When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  Chapter Fourteen: April–May, 1945

  Over the weeks that followed, Arkwright, who had been trapped under hangar debris which mangled his left arm, was sent to a convalescent home near his family, whilst Phillips was moved to a different kind of hospital. He’d lost the sight in both eyes, and Arty had overheard the doctor say there was no medical reason for it, but he came up with one so Phillips wasn’t discharged with the hideous ‘LMF’ on his papers. Whatever horror Phillips had witnessed that took away his desire to see—there was no lack in Phillips’ moral fibre so it must have been something pretty hellish—he wasn’t telling. Tragic, also, that it should happen now, with news pouring in from Berlin, where the Soviets had a ‘nervous and depressed Hitler’ surrounded, and the Third Reich seemed to be rapidly disintegrating.

  From Italy came rumours of surrender, though Arty only caught snippets here and there; he was still sedated for most of the day, with a brief reprieve at visiting time. The doctor had told him the sedation was to help with the pain, and in truth the only time it didn’t hurt was when he was unconscious. Nevertheless, Arty resisted asking for medicine as long as he could, eager to make the most of those few precious minutes of company, particularly when it came to Sissy, whose six-hour round trip to visit every weekend left him in no doubt about the seriousness of his condition. Had he still questioned it, the visits from his parents made it crystal clear.

  It seemed everyone from Minton had been in to see him at least once, and his men took turns to visit in pairs, as was the rule set by the firm but fair matron. Jim, Jean and Charlie had also devised a rota, which, along with the officially designated hours for visiting, Jim flagrantly ignored. More remarkable still, he was getting away with it and visiting at all hours. If Arty could have stayed awake long enough, he might have been able to figure out how Jim could so easily wrap Matron around his little finger.

  Jean came every other day, doing her utmost to keep Arty’s spirits up by telling him funny stories, not that he’d confided to her or anyone else just how frightened he was. He could tell she knew something, and the longer she kept it to herself, the more frightened he became. He still had no proper sensation in his legs. Indeed, with the blankets and cage over them, which he was not permitted to touch, for all he knew both legs had been chopped clean off. Each morning the doctor came on his rounds, asked the same questions, took his pen from his pocket and said, “Can you feel anything?” to which Arty would answer, “No,” before deciding the doctor was a damned good liar. If that pen had touched the soles of his feet, Arty would have known about it.

  “And you’re still getting pins and needles, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Good, good.”

  And on to the next poor fellow. Pins and needles—if they’d been heated to the point where they were glowing white-hot, maybe. At first it only happened in the early hours, when he was due for more pain-killing medicine, but it seemed to be occurring more and more every day. It was the worst pain Arty had experienced in his life, and when it came on during Jean’s next visit, he ended up screaming in agony and begging for her help to end his suffering. In that moment he’d meant it, but as the pain slowly subsided and he watched her break down, he realised just how hard it was on everyone else. Like Charlie, for instance, who would begin each visit by offering his excuses for why he couldn’t stay long. After twenty minutes or so had passed, he’d rise to his feet and smile an apology, and Arty would joke, “I’d see you out, but the beds here are fit for kings.” Charlie would fake a cheery smile and promise to get the beer in once Arty was discharged.

  So, along with the physical pain and the furnace-heated pins and needles in his potentially phantom legs, Arty had the guilt of frightening the life out of poor Jean and subjecting his best friend to enduring the company of an invalid. Indeed, he’d convinced himself it would be better if people didn’t visit him, if it resulted in guilt and pain for all concerned, particularly if he was already destined for the knacker’s yard.