Chapter 16

Nothing Is Impossible

May 1943

A rchie glanced at his watch. It was already quarter to eight. He’d have to make the ward round a priority before beginning his theatre list. As he slammed the door of his glossy black Austin 12, a sharp pain zipped through his hand, which immediately began to throb. He clenched and unclenched it a few times and rubbed it on his way through the grounds, and the fuzziness and pain faded away. It was all right. Or was it? He forced out a long breath. He kept telling himself that, but just lately it had worsened. Perhaps it was something to investigate. There was such a lot to contend with just now, and the lads had to be his priority. It was bound to be fine. He pushed his spectacles up onto his nose.

The spring sunshine warmed his face, the well-tended gardens bloomed with an array of flowers, and a mix of sweet fragrance drifted in the air as he swept by. It was shaping up to be a beaut of a day. He burst through the doors of Ward III and found Sister Jamieson marching along, inspecting the beds and their occupants, her hawk-like eyes sweeping across everything and everyone.

Archie nodded as he caught her gaze. ‘Morning, Sister. Any problems today?’

‘No, nothing you don’t already know about.’ Her thin lips curved into a pleasant smile.

‘Jolly good. Right, I’ll take a look at the new fellow first.’ Archie ran both hands through his hair, smoothing it down, picked up a medical file, and began to flick through the pages.

‘You’ll find him in the saline bath.’ Sister stood with her hands clasped together in front of her, waiting. ‘The war artist is with him. Painting.’ She pursed her lips, and her brow furrowed. ‘And I’m afraid Mac’s in rather low spirits today.’

‘Ah, right. Thanks.’ He dropped the notes on the desk and headed towards the bathroom, nodding as the boys greeted him along the way. So, Mac had taken a bit of a dive. It was only to be expected. Good to know Freddy had made an early start, although using Mac as his muse might not have been the best idea. A group of boys sat around the table listening to the radio with faraway looks in their eyes as ‘He Wears A Pair Of Silver Wings’ swayed out into the ward.

At the bathroom door, Archie took a deep breath before entering. ‘Morning, all.’ He glanced at Freddy, who sat in the far corner on a stool, with his sketch pad on his knee and a charcoal pencil in his hand. He then settled his gaze on Mac, who didn’t bother to look up but carried on staring into the water as if in a trance. Still, it was early days.

The bathroom orderly was busy hosing Mac’s face and neck with warm saline. ‘Morning, Maestro.’ He nodded and grinned.

‘Morning, Jimmy.’

The humidity grew steadily, and the tang of salt drifted in the warm, moist air, evoking childhood memories of family days spent by the sea in Dunedin. Archie inhaled deeply, savouring the memory that was equally tinged with sadness as he thought of his brother Jack, still a prisoner of war.

‘Now then, Mac. I see you’re the latest muse for Freddy here. Who knows, we might even see your portrait hanging in one of London’s galleries one day.’ Archie squatted down next to the bath. ‘I wanted to have a look at your hands. Would you raise the right one for me?’

Mac averted his gaze, offering his arm with reluctance.

Archie took it gently, guiding it to rest on the bath’s edge. ‘You’re fortunate you had your gloves on; they spared you from worse. Could have been a lot more work for both of us.’ He cast a reassuring smile. ‘You’re a rancher back home as I recall.’

‘That’s right.’ Mac’s eyes darkened.

‘Ah, tough work. Well, you’re going to need your hands if you’re working with ropes and cattle.’ Archie studied Mac for a moment. He was a decent young man, a long way from home. From the look in his eyes and the edge in his voice, he was lost and floundering, no doubt thinking the worst. Still, he’d been lucky and pulled through a nasty infection. He had a mix of second and third-degree burns to his face, neck, and hands. It could have been a lot worse, and it was only natural for a chap to feel a little down after something like this. He had to find his way again. Spending too long in the dark did a fellow no good at all.

