An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea by Patrick Taylor

Author:Patrick Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466860384
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

26

The Shot of Accident

“You’re late, O’Reilly.” Surgeon Commander Fraser stood beside Sister Blenkinsop at the entrance to Admiral Collingwood Ward. “I suppose it was difficult dragging yourself away from wedded bliss and your glamorous little Irish colleen.” These last words were uttered in an execrable stage Irish accent that made Fingal cringe.

He stifled an urge to thump the stroppy bastard, not that Fingal objected to being berated for tardiness—that was fair game. But a slur made by any man on Deirdre was risking retribution. “I’m sorry, sir.” He would give no explanation, and there was some truth to what the commander had said. Their wonderful honeymoon in the New Forest had ended four days ago, and it was hard leaving the flat in the Crescent in the mornings. Deirdre went to her Land Army work, he to Haslar.

“I don’t want to be late for the service of remembrance,” said Fraser. “So let’s get going.”

Neville Chamberlain had died yesterday and today was November the eleventh, and except for staff performing critical duties, everyone was expected to attend the service in the Garden of Remembrance near the Paddock, a vast burial ground behind the hospital and its outbuildings.

Fingal followed the surgeon, Sister, and a VAD note-taker pushing a chart trolley onto the ward. As usual, the patients lay at attention in their navy-grey-painted iron beds, or sat rigidly with arms folded. The first man was on a chair, his left arm in a sling. Fingal took the chart Sister proffered. “Leading Seaman Jackson, Colles wrist fracture reduced and set yesterday, sir.”

“Feeling well today, Jackson?” the senior surgeon asked.

“Yes, sir.” The man stared fixedly ahead, his face expressionless.

“Discharge today back to—?”

Fingal got the information from the chart. “HMS Vernon, sir.” Rather him than me, Fingal thought. The stone frigate carried out the work of defusing German mines, many of which were booby-trapped. It was also where Scott of the Antarctic had trained as a torpedo specialist.

“Excused duties today and tomorrow. Light duties after that. Back here in six weeks to have the cast off, and return to full duty.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The man sounded disappointed. No wonder. In civvy life, he’d have been off work for six weeks, but in wartime, it was a physician’s duty to get men back to work as quickly as possible.

“Just wait until the rounds are over, Jackson,” Sister said, “and we’ll get you seen by the medical officer in charge so he can complete your discharge papers, and then you can go.”

“Come on,” said Commander Fraser. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Chief Petty Officer Brandon,” Fingal said at the next bed, where an ashen-faced man lay. “Perforated duodenal ulcer repaired two days ago.” A red rubber tube was taped to the side of his face. Its far end was in the patient’s stomach so the gastric contents could be removed to give the repaired bowel a better chance to heal. Fluid from a bottle of saline was dripping into an arm vein. Fingal read from the chart: “Temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and respirations all normal.

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