Nurse Ronnie's Vocation

by Felicity Hayle

  "That's not like you —you used to be able to amuse yourself well enough in Lemumba."

  "That was different," she told him. "I wasn't properly grown-up then. I thought it was all right just to enjoy myself. Now I've become one of the world's workers I want to get on with the job."

  "All the same, all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl. Let's go out somewhere tonight, shall we? We haven't had a spree for I don't know how long. Where shall we go?"

  She thought for a moment and then decided, unable to resist the impulse : "I'd like to see some ballet. All right with you, Daddy?"

  "Lots of lovely young females prancing about? What could be better ! I'll telephone and see if I can get seats."

  She did not know whether that would be possible or whether Carolyn d'Auverne would be dancing. But she was fortunate on both counts. Some seats had been returned for resale, and Carolyn was dancing the principal role in two of the three ballets being presented.

  "She's very good," Ronnie thought as she watched the ballerina's effortless, floating grace. Her dancing had a peculiarly personal charm, too, that captured the hearts of the audience.

  Though it hurt, Ronnie was not sorry she had chosen the ballet for her evening's entertainment. She thought she could understand now how any man must feel about someone as lovely and charming as Carolyn.

  She had not bargained for her father's habit of chatting to Withers, however, nor for Withers repeating most of his conversations to Phil. So she was taken aback when on the following Monday—having reported for her first morning's duty with the theatre team—she almost collided with His Nibs in the corridor just outside the theatre. Not that she was surprised to see him, since she knew that she would meet him officially now she was on theatre duty, but the look on his face when he caught sight of her gave her a small, unpleasant shock. It was definitely disapproving.

  "So now I suppose you think you understand !" he demanded apropos of nothing at all, but it was so much the thought that was in her mind that she did not have

  to pretend that she did not know what he meant.

  "Yes, I think so." she began a little diffidently, only to be cut short with a brusqueness that was almost rude.

  "Well, you don't !" he stated categorically. "You haven't even the first glimmerings of understanding !" And with that he pushed his way through the swing doors and was gone.

  She sighed as she watched him go and was glad that she was the most junior member of the theatre team and as such not likely to come in contact for some time with His Nibs or any other of the surgeons in their work.

  Other things being equal, Ronnie would have enjoyed her time in the theatre. Of course at first she only got the dull routine jobs and spent a great deal of time scrubbing down, but soon Sister Macdougall, who had been Theatre Sister for more years than most people could remember, discovered that Ronnie had a real interest in surgery and took pains to teach her. Good theatre nurses were all too rare, and when she did come across one Sister Macdougall could not do enough to give them the best possible training in their work.

  Normally speaking she would not have got near the operating table as a junior probationer, but Sister and the senior general surgeon, James Marchant, were kind and very often beckoned her to a position where she could see what they were doing—a privilege which did not go unnoticed among the other nurses. Staff of course was always there just behind Sister, but the other nurses were not jealous since it so happened that none of the rest of the team had any real liking for theatre work.

  "One of these days, Forbes," one of the nurses said to her, "somebody will hand you an amputated foot on a dish and you won't think yourself so lucky. Tyson passed right out and dropped the whole lot when it happened to her."

  But ghoulish details had no effect on Ronnie—she felt nothing but interest in the surgical work. At first of course she was only present at slighter operations— more experienced staff being put on for the heavier case lists. She was, however, to get her baptism of blood sooner than she expected.

  It was on a day in late July that it happened. It had been a dull, depressing day as far as weather was concerned, with a heaviness in the air that made a storm not improbable.

  Work in the theatre was always hot, and even though the list had taken the morning only in Theatre Number Two where Ronnie was on duty, by the end of the afternoon when the place had been thoroughly cleaned and left ready for the next morning, Ronnie felt in need of nothing so much as a cool bath and a rest.

  "Come to the baths for a swim, Forbes?" her colleague suggested. But even that was too energetic for Ronnie.

