Chapter 17

Just A Little Prick

‘ M r Hicks, what are you doing in bed?’ Bea said with a hint of disapproval. ‘You’ll miss breakfast if you don’t get a move on.’ The linen trolley rattled and squealed until she abandoned it at the foot of the bed.

‘ I’ve been trying to move for the last fifteen minutes, nurse. Some joker has tucked my sheets in too tight again. I can’t budge with these ruddy bandages on my hands.’

Mac suppressed a laugh as Bea glared at the men sitting at the breakfast table. They were huddled close, casting sideways glances while attempting to stifle their laughter, sniggering. Bea untucked the blankets and Dave Hicks clambered out of bed. As he made his way to the table, Mac heard him say, ‘I’ll swing for you lot one of these days. Just you wait.’

An outbreak of hearty laughter erupted, and one of the guys almost choked on a piece of toast, coughing, and spluttering as his face turned a deep shade of scarlet. Dave perched on a chair at the table with a smirk and Pete slapped him on the back, poured him a cup of tea, popped in a straw, and pushed it across to him. Next, he took a slice of toast, scraped a thin layer of butter on top, and held it up to Dave’s mouth. Dave took a bite. ‘Ta,’ he mumbled through the mouthful, the prank already a fading memory.

Mac marvelled at the camaraderie; it was a routine, something they did every day, so well-rehearsed that Dave didn’t even need to ask.

Mac cast a gaze at the screens positioned around the bed next to his as voices drifted out.

‘Come on, Ginger. Give me one of your famous bed baths.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and keep your voice down or Sister will hear you.’

A VAD nurse with fiery red hair slipped out from behind the screens and marched off to the sluice room.

‘Now then, is there anything I can get for you, Mac?’ Bea stood at the foot of his bed.

‘Can someone write a letter for me?’

‘We can indeed. I’ll send Lily over to you. Not be long.’

Mac wrestled with what to say to Stella. His mind screamed not to write, to spare them both the pain, but his heart refused to let go. Was he wasting his time? She probably wouldn’t want him now—how could she? And even if she did, how long before she grew tired of taking care of him like a helpless child? Still, he had to let her know. He’d keep it simple: just tell her he was injured and might be here for a while. It was the right thing to do, even if it tore him apart.

Swing music bubbled through the ward. Mac watched as Bea wheeled a trolley past, disappearing into the sluice room. Moments later, the linen cupboard door creaked open, and Dickie cautiously peered out, glancing both ways like a man on a mission. The coast was clear. Catching Mac’s eye, Dickie flashed a mischievous grin and winked. Mac raised an eyebrow—what on earth was he up to?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. As Dickie sauntered away, a young VAD slipped out of the cupboard, quickly tucking a few strands of ash-blonde hair beneath her white headdress. With a quick adjustment of her apron, she straightened up and briskly marched into the sluice room. As Dickie passed Mac’s bed, he paused, his grin wider than ever.

‘What can I say, mate? Can’t get enough of me.’ He laughed and swaggered off to join the guys at the breakfast table, lighting up a cigarette on the way.

Unbelievable. As Mac mulled over what to write to Stella, the ward doors swung open, and a young woman teetered in on high heels, the sharp clip-clop of her steps echoing across the polished linoleum. Her icy-blue eyes swept over each bed, lingering just long enough to take in the scene. She clutched her purse tightly against her brown tweed suit, and with a delicate hand, she adjusted her matching hat, as if to reassure herself it was still in place. Mac followed her with his gaze. Her expression shifted, startled and unsure, as she surveyed the room, her ruby lips parting slightly as she flicked her tongue across them in a nervous gesture.

‘Beth, you came.’ George Thomson called out. He lay in the second bed along from Mac and was easily within earshot. ‘Sit down, love.’ He propped himself up.

The woman paused at the foot of his bed; her lips pursed. The poor guy had been waiting for a visit from his wife for weeks now and by the look on her face, she didn’t seem too pleased to be here. Hesitantly, she sat down. Mac turned away, but he could hear their conversation plain enough. There wasn’t much room for privacy here.

