An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War

by Patrick Taylor

  Three voices in unison said, “Congratulations, Tom.”

  Tom Laverty grinned. “We’re going to call him Barry, after my dad, and I’ve had a word with the skipper. He’s going to ask ABC if there’s any chance I might get some compassionate leave.”

  “We hope you do, Tom,” Wilson said.

  “Bugger the farewell drinks,” Fingal said. “Steward, same again, please. We need to wet the baby’s head.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Barry,” Fingal said. “From the Gaelic. Means fair-haired or sharp like a spear. Has a good ring to it. I’ll give Carol a phone call in Bangor, Tom. Congratulate her properly.” Fingal tapped his left chest. “Phone number’s in my diary.”

  “Thanks, Fingal.”

  “And I’ll look Mrs. Wilcoxson up as promised,” he said. He nodded at his suitcase. “I’ve got your gift for her in there, Richard.”

  “Thank you, Fingal. Tell her I miss her…”

  Fingal had seen the simple, elegant, gold and amethyst necklace Richard had selected for his wife and thought Marjorie Wilcoxson was a lucky woman. His boss might have been reticent about showing his feelings, but his choice of gifts spoke of his love and devotion.

  Richard glanced down. “And have a decent pint of bitter for me, will you, and a Melton Mowbray pie if you can get one?”

  Fingal laughed. “Consider it done. I might even have two pints.”

  “And you’ll call my folks in Portstewart,” Wilson Wallace said.

  “Happy to, Wilson—”

  Alarm gongs clanged, their brazen voices harsh and strident.

  “Christ,” said Richard, “another bloody air raid. Come on, everybody.”

  Bugles blared from the Tannoy.

  “Action stations.”

  All the other officers and the mess stewards took off for their assigned posts. The four friends rose. While Tom headed for the bridge and Wilson for the starboard six-inch battery, Richard looked at Fingal. “The raids usually only last about fifteen minutes. It’ll take nearly that long to get to the for’ard medical distribution centre. Hardly worth your while. If you want to chance staying here, the risk of a direct hit is pretty remote and you’ve got about an inch of armour plate over your head that’ll keep you safe from shell splinters.”

  “Thanks. I’ll chance it.”

  Richard offered his hand and Fingal shook it. “I’ll see you next year,” he said.

  “Deus Volente,” Richard said, “God willing,” and took off at a trot.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the mess steward said, “sorry about your last round. If you’re staying, will you dog the hatch shut after me, please?”

  Fingal nodded, and as soon as the man had left slammed the great clamps shut so that watertight integrity was secured.

  He moved to a porthole as the ship began shaking when her antiaircraft weapons let go. He could see a small portion of the sky pockmarked with shell bursts and two aircraft that hardly seemed to be moving. From here he had no idea of the size of the raid.

  The row was overpowering. Warspite’s multiple pompoms were yammering away, a staccato tenor section, and the four-inch, high-angle guns boomed in basso counterpoint. Every other ship in the harbour would be firing, doing their best to fill the sky overhead with an umbrella of red-hot steel. It amazed Fingal how any aircraft could survive, but they did.

  And given how infrequently ships had been hit on the last cruise, it did seem that perhaps the Italians weren’t very good bombers. In his months on Warspite he’d probably been in his greatest peril from the Atlantic gales.

  The detonation of a load of bombs about six hundred yards away deafened him. He watched the by-now-familiar waterspouts leap up and cascade back as the battleship shook. His first selfish thought was, Please don’t let the liberty boat get hit. He was so close to taking the first steps on his journey home he couldn’t bear the idea of having something delay his departure. God alone knew when the next convoy would leave for home if he missed this one and he so wanted to see Deirdre.

  He remembered sitting with her in a field on Strangford’s peaceful shore during his last long leave. The bitter January rains had stopped the previous night and a weak sun was struggling to warm the damp grass and produce some faint signs of evaporation. The smell of its drying was heavy in his nostrils. He’d spread his duffle coat on a mound under a great leafless oak and she’d joined him there, leaning against him, head on his shoulder.

  She’d kissed him and said, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’ve read in the papers about the convoys and I know your ship is an escort. Can you tell me what it’s like? I want to try to understand.”

  He’d taken a deep breath and had no difficulty remembering. None whatsoever. “It is cold, horribly cold. We’ve never experienced anything like it here in Ireland. The last couple of days here were raw, but nothing, nothing like day after day at thirty below. Flesh sticks to metal and sheets of ice form on the decks where spray freezes. The poor bloody sailors spend hours chipping it away because if too much forms I think even a battleship could capsize.” He shuddered and she hugged him. “I wish I could have been there to keep you warm,” she said, and smiled.

  “Christ,” he said. “I’d not have wanted you there, much as I love you, but a force-nine gale is a monster. No place for man or beast. Can you imagine the wind and waves battering my great ship? Tossing her about? Combers smashing over the bow and sending spume high into the air? And Warspite is huge.

  “One evening I’d been on my way to the mess. There were life lines rigged on the outer decks and I had to cross a short open space clinging on for dear life.” He nodded at his coat beneath them. “That thing was about as windproof as a sheet of tissue paper. I wanted to get into shelter quick, but I saw something and it stopped me in my tracks.

