Chapter 4

Ward III, January 1943

T he ward doors flew open, and two male orderlies hurried in, pushing a trolley with a patient sprawled upon it. The trolley hit a bump, eliciting a pained groan from its occupant. From their beds and chairs, patients and visitors alike turned to stare, eyes wide with curiosity and alarm at the sudden commotion. Archie glanced up from the notes he was studying in the cramped confines of Sister’s office. Through the small window, he caught sight of a dark, charred face, scarcely resembling anything human. A surge of anger flared within him, a familiar yet futile rage against the horrors of war. He set the medical notes aside and quickly followed Sister Jamieson, who had already risen from her chair and was striding purposefully towards the commotion to greet the new arrival.

‘Follow me, gentlemen,’ she instructed, sweeping past the orderlies and halting abruptly at the end of the ward. ‘You must be Jack. We’ve been expecting you.’ She offered a warm smile to the young airman, holding open the door to the saline bathroom.

‘Be careful as you lift him.’ Sister Jamieson stood by, overseeing as one orderly supported Jack’s upper body and the other took his legs. Together, they gently lowered him, uniform and all, into the bath. The young man groaned, but as the water lapped at his clavicle, a profound calm seemed to wash over him. His shoulders relaxed, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

Briny steam drenched the air, its saltiness lining Archie’s nostrils, beads of sweat tickling his brow. He shrugged off his brown tweed jacket and draped it over a nearby stool. ‘Hello,’ he said, crouching beside the bath. His eyes scanned Jack from head to toe. The blue-grey fabric of the boy’s RAF uniform had fused with the skin of his arms, chest, and thighs, creating a macabre tapestry of tissue and charred cloth. Sister Jamieson dipped her hands into the water and carefully unwrapped the bandage on Jack’s left hand. The appendage was grotesquely swollen, the skin blackened and leathery, the fingers charred crisps. Beyond the wrist, the forearm was raw, and red. Jack glanced down, and despite the horrific burns on his face, his eyes could not hide the look of terror, darting frantically in every direction.

‘It’s all right. We’ll soon fix you up. Just rest and let the water do its work,’ Archie said gently. Jack was gaunt, with skin so fried that the nerve endings were damaged and numb in places. Years of surgery awaited him, with multiple grafts. Archie sighed and straightened up, his chin raised to address Sister Jamieson. ‘When did he last have morphine?’

She flicked through the notes, her long, bony fingers tracing sentences as she scanned the words with hawk-like eyes. ‘Two hours ago.’

‘Right. Well, by the time he’s soaked for an hour or so, you can administer another dose. Let’s keep him as comfortable as we can.’ Archie glanced at Jack’s decaying form in the bath. Another bad burner. Why did some of these lads fare so much better in the flames than others? He shook his head and ran his hand through his greying hair, smoothing it down. From the ward, piano music flowed: ‘I’ll Never Smile Again.’

Suddenly, Jack tried to heave himself up, but the effort proved too strenuous, and he cried out like a wounded animal. The water, nearly filling the bath, swirled, sloshed, then overflowed, spilling onto the linoleum floor. ‘I gotta get out!’

‘Steady on.’ Archie placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked into his eyes, which locked onto his. Obsidian beads peering from a blackened, skull-like face. Strewth, he was in a state . ‘Was it a Hurricane or a Spitfire?’

‘Hurricane.’

‘Header tank?’

‘Yeah. Direct hit. Exploded instantly. I almost didn’t make it out.’ Jack’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

Archie formed a mental picture of him wrestling with the ripcord of his chute with burned hands that barely functioned. ‘Jack, you have to stay in the bath. We need to get you cleaned up and dress these wounds, but first, this uniform has to come off.’

‘I don’t have time for all that, doc. My girl, she’s having my baby. We’re supposed to be getting married.’

So fragile and yet determined. The boy was exhausted and in great pain, but his fighting spirit was reassuring; he was going to need that resilience. ‘So, you’re going to be a father, eh? Congratulations. Well, we’ll get you fixed up as soon as we can. Don’t worry, we won’t keep you any longer than necessary.’ Archie cast a reassuring smile.

Jack remained unsettled and tried to heave himself up again, but his body failed him, and he sank back. ‘I’m getting married... next week.’

‘Not in this state, I’m afraid. It’s not possible. Maybe in a month or two, we’ll have to see.’ Archie glanced at Sister Jamieson, whose eyebrows knitted together in a frown. He shook his head. These boys were all the same—always running, always fighting. Getting married, indeed. People often said Archie performed miracles—utter nonsense, of course, and this was one miracle too far.