‘I knew you’d come, Beth,’ George said. ‘I missed you.’

‘Yes, well, I had to see for myself.’ Beth sniffed.

Her voice was cold and shrill, and an icy trickle slipped through Mac.

‘Really, it’s not as bad as it looks.’

‘You’ve lost your leg, George. How much worse could it be?’ she snapped. ‘How are you ever going to work again? Look at you. You’re not the same man I married, lying there like that.’

George patted the bed. ‘Come and sit here, love.’

She didn’t move.

‘Sorry, George, but I can’t do this. I can’t be stuck at home caring for you like some nursemaid. I want to dance. How are you going to dance now? Life will never be the same. That’s all there is to it.’ She rose majestically, her face solemn. ‘I told you not to join the RAF. I’ll send your things on to your mother.’

One of the guys flicked the radio off, severing the music.

‘Beth, love. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve got to give me a chance. It’ll work, you’ll see. The Maestro is going to fix me up.’

Faces turned toward George, long and sombre, as he pleaded with his wife to stay. Glances flicked between the men, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. But Beth took a step back, her eyes cold and unreadable. Without a word, she turned and marched off, her head held high, the sharp clatter of her footsteps shattering the heavy silence that followed.

How could she abandon him like that? It was cold and cruel. She couldn’t be a nursemaid , that’s what she’d said. If a man’s own wife can’t do it, what hope did he have? Mac swallowed.

George lay sprawled on his bed, his mouth wide open, as tears slipped silently down his cheeks. He was in no position to go after her. One by one, the boys approached him with empathetic gazes, and one patted his shoulder while another lit up a cigarette and passed it to him. Another placed a pint on his bedside table, maybe for later, and returned to his chair. While most ebbed away, two seated themselves at the bottom of the bed, smoking and waiting.

Mac couldn’t suck in air fast enough. He had to see what he looked like, but where would he find a mirror? Girls flocked around GIs, but no one wanted to be saddled with a disfigured one. He pictured Stella and a light dimmed inside. His eyes misted over, then he spotted Lily through the haze, who smiled and waved a writing pad up in the air. Inwardly, he groaned.

‘Bea said you wanted to write a letter home?’ Lily sank down in the chair, waiting with her pen poised.

‘Yeah, well, I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do.’

‘Oh?’ Lily smiled warmly. ‘Is it a girl?’

‘Yeah, only I figured she’s better off without me.’ Mac leant back against his pillows and closed his eyes. Cigarette smoke wafted in the air, mingling with the stale, nauseating odour of burned flesh. He sniffed. A faint scent of lavender rose through it all and his heart squeezed.

‘Well, I don’t know about that, but if it were me, then I’d like to be the one who makes that decision.’

She had a point. He’d pursued Stella like crazy, and it seemed she’d felt something for him. Of course, after what he’d witnessed, he had no right to ask anything of Stella, or to expect it. Besides, he didn’t want to be a burden. A surge of pain tightened in his throat, and he was powerless to grab or punch anything right now. Each time Lily moved, lavender assaulted his senses, and he drank it in, fuelling his hunger to hold Stella in his arms and kiss her lips, and fuelling his rage for craving her love.

‘Come on. There’s no time like the present. You tell me what to say.’ Lily cast a reassuring smile.

His jaw tightened. He was backed into a corner. So let her write the letter. What did he have to lose? Mac kept it simple as he dictated the message, and Lily scratched away with her pen. He didn’t want Stella to be pressured into visiting and besides, he had nothing to offer her.

‘She must be special, this girl.’ Lily’s gentle voice jolted him from his reverie.

‘Yeah.’ She sure was and always would be. Tears sprang to his eyes.

‘Well, that’s the letter finished. I’ll see it goes in the next post. I’m sure Stella will be thrilled to hear from you.’ Lily smiled and hurried away to the nurse’s office.

‘I doubt that,’ Mac muttered.