  "No, thanks, I just couldn't make it," she declined. She did not realise that with the prospect of Phil being away for the whole of August on a friend's yachting cruise to the Norwegian fjords, she did not want to be away from Adam Square more than she need. She did not let herself realise that in her heart each day she said "Perhaps this evening he'll give me that coaching he mentioned ..." She would not be so foolish as to hope —but she did not want to be missing if the opportunity presented itself. "Besides," she added to the other nurse, "I ought to be studying."

  "Poor old Forbsie," someone sympathised. "Examinitis of the brain, that's your trouble, my girl. You're always—"

  The sentence was never completed, and everyone froze as the terrific whine of a jet plane flying too low screamed overhead.

  "What's that chap doing—" someone spoke in the

  accentuated silence which followed, but the next moment the question was answered as there came the heavy reverberation of an explosion.

  White-faced, the girls turned to stare at one another. "A crash—it didn't sound far away—" someone whispered, and as if to confirm the words they could hear a distant sound of fire sirens. Then the senior amongst them said : "We'd better stand by for action —they'll be bringing the casualties here for certain. Who was due off? You, Forbes? and Rivers? Well, you'd better not go. Phone your homes if you like while there's still time to spare. It's my guess we're in for a night of it."

  Ronnie got through fairly quickly to Withers. "Will you tell Daddy not to worry if I'm late home tonight? We think we may be having an emergency, it's—"

  Withers interrupted her. "I'll say you will, miss. A jet—crashed only a mile or so away. Nasty mess, by the sound of it—over a hundred passengers. I've had orders to get there—I'm a Red Cross man, you see. But I'll tell the old gentleman before I go."

  Ronnie told the other girls what Withers had said, and they waited, tense, yet trying to appear calm.

  Hospital lights and buzzers started to go almost incessantly, and so did the internal telephones. All off duty was cancelled and everyone ordered officially to stand by. All three theatres were ready for immediate use.

  Sister Macdougall, who had been out of the hospital, hurried back on duty. The night Theatre Sister also appeared as if by magic. It was not usual for the three theatres to be in use at the same time, so that a team had hurriedly to be got together for the third one. Yet everything moved smoothly, the months of discipline having their effect in the unhurried efficiency of the nurses' actions.

  Then the ambulances started to roll in.

  "Any moment now," came a message to the theatres before long. "Casualty and Outpatients are like a field dressing station ! They're only sending up the desperate cases for the moment—the others will have to wait, poor things."

  "We'll want every catheter we can get hold of. Nurse Forbes, go round to all the wards and collect what you can."

  Ronnie was glad to have something to do—the tension of just waiting was becoming almost more than she could bear. What must it be like for the surgeons? she thought as she sped along the corridors. "To have all those people's lives in your hands ..." She was thinking of Phil and how grimly he had once said something about losing a patient. She wondered where he was now. It was not his day for St. Chad's, so he was probably over at St. Boniface—and they were getting their share of the casualties too.

&nbs
p; In the wards there was the same feverish activity. Every patient who could possibly be discharged was being got out of bed, and the bed made up anew, while junior nurses were making telephone contact with relatives to come and fetch those who were waiting for discharge.

  There was not a doctor nor houseman to be seen on any of the wards—the Sisters were having to cope with any emergency that might arise. All the medical men were down in Casualty coping with the never-ending stream of terribly injured people.

  Then the first casualties reached the theatre and the teams sprang into action. at the head of it all Dr .vigers was sorting out the priorities—weighing the chances of life against life. Ronnie noticed that most of their early cases were children—the crashed plane had been carrying wives and children of Servicemen.

  Most of the patients were nameless. Bodies and identification papers had been scattered over a large area and there was no time to sort them out. A case was just a ruptured spleen, a pierced lung... they nearly all needed blood transfusions. Soon the whisper went round that plasma was running short.

  The whisper was confirmed when Ronnie was sent out to phone the path lab to find out the situation. The report she brought back was not reassuring. But a general call had gone out and vans were collecting the precious plasma from hospitals all round the London area.

