Chapter 10

In Sickness it was the war that had altered them, and it would be their own countries that deserted them.

It was almost seven o’clock. Time for one last ward round before he retired home for the night. As he strolled through the hospital grounds, he gazed up at the sapphire sky, a myriad of silver stars sparkling around a full creamy moon. In the distance, long beams of light reached up into the darkness, crossing paths as they swept across the night sky. The drift of chimney smoke lingered in the still air while a cacophony of noise drifted out from the closed doors of the ward.

‘Evening, Maestro,’ the boys called out, one by one, an ongoing chorus as he strode along by their beds.

Evans, with his leg in plaster, raced up and down the length of the ward in his wheelchair, propelling himself as if training for the next Olympics. The boy could barely sit stationary for a minute. For the time being, it would be the nearest rush he would experience after his Spitfire. The chap at the piano belted out the national anthem, and everyone who could stand to attention did so, some by their beds, while others huddled around the piano. They stood tall, stiff, chests puffed out, solemn faces held high. Sister Jamieson appeared from her office, her face a picture of calm. Evans whizzed by once more, narrowly missing Sister, who anticipated a collision and stepped out of the way just in time without so much as a flicker of her expression.

‘Good evening, Mr McIndoe. Here for your rounds?’

‘Yes, Sister. Before I forget, a young man will be joining us in the next week or so. An artist. Freddy someone or other.’ He shrugged his shoulders, unable to recall the surname. ‘He’s with the War Artists Advisory Committee. They’ve commissioned him to produce some paintings, so I expect he’ll choose his own muse.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, thank you for telling me. I’ll make sure the men know what to expect.’

‘Any problems tonight I need to know about?’ Archie surveyed his domain.

‘None you don’t already know of. Pilot Officer Smithson is settled following his surgery. He’s just had more morphine, so he’s a little groggy.’ Sister Jamieson stood with her hands clasped in front of her, her chin raised, her back straight and rigid; she was the epitome of deportment, dressed in her navy-blue uniform and pristine, starched white apron. It was plain from the look on her face that she didn’t think patients should be so unruly and boisterous, though she never challenged Archie on the matter. He could sense she didn’t wish to rock the boat.

Archie glanced at the young Canadian. Tony had almost walked away from the crashed aircraft without a scratch, but he went back into the flames to save a friend. Tony staggered out like a human candle, dragging his friend with him, who died shortly afterwards in hospital. Not expected to live himself, the lad had lain for five weeks encased in bandages at a hospital in Sussex before Archie found him. He hoped he would be happy with the surgery. Of course, he had a long way to go, but it was a start.

One of the boys opened a bottle of beer and poured it into a glass. The liquid plopped, fizzed, and frothed with a delicious, refreshing tone. Archie found Jack sitting up in bed along with a few others for company, a thick smoky haze rising and swirling around as they all drew on cigars.

‘Hey, Maestro. Thanks for everything. You all did a swell job, and Becky’s thrilled with the way the wedding turned out.’

‘Well, perhaps now you’ll let me do my job and fix that face of yours.’

‘Yeah, sure will. I’m all set for tomorrow, although it sure is a pity we couldn’t have gone away. I guess there’s plenty of time for that later.’

‘Bit late for all that now, don’t you think? Baby’s already on the way,’ Tom said with a glint in his eye. ‘You Yanks certainly are different.’ Everyone laughed. ‘Besides, she can have her honeymoon when you take her back to America with you.’

‘Man, I’m just thankful to be alive and to have married the prettiest girl I ever saw.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Archie said.

‘Maestro, how about giving us a tune?’ Pete slapped him on the back, taking a swig of beer from the half-pint glass he was holding.

Archie checked his watch. He was expecting Blackie for a late supper around half past eight. ‘Just the one then.’ He grinned as he sauntered across to the piano. A group gathered around and cheered as he took his seat.

‘Tom, a pint for the Maestro, please.’ Pete thrust a glass into Tom’s hands, who filled it from the keg that rested on a table in the ward and set it down with a dull thud on top of the piano.

‘Thanks, Tom. Now then, what do you rabble wish to hear tonight?’ Archie gulped down a third of the beer, the malted aroma drifting in the air.

‘Oh, you decide. Careful how you go with that pint, you’ve got to drive home yet.’ Tom raised his eyebrows, and everyone laughed.

‘Don’t worry about that, you lousy rabble. I can drink all of you under the table any day.’ Archie flexed his fingers, grimacing slightly at the sharp pain that snapped through them. He must have been working too hard, although he’d never experienced pain quite like that before. Another cheer erupted as beer glasses clinked and cigarette smoke thickened.

‘I know. Play ‘Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major’ and liven up the old place.’

Archie nodded, taking another mouthful of beer. As the notes swung out into the ward, the boys and the nurses sang along with smiling faces and twinkling eyes as they bonded over a pint and a merry tune.

‘Your housekeeper’s outdone herself tonight. First rate.’ Blackie settled back in his chair, waiting for Archie to finish eating. With the blackout curtains drawn, and the fires lit, the warm, cosy cottage held back the winter’s chill.

‘We’ll go into the other room. It’s warmer in there in the evenings.’ Archie scraped his chair back as he stood up. He poured a generous measure of whisky into two crystal glasses. ‘How’s your wife, Blackie?’ The fire roared and crackled as flames caught the logs.

‘Oh, she’s very well. Looking forward to my next leave.’

‘Yes, I expect she is. Can’t be easy with you being posted here while she’s left behind in Devon. Still, we’re not the only ones separated because of this bally war.’ Archie sat back in his armchair, drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. ‘It’s a miracle we’re getting all this help for the boys, isn’t it?’

‘Who’d have thought it? What with the war and the rationing, it’s mounting up to a tidy sum.’

‘Well, at least now we’ve formed a charity, the Guinea Pig Club has a good chance of prospering and helping those boys who need it.’ Archie removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘These men have endured hell and worse fighting for their country, and I feel it’s up to us to ensure they don’t become outcasts once this mess is finally over.’ He drew on his cigarette. The boys lost limbs, faces, wives, lovers, lives. They were wiped out and had to forge new lives. ‘Over my dead body will any of them be homeless or begging for the next meal. This club of ours will help them find homes or start a business venture if need be.’

Archie drained his whisky and set the glass down on the table with a clunk. ‘And what about all those men who were disfigured in the last war? Some of them simply disappeared. Left their families, friends, just walked away from the lives they had. It’s unthinkable. If our boys need anything, anything at all, then they shall have it. I mean that, Blackie. They’re to have a life when all of this is over. It doesn’t matter how disfigured they are or what people think of them, they must live their lives. Besides, society needs to get used to them, and we can’t do that without getting them out there among the people.’

And this he’d started to do already in East Grinstead, along with occasional trips to see a show in London. As for the rest of the country, well, that would be up to the boys themselves. Hopefully, they would gain the confidence at home first. ‘They’re not the first to suffer, you know, and they won’t be the last.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, and you’re right, but we can’t be there for them all the time, Archie. Even you can’t play God. What about your own life and family?’

‘Oh, don’t you worry about me.’ Archie sat back and thought for a moment. Since the Battle of Britain had begun, pilots and bomber crew had kept both him and the staff at the hospital rather busy, and life as he’d known it had ceased to exist. His days brimmed with surgical operations, patient assessments, and travels to other hospitals in his quest to discover the most severely burned servicemen who required his expertise. Even if his wife and children had never left, he doubted whether there would be much time for them, as he barely had any for himself. ‘Right now, my family is safely tucked away in America, and that’s where I hope they’ll stay. Adonia isn’t happy. She can’t settle, though at least she and the girls are safe. As for life, well, once the war’s over, we’ll all be able to breathe easier.’

He stubbed out his cigarette, while his wife’s latest letter preyed on his mind. Adonia had insisted on returning home. Of course, he’d written a reply telling her she must stay put; after all, it was far too dangerous to risk a voyage across the ocean in the midst of this madness. Lord knows the German navy had sunk many a ship. Hunting like wolves above and below the waves of the Atlantic, their prey being any Allied convoy bearing passengers, food, or military supplies. No, it would be sheer madness, and he couldn’t allow them to set sail. Besides, he had enough to worry about here. ‘Did I ever tell you about a fellow by the name of Leonardo Fioravanti?’ Archie strode over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another whisky, gesturing to Blackie, who shook his head.

‘Fior who?’

‘Ah, now, there’s a story.’ Archie lit his pipe and took a few puffs to get it going. Smoke swirled and rose. ‘The chap was an Italian surgeon and an early pioneer of plastic surgery. He witnessed a duel in Africa in 1551 where one of the poor fellows lost his nose. It was sliced off and fell into the sand. Well, Fioravanti said that he picked up the nose, urinated on it to cleanse it,’ Archie’s lips flickered into a suppressed grin, ‘and then sewed it back into position. After applying medicated balsam, he bandaged it.’

‘Oh, dear Lord. Nowt like a bit of innovation.’ Blackie chuckled.

‘Now, you might laugh, but when they removed the bandage after eight days, that nose was attached, healing and healthy.’ Archie puffed his pipe. ‘If only it were as simple as that today, eh?’

‘Aye, then you’d be out on your ear.’ Blackie leant forward to tap his cigarette on the side of an ashtray, and grey smouldering ash tumbled into amber glass. ‘Roll on summer,’ he blurted out. ‘This blackout and these dark winter days are all gloomy. It’s about time we had a little warmth and sunshine.’

‘Oh, absolutely. Well, it’s almost April.’ Archie pictured his beloved New Zealand. He missed the Dunedin sun and had never become accustomed to the damp, British climate which made his bones ache. A few years ago, before the whisperings of war were in the air, it had been his dream to buy a villa in the South of France and spend some time in the sun. Back then, he’d enjoyed performing surgery on young children the most, repairing cleft palates and harelips, which he’d found to be incredibly rewarding. Now the world had turned itself upside down, scattering his plans to the wind, shattering everyone’s dreams.

Blackie took out a packet of John Player’s and Archie sucked his pipe. ‘Jack’s lucky his young lady didn’t desert him.’

And then it cut in, scything through the countryside, drowning out the spitting fire, a wail that gradually built up like a wave; eerie and haunting. Blackie glanced at Archie, who was unmoving.

‘Damn Jerry. It’s been one hell of a day, and I’m not going anywhere except to my bed.