Later that evening, Mac waited until the night nurses were busy attending to other patients before slipping out of bed. Dickie had said there was a mirror in the side room, which was empty right now. He slipped in, and all was dark. It hung on the wall opposite the door and snatched the faint glow of light that now streamed in from the corridor. Dickie had already loosened the dressing off so all he had to do was lift it up from the bottom, which was not so easy with bandaged hands, but he managed somehow. His mouth ran dry. The smell of burned flesh was even stronger now, and he almost gagged. He clenched his jaw and stepped closer to the mirror, closing his eyes. The nurses didn’t allow mirrors because they didn’t want you to see what you had become, and he didn’t want to see either, only he had to know. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Even from the shadows, he could see the mark of war. Laughter from the guys out in the ward fractured the silence, and he jumped.

The right side of his face was red raw; a cluster of weeping blisters lay below his right eye, fanned out across the cheek, and slipped down to his neck. The skin was puckered, rigid and ugly. The Maestro’s words rang in his ears. We’ll fix you up . Words weighted in confidence. How was he going to fix this?

The breath caught in Mac’s throat, and his chest heaved. On the normal side, stubble thrived. How strange it didn’t grow through the burned flesh. That side of him reeked of death and decay. The blackout curtains masked the night and shielded the moon, and he suddenly had an urge to see the universe above, as if seeking reassurance that there was more to this life than what lay here in this place right now. He parted them slightly and gazed up. A yellow crescent hung in the sapphire night, and he closed his eyes and summoned her image. Ruby lips, green eyes that shimmered like the Pacific, svelte hands that had graced his skin like silk. He took a deep breath, holding her image a little longer in his heart. No, she wouldn’t want him now, not like this. Enough. He had to lock her away in the farthest corner of his mind.

He faced the mirror. ‘Birdie died because of me.’ His face crumpled, tears flowed, and salt water snaked down his cheeks, soothing. He conjured up the German people caught within the bombers’ path who lay beneath mounds of burning rubble. All human beings. He swallowed to drown the guilt, but it fought back and floated to the surface. ‘God forgive me.’ His shoulders heaved and shook, and his voice cracked as musical notes drifted in through the open door. We’ll Meet Again . Mac lowered his head, and his body gave way to the emotion that had bound him for days. He leaned back against the wall and sank to the floor. After some time, someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, mate. I’ve seen far worse.’ Dickie smiled as he crouched down in front of him. ‘Mac, look at me.’

Mac’s breaths were short and shallow as he sucked in air and the heat rose in his face. He raised his chin.

‘Take deep breaths, nice and steady.’ He placed his hands on Mac’s shoulders. ‘Slow and steady, now. That’s it.’

The tightness in Mac’s chest gradually eased, and his heart slowed as he took longer, deeper breaths.

‘That’s better, mate. You’ll be all right, you’ll see, and when your face is fixed those scars will fade a little. You’ll be amazed at what the Maestro can do.’ Dickie secured Mac’s dressings in place. Next, he took out two cigarettes, lit them and hung one in Mac’s mouth. ‘This is as bad as it gets. You’re on the up, now. Trust me, I know.’

Mac stared into his eyes and somehow, he believed him. Here, they were one and the same, and there was no explaining to be done. Here, they could believe they were normal.

‘Right-oh. Let’s get you back before you’re missed, and I’ll grab us a couple of beers.’

Mac followed him to the ward, his head still reeling with thoughts. One side of his face was a mess, and he wasn’t going to be able to hide away here forever. How would people react to him? Jesus. He heaved out a breath. He should never have had Lily write that darn letter.

***

Another week passed and finally it was time for Mac’s first operation. He still hadn’t received a reply from Stella, which was probably just as well. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Dickie tinkled on the piano, flirting with a cute VAD, seemingly teaching her how to play, except it looked like he was showing her more than the piano as he whispered in her ear. She blushed, giggled, and shuffled closer.

They had woken to a wet, misty day, and the smell of rain penetrating dry earth drifted in on the breeze through the open windows. The delicious, sweet, scent carried memories of home, and as Mac waited for surgery, bile rose in his throat. What if it made no difference? He thought of his squadron, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut.

