An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (24 page)

And it will be, Fingal thought, until the last man-jack is seen to or Richard and I drop in our tracks. Or at least until I drop in mine. Richard Wilcoxson, twice my age, seems to be an indestructible man of steel like that new American comic book hero, Superman.

*   *   *

After they'd left the medical distribution centre, Fingal and Richard had to climb up one deck to get to the mess decks, which were serving as temporary sick bays for the two hundred casualties aboard. They'd gone only halfway when the turbines roared into life and the great ship was once again steaming ahead, presumably out to sea. Fingal glanced at his watch: three
A.M
. Three hours into the new day, April 14, 1940.

“I reckon,” Richard said, “that the admiral's worried about air attack or U-boats in the fjord. I'll bet we're bound for the Norwegian Sea.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Fingal said as he stepped over a coaming and through the hatch leading to the seamen's mess. He stopped in his tracks. Rows of hammocks all swinging in unison were slung overhead above ranks of mess tables. In the hammocks off-watch sailors snored, mumbled in their sleep, and farted.

Amidships, the trunking of A and B turrets ran from sole to deckhead. At the for'ard end on both sides of the A cylinder, men sat at mess tables tucking into the same sort of meal that Fingal had just finished. Farther aft and closer to where he stood, the sole and the tabletops had been pressed into service as beds, where the wounded lay, the healthy crew members stepping round and over the victims.

“The sooner we can get back into our proper sick bay, the happier I'll be,” said Richard. “At least get the worst cases into proper cots.” He looked round. “Right,” he said, “the pre-op cases still waiting are to port with our SBA. I'll go and have a word with him. See what's yet in store.” He yawned mightily. “Then I'll phone up to the bridge, find out what's going on.” He stifled another yawn and that set Fingal off.

“The post-ops are to starboard. Take a quick shufti at them. See they're as all right as can be expected.”

“Right,” Fingal said, and began his work. The nearest case, lying under a blanket on a mess table, was the young German with the perforated bowel. Fingal quickly checked the man's pulse and breathing, then made sure the plasma was running freely. Lifted the blanket. The dressing was clean and there was no blood staining. He consulted a chart where the SBA had recorded the same signs and the blood pressure. The patient seemed to be holding his own.

The young man opened two blue eyes and stared at Fingal through morphine-constricted pupils.
“Danke schön, Herr Doktor. Danke.”

“Bitte. Denken sich nichts dabei,”
Fingal said. “Thank you” and “think nothing of it” were the only German he knew, and he smiled at the notion that in this circumstance, it was all he needed to know. It was all that was important. Between now and the young man's leaving the ship, Fingal vowed to find out his name. He moved on to the above-knee amputee.

Finally Fingal had finished his rounds. Apparently so had Richard, because he was walking toward Fingal.

“Everything under control?” Richard asked when they met.

“So far they're all doing reasonably well,” Fingal said.

“Good,” said Richard, “but I'm afraid there are going to be three burials at sea in the morning, and we're not going to get much rest I'd reckon until at least noon, another nine hours or so. How are you bearing up?”

“I'm fine, Richard. And much the better for knowing that the post-ops are all doing well.”

“Good man. Now, come on. Back to the salt mines.”

Together they walked along the passages and down the companionway.

“On a brighter note,” Richard said, “we're going to get more of a respite. I spoke with Captain Crutchley. While the War Office and the Admiralty work out what to do about the German occupation of Norway in general and those still in Narvik in particular,
Warspite
will remain on patrol out here. And as soon as possible we'll rendezvous with the hospital ship
Franconia
and transfer the walking wounded. Then, in another twelve days, we'll offload the cot cases to HMS
Isle of Jersey
.”

He opened the door to the temporary operating theatre, where Fingal immediately saw that both tables had patients on them and that the SBAs were at their posts.

“Time to scrub again,” Richard said. “No rest for the wicked.” He looked Fingal straight in the eye. “I'm proud of you, Fingal. You've probably been feeling pretty terrified for most of the night, but you haven't shown it. You've kept your nerve and you've been doing a bloody fine job.”

