Chapter 1

Ward III, Queen Victoria Hospital,

East Grinstead, November 1942

T he boy lay swathed in bandages that masked third-degree burns to the face, neck, chest, arms, and legs, the aftermath of a skirmish with the Luftwaffe. It was a miracle he’d been able to bail out of his flaming Spitfire and pull the cord on his parachute with hands of molten wax, skin that hung in shards like ripped silk, and fingers melded together by the heat of the furnace. Archibald McIndoe inhaled as he hovered in the doorway of the side room and wrinkled his nose against the cloying stench of charred flesh that assaulted his nostrils. It was a nauseating odour he was used to and usually ignored, but tonight was different. Tonight, it was especially malodorous and reached into the back of his throat, and he cupped his nose with his hand as he tried not to gag.

He sauntered into the ward, where music flowed from a gramophone further down. The upbeat, familiar Glenn Miller sound swung out, a delightful blend of saxophones, trumpets, and strings. American Patrol . The volume was unusually low, a sign of respect that tugged at his heart. A haze of stale cigarette smoke mingled with the sweet aroma of beer, masking any clinical odours or otherwise. With the blackout curtains drawn, the bedside lighting cast a subdued glow around the ward. He stopped in front of the coke stove, holding his hands in the wave of heat streaming from the door. They were still numb from the frosty evening air, despite having been back inside for a while.

He glanced around. The place looked more like a barracks than a hospital. One airman lay stretched out on top of his bed, a newspaper draped over his chest and a smouldering cigarette perched between his fingers. He glanced up, his eyes dull and uninterested.

‘Evening, Maestro,’ he said, his tone lifeless and flat.

Archie nodded in greeting. Three others sat huddled around the table in the middle of the ward, playing cards. Suddenly, an airman in RAF blues sprang from his chair, grabbing the blonde VAD nurse with the ruby lips and twirling her around. The music shifted to a slower tune, and he drew her close, their steps matching the quivering notes. He glanced at Archie and grinned.

‘Hello, Maestro. Fancy a beer?’

‘No thanks, Dickie, not tonight.’

His upturned mouth sagged into a straight line, and he nodded, his hand slipping from the nurse’s waist as he moved away—thirty seconds of frivolity anaesthetised by the gathering dark clouds. As Archie ambled back towards the side room, the boys gazed at him with sombre faces, their eyes glazed. Amidst the clink of beer glasses, the chain smoking, and the banter, they all knew.

Back in the side room, another sound filtered in—a desperate, chilling rasp that made the hairs at the nape of Archie’s neck prickle. He sighed. He had told the boy exactly what he said to all of them when they first arrived. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll fix you up.’ His stomach sank. He’d tried his best; truly, he had.

He strode over to the bed. David’s breathing had worsened, each gasp more laboured than the last. He was in the period of transition, the final phase. Archie swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat. Dear God, why has it come to this? David lay motionless, his rattling breaths cutting through the hush. A thatch of golden hair peeked out from beneath the bandages. Did he have a girl, and did she ever thread her fingers through his hair? It was a random thought, plucked from nowhere, silly even, but then this whole event was bizarre and surreal. It shouldn’t be happening, just like this bloody war. The words of his cousin Harold Gillies sprang into his mind: This war will bring injuries never seen before . Archie nodded. ‘Right again, as usual,’ he muttered.

Why couldn’t he have saved him? Yes, the boy had severe injuries, albeit injuries he could have survived. However, the infection that had taken a serious hold several days ago had changed the course of David’s life. Sepsis had spread, his organs were failing, and there was nothing to be done. Nothing at all, except sit here and wait. David sucked in breaths through an open mouth. Archie glanced around and spotted the kidney dish on the bedside table with a mouth swab and water. He gently dabbed David’s dry lips and tongue. At least he could do that.

Archie was not familiar with death. Most of the time, his patients lived, so it was a dreadful blow when death came calling. This boy had suffered enough, and now, in a cruel twist, he would die after all, and he’d put up such a splendid fight. Archie heard Richard Hillary’s words loud and clear, as if the young fighter pilot were standing next to him: Tell me, Archie. Does a chap ever sense that death is waiting?

‘I don’t know,’ Archie murmured. ‘But I sense it.’ He sank down on the chair next to the bed and glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, stifling a yawn as fatigue closed around him like a warm, fuzzy blanket. He’d spent twelve hours in surgery and longed to return home, but he would wait. The boy was an American with the RAF, a stranger on foreign soil. No one should be alone at the end.

Sister Jamieson bustled into the room carrying a steaming, white enamel mug, her rubber-soled shoes squelching across the linoleum floor. ‘I saw you come in, and I thought you might like a cup of tea,’ she said in a hushed tone.