  The surgeons worked against time. Consultants, registrars, even the housemen worked as a team. No one noticed the passing of time. Sent out to telephone again for plasma, Ronnie noticed that it was ten-thirty. Six hours since the first of the ambulances had started to roll in. She would have felt tired if she had not been witnessing the desperate weariness of those men in the theatre who were fighting to save life—life that was sacred to them although the patients themselves were nameless and faceless.

  She went back and gave her message to Sister, who passed it on to the anaesthetist. He looked as weary as the surgeons—his part was just as vital.

  Dr. Marchant, having finished a case, straightened his back for a moment and motioned with his rubber-gloved hands for Sister to wipe his forehead free of the sweat that was dripping into his eyes.

  "I think we're about through the heavier cases," he told his assistant. "I hope so, anyway—I'm getting too , old to work at this pace."

  But his hopes were not realised, for the next case wheeled in reduced the whole theatre to silence while the surgeons scanned the brief notes and made their examination.

  "Pelvis badly smashed. Spleen ruptured—lot of internal haemorrhage. Not much time, I'd say. What do you think?" he addressed the anaesthetist.

  "Not so good, sir. Blood pressure's very low. You'd have to work fast, sir."

  For a few moments there was absolute silence, then Marchant straightened up. "I can't cope with this," he said sombrely. "See if you can get hold of Conway— he's the only man who could save her. I'm too tired to trust myself to carry it through. I'll make a start— but get Conway."

  Once again Ronnie was despatched to the telephone with instructions to try St. Boniface. She was lucky enough to get put through to the theatre there, and was told Mr. Conway was operating. She gave her message and waited.

  Silence again for what seemed like ages, until at last Phil's own voice came over the wire. He asked briefly for details, and Ronnie, her voice clipped and impersonal, told him all she knew and added that Mr. Marchant badly needed his help.

  Phil sounded tired too, she thought, when he said curtly : "Right. I'll be over as soon as I can—leave in about three minutes. Tell him to carry on till I get there."

  That message seemed to put fresh hope into the team of masked, perspiring workers, and the tension in the theatre eased a little.

  It seemed incredible that anyone could have covered the distance between the two hospitals in the short space of time which elapsed before the swing doors of Theatre Number Two opened and Philip Conway strode through them.

  He went straight to the washbasin to scrub up, and Staff was waiting with his sterilised gown and gloves. With a brief word of thanks be crossed to the team bending over the table. Marchant looked up and Ronnie saw a light dawn in the tired old eyes. "Good man, Conway," he said. "Hope you've made it in time. Her B.P.'s low, and blood's running short."

  "Damnation !" Philip was bending over the table, assessing what had to be done. "Why do we never have enough plasma? Sutures, Sister—gut for this, I think, and the fully curved needle. We'll do the pinning later —we must stop this bleeding. What's the position?" he addressed the anaesthetist.

  "Last bottle of plasma nearly done, sir," came the reply, the official tone hiding real agony.

  "Then get some more—surely there's someone in the hospital capable of giving a pint of blood?"

  "She's AB, sir. We might test twenty people before we found an AB. There just isn't the time."

  "Anyone here Group AB blood ?" Philip Conway spoke aloud clearly, for all the theatre to hear.

  Ronnie's heart seemed to have become a lump in her throat which would not let her voice past. But she must have spoken the words "Yes, I am, sir," for suddenly everyone was looking at her.

  "Take her away and get two pints—quickly," Philip Conway spoke abruptly, and then just for a moment his gaze focussed and he seemed to realise who had spoken. "And don't let her come back on duty," he finished, and the dazed Ronnie wondered whether she had imagined the slightly more gentle note in his voice.

  She had not realised how exhausted she was and in what bad shape to lose blood. But over and above the physical distress there was the feeling that now she had some real part in the struggle for life going on behind the closed doors of Theatre Number Two. She wanted to get back there at once.