Yesterday, Lily had persuaded him to try a jigsaw puzzle. What a joke. She had sat beside him on the bed, trying to figure out how the pieces fitted together. ‘You tell me which ones will fit, then,’ she’d said in that gentle, sweet voice of hers. He couldn’t make any of the pieces fit, not with his hands, not now, maybe not ever. And so he gave up and sat staring at the wall, and she’d been real sweet about it, but nothing she said made him feel any better.

He’d suffered the indignity of having his entire left arm shaved earlier by Sister Jamieson. Then he’d jumped as she doused it with ether, a cold, icy spray which made his eyes water as the fumes reached into the back of his throat. Afterwards, Jimmy, the bathroom orderly, shaved his left leg and groin. Now he lay on top of the bed like a mummy, with his hands, lower arms, and his right leg wrapped in sterile dressings and bandages.

‘Strewth, mate. I see you got the full works,’ Dickie chuckled. ‘Hey, how about a drink?’

‘Don’t think I can, boys. Save me one for later,’ Mac said.

‘No alcohol for you today, at all,’ Sister Jamieson bellowed, stepping forward. ‘This man is having an operation, and I’d advise you not to be plying him with beer. Mr McIndoe is most strict about that on surgical days. And it’s rather early, don’t you think?’ Her tone was acid, and she cast Dickie a steely glance.

‘Can’t break one of the Maestro’s commandments, now, boys,’ Pete muttered through half-clamped lips.

Sister glared at him, her eyebrows raised, and she walked away.

‘She should be in a museum.’ Dickie smirked. ‘Thou shall not covet beer on ops day.’ The guys laughed.

Mac glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven. They’d be coming for him any moment now. His mouth was as dry as the desert, and he was desperate for a sip of water as he licked his lips and swallowed. A letter on his bedside table caught his eye. He didn’t recognise the writing, but his heart hopped in his chest as he ripped open the envelope.

‘Good news?’ Pete asked.

‘Not sure.’ Mac’s eyes flew across the lines, hungry for her words.

Dear Mac,

I was so relieved to hear from you. I was terribly worried when Vera told me about your accident and I’m so sorry to hear that your friend died. You were so brave in rescuing him. I came to see you in Cambridge, but you were sedated and sleeping so I don’t suppose you knew I was there. You didn’t say much in your letter so I’m hoping that everything is all right.

I’ll come and see you just as soon as I can get leave. There’s so much I need to say, and we parted on such bad terms. I’m sorry for what I said and for hurting you. Well, I hope they’re looking after you there and that you’re feeling better. I miss you.

Love,

Stella xx

Mac’s eyes fixed onto that second last word: love. Did she love him? His heart leapt, and he read the letter again. She did come to the hospital in Cambridge. He blew out a breath. Even so, she hadn’t seen the real him, and while his heart and soul ached to see her, he realised nothing had changed. She was still better off without him. He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed the lump in his throat.

‘All ready?’ Archie’s face appeared serious as he strode towards him in his surgical scrubs, but his eyes twinkled and bore that mischievous look.

‘As I’ll ever be, doc.’

‘I’m afraid you can expect some pain when you wake up, although we’ll keep you topped up with morphine for that. It can take a few days for it to settle, then once we know the grafts have taken, you can start doing some therapy.’

‘I’ll do all the therapy and more if it gets me a one-way ticket back to base.’ Mac managed a nervous smile.

‘You’ll be fine, Mac. Try not to worry. Right, I’m off to get ready. See you soon.’

Mac lay back and closed his eyes. He winced. His hands had been throbbing that morning—a constant reminder of the accident—and a sharp pain zipped through his palm and into his wrist.

‘Hey, Mac,’ Dickie called over to him. ‘I’ll walk down to theatre with you.’

‘Is that even allowed?’

‘Course it is. We do it all the time, take it in turns. Sometimes the Maestro lets us watch, well, those of us who can stand it.’ He turned to check the clock. ‘Last time I saw an op with a bloke who’d recently had his nose done. He passed out, only went and landed on his conk, didn’t he? The Maestro had to make him another.’ Dickie broke down laughing so heartily at the memory that tears rolled down his cheek. ‘Besides, there’s nothing much going on around here.’ He sauntered over to the piano, sat down, struck the keys, and sang ‘Roll Out The Barrel.’