‘Thanks.’ He needed something a little stronger, in all honesty, but that would have to wait. He took a sip. At least it was warm.

‘I can ask one of the nurses to sit with him if you need to go. There’s no telling how long it will be.’ Her thin, pale lips flickered to form a faint, compassionate smile, revealing a dimple on her left cheek that he’d never noticed before, although the woman rarely ever smiled.

‘It’s all right. I’ll stay a while. Besides, there’s no one to rush home for.’ Home was but a mere shell now that his wife and daughters were in America. At least they were safe, thank God.

‘Such bad luck he came down behind enemy lines. If only they could have repatriated him sooner.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose he’s lucky they sent him back at all.’ Archie sipped the tea, and Sister Jamieson retreated. He liked to think that even German doctors would obey the Hippocratic Oath and do their best for their patients. The enemy . His elder brother’s face slipped into his mind. The Germans had captured Jack in Crete in 1941, and he was now in a camp somewhere in Germany. Two birthdays spent in captivity. Archie prayed he was well and wondered if he had received the Red Cross parcel yet. Why in heaven had Jack joined up? And he had lied about his age, given that he was forty-one at the time. Archie shook his head in frustration. Jack had inherited Mother’s artistic ability and studied art, but he had taken over the family printing business to keep their finances afloat after Father passed away. This also helped Archie get through medical school. He inhaled deeply as he considered his brother’s sacrifice. It was as if war had sought Jack out with the lure of one final fling. Jack had to hold on. He had to survive. If he didn’t, Archie wouldn’t be able to bear it. He gritted his teeth.

The music from the ward suddenly ceased, and a hush descended. Out in the corridor, the sluice door protested as it swung shut with its usual creaky groan, and water gushed as someone turned on a tap. The night nurse rattled past the door with a tray of steaming mugs, and he caught the comforting aroma of malt as it drifted in the air on a ribbon of steam. He glanced at the rise and fall of David’s chest as the boy sucked in shallow breaths, followed by the release of excruciating rasps that snarled over his lips.

He placed the cup down on the table and sat back, his eyes closing as thoughts hurtled around in his head. David was nineteen years old. Such a waste of a young life. Not even old enough to vote or drink alcohol in his own country, yet old enough to die for it. Archie sighed. He usually found the late nights to be a tranquil haven as the hospital’s beating heart slowed, but tonight there was no comfort to be found here amidst the rattling gasps and the persistent frustration burrowing deep into his soul. Dear God, he was trying to rehabilitate these boys, not stand back as they slipped away. He pursed his lips and swallowed, balling his hands into fists, his nails digging sharply into his palms. Failure cut deep, and he ruminated over the futility of war. A chill crept in through the half-open door and he shivered.

He dragged his glasses off and rubbed his weary eyes, then shuffled his chair closer to the bed. David’s chest rose and fell with a rattle and a gurgle of breath. Archie reached out and took the boy’s bandaged hand in his. ‘It’s all right, David. It’s Archie here. Don’t worry, my boy.’ The hearing was always the last to go.

David’s laboured breaths alternated between raspy and quiet as the hours ticked away, and Archie lost all sense of time as he waited in the dimness of night. Finally, the boy released a gentle hiss of breath, like a retreating tidal wave shushing out to sea. Archie sat still, partially relieved, partially stunned, then leaned forward and pressed his fingertips to David’s neck, locating the carotid artery. He reached for the stethoscope and listened to his heart. Nothing. His skin was already turning a sallow yellow as his body shut down, rapidly cooling.

Ten past two. Archie placed his hand gently on the boy’s chest. ‘Rest now, my boy, and God bless you.’ His eyes suddenly welled up, and he took a deep breath as he dragged the crisp sheet up over David’s head, then exhaled some of the tension away. At least it had been a peaceful end.

In a matter of days, a telegram would arrive at David’s home, and the boy’s parents would be distraught. Archie would write to them and assure them he’d sat with their son until the end. It was vital they knew their boy had not been alone. It was important to know something , no matter how small.

He hovered in the doorway for a moment before closing it, grasping the handle while he stood quietly in the shadows, surveying the ward. These boys were lucky to have a second chance, although few of them felt that way in the beginning. It’s not easy to count your blessings when you’ve had your entire face burned away or lost the use of your hands. Archie had seen outcasts after the last war and what had become of them. Well, that was not going to happen to these boys. He’d make sure of that.

He glanced at the door once more. His chest tightened, and he clenched his teeth as he wrenched his grip from the handle. The boy should have lived; he could have, perhaps, if he’d been brought here sooner. If. Always an if.