Fingal blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

“But look here, it's just not right expecting someone, anyone, only half trained, to do what you did tonight. And one day you're going to have to start giving anaesthetics for more complicated cases too. So, that training course?”

Fingal stopped scrubbing his nails, hardly daring to hope.

“I didn't get a chance to tell you before this Narvik campaign, but I had a letter in Greenock. We've got a place for you on a course at Haslar Hospital, starting in the autumn.”

“That's wonderful, Richard. Thank you.” Fingal, tired as he was, felt as if all his birthdays had come on the same day.

“Might be a bit tricky getting you there, though.” Richard shook the surplus water from his hands. “The scuttlebutt is that
Warspite
's going back to the Med soon.”

“I see,” Fingal said, feeling his heart sink. He too turned from the wash basin. “I'll just have to be patient,” he said, “and speaking of patients, right now there's more work to be done.”

22

Caveat Emptor (
Buyer Beware
)

“Thanks for coming over on a Saturday, Kinky,” Kitty said as O'Reilly ushered the Corkwoman into the upstairs lounge. “It's much appreciated.” Kitty patted the armchair beside the one in which she was sitting. “Now, have a seat, Mrs. Auchinleck, and tell me all your news.”

“Thank you, Kitty, dear,” Kinky said as she settled herself comfortably in the upstairs lounge. “And I'll say again, it's no bother at all. Sure isn't Archie taking Rory to the British Legion for a pint or two and a few games of darts and snooker tonight?” She hesitated before saying, “At least Archie will have a pint, bless him, but poor old Rory.” She sighed. “Lemonade for him.”

“We can't blame the fever doctors for telling Rory he'd have to stay off the grog for a year. That kala-azar has affected his liver,” Kitty said.

Kinky nodded, but managed a smile. “At least he's completely cured, and he passed his medical board this week so he can stay on in the army. We're all tickled pink for him, so.”

“So are we,” O'Reilly said, thinking how natural it seemed to include Kitty in his reply. He loved the “we-ness” of it.

“I'll leave you two to have a blether,” O'Reilly said. “I've got a f—” He bit back the adjective that came to mind. “—a form to finish filling in. I'll join you later.” He only had until Monday to get the blasted thing to the ministry and because he'd let procrastination be the thief of time, it would have to be completed today or tomorrow. He started to leave, but hesitated when he heard Kitty ask, “Is that a new book you have there, Kinky?” New books always intrigued him.

“It's for me to read when you all go out.” Her eyes twinkled and her dimples appeared when she said, “It's by an American woman, Jacqueline Susann. It's called
Valley of the Dolls—
and it does be a bit racy, so.”

O'Reilly's head jerked back when she winked at him. Kinky reading racy books? Yet why the hell not? He recovered his composure and said, “I hear it's selling like hotcakes.”

“Oh, it's a real corker, all right,” Kinky said with a laugh. “The mess some people make of their lives is not to be believed. You know,” she said conspiratorially, “it's said it's based on the writer's own experiences in Hollywood.”

“Must make life in Ballybucklebo look a little dull,” said O'Reilly.

“I wouldn't have it any other way, sir.”

“I hear you, Kinky. Nor me neither. Now excuse me, ladies. Won't be long.” He trotted downstairs. Jenny had said she'd be happy to take call once in a while, particularly on weekends, but this Saturday she had an unbreakable family commitment and so it had fallen to him.

O'Reilly didn't mind. After all those years of single-handed practice, only having to be on call every third weekend was pure luxury, but he had wanted to take Kitty, Barry, and Sue to the Culloden for dinner this evening. The young fellah was out sailing with the light of his life this afternoon. And there was no reason why they all still couldn't enjoy dinner, but of course the perennial problem would then arise. He glanced at the phone as he passed it on his way to the surgery where the unspeakable form lurked on his desk. With no one in the house who would take urgent calls?

Good old Kinky, he thought, you could always count on her. Who else?

The form lay right where he had left it. Muttering imprecations he sat down at his desk. Where was I?