Jack lifted his arm and looked at his hand, his mouth wide open, lips dark and swollen. He cried out again, ‘Lord, help me.’ He glanced up at Archie with beseeching eyes. ‘Help me, please.’

Archie crouched down and rested his hand on the side of the bath, adjusting his black horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Okay, here’s the plan. You agree to soak in the tub while Pete and Jimmy remove all this cloth. Then we can get you out and dress those burns.’

‘But Doc, I haven’t got time for that. My girl...’

‘Will wait for you, I’m sure.’ Although they didn’t all wait. Archie had seen it happen—wives or girlfriends, desperate to see their husbands or lovers again, only to recoil in horror when they were reunited. For some, it was a very brief reunion.

‘You don’t understand. No child of mine is gonna be born a bastard!’ Jack’s chest heaved, and determination flared in his eyes.

‘Okay. We’ll see what we can arrange.’ Archie turned to Sister Jamieson. ‘Do the best you can. I’ll be back later, and we’ll take things from there.’

‘Yes, Mr. McIndoe.’

As he stepped out of the bathroom, Archie savoured the cooler air while he strolled through the ward. He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. Some of the men who had headed out to the pub last night were still in bed, no doubt sleeping it off. Archie suppressed a chuckle as he glimpsed pictures of scantily clad women and pin-ups adorning the walls above beds. Then there were pictures of babies, wives, and squadrons. A merry tune flowed from the radio. Music soothed the mind, healed the heart, and comforted the soul while also drowning out groans and cries.

‘Morning, Maestro.’

Archie turned in the direction of the voice, the Aussie’s colonial accent evoking memories of his own native New Zealand. ‘Morning, Tom,’ he said, nodding as he carried on through the ward.

A nurse with auburn hair tied in a neat bun emerged from the sluice room, pushing a trolley filled with vases of daffodils and snowdrops. As she sailed by, Archie drank in the sweet floral scent. Silken yellow and white blooms nodded from green stalks and added a touch of home to the drab, clinical surroundings.

Thank the Lord for the ladies of East Grinstead, who had come up trumps when he’d told them how making the ward bright and cheerful was vital to the recovery of his patients. Fresh blooms arrived every few days, and a warm glow flared in his chest when he saw how the town had pulled together.

‘Good morning, Archie,’ the nurse said in her soft Irish accent.

‘Morning, Bea. I see you’re doing the honours today.’ He grinned. ‘The old homestead looks better already.’ Of course, there was an ulterior motive for the flowers. The sweet fragrance helped mask the foul odour of burned flesh, which reeked and could be overwhelming.

When Archie reached his office, a letter stamped RAF Charterhall was resting on his desk. About time . He wondered if the MO had taken Richard Hillary off active duties. Archie recalled Richard’s words: I don’t think I can go on for much longer . Richard had been so determined to return to flying duties. Archie remembered the relentless badgering and his own reply: You haven’t a hope in hell of getting back. The Air Force won’t let it happen . Maybe he should have been more forthright, but in the end, he’d thrown up his hands and told him to get on with it: If you’re determined to kill yourself, go ahead, but don’t blame me . As his own words rang in his head, an icy chill draped over his shoulders.

He glanced up as sunlight streamed into the room, trapping dancing, shimmering dust motes in the golden haze. What a time for Jack to be thinking about marriage, although he was simply taking care of his girl the best way he could. Of course, not all girls were loyal. Women swarmed around fighter pilots, the Brylcreem Boys, and now, while at their lowest ebb and burned to a crisp, some of the wives and girlfriends vanished without a trace. A knock on the door shattered his reverie.

‘Morning, Boss.’

‘Ah, Blackie. Come in.’ Edward Blacksell, Archie’s RAF Welfare Officer, was invaluable in keeping the airmen in line.

‘I’ll not stay, just checking you’ve remembered the committee meeting later.’ Blackie dropped a stack of medical notes onto the desk.

‘Yes, how can I forget? I stand accused of lowering the tone. Again.’ Archie raised his eyebrows.

Blackie sighed. ‘Yes, well, watch out for Sister Hall today. She’s barking at everyone. One of our boys came back in the early hours, drunk as a lord, and I’m afraid he lost his way.’

‘Oh no, he didn’t end up in the wrong bed, did he?’