***

Archie strolled along London’s Bond Street beneath the cover of black, dense clouds, his breath escaping before him as white vapour. He pulled his coat tighter around him, glad of the scarf he had wrapped around his neck as the icy air nipped at his cheeks. His hands tingled, and numbness crept into his aching fingers. He thrust them into his pockets. The thick, acrid smell of smoke hung all around, smouldering from some bomb site after last night’s raid, lining his nostrils. London still breathed as she always did and retained an air of regal elegance as ladies picked their way through rubble-strewn streets, well-dressed in heels with coiffed hair and made-up faces, smiles painted on to boost morale, heads held high, defiant.

He crossed the road, and as he glanced left, a familiar face emerged from among the bustling crowd, his air-force blue prominent amid a sea of khaki. Richard Hillary, one of his first patients from the Battle of Britain. Archie grinned and stood stock-still as he waited to catch his eye.

‘Richard, of all the people to run into, it had to be you.’ Archie laughed and shook his hand, Richard’s brown leather glove ice-cold in his palm, a sheen of blond hair visible at the side of his blue cap. ‘I thought you were in Scotland.’

‘A spot of leave, Archie. How about you?’

‘Oh, just killing time before I head back to the ward. I had some business here this morning. How about a drink?’ Archie clapped him on the back and led the way. The lad was rather subdued, and there was no bravado, something he’d used as a shield on the ward. It was as if his spark had finally waned.

The mood in the Embassy Club was uplifting as swing music flowed out and people danced and laughed. The stifling air inside blended with stale smoke and beer. Archie ordered drinks, and they found seats at a table near the door. Richard opened his silver cigarette case and offered it to Archie. He plucked one and leaned in for a light, flicking a gaze at Richard’s eyes. They were dull and bloodshot, as if he had not slept properly in days. ‘Been working you hard up there?’

Richard drew on his cigarette and exhaled a series of smoke rings. ‘You know how it is. These Blenheims aren’t Spits, and night-flying is tougher than I’d imagined.’ He reached out to grab his glass, his hand trembling. ‘My left eye is troubling me now as well, which makes matters worse.’ He gulped a mouthful of whisky.

Archie honed his gaze on the lad’s eye, noting how the scar tissue tightened and contracted with each blink. The urgency of the issue was unmistakable.

‘When I’m up there, I can’t see properly.’ Richard pointed skyward with his gloved index finger. ‘How the bally hell do they think I can bomb accurately like this?’

A boisterous group barged in, laughing and shouting, and Richard jumped. Archie downed his whisky in one fiery gulp. ‘You’ll have to tell the MO. Perhaps he can put you on sick leave until we get you sorted out. I’ll look at it and get you booked in for surgery.’ An extra spot of leave would be beneficial too, by the look of him.

‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Richard downed the last of his whisky and sighed. ‘Besides, I’m not crying off at the first sign of trouble.’ He shifted his gaze to the couples dancing, a faraway look in his eyes.

And there it was. The underlying current that flowed through all these boys, crackling each time they wavered, reminding them of their duty; reminding them they were in the spotlight. Well, to hell with expectations. What good is that when you’re dead? The boy was asking for help, and by the look of him, he was desperate.

‘It’s the night-flying, you see. Daylight would be easier. To be honest, I’m not sure I can carry on for much longer.’ Richard’s tone was ominous, his gaze intense and screaming. He ran his tongue over his lips, then cast a nervous smile.

Archie drew on his cigarette, an uneasy feeling settling within him. Richard had hoped to return to flying Spitfires but had instead been assigned to a squadron in Scotland, flying Blenheims, light bomber aircraft. Archie couldn’t fathom the RAF mentality that deemed the boy fit to fly bombers.

‘I’ll write to your MO and tell him I’ve seen you. I expect you back here as soon as possible for further surgery.’

As they parted company, Richard shook Archie’s hand, grasping it firmly. ‘Thanks for everything, Archie. You’ve been a marvel. Take care of yourself.’ The corners of his mouth twitched to form a sombre smile.

Archie’s chest tightened as he watched him walk away, his blue-grey form melting into the ripple of people. He wished Richard had contacted him sooner, rather than struggling on.

The lead-grey sky deepened as dusk approached, and the first spots of rain began to fall, speckling the pavement. A veil of mist stole in from the east, draping over London. A faint rumble filtered in, and Archie turned his face toward the sky as a dark shape neared from the east. It was an American bomber, with a white star prominent on the fuselage. They were becoming a familiar sight now that the Americans had arrived. The cruciform shape slipped overhead and droned into the distance.

Archie shivered and drew his scarf closer to his chin. Flying aircraft was dangerous, so high risk, but bombers? He shook his head, a sense of foreboding gnawing at him as he hurried back to his car before the light faded.