An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War

by Patrick Taylor

The phone in the hall rang and he leapt to his feet with the grin of a killer bound for the noose who’s been told a reprieve has been granted.

  “Hello?”

  “Doctor, it’s me, Donal. We hate to bother you on a Saturday, like, but it’s wee Tori. She won’t stop gurning and she’s just come out in a rash on her face, so she has.”

  “It’s okay, Donal. I’m glad you called. I’ll be right round to take a look at her.”

  “Thanks, Doctor. Julie’s that concerned about the wee mite and I don’t like the look of her one bit neither. See you soon.”

  A pandemic of rubella, German measles, had started in 1962, and while he’d not jump to conclusions, he’d already made a shrewd guess. Its rash always started on the face, and fortunately it was a mild disease. He put down the phone, turned, and yelled upstairs, “It’s Donal Donnelly. Wee Tori’s come out in a rash. I’ll just nip over. Won’t be long.”

  Bag in hand, O’Reilly trotted through the back garden, called to Arthur—he’d give the big Lab his run after the home visit—and put him in the back of the old Rover. Free from Kitty’s usually restraining influence and released from the Kafkaesque government form, O’Reilly, like the recently retired British racing driver Stirling Moss, roared down the Belfast to Bangor Road singing lustily,

  Over hill over dale we will hit the dusty trail

  as the caissons go rolling along …

  * * *

  “Settle down, Arthur. I’ll not be long,” O’Reilly said.

  The big Lab, as he always did when the car bounced down country lanes, was thrashing his tail and making throaty, excited noises. With a final “aaaargh,” and a deep sigh, Arthur put his head on his forepaws.

  O’Reilly had to stop because the Donnellys’ lane was blocked by a chain from which hung a National Trust sign that read, DÚN BUÍ SIDTHE, DUN BWEE PASSAGE GRAVE, CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC. Donal, with a sick child in the house, probably simply did not want to be disturbed, and it was just as well he had closed the site. It would have to be done if Tori had an infectious disease, at least until the period of probable transmission was over. As he unhitched the chain O’Reilly remembered Donal mentioning in the Duck that Julie was selling cream teas to tourists and that Donal had two sidelines going, one of little Celtic figures that he carved and painted, and the other more mysterious. O’Reilly drove through, reattached the chain, and as he went to park was greeted by a waving Donal.

  “Thanks for coming, sir,” Donal said. “Julie has the wee one on her lap in the parlour.”

  O’Reilly grabbed his bag and followed Donal. “Has Tori been with any other kids lately?”

  “Aye,” said Donal. “Two weeks ago we went to Rasharkin to visit Julie’s folks. Her big sister has two kids, so she has. She phoned us up a week ago to tell us her lot were all down with the three-day measles.”

  That sounded like confirmation of O’Reilly’s initial suspicions. Rubella had an incubation period of fourteen to twenty-one days, and the rash came and went within three days, hence its local name.

  Donal went into the tidily furnished little lounge.

  “Doctor O’Reilly,” Julie said from where she sat on a small sofa. “Thanks for coming. Tori’s not too grand.” She cradled the infant, who snivelled and sobbed.

  “I can see the rash. What are her other symptoms?” O’Reilly asked, gently touching the tiny hand with his big paw. The wean’s skin was warm to the touch.

  Julie sighed. “She wasn’t at herself this morning. She was hot and had a runny nose. I took her temperature and it was one hundred. I thought she was teething again so I rubbed her gums with whiskey and give her a baby aspirin, but she’d not settle and then about half an hour ago that there rash,” Julie pointed to a pinkish disfiguration that covered the child’s face, “started til come over her face.”

  O’Reilly bent and peered at the child’s mouth to see if there was a pale area surrounding it. There was not. Good.

  Julie turned Tori and lifted her nightie. The child’s back from above the waist of her waterproof panties right up to her neck was covered in a pinkish blotchy rash.

  O’Reilly leant forward and examined the nape of Tori’s neck. Sure enough, he could feel enlarged lymph nodes. He hardly needed to run a mental checklist—the Lord only knew how many rashes of childhood he’d seen in more than thirty years—but to do so was ingrained. The rash wasn’t intensely red enough to be that of red measles, morbilli, and too pale to be that of scarlet fever, which in any case would be accompanied by the paleness round the mouth he’d looked for earlier and accompanied by a sore throat.