  "Oh no, you don't !" Night Sister told her. "You heard what Mr. Conway said. Two pints is a big don-

  ation in one go—you'll just stay here and drink plenty of sweet tea and rest, otherwise there'll be another casualty."

  Ronnie looked at the clock. Amazingly, it was half past one already. The hospital was quiet now, and Casualty Ward had been cleared of patients.

  "What was the case?" Night Sister asked while Ronnie drank her tea.

  "A woman —youngish, I think. Mr. Marchant said she had a smashed pelvis and ruptured spleen."

  Night Sister nodded. "That would account for the considerable bleeding, then. It would be one of the rarer blood groups ! Lucky you knew yours."

  Ronnie smiled. "We were all tested in Prelim. School. I was the only AB in my lot."

  "Bit of luck for somebody," Night Sister sighed. "I only hope it'll turn the scale."

  "Can't I go back ?" Ronnie asked. "I feel all right now, truly. I've had a rest and I'm practically awash with tea!"

  The elderly Night Sister appraised her with shrewd eyes. "Glutton for work, aren't you, Nurse Forbes? All right—but don't say I let you go I"

  The scene in the theatre was much the same as when she had left it. Everyone looked just that bit more weary, that was all. Philip Conway was still bent over the still form on the operating table, his eyes red-rimmed and tired above the mask.

  Finally he straightened up and spoke to his registrar. "Close her up, will you? I've done all I can. How's the B.P.?"

  "Still under forty—and respiration very shallow." "Go on with the transfusion," he was told curtly. Ronnie whispered to the girl beside her : "Did my blood do any good?"

  "She's still alive—but only just," the girl whispered

  back. "I hope to goodness she pulls through—it'd just about break up His Nibs to have her die on him after all that sweat."

  The registrar concentrated on his work. Philip Conway stood back where he could see the anaesthetist and his instruments, and the whole team worked quickly. Then the registrar also stood back and said : "O. K. Take her back to the ward."

  The anaesthetist looked at Philip and nodded almost imperceptibly. Conway let out his held breath slowly, and everyone jumped into action. Doors were opened, a stretcher wheeled beside the operating table, and the screen removed.


  Ronnie, who was looking at Philip and not at the patient, saw him suddenly stiffen. For the moment she thought that the worst had happened and the patient had died, but she caught the faint movement of the breathing form and knew that she was still alive.

  After the trolley had disappeared into the corridor Philip Conway stripped off his gloves and gown and handed them to the waiting nurse. One of the young housemen appeared in the doorway. "All clear," he said.

  Philip rubbed his hand across his eyes as if they hurt him. "Good," he said. He turned to Sister. "I'll be on call in the office for a couple of hours more if anything crops up," he said. "Goodnight, everybody."

  He smiled briefly, impersonally round, and was gone.

  "He may be a slave-driver, but he does know how to make it all worth while, doesn't he?" someone said, to which Sister Macdougall, stripping off her mask, retorted disapprovingly : "Mr. Conway is a very great surgeon, and it's a privilege to work with him. Don't forget that, girls. Now let's get cleaned up and away as quickly as possible. Nurse Forbes, you shouldn't have come back on duty—Mr. Conway gave instructions—"

  "I know, Sister. But I just had to come back and

  see how things were going. I felt as if I really had some part in the operation—"

  Sister Macdougall smiled a tired smile. "I know. Well, get yourself off home now and have what rest you can. I daresay we shall be busy enough tomorrow !"

  Ronnie was so tired that she did not change out of her uniform but slipped her coat on over it. It was good to be out in the fresh air, which smelled sweet and clean compared with the overheated atmosphere of the theatre.

  As she let herself into the house, which was all in darkness, she suddenly felt that the two flights of stairs were too much for her to negotiate. She wanted to sit on the bottom stair and stay there. But at that moment the phone rang and she gathered sufficient energy to answer it.

  It was Withers, ringing up to say that he had got an emergency post centre on his hands and would not be back until much later. "How are things your end, miss?"