  “A little Flower-class corvette was steaming along beside us, not far away, bashing into the seas. I could hear the crash every time she smashed over the crest of a wave. My heart went out to the poor devils on her, a little ship that displaced less than a thousand tons. She was climbing up one of the biggest rollers I’ve ever seen…”

  She closed her eyes and he knew she was concentrating as he struggled to paint a picture with words.

  “I clung on to the life line, and I couldn’t breathe I was so certain she was going to founder. I had to watch. Then I lost sight of her when my ship and the little escort slipped into separate troughs and she vanished from view. I was certain she was gone.”

  He shook his head and relived the moment.

  “I don’t know how long it took, but the corvette reappeared climbing gamely up another wave front and over the crest. Her mast and port-side Carley floats had gone overboard, but like a battered boxer she’d shaken her head, staggered to her feet, and stood again to take all her opponent could throw.”

  He swallowed. “You’ll think I was silly, but I found myself cheering like a madman. God bless our skipper or the admiral or whoever gave the order, but Warspite started pumping fuel oil onto the seas to quell the waves. I’m still not sure if the corvette would have survived if we hadn’t.”

  Deirdre, who had been holding her breath, blew it out.

  “The courage of the sailors who manned her and the unsung heroes, the merchant sailors. They all deserve medals.”

  And she’d opened her eyes and kissed him and said, “My poor, poor darling, and those poor men.”

  He could still taste that kiss, but was torn back to the present by more bombs arriving. He saw them quite clearly in the moments before they hit the water. The surface was a boiling maelstrom thrashed to dirty foam by the explosions and rechurned as the new ones thundered in self-immolation. From where he peered through the glass he could see two dirty smudges that had crawled down the sky’s blue canvas like two wavering strokes of an abstract artist’s charcoal stick. A single parachute drifted slowly down. At least one poor devil had got out.

  The enemy were human too. Fingal knew now he’d never ge
t used to having a patient die, from either side, and wondered, not for the first time, how the parents in Hamburg of a young German sailor called Wilhelm Kauffman had taken the news of his death.

  Since Narvik, Fingal had known what it felt like to be fired at, knew how scared he was, of dying, yes, of never seeing her again, or being crippled, and perhaps even more terrifying, of not being able to cope as a naval surgeon.

  As he moved away from the porthole there was a ferocious blast and Warspite, all 33,670 tons of her, heeled sharply to starboard. He grabbed a table for support as badly stowed cutlery, plates, and glasses clattered and shattered on the sole. He heard the thundering on her upper decks of the water crashing down after the bomb burst. That had been a very “near miss” and again Fingal agonized about the wisdom of having Deirdre meet him in Portsmouth.

  He’d seen only too clearly what high explosives and shrapnel could do, and the thought of losing her was unbearable. On the other hand, Richard’s wife lived in a village several miles from the docks. Might that be a solution? Find a place for them in the country, because married officers could live off base, ashore as the navy called it, unless they were on duty. Although he’d written to her three days ago, this might be his last chance to get off another letter. Trying to ignore the racket, he sat at the table where he’d left his suitcase, opened it, took out his writing kit and a Waterman’s fountain pen. He unscrewed its cap and began to write.

  My darling Deirdre girl,

  I leave today and before long will be able to hold you and kiss you and tell you how very much I love you. Be patient and the days will pass.

  There’s something very important that I want to discuss with you. On our last trip to sea, and since we have come back to harbour, the ship has been subjected to shelling and many air raids. I have come through them all unscathed so don’t worry, but, and this is what I want to ask you, I just heard that the Jerries have been bombing the place where we are to meet and marry, and my guess is they won’t be stopping soon.

  Darling, I don’t want to risk losing you. I want you to think long and hard before you make up your mind, but as soon as I arrive I will ask you to help me decide what is for the best. Perhaps you would be safer back in Ireland?

  I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again, but until I do I have your photo and your green scarf to remind me every day of the most wonderful girl in the world, my Deirdre who I love with all my heart and all my soul.

  Until we meet again be it in Ulster or England—surely the censor would let that pass—I love you Deirdre now and I will forever,

  Fingal.

  He looked up. The all-clear was sounding, the air raid over.

  He addressed an envelope, slipped the letter inside, and put it into his pocket, stowing his writing kit in his suitcase beside his war diary. He would go and wait near the after-port accommodation ladder for the boat. Smoke his pipe. Stare around the harbour and hope not to see any sunken ships.

  He undogged the hatch and stepped out into bright sunshine, which already was making the quarterdeck steam as the water hurled aboard began to evaporate. He thought again of drying grass under an oak tree on Strangford’s shore on a January day … and Deirdre.

  A working party under the direction of a petty officer was clearing up seaweed and dead fish. The smell of high explosives and cordite still fouled the air.

  Not far away, he saw a ship’s whaler being rowed toward the shore with a bedraggled-looking figure sitting in the sternsheets clutching a soaking heap of silk. The bloke on the parachute had survived and been rescued. Good.

  Surgeon Lieutenant Fingal O’Reilly leant on the guard rail puffing happily and watched the liberty boat putting out from the dock.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  He looked round to see Leading Seaman Henson holding his kