An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (41 page)

Oh, I don't give a fuck

for the killick of the watch.
Clanggg
.

or the chief of the working party.
Clanggg.

I'm watch ashore at half past four

I'm Jack, me fucking hearty.
Clanggg.

He grinned and said, “Roll on my Blighty leave,”
Clanggg.

If this man was anything to judge by, the morale here was as high as it always had been on
Warspite,
Fingal thought as he was led to the sick bay.

“The wounded are in here, sir. This is one of the SBAs, Leading Hand Johnston. He'll show you the ropes and if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll be off.” The chief petty officer left.

“So, you're going to show me the ropes, are you, Johnston? Seems to me I've already been shown the damn things getting here,” said Fingal with a smile.

The SBA, a man of about twenty-five, blonde, tall, and stringy, with “Mother” tattooed on his forearm, came to attention, stifled a laugh, and said in a thick Liverpool accent, “Yes, sir. Glad to have you aboard, sir.”

“Surgeon Lieutenant O'Reilly. Stand easy, Johnston,” Fingal said. “How big is the staff of the medical department?”

“The MO's … well, you know about that, sir. Bloody sad if you ask me. He was a good bloke. It's just me and my oppo now, sir, Leading SBA MacRae. He's in the captain's day cabin setting up. We use it for an operating theatre, and we're going to need it. You'll be happy to know Mac's a bloody good anaesthetist.”

“I am relieved,” Fingal said. Very relieved, he thought. He began to sweat, suddenly aware that the place was vibrating and noisy. The smell of disinfectant overpowered the smell of fuel oil. “God,” he said, “but it's hot in here.”

“Can't be helped, sir. We're over the gear room, and there are steam pipes all over the shop.” The man lifted his cap and rubbed a forearm over his forehead. “Still,” he said, “we've room for eleven cot patients and two bunks.” He pointed into the room. Two sailors, Fingal assumed they were part of the ship's first-aid party, were moving between two rows of sitting and lying men, many sporting bandages and slings. One man, a first-aider bending over him, kept repeating, “Bloody hell I'm cut. Bloody hell I'm cut.” He was probably suffering from shell shock too. Both bunks were occupied.

“And how many wounded need immediate attention?”

“We've two men in bunks. One's a pom-pom gunner who got a thump on the head. He's out like a light. Before he went on deck, Surgeon Lieutenant Fenwick reckoned the lad had got blood in his skull.”

“What the hell was the MO doing on deck in the middle of an air raid?”

“First-aider found a bloke trapped under that smashed boat you probably saw. He was in awful pain—back injury, and too badly hurt to move without immobilizing him. Asked the MO to come and take a look. Give the lad morphine before they tried to shift him.” He pursed his lips. “Poor old Fenny was like that. Never could say no to a sick or injured man. We'll miss him, sir.”

O'Reilly nodded and hoped if a similar situation arose for him he'd have the guts to do what Surgeon Lieutenant Fenwick had.

“Another near miss did for the trapped man and our MO before they could get down here.”

“I see.” O'Reilly shook his head. Tragic, but his job now was not to mourn. It was to deal with the living. He'd think about his late young colleague when the wounded were seen to. “You said you'd two bunk cases?”

“Aye. T'other lad copped it in his arm. We've a tourniquet on it, but…” He shook his head.

Another amputation.

Almost the same as the first two cases that Fingal and Richard had worked on after Narvik, but here there'd be no Richard Wilcoxson to ask for advice. “And the rest?”

Johnston grinned. “Nine others. Bumps, bruises, couple of cuts'll need stitching. We can do that here, and as best as I can tell we'll be setting one wrist and one broken forearm. We have them in splints, but they'll need to be put to sleep too, so you can reduce the fractures, sir.”

Fingal slipped off his cap and battle dress blouse jacket. “Is there anyone of the walking wounded I need to examine before we start operating?” He was well used to the diagnostic skills of the SBAs on the battleship and was equally willing to trust these men.

“Don't think so, sir.”

“Right,” said Fingal. “I'd better take a look at the head injury first.” No time, he thought, for names. Fix them fast, then move on to the next. Not his kind of medicine at all.

*   *   *

One successful burr hole to release the blood in the gunner's head, one left mid-upper arm amputation, two reduced and plastered fractures, and four lacerations sutured and dressed later, Fingal was reexamining the recovering head injury. He'd found operating more of a challenge here than on
Warspite
. The little ship never seemed to be still, particularly when she heeled as she weaved, raced ahead, or altered course during three more air raids that, praise be, had stopped at sunset about four hours ago. The ending of the clamour of exploding bombs and the hammering of antiaircraft fire was a blessed relief.

The only sounds now were those of the ship's machinery, air fans, and the snores of some of the patients.

He became aware of both the SBAs coming to attention, looked up, and in the dim lights of the sick bay saw a man in shorts and white shirt with straight gold bars on his shoulder boards. A Lieutenant-Commander, Royal Navy, who must be the skipper.

A well-modulated voice said, “Please don't let me disturb you, Doctor, until you've finished.”

Fingal took the man at his word and satisfied himself that his patient was breathing normally, his pulse and blood pressure were normal, his pupils were equal and reacted to light, and his reflexes were normal. Fingal stood. “Sir,” he said and, remembering Richard Wilcoxson's words, didn't salute because neither he nor the captain were wearing their caps. “Surgeon Lieutenant Fingal O'Reilly, late of HMS
Warspite,
reporting on board.”

“Glad to have you, O'Reilly. Welcome aboard.” He grinned. “I watched your ride over here. If you enjoyed it, you must be the only man in the navy who would have. Thank you for coming. I'm the owner—”

Which by now Fingal knew was navalese for captain.

“—Bill Huston-Phelps.” He offered a hand, which Fingal shook.

“I'm not ashamed to tell you that I did not enjoy it…” Fingal said.

The captain laughed.

“But I am pleased to report that of the injured, sir, we are confident that all the walking wounded should make full recoveries. The man with the head injury and the one whose arm I had to amputate should be put ashore at the base hospital once we return to Alex.”

“I understand. Seems to me you've done an outstanding job.”

“With the captain's permission, I couldn't have without the professional skills of both leading SBAs. I feel they should be recognised.”

“Mmm,” said the captain. He turned to the two. “Very well, Johnston, MacRae. Well done. Stand easy. I'll take Lieutenant O'Reilly's recommendation under advisement.” He turned to Fingal. “Naturally, being the navy I'll need your report in writing—” He must have seen Fingal's eyes raised to the heavens. “I know,” the captain said. “Sometimes I think our service runs on paper, not fuel oil. Put it down and I'll try for a ‘Mentioned in Despatches' for them.”

Fingal saw one grin at the other.

“Now,” the captain said, “you all must be famished. I've arranged for a cook to see to you SBAs, one at a time in the galley, and, Doctor, if you feel you can leave your charges for a while?”

“I think so, sir. They'll be in good hands.”

“My steward will rustle something up for you if you'll come with me.”

“Certainly, sir.” O'Reilly grabbed his battle dress blouse and cap and followed the captain.

“MacRae, if you need Lieutenant O'Reilly, he'll be in the wardroom or—” He turned to Fingal. “I'm sorry, but it's the best we can do, the late Surgeon Lieutenant Fenwick's cabin. You must get some sleep.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The captain stepped over the sill of the hatch and together they walked for'ard on the open deck between the burning stars above and the glow of the bioluminescence of the waters beneath.

“Pity about Peter Fenwick,” the captain said. “He was a good man. A good MO.” He stared ahead. “I hope we can get a replacement in Alex.”

The captain wasn't being heartless. Already Fingal had learnt in war that as death was a constant the survivors tended to be very matter-of-fact about fallen friends, if only for mental self-preservation. He hadn't known Fenwick, and yet Fingal's heart ached. He almost missed the captain saying, “Lieutenant Simpkins was a good officer too.”

“Who?” Fingal stopped in his tracks. “Chris Simpkins?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Good God.”

“You knew him.”

“No. No, I didn't,” Fingal said. “But I've met his wife, Elly.”

Huston-Phelps gave Fingal an appraising glance.

“What the hell am I going to say to comfort her when we get back to port?”