The roaring gush of water topping up the bath filled the silence. ‘Can you fix my hands, doc? If I can’t use them, I’m finished.’ Mac raised his chin, and his voice wavered, his speech slow.

Archie stared long and hard into Mac’s eyes, where a faint flicker of light flared. These boys had to deal with horrific injuries while struggling to cling to whatever little glimmer of themselves remained. It was the future outcome that mattered most. Archie had a vision for such things, unlike his patients. Allowing them to see the full extent of their facial disfigurements in the early days was simply too traumatic. A former patient, Geoff Page, flashed in his mind. With similar injuries, he’d recovered and was now flying again, but it had been a long, hard slog. Archie flicked a gaze at Freddy, who continued sketching, his charcoal pencil gripped in his right hand as he made sweeping strokes on paper, his lips pursed.

‘Your fingers are the challenge now. Saving them is only half the battle—keeping them mobile, preventing them from locking up, that’s where the real work begins.’ Archie recalled the agony Geoff had endured, with his hands strapped to splints which mercilessly straightened his contracted fingers over time. There were always possibilities, and there was always hope.

‘Don’t worry. The surgery will fix that to an extent, then you’ll have to push yourself afterwards and do the therapy to get them working again. It will be hard and painful, but worth it in the long run.’ Archie lightly gripped Mac’s shoulder, and the muscle tightened beneath his hand. ‘As for your face, that will require a skin graft and more surgery in the future, and I’m afraid there will be some scar tissue, though it’s likely I can do something to improve that.’

‘So, how long will it take? I’m itching to get back to my squadron.’ Mac straightened up and met his gaze.

Another one. ‘It’s hard to say. You’re going to need two operations initially, and you’ll require further surgery in the future. Rome wasn’t built in a day, unfortunately, and I’m afraid you’re a work in progress, but we’ll get there. As for returning to service, well, it’s a little too soon to be thinking along those lines. I can fix you up, although we still won’t know for certain how much hand function you’ll have. They won’t be as good as they were before, but they’ll work.’

Archie paused as Mac’s gaze returned to the water; his shoulders drooped, and his mouth settled in a tight line. It was always the same. They couldn’t wait to wage war and settle a score or two. Of course, Archie realised it was more complex than that. They needed to prove that they weren’t hiding behind their injuries, and there were always people who were quick to judge. The old saying, saving face, meant one thing to Archie and quite another to the boys. And then they needed the camaraderie of their brothers. Bonds forged in war, stronger than steel. He sighed. ‘I’ll do my very best for you, Mac. I’m afraid it’s going to take time, however, if you’re determined then who knows what you could achieve.’

Mac nodded. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’ He slid his hand back beneath the water.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you roping steers in no time at all. Well, I’ll leave you to your soak. Good to see you again, Mac. Cheerio.’ Archie grinned and winked.

‘Thanks, doc. I appreciate it.’

Archie blew out a breath as beads of sweat rolled down his back. It was early days, and Mac was grappling with the reality of his situation, rolling through a range of emotions. It was the way of it, and it was normal to grieve for what seemed lost and beyond reach. Mac was clinging on to his former self, and, although he didn’t know it, there would be further battles to win if he were to live a full life. Archie realised he would have to push him in the right direction.

Something caught his eye, and he stopped. ‘Is this yours, Jimmy?’ Archie held up a copy of Bazaar magazine, which depicted a picture of Lauren Bacall posing with the American Red Cross on the front cover.

‘What’s that, Maestro?’ Jimmy squinted across the room. ‘No, that’s not mine. You take it.’

Archie sauntered through the ward, his mind reeling with thoughts. These boys couldn’t wait to get back in the air. Was one roasting not enough? He pinched his lips together and paused at the office door to speak with Sister, but before he could utter a word, angry shouting erupted in the ward. Pilot Officer Stan Johnson was out of bed, frantically tearing at the dressings on his face while the young VAD looked on, her eyes wide, and a look of utter helplessness on her rosy face. Sister Jamieson dashed out to help, with Archie close on her heels.