  O’Reilly straightened and smiled. “Not much to worry about here,” he said. “She’s got German measles, that’s all.” He kept his voice reassuringly low.

  “German?” Donal said. “They should keep their flipping measles to themselves, so they should. We won the wars—twice.”

  “It’s just a name, Donal. The German doctors didn’t invent it. It’s called that because the first doctors to describe it in the middle of the eighteenth century were from the country we now call Germany.”

  “Oh,” said Donal, sounding more mollified. “And it’s not serious, then?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Not in kiddies. She’ll be over it in no time.” He said to Julie, “She’ll probably have a temperature for about three days and you’ll need to keep her in bed for a week after that, then she’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Julie said.

  “Actually,” said O’Reilly, “it’s not a bad thing for girl children to have German measles. It means they’ll not be at any risk of getting it again when they grow up.”

  “And would that be bad?” Donal asked.

  “Only if they catch it in the first three months of a pregnancy, then it can hurt the baby. So you’ll not need to worry about that now because Tori will be immune.” He looked at Julie. “I know Doctor Laverty attended when you were pregnant with Tori, Julie, but just as a matter of interest, have you had them?”

  “Me?” She laughed. “Och, aye. When I was wee whatever was going around, I caught it.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. “You’ll be immune too.”

  “I think,” said Donal, “that is good because it’s about time Tori had a wee brother isn’t it, pet?”

  Julie smiled and nodded.

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly. “Anyway, there’s nothing to be frightened of. I’ll pop in in a few days, but if you’re worried—”

  “We know to call, Doctor,” Julie said, “and thank you very much.”

  “Right,” said O’Reilly, “I’ll be off.”

  “I’ll show you out, Doc,” Donal said.

  O’Reilly’s eye was caught by something on a small table. On a piece of newspaper there were some tools, a paintbrush, and a pot of wood stain. The side of a log shone white where pieces had been chipped away. A small pile of white sticks about the size of matchsticks kept company with a much bigger heap of pieces of the same dimensions, but stained a dark brown. “What on earth’s that all about, Donal?”

  Donal’s left eyelid drooped slowly. “I’ll tell you on the way to your car, sir, but do you know your man, Brian Boru?”

  “Ireland’s last Ard Rí, High King? Not personally, but I know he won the battle of Clontarf against the Norsemen in 1014, but was killed in the battle. His harp’s in the Long Room in Trinity College.” O’Reilly waited until Donal had closed the back door.

  “Aye,” said Donal, and lowered his voice, “but did you know about his war club, marfóir mór dubh, the great black killer?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

  “Very few people have.” Donal’s toothy grin was feral and that wink appeared again. “It was passed down through the County Donegal Ó’Donnghaile, and their ancestor was Donnghaile Ó Néill who died in 876 before Brian Boru was born, and Donnaghaile, a descendant of Eoghan, son of Niall of the nine hostages, and his—”

  “Enough, Donal,” O’Reilly sai
d.

  “Right enough,” Donal said. “I’ll go and take the chain down.” He walked the few paces, did so, and waved O’Reilly on.

  As O’Reilly got into his car and told Arthur to be quiet he vividly pictured Donal giving this dissertation to a group of entranced tourists as they sipped Julie’s cream tea. He’d be explaining that the old Irish way of naming was to prefix the first name of the grandfather with Ó’. The descendants of Donnelly (Donnghaile) O’Neill would become the O’Donnellys. O’Neill himself had been a grandson of Neill (Niall).

  O’Reilly motored to where Donal stood, stopped to say good-bye, and wound down his window.

  Donal bent and said. “Anyroad, the great club, much battered by time and wars, finished up with the last of the Ó’Donnghaile—me, so I am, at least until Tori gets a wee brother.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “You’re not telling me those stained matchsticks on your table are chips from the original great club?”

  Donal held one finger beside his nose. “I’d never try that on with you, sir.”

  “But you would with the English and American tourists?”