‘No. The daft beggar barged in on an emergency operation. Caused a bit of a stir.’ Blackie smirked. ‘Sent a tray of instruments flying when he staggered into a trolley. The surgeon was Mr Edwards, and he’s furious.’

‘Marvellous. That’s me in the doghouse.’ Archie pictured Edwards’ rounded, ruddy face and couldn’t resist smirking to himself. ‘Okay, thanks, Blackie.’ Boys will be boys .

As the door closed, Archie wondered what the ladies on the committee would throw at him this time. Last time they’d been outraged over the beer barrels on his ward, the flowers, and the uniforms. Well, hydration had won the argument over the free availability of beer. Burns patients required lots of fluid. He chuckled to himself. As for the uniforms, he’d been outraged to learn that complaints had been made about his boys wearing their service uniforms. Ridiculous. The situation was simple. He disliked the convalescent uniforms. They made the men look more like convicts, and so he’d burned the lot one day in a fit of rage. His boys were serving their country and needed to feel that they still were. They needed normality.

Thank God he didn’t take that RAF Commission and didn’t have to follow orders. If he had to ruffle a few feathers to get what he needed for his boys, then so be it. He grabbed the silver letter opener and slit open the envelope with surgical precision. ‘Now then, let’s see what you’ve been up to, Richard.’

His eyes flicked over the words and as he read, he sighed and shook his head, picturing Richard, his scarred, disfigured, claw-like hands, and fingers that struggled to hold cutlery, fumbled with buttons, and gripped a pint glass as if wrapped in woollen mittens. Why hadn’t the MO intervened as he had requested in his letter? That left eye of his hadn’t been up to the strain of night-flying. ‘What the devil was the RAF thinking?’

He wondered what made a man so desperate to return to a fight that almost killed him the first time. Perhaps they felt that flying instilled a sense of normality? They could climb through cumulus and cast aside their imperfections and scars beneath the dispassionate gaze of the sun. But flying aircraft required full hand control, something Richard had lost.

After Richard’s propaganda mission to America last year, word had spread of the good work being done at East Grinstead and that along with the success of his memoir, The Last Enemy , had brought unexpected attention and aid to the Guinea Pig Club. Letters with cheques, money orders, and notes offering hospitality and jobs along with gifts for the injured servicemen had been arriving ever since. Blackie had been a godsend and helped set up a charitable fund to manage the donations, which Archie realised would be needed to help some of the lads start new lives after the war. That had been the only good to come of the trip.

The icy reception Richard had received from US officials had caused him to see red. Apparently, they were rather concerned about how the American people would react to Richard’s disfigurement and any adverse effects that might have on their own military recruitment, so Richard had been shielded from the limelight. And the eye operation he’d had over there hadn’t exactly been successful. He ought to have stayed here, had surgery, and then, just perhaps, it would have been a different outcome.

Archie looked again at the letter as the words slipped in and out of focus, and he thought of the irony of fixing the injured merely to send them back for more. He strained his eyes, and read out loud:

He and his observer were killed in an accident at 0137 hours on the 8 th of January 1943.

It had been a night training exercise. Further details explained how Richard and his radio operator had taken off in their Blenheim bomber and climbed into the icy night sky before losing control and crashing into a nearby field. Richard’s words resonated in his mind. I don’t think I can go on for much longer . Archie clamped his eyes tight and bowed his head. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds; a metronome slicing through the silence. Does a chap ever sense that death is waiting? Richard must have in his final seconds as he wrestled with the controls of the Blenheim.

Archie stared out into the grounds as he remembered the merry band as they had been in the summer of 1941. Richard, Geoff Page, and the others had lounged on the grass beneath the sun, thrashing out the finer details of their newly formed drinking club. The treasurer, wheelchair-bound with both legs in plaster, had been chosen because he was the least likely to abscond to the pub with the funds. The secretary had both hands wrapped in bandages and was unable to hold a pen, never mind take notes, and finally, Archie, elected as president. Youthful spirits shining through older, tougher skins. He saw their smiles and twinkling eyes, heard their raucous laughter and tales of daring air battles. ‘Godspeed, Richard,’ he whispered.

In the distance, a rumble escalated into a roar as a Spitfire sliced through the sky with grace and a greeting waggle of its wings. People stopped and stared, and a small boy with straw-coloured curly hair strained at his mother’s hand and waved. ‘We all need to find our wings sometime or another,’ Archie muttered. ‘All the boys yearn to fly, and all the girls love a flyer.’