O'Reilly chewed the end of a Bic ballpoint and stared at the June 1966 version of a form that as principal of the practice he had to complete on a bimonthly basis to satisfy some faceless bureaucrat in the Ministry of Health and Welfare. “Roasting over a slow fire and being basted with boiling lead while his toenails are pulled out one at a time would be too good for whoever designed this blasted instrument of the devil,” O'Reilly said aloud, and wondered, not for the first time, if there was any way he could delegate the work to Barry, who should be getting here soon.

“Hellfire, brimstone, and damnation,” he growled. “I did not spend five years at medical school and thirty years building up a successful practice to become a glorified clerk in a counting house.” He read the instructions aloud, “‘Take the total in column A and add to the subtotal in column C which is derived from the lesser of the two figures on lines B12 and E14 overleaf unless E14 has been deleted from this form.'” Balderdash. It's like one of those games: “Think of a number, divide it by three, add the first digit from the day after your birthday, and subtract nine, and that's your weight in stones to the nearest stone.” Damn it all. Why not just ask me in plain English?

He felt a dull ache starting behind his eyes and yet his irritation with the form in question had reminded him of a moment of naval administration and the memory brought a smile. Once a document he'd signed had been returned with the instructions, “This document was not for your eyes. You should not have signed it. Kindly ink out your signature—and initial your inking.”

The phone in the hall rang and he leapt to his feet with the grin of a killer bound for the noose who's been told a reprieve has been granted.

“Hello?”

“Doctor, it's me, Donal. We hate to bother you on a Saturday, like, but it's wee Tori. She won't stop gurning and she's just come out in a rash on her face, so she has.”

“It's okay, Donal. I'm glad you called. I'll be right round to take a look at her.”

“Thanks, Doctor. Julie's that concerned about the wee mite and I don't like the look of her one bit neither. See you soon.”

A pandemic of rubella, German measles, had started in 1962, and while he'd not jump to conclusions, he'd already made a shrewd guess. Its rash always started on the face, and fortunately it was a mild disease. He put down the phone, turned, and yelled upstairs, “It's Donal Donnelly. Wee Tori's come out in a rash. I'll just nip over. Won't be long.”

Bag in hand, O'Reilly trotted through the back garden, called to Arthur—he'd give the big Lab his run after the home visit—and put him in the back of the old Rover. Free from Kitty's usually restraining influence and released from the Kafkaesque government form, O'Reilly, like the recently retired British racing driver Stirling Moss, roared down the Belfast to Bangor Road singing lustily,

Over hill over dale we will hit the dusty trail

as the caissons go rolling along …

*   *   *

“Settle down, Arthur. I'll not be long,” O'Reilly said.

The big Lab, as he always did when the car bounced down country lanes, was thrashing his tail and making throaty, excited noises. With a final “aaaargh,” and a deep sigh, Arthur put his head on his forepaws.

O'Reilly had to stop because the Donnellys' lane was blocked by a chain from which hung a National Trust sign that read,
DÚN BUÍ SIDTHE, DUN BWEE PASSAGE GRAVE, CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC.
Donal, with a sick child in the house, probably simply did not want to be disturbed, and it was just as well he had closed the site. It would have to be done if Tori had an infectious disease, at least until the period of probable transmission was over. As he unhitched the chain O'Reilly remembered Donal mentioning in the Duck that Julie was selling cream teas to tourists and that Donal had two sidelines going, one of little Celtic figures that he carved and painted, and the other more mysterious. O'Reilly drove through, reattached the chain, and as he went to park was greeted by a waving Donal.

“Thanks for coming, sir,” Donal said. “Julie has the wee one on her lap in the parlour.”

O'Reilly grabbed his bag and followed Donal. “Has Tori been with any other kids lately?”

“Aye,” said Donal. “Two weeks ago we went to Rasharkin to visit Julie's folks. Her big sister has two kids, so she has. She phoned us up a week ago to tell us her lot were all down with the three-day measles.”

That sounded like confirmation of O'Reilly's initial suspicions. Rubella had an incubation period of fourteen to twenty-one days, and the rash came and went within three days, hence its local name.