  Donal at least had the courtesy to blush. “Fair play, sir, for one pound ten they get a chip and a wee certificate of authenticity. You sussed it out quare and quick, sir, so you did. You’d not tell nobody?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I just didn’t know there was a branch of the Ó’Donnghaile family in Alexandria, Egypt.”

  Donal scratched his carroty head and frowned. “I never knew about them,” he said, then asked with his face set in a serious question, “Would them lot be related to the County Tyrone branch, like?”

  “No. Definitely the Down clan, of which I believe you truly are the last,” O’Reilly said as he put the car in gear. “In 1940, one of the Alexandrian Donnellys, I think his name was Abou ib’n ben Donnelly, tried to sell me a piece of the True Cross from Calvary—and a certificate of authenticity to go with it.”

  As he drove off laughing, O’Reilly thought it was because of the war and being stationed in Egypt that he’d met the Arab peddlar. Thousands of miles away but up to exactly the same kind of tricks as Donal. O’Reilly’s laughter faded. Come to think of it, there wasn’t a hell of a lot to choose from between a crafty Arab on the make and a scheming Ulsterman, and they both probably were doing it to have a bit more cash to help raise their familes. O’Reilly inhaled deeply. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, if the human race could spend a bit more time concentrating on what makes us alike rather than our differences, like that black American clergyman Martin Luther King Jr. was trying to do in the States, maybe we could make war a thing of the past?

  23

  On the East of Eden

  Fingal, waiting in his cabin on the main deck for Tom Laverty and Richard Wilcoxson, scanned recent entries in his war diary.

  April 24, 1940, ordered back to bombard town of Narvik. Some of wounded still on board screamed when they heard gunfire. Very distressing for them and me. April 25th to Scapa Flow. April 27, Captain Crutchley relieved by new skipper, Captain D. B. Fisher, CBE. April 30 Warspite leaving Scapa Flow. Uneventful run to Med. Dropped anchor Alexandria, Egypt, Friday, May 10. Now flagship for Vice Admiral A. B. Cunningham, ABC to his men. Same day Germans smashed into the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg.

  It was three days since Warspite had dropped anchor in the West Harbour, Alexandria. What little news there was coming out of Europe was gloomy indeed. The Germans, it seemed, after eight months of inactivity on the western front, were waging Blitzkreig, lightning war, with their tank and motorized armies in the Ardennes. Their aim: to outflank the French Maginot Line. Everyone, of course, believed the Allies would prevail—of course they would. They had to. They had more men, guns, tanks, and aircraft. Fingal slowly closed the diary and laid his hands flat on its cover.

  There was a knock on his door. He took a deep breath and set aside the unsettling thoughts. “Come in.”

  Tom Laverty stepped over the raised sill. “Ready?” He, like Fingal, was wearing number two tropical rig of white open-necked short-sleeved shirt with rank shoulder straps, white shorts, knee-length white stockings, and white shoes. Much more comfortable for the climate. Temperatures here in May could rise as high as 113 degrees Fahrenheit.

  “Tom.” Fingal rose. “Where’s Richard?”

  “He’ll meet us at the portside aft accommodation ladder. Had a last-minute something to do in the sick bay.”

  “Right.” Fingal grabbed his cap. “Let’s go.”

  Together they began to pass along the corridors and companionways, now all familiar to Fingal. “So,” he said, “what’s the inside gen from admirals’ country?” Tom, as navigating officer, was often privy to much more recent news.

  Tom laughed. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good. We’re going to be staying in the harbour for several days for repairs to damage—”

  “Damage? What damage? We’ve not been shelled or bombed.”

  “Self-inflicted wounds. Happens more than you might think. Those massive jolts you felt down at your station when the guns were fired at Narvik last month knocked a few things out of kilter.”

  “Good Lord. I knew the rifles sounded like the clap of doom, but it never occurred to me the concussions were affecting the ship.”

  Tom smiled. “They can, all right. If we ever have gunnery practice and aren’t closed up at action stations, I’ll see if I can get you up with me to watch. Then you’ll understand.”

  “I’d like that,” Fingal said as they climbed the companionway to the quarterdeck.

  They emerged into bright sunshine. Knots of officers stood in two groups. Those right aft near the taffrail would be off duty on board and were smoking and chatting. The shore party, which Fingal and Tom joined, stood close to the head of the accommodation ladder. There was no sign of Richard.