‘Yeah, it’s a barrel of laughs all right,’ Mac muttered, thinking back to jollier times. He took a deep breath. The first time he’d set eyes on Stella had been one of those thunderbolt moments, and he knew she was the girl for him, only she had been with the wrong guy. But now he was the wrong guy. The doors to the ward burst open, and Jimmy barged through, whistling, and pushing a theatre trolley.

‘Ready then?’ he asked. ‘Hop on.’ He turned to the boys in the ward. ‘Right then, which one of you lousy lot is doing the theatre run?’

‘I’m your man.’ Dickie stood up, took a swig from his beer tankard, and charged up through the ward.

‘Lord help us.’ Jimmy rolled his eyes.

Mac lay down on the trolley while Jimmy dragged the blanket over him. On the way to the operating theatre, Mac offered up a prayer to God. He wondered if Dickie was right. The doc always sounded so confident; maybe he could fix him up. But it would never be enough. What would he say to Stella? What if she was repulsed by him? He couldn’t handle that. No, but he’d have to see her one last time so he could let her go. Her letter preyed on his mind. What did she mean when she said there was so much to say? It was probably nothing. More talk about how sorry she was to hear about the accident. But what if it was something more? What if she still wanted to be with him? A fleeting glimmer of hope glowed within him then swiftly waned. He didn’t want her pity, and he couldn’t bear to see her disappointment. No. His mind was made up. He couldn’t give her the life she deserved. Not now.

The shadows were closing in already, and Bill’s face flashed in his mind. A vice clamped his chest, and he swallowed. They passed through the open doors of the theatre to where the anaesthetist was ready and waiting, dressed in surgical scrubs.

‘You’ll be all right, mate. We’ll all be here for you when you get back.’ Dickie patted his shoulder and moved out of the way.

Archie’s voice filtered across the room, above the spray and splutter of gushing water. His tone was light, and there was something reassuring about it. The doc was a good guy and Dickie had to be right. Archie would fix him up, eventually.

‘Ah, we meet again. Now then, Mac, I’m just going to put a needle into your arm.’ The anaesthetist, John Hunter, was a tall, burly chap with a kind face and sparkling eyes. There was a rather playful youthfulness to his voice, which held such rise and fall and made him sound as jolly as he looked. ‘Now, it’s well known that my anaesthesia is more superb than that of other doctors, and I assure you that when you come round, you won’t feel sick. Anyone who does can have a free pint on me.’ His face crumpled into a warming smile.

‘I might hold you to it.’ Mac laughed nervously.

‘Right then, where were we?’ He grasped Mac’s right arm, his fingers gently tapping the skin as he searched for a vein. ‘Now then, just a little prick,’ he said in a hushed voice.

Mac looked away as a sharp sting shot through his arm. He glanced up and noticed the viewing gallery above with several people peering at him. Spectators in an operating theatre. This place sure was a madhouse. Then, a strange, floaty, heavy feeling drifted through him as he began to laugh. No wonder the guys called themselves guinea pigs. Everything was experimental, and now here he was, on display in a zoo, and then…nothing.

***

Mac strained to open his eyes; his eyelids were lead-heavy, and he tried to keep them open, but it was no use. Suddenly, a loud drumming kicked in, and Mac turned his head to the window. As he peeked through half-open eyes, the black-grey edges of his vision cleared. A golden glow flooded the ward as the drumming ceased and droplets streaked down the glass. Blue sky loomed, and the drumming continued in his head as sharp pain hammered his hands as if nails were being driven through them.

Still drowsy from the anaesthetic, he drifted in and out of sleep. The pain in his hands intensified, building up to a crescendo as the nails transcended into red-hot pokers. Finally, he cried out. The nurse said something, but he couldn’t make it out, and then she left, and he closed his eyes and drifted through a sea of pain.