‘Get me a mirror—now!’ Stan yelled, his bandages hanging loosely around his neck, revealing his burned face, devoid of expression, devoid of a nose and eyelids. Swollen, scarlet lips bulged out from his bloated face. Even his ears were partially burned away.

‘Please, Stan, we don’t have mirrors in this ward. The nurse meant nothing by it. She’s so young, that’s all,’ Bea said, trying to calm the man, who was now gasping for breath.

Sister Jamieson brought some portable screens and placed them around the bed to shield him from the curious stares of the other men. ‘It looks like the new VAD got a shock when she saw his facial injuries. She may have said something in error,’ she said to Archie with wide eyes, wringing her hands.

‘May have? She bally well must have for him to be in this state. Well, I don’t want her on this ward. She’ll have to go—at once.’ Archie’s eyes narrowed, and heat spread up his neck and flooded into his face. ‘Stupid girl,’ he muttered. He heaved in a deep breath; the nauseating odour of burned flesh rushed into his nostrils, and he snorted it out. ‘Now then, young chap, what’s all this about a mirror? It’s far too soon. You haven’t given me a chance to show you what we can do yet, and besides, your first surgery is scheduled for this afternoon. Let’s get that out of the way first and then you can judge the results for yourself.’ Archie sat down on the man’s bed and patted his shoulder.

‘Look at me. I’m finished.’ Stan hung his head, his shoulders drooping.

Sunlight trickled through the window, spilling over the bed and the table. ‘You’ve got some pretty serious injuries, but I promised you when you first arrived that we’d fix you up, and that’s what we’re going to do.’

Stan sank down on the bed and sighed. ‘I’m a mess, Archie, an ugly mess. How in God’s name are you going to fix this?’ He pointed at his face, his chin trembling.

Archie laid his hand upon Stan’s shoulder, and tremors snaked up his arm. ‘One step at a time, that’s how.’ Archie stared into the lad’s eyes and nodded. ‘Now, Bea will put some fresh dressings on, and I’ll see you shortly in theatre.’ He stood up. ‘It takes time, but you’ll get there.’

He charged off to Sister’s office and closed the door. The blood rushed through his ears. ‘Make sure you dismiss that girl. I won’t tolerate behaviour like that. It’s no good for the boys. What message do you think she’s just given him? It’s bad enough when their own wives and girlfriends abandon them. We do not abandon them, nor do we judge. What the hell do these girls think war is? It’s horrific, gory, and brutal, and I want people who won’t flinch. Is that understood?’ He was aware that almost everyone could hear him, but he didn’t care.

‘Yes, Mr McIndoe.’ Sister Jamieson, usually so composed and unflappable, seemed a little stunned, as a scarlet tinge flooded her cheeks.

***

Archie was still fuming when he reached his office. He needed girls who could keep their heads at all times. He was trying to show these boys that they still had lives worth living. How could he do that if silly girls were going to look horrified whenever they saw a disfigured face? His staff needed to treat them all normally otherwise his methods would fail, and he was not about to let that happen. No, he would have to recruit some fresh faces. The boys could do without these young, well-meaning types who had no idea how to control their emotions or disguise their feelings.

Archie pursed his lips. For Christ’s sake, these lads had almost lost their lives, and many had lost their faces, their boyish looks, and their independence. They were transformed from glorious, revered flyboys to faceless dependents whose stars had dimmed, searching for their identities. Some depression was inevitable, and silly girls acting hysterically around them were bound to propel some of them head-first into the black.

His nurses needed to act the part, and they had to be convincing if they were to show the boys that looks weren’t everything. He needed girls who could flatter and make them feel good about themselves no matter what; help them to feel like a man, needed, desired. He glanced down at the copy of Bazaar. Lauren Bacall was certainly a stunner, the perfect medicine, although he had little chance of charming a Hollywood actress to East Grinstead. No, but there was another way. He smiled to himself.