  Tom pointed directly astern. “See there, on the mainland? That cluster of buildings on the shore is the commander in chief’s headquarters, HMS Nile.” He must have seen Fingal’s puzzled look. “All naval shore establishments, we call them stone frigates, are designated as one of His Majesty’s Ships and are given a name.”

  “Even though it’s a building—on land,” said Fingal.

  “That’s right,” said Tom, looking somewhat affronted.

  “The good old Andrew certainly has its own way of doing things,” said Fingal with a laugh. “Please carry on with your tour, Tom.”

  “Okay, well, immediately to the left of Nile from our perspective, that area under the gantries is the harbour’s Gabbari Dock. It’s the biggest one, but it’s only large enough to take a cruiser. The shipwrights’ll have to come out here. Skipper reckons the work’ll take about five days.”

  “So with a bit of luck this won’t be our only run ashore?” Fingal said.

  “Probably not.” Tom waved his arm around in a semicircle. “So what do you think of this anchorage?” He pointed out to sea. “The breakwater out there is five miles long.”

  “The bay’s huge.” And even out here, over the smell of fuel oil, an offshore breeze brought scents of a foreign land, not entirely unfamilar to Fingal, whose ships had visited the Red Sea when he’d been a merchant marine apprentice. “And that’s a bloody great fleet anchored in here.” More numerous even, he thought, than the ships he’d first seen at Tail of the Bank in Scotland. Was that really six months ago?

  Ranks of grey warships of all sizes swung at anchor. Smoke rose lazily from the many funnels of ships that must be on notice to be ready to raise steam quickly. Warspite’s funnel was not smoking. “Furnaces out. Tom?”

  “Right. Skipper reckoned we might as well give her a boiler clean while we’re stuck here.”

  “Makes sense.” Fingal surveyed the scene. Small craft, pinnaces, captains’ barges, liberty boats, and supply boats motored back and forth. Their wakes crisscrossed the waters, churning them to a constant chop. Gulls swooped and screeched where ships were taking provisions on board. />
  Nearby on Warspite’s deck a group of sailors wearing nothing but white-topped round caps and shorts were loading fifteen-inch shells into the after shell room. He was alarmed to notice that the supervising petty officer was smoking.

  Fingal glanced away and watched a boom defence vessel (BDV) at the harbour’s narrow mouth, which was closed by heavy antisubmarine nets hanging from floating booms. The busy little boat hooked onto one of the booms and dragged it aside to open a gateway to let three destroyers enter in line astern. The leading vessel’s Aldis lamp was sending messages in Morse code to the C in C’s headquarters. The destroyer let go a series of joyous “Whoops” on its whistle. When the last ship was safely inside the BDV would close the gate.

  “Cheeky bugger, that destroyer skipper,” Tom said with a grin, and went on, “Our capital ships, those that aren’t at sea, are at this end. But see over there, up ahead, behind the land that the breakwater starts from?”

  “Near the lighthouse?”

  “Yes, just to the left. That’s the cruiser anchorage. We’ve ships in there and so have the French. Their battleship Lorraine is over there. They have battleships at Oran in Algeria too.”

  “Vive la France,” Fingal said, and shook his head. “It sounds like their army and air force in Europe are taking a terrible pasting, the poor devils.”

  “They’d better win, that’s all I can say,” Tom muttered, “because if they lose, Cunningham and their Lordships of the Admiralty will have to decide what to do to stop the French warships in the Med from falling into German hands.”

  “A cheerful thought for such a sunny day,” a familiar voice said.

  Fingal turned to see Richard Wilcoxson. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen. I had to stop a nosebleed.”

  “You’ve time to spare,” Tom said. “We’re still waiting for the next boat ashore.”

  Richard stared at the anchorage and nodded. “I see old Barham’s back.”

  “Part of a convoy escort to and from Malta,” Tom said. “Got in early this morning.”

  Fingal stared at what was nearly Warspite’s doppelgänger, which was not surprising. They were sister Queen Elizabeth–class battleships. “Altogether, Tom, just how many ships are under ABC’s command?” he asked.