“She'll have heard the news long before we're back in Alex. When ABC sent
Vixen
home this morning he'll have made arrangements for the next of kin of our fallen to be notified as soon as possible after she docks. Mrs. Simpkins will be visited by someone from the fleet chaplain's office, and navy wives stick together. She'll not be short of sympathetic company, O'Reilly, you can be sure of that.”

“I see,” said Fingal. He knew the captain was right. All the familes of the
Touareg
's and
Gloucester
's dead would have the support of the navy behind them, that was true. And while he felt for them, this was different. He knew Elly personally, had sat at her dinner table, sipped her wine, eaten her food, laughed and joked with her at that marvellous meal. It hurt him to think of her sad, lost, and grieving. What would he say to her once he was back in Alex?

38

It Is the Generous Spirit

“Will I go over til the Duck and tell Dougie til come home and see his new son?” Mabel asked. “He's a right wee dote, so he is.” She fussed about fluffing Doreen's pillows and making sure her sister's cup of tea was full.

“Wait a minute, Mabel,” O'Reilly said. He had finished a more thorough and perfectly satisfactory examination of the newborn, who was snugly asleep under a blanket in a drawer that served as a cot. O'Reilly untied his rubber apron and handed it to Kitty. “Have we a lot of tidying up to do?”

She shook her head. “I didn't use much from the midwifery bags other than a couple of clamps and scissors for the cord, and a basin for the afterbirth. The rubber sheet and a couple of towels need washing, but that's about it, and it's the midwife's job to see to it. Won't take me long.”

“In that case, Mabel, you stay and keep Doreen and the chissler company, and if you'd not mind, Kitty, I'll go over to the Duck.” He saw her frown and one eyebrow go up. “I know I said we'd go home to have a celebratory jar, and we will the minute I've finished there. It's not what you think. I want to see Dougie, but there's a man at the Duck I want to talk to in front of his friends.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you wanted to see the proverbial man about a fictional dog.”

O'Reilly laughed. “Seeing a man about a dog” was a catch-all excuse for a departure and covered everything from needing a pee to nipping over to the pub.

She smiled. “You run on and if you want to wet the babby's head while you're there, go right ahead.” She frowned. “But what'll I do with the midder bags? They're heavy.”

“Leave them here with the Duggans and take the Rover home. I'll walk to the Duck and home's no distance after that, then I'll get the car, and come back for the bags.”

“Then we'll toast the new arrival.” She smiled. “It's a very satisfying thing bringing a new life into the world. Thank you, Doreen, for letting me help.”

“Thank you, Mrs. O'Reilly,” an obviously tired Doreen said, “and you, sir too, and tell my man not til be too long. We need to give—” She smiled over to where the youngest Duggan was gurgling in his drawer. “The babby a name and…” She hesitated. “I know Dougie has a thing for the letter D and is thinking on David, but, Mrs. O'Reilly, would you mind if we gave him the second name Kit, like?”

“David Kit Duggan. That's a lovely name and I'd be extremely flattered,” Kitty said, and the colour in her cheeks heightened.

“And I'll be off,” O'Reilly said. “See you at home soon, Mrs. O'Reilly.”

*   *   *

At four thirty on a Thursday afternoon the Duck was relatively empty. Mary Dunleavy, newly washed glass in one hand, tea towel in the other, stood behind a deserted bar counter. The usually thick tobacco fug was more of a mist than a pea souper, and the hum of conversation was muted. It was still early in the day and the Duck didn't usually start filling up until about five thirty. Besides, the workingmen who were the pub's regulars would be enjoying their holidays, for this was the Twelfth Fortnight and many would have gone to places like Bangor and Newcastle in County Down, Portrush in County Antrim, and Portstewart in County Derry. A few might even be giving the Costa Brava a go. Donal Donnelly had become a less frequent Duck attender since the birth of his daughter and anyway it was early for Donal too. And since his heart attack Bertie Bishop, good Lord, O'Reilly thought, as his eyes became accustomed to the room's dim lighting, there Bertie was, bold as brass sitting with Alan Hewitt, Dougie Duggan, and, the man O'Reilly was after, Lenny Brown. Each of the four had a nearly full pint in front of him.