’. You know what it was, don’t you? Congealed tannic acid. His hands were worse where he’d tried to pull his blazing clothes off. The fingers were drawn into the palms, webbed together, one black horrible mess. That’s his real tragedy. With time and luck I can give him a face which will pass without too much comment in a crowd. But he’ll probably never feed or wash himself again, even light his own cigarette. He’ll be dependent on someone for the rest of his life. An awful prospect for both parties.’

Haileybury decided to be firm but patient. If the argument was to end in his favour, Trevose needed even more thoughtful handling than usual. ‘I can appreciate how you feel involved with these men, Trevose. But you must try and see our arrangements as a whole. The application of tannic acid as a first-aid measure to burns isn’t some shot in the dark. It’s been most carefully thought out. It is the official procedure. It is
regulation treatment,'
he emphasized.

‘Then it’s got to be changed. Do you know the first cases I had in here? A pair of naval ratings, picked up after an hour in the sea at Dunkirk. Both were badly burnt in the arms and legs. Both did splendidly. No tannic acid. Just salt solution like I’m using here. Nature’s own.’

‘Now you’re being fanciful.’ Haileybury started to sound irritated. ‘I’m certainly not going to let you rush all of us into something entirely new.’

‘Am I? Send me a lot more burns and make up your mind in six months. I’d like you to pull a few strings for me, by the way,’ Graham invited airily. ‘The unit’s got to be expanded. I shall have to squeeze a second operating table into the theatre somehow. Tudor Beverley can run that himself. He’s good enough. I’ll need more assistants. And we want more huts desperately. It’s like a slum in here.’

‘You might reduce your difficulties if you ceased scouring the countryside for extra patients,’ Haileybury told him bleakly.

Graham gave a grin. ‘You heard about that, did you? It’s the Services’ own fault. It’s weeks before I see some of the cases. They go on a ghastly traipse all over the shop, rotting for weeks in hospitals in Scotland or Wales, miles away. Faulty organization, that’s the trouble. I’d like you to do something about that, too, please, and quickly.’

Haileybury became angry despite himself. ‘Have you thought of making life easier for yourself and everyone else with some attempt to understand how Service administration works?’

‘The only administration I understand is the one which gets me my own way.’