Chapter 7

Humour Is The Best Medicine

A rchie peered around Ward III as the early morning sun flooded in through the windows, then he flicked his gaze back to the medical notes. As he thumbed through the pages, his hand fumbled, and he struggled to grasp the corner of the paper. Probably exhaustion, given all the hours he’d been working. Raised voices out on the ward diverted his attention, and he glanced up.

‘You cheeky swine, Tom,’ Pete Watson said.

‘Well, at least my nose stayed where it was put.’ Tom glared.

‘Certainly did, old chap. Slung over your shoulder!’ Pete said in a mocking tone.

‘What’s going on so early in the day?’ Bea marched across to the breakfast table. ‘Sister will be along any minute, and if she hears any of this nonsense, you’ll both be in bother.’ She glanced at Pete and her face dropped. ‘Oh, Lord help us. Jenny, get me some swabs, and you’d best hurry.’ She stared at the nose which sat in a pool of blood on the table right next to Pete’s mug of tea.

‘I just sneezed.’ A look of boyish innocence swept over his face as his cheeks glowed scarlet. ‘I had a feeling the graft wasn’t taking. Something didn’t feel right.’ Pete sucked in a breath and slowly exhaled. ‘I feel a bit sick.’

‘Rotten luck. Archie will fix you up again in no time.’ Tom scraped his chair back and slapped the other man on the back. ‘At least it’s just your face that’s stewed and not your tea.’ He grinned.

‘Well now, Pete, that’s all we need. Rest back and take some deep breaths through your mouth. Lord knows what we’re going to do with you.’ Bea placed her hand on his shoulder.

‘Never mind me, what about my ruddy nose? I’ve only had it for a week.’ Pete stared down at it with the look of a small child who had dropped his ice cream on the ground.

‘Not to worry. Archie will re-graft it, and you’ll be as good as new again.’

Archie looked on with a mix of amusement and frustration. Pete was the second person this week to have a problem with a graft. And aside from the nose, he was also waiting for skin grafts to his face and hands. As a Spitfire pilot, he’d bailed out from his blazing cockpit and landed in the Channel. His hands were severely burned, and he’d struggled to unclip his chute, which had almost dragged him beneath the water. He undid it in the nick of time, having swallowed a fair amount of the Channel in the process, then managed to inflate his Mae West. Fortunately, another pilot in his squadron had seen his plight and radioed ahead. It had been a godsend that lifeboat rescue had found Pete so promptly and plucked him from the sea before hypothermia claimed him.

‘I waited long enough for that nose.’

‘Not to worry, we’ll soon have you shipshape again,’ Bea said cheerfully with a conciliatory smile. ‘I’ll let Archie know.’

Jenny, the VAD nurse, returned with a pile of swabs. Bea took a couple and carefully picked up the nose. She took a few more and placed them over his face. ‘There now, hold them there while I go and get some dressing tape.’

Someone started up the gramophone in the middle of the ward and Glen Miller’s In the Mood swung out to a sea of amused faces.

‘Pilots indeed. Who entrusted them with expensive things like Spitfires? They’re barely out of short trousers,’ Bea muttered, doing her best to look fierce, but she couldn’t prevent the smile that blossomed.

‘Who indeed, Bea?’ Archie chuckled, noticing how she blushed a vibrant shade of scarlet. Clearly, she hadn’t realised he was standing behind her. ‘A sense of humour is vital if you’re to work and survive in this ward. Don’t worry, I’ll take a look now.’

***

Archie charged into his office and slammed the door behind him. His cheeks burned as the blood surged through his veins. ‘Damn narrow-minded people.’ He thumped his fist on the desk, winced, and quickly regretted it. There was a knock on the door, and he drew in a sharp breath. ‘Come in.’

‘Just wanted a quick word, Boss.’ Blackie stood hovering in the doorway. ‘Something wrong?’

Archie sank into his chair and clenched and unclenched his hand a few times beneath the desk, trying in vain to dispel the numbness that was spreading from his wrist to his fingertips. ‘Matron has received another complaint. This time one of our VAD nurses has made an accusation against one of the men. Never mind, I’ll sort it out. What was it you wanted?’ He poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down, feeling the heat in his face fade.

‘Well, it’s our latest arrival, Boss. This American chap. He’s in bad shape, isn’t he?’

‘Indeed. Some fool doused him with tannic acid. What’s it going to take to get that blasted stuff eradicated? I thought everyone had stopped using it by now.’

‘Well, we have, but I believe the message is taking a little longer to reach Europe. Aside from that, he’s going on about getting married.’

‘Ah, yes. I meant to tell you about that.’ Archie lit a cigarette, drew on it, and puffed out a plume of smoke.

‘He can’t get married in that state.’ Blackie dropped the files down on the desk with a thump and sat perched on the edge of the seat. ‘More papers for you to go through, I’m afraid.’

Archie flicked a gaze at the pile and nodded. ‘His girlfriend is pregnant. Doesn’t want the child being born out of wedlock.’ He ran both hands through his hair, mindful of his centre parting as he smoothed it down.

Blackie leant back in his chair. ‘I can understand that I suppose. He’s just a little off with his timing.’

Archie sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘Very honourable of him. He’s an American, from Iowa as I recall. Nineteen years old, a mere boy.’

‘He’s got Sister in a pickle because he’s refusing treatment. Being most uncooperative by all accounts. Says he wants to see you—now.’ Blackie held his hands up when Archie glared at him. ‘His words, not mine, Boss. He’s very distressed, and you know how Sister gets.’

Archie sighed. ‘Quite.’ He retrieved the burning cigarette from the ashtray and took a drag before stubbing it out. ‘These boys will be the death of me.’ He stood up. ‘Best go and see him then. Lead on.’

Piano music flowed out of the ward and men’s voices sang along to the tune of ‘Roll out the Barrel’, although a little off-key. Archie smirked as he strolled through the open doors, with Blackie following behind. He headed straight for bed one, which was shrouded with pale-green curtained screens. Groans and shouts came from within, along with the strained voice of Sister Jamieson, who shrank back when Archie swept in with Blackie in tow.

‘Now then, young fellow, what’s all this about refusing treatment?’ Archie sank down on the side of the bed.

‘Doc, as I told you, I gotta get married. My girl, I can’t let her think she’s all alone.’

Sister passed the young pilot’s medical notes to Archie, who pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose and flicked through the file. He studied Jack for a moment. ‘I had another young fellow recently, the same situation as yours. Header tank exploded right in front of him. The tanks were self-sealing, but some clod forgot to treat the tank in front of the pilot. Made a bit of a mess of him, too.’

Archie pursed his lips then flicked a gaze at Sister Jamieson. ‘Give him some morphine. Let’s make him more comfortable before we look at these wounds.’ He pulled out a pen from his breast pocket and scribbled something down in the notes. ‘Now, I see you were wearing your goggles. Just as well. You’d be surprised how many don’t bother.’ He shook his head and glanced at the lad’s heavily bandaged hands, which were showing signs of wound exudate through fresh dressings already. ‘As for your hands, I’d guess you weren’t wearing your gloves.’

Jack shook his head. ‘Too bulky, especially when you’re in a jam.’

‘Hmm, well, we need to take the bandages off and have a look. Don’t worry, we’ll give you something for the pain first. Now, your hands are black and crispy because someone coated them in tannic acid which hardens and forms a protective shell. Fortunately, we don’t use it here. Still, not to worry. I’ll be able to remove it with surgery and then we can see how bad the hands are and take it from there. You’re going to need a few skin grafts, including some for your face.’

‘But Doc, what about my girl? I can’t just lie here, waiting, for weeks on end. The baby’s due in around four months. I gotta marry her.’ Jack struggled to raise himself up on his arms and sank down onto the pillows, breathing hard.

Archie placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Just rest back, young fellow. You’re in one hell of a mess.’ He couldn’t help but be impressed by how strong-willed his young patient was. It really was incredible. ‘Jack, we want the best for you, and we want you to be content, so if getting spliced will keep you happy then we’ll arrange it. Maybe afterwards I can do some work on you.’ Archie grinned. ‘For the time being, you have to allow us to treat you, or you won’t have a hope in hell of making it to the altar.’

Jack’s twinkling eyes signified agreement. ‘You got it, Doc,’ he said in a more sedate tone.

‘We’ll fix you up, and we’ll see what we can arrange.’ Archie flicked a gaze at Blackie, who made a note in his diary.

‘Thanks. That’s a weight off my mind.’ Jack’s head sank further into his pillow, and as his face eased, it was as if the stress melted away, taking some of the pain with it.

Archie strolled back to his office as thoughts steamed through his mind. How on earth was he supposed to organise a wedding in a hospital? The boy wasn’t up to getting married, and the whole idea was ludicrous, but he’d seen the fear in his eyes, and it wasn’t unfounded. He couldn’t say for certain what the boy’s prognosis would be, although he was confident he would survive, provided sepsis didn’t set in. Other than that, Jack’s RAF career was over.

There was so much to do, and these boys added more and more each day. As he stepped out into the bright sunshine with Blackie, he savoured the cool, fresh air that washed over him like a breath of mist. ‘Blackie, how the devil do we sort this out? Does his girlfriend even know he’s here?’

‘I doubt it. I’ll get the contact details and send a telegram. In the meantime, why don’t I have a word with our hospital chaplain?’

Archie clapped him on the back. ‘Sounds like a plan. Perhaps the sooner she’s here, the faster he’ll cooperate.’ Thank the Lord he could rely on Blackie. ‘Looks like we’re off to a wedding. Better give Sister notice and tell her to wear her best hat.’ They both burst into laughter.

***

The following week, Archie was relieved to hear that the registrar was happy to carry out the ceremony at the hospital chapel. It was to take place in ten days’ time and Blackie had managed to contact Jack’s girlfriend and make all the necessary arrangements.

‘Hey, I don’t have a ring yet. No engagement ring, no wedding ring. Can you help with that?’ Jack’s eyes pleaded.

He looked much brighter and while some of his wounds were healing, his hands and fingers remained bound in a solid, black, crispy shell. The tannic acid had to come off. Lord knew what was brewing underneath, and Archie was concerned about infection. The fingers were contracted and would worsen steadily until the fingertips were drawn into the palms of each hand, severely compromising Jack’s hand function.

‘I don’t suppose you’d take me up to London to a jewellery store?’ Jack stared, wide-eyed.

Blackie looked surprised and glanced at Archie for an answer. ‘I could buy them for you, it’s no trouble.’

The boy was near half-fried, for pity’s sake, and Archie blew out a breath, but then he saw the disappointment that flashed in Jack’s eyes.

‘No thanks, this is something I have to do myself.’ Jack lay back and flicked a gaze from Archie to Blackie.

‘We’ll see.’ That was as much as Archie was prepared to commit to for the time being, although Jack was persistent, and over the coming days, each time he saw Archie or Blackie he would ask if any arrangements had been made. Eventually, recognising the need to settle things, Archie came to see him. ‘You’re looking a little stronger.’

‘Sure am, though I’m not up to walking yet.’

‘Yes, well, it’s going to take time, but you’ll get there.’

‘Say, Maestro. I can’t get married without the rings now, can I? Are you gonna take me out so I can buy them, or do I have to break out?’

Archie studied him for a moment. Couldn’t the boy improvise or something? He still looked a bit of a mess. With a skull-like face, he would be a dreadful fright to the public, however, Archie’s primary concern was Jack. He had no wish for the boy to be gawked at or subjected to looks of horror, nor to be wounded by words. While the locals here were becoming used to these men, it was very different in London. As long as he was adequately dressed and bandaged, of course, he might get away with it. After to-ing and fro-ing with himself over the dilemma, Archie gave in. ‘Blackie will take you to one store only but then you come straight back.’

***

Archie set his cutlery down upon the empty china plate and reached for his glass.

‘Excellent dinner, as always.’ Blackie leant back in his chair and picked up his smouldering pipe from the ashtray, tobacco smoke lingering in the air.

‘Yes, not bad at all. Thank goodness for Mrs. Thomas. I’d be lost without my housekeeper.’ Archie poured brandies for them both. ‘Now then, what exactly happened today?’

Blackie sipped his brandy. ‘Well, firstly, Jack insisted that only the best jewellers would do for his girl, so I decided to take him to Mappin and Webb, in Regent Street. Well, a cheerful gentleman came out to serve us, however, he took one look at Jack’s face, his smile faded sharpish, and his face drained of all colour, poor chap.’ Blackie chuckled. ‘Anyway, Jack told him that he wanted to buy an engagement ring and a wedding ring. So, without a word the assistant stared down at him, then glanced at me. I don’t think he could believe his eyes. Nevertheless, he lifted out a tray of rings from beneath the counter. Jack leant forward, but he needed a little help, so I held the rings up for him.’

‘Poor man. Didn’t you tell him he was still in hospital?’ Archie drew on his cigarette.

‘No, I never got the chance. So, Jack picked a plain gold wedding band and a sapphire engagement ring. The assistant looked most relieved by this point. Then he says, ‘A worthy choice, sir. Now all we need to know is the size of the lady’s finger.’ He glanced at me and by now I’m thinking we’re sunk. We’ll never get the size right.’ Blackie chuckled and dragged a hand through his wavy brown hair.

‘Well, yes. It’s something I hadn’t considered.’

‘Jack looks at me, then at the assistant, and he says, ‘Well, that’s easy. It’s the same size as my little finger. Then he pulled his right hand out of his pocket and rested it on the counter.’

Archie tried hard to suppress his laughter. ‘The poor chap must have been traumatised being confronted with black, crispy fingers.’

‘His face dropped like a stone when he glanced down, then he turned grey and fainted. He didn’t half hit the floor with some force.’

Archie roared with laughter, his sides aching, his eyes moist, but then a memory resurfaced, gnawing away at him, and he ceased. When he first arrived in London, he’d encountered Great War veterans begging or selling matchsticks or anything they could just to get by. Many of them were disabled, shunned by a government which had sent them to war and shunned by the society they returned to, all because of their disabilities and disfigurements. A lump rose in his throat. One of those beggars had met his gaze with dark, weary eyes, sunken into a grimy, engrained face; the same tired and tortured face he saw in Jack. Archie swallowed.

He couldn’t let the same fate befall his boys, that much was certain. Every one of them should have a future to look forward to. The Guinea Pig Club might prove its worth after the war with any luck. Sometimes a helping hand was all it took for a man to stand on his own two feet and to assist with his recovery and right now, the helping hand Jack needed was to get married.

‘Blackie, it was a jolly fine thing you did for that young man. Something you can be proud of, and I’m sure he’s very grateful to you.’ Archie rose from his chair and moved to the open fire, stretching his tingling fingers toward the flames. Though he wasn’t that cold, the intermittent symptoms in his hands lingered without relief. He sighed, just as the air raid siren ruptured the peace with its rise and fall like the groans of some infernal animal in pain. ‘Bally Jerry.’ He shook his head.

‘What’s it to be? The shelter or another brandy?’ Blackie sat poised on the edge of his chair.

‘To hell with them. Brandy it is.’