Childish laughter and squeals of delight flowed in through the open window. Archie spun his chair around and gazed outside. Two small boys sailed through the hospital gardens ahead of their mother, their arms outstretched like wings. Gulls squealed as they circled above. A sudden sadness gripped his chest, and he heaved in a breath as the sight evoked childhood memories of New Zealand summers. Memories which elicited long forgotten feelings.

It was a family weekend away in Brighton, New Zealand, at the beginning of the Christmas holidays in 1912. Jack, his elder brother, squelched through the wet sand barefoot, dressed in shorts and a top as he clambered over the rock pools that lay on the reef at low tide. The gulls cried overhead as Archie’s feet sank into the wet, gritty sand, warming his wiggling toes. Jack hoisted a crayfish from the green pool on the reef and lowered it into his bucket of seawater. Archie’s gaze flicked out to sea, to the giant waves in the distance as the breeze whispered warm, salty air into his face and mouth. That’s when he saw it. A huge mountain of black granite that rose from its deep-sea bed, waves lashing and fizzing at its sides, blowing foam onto the granite ledge. A secret island.

Squinting at the endless blue above, he gazed in awe at a stretch of white feathered clouds. ‘Angel Wings.’ A shadow passed over him as a white albatross glided out over the ocean and swooped down to settle on the rock. His island. The bird, relaxed and free, turned and cast him a taunting look, then beat its wings and soared into the blue with grace. The tide had turned, and the water crept closer as waves roared in and ebbed away with a shush, the relentless beating heart of the ocean, another taunt. A burning flared in his chest. ‘I’m going to swim out there.’ Archie crossed his arms and held his head high as he quickly assessed the distance.

‘No, you’re not. It’s too far, Nookie. You’ll never make it.’ Jack laughed.

‘Who says? It’s not too far for me.’ His brother ought to know better than to set a challenge. ‘Besides, I’m the best swimmer in the family.’

Later, when Archie told his parents of his plan, his mother’s face paled. ‘You can’t swim that far, it’s not safe. You’re getting too many wild ideas lately.’

His father sucked on his pipe and chuckled. ‘You’re only twelve, and it’s too far for a shrimp to swim.’

‘I have to do it. I promised. It’s my New Year’s resolution, and I can’t break a promise, can I?’

So, the next day at low tide, he stripped down to his bathing trunks and dived in as his family watched nervously from the shore. Archie battled the raging current that prevailed in the Channel and the Pacific rollers further out until, finally, he reached the rock, grabbed the ledge, and hauled himself out, propelled upward on the swelling arms of the ocean. Breathing hard, he waved to his family, who waved back, then he turned his gaze out to sea. The heart of the ocean raged, spitting froth, yet Archie was the victor, and his heart swelled as he raised his chin and puffed out his chest. The gulls cheered from above, as he dared to dream of adventures that lay beyond the shimmering horizon.

His sheer iron will, and determination ensured his success, and that same flicker of resolve still burned within him. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that his adventures would eventually lead him here, to East Grinstead. ‘There’s always a way.’ Jack was so often in his thoughts, and he prayed his brother was being treated well by his German captors. Archie blew out a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Faces, looks, identity. A scene suddenly sprung to life from a childhood book. When Alice first saw Humpty Dumpty sitting on the wall, she remarked, ‘The face is what one goes by, generally.’ Quite right, first impressions and all that. Of course, Humpty Dumpty had complained how all faces were the same and how he longed to see a face with a mouth at the top and both eyes together on one side. As a young boy, Archie had thought how strange that would be, and he’d laughed. How he’d tried to imagine such a face, and now he barely had to imagine at all.

He pondered the words from the story as various meanings and theories bobbed around in his head. A world where such difference might be tolerated and accepted. Here, in this small town, he was in the throes of accomplishing that very feat. As for the rest of the world, well, even he could see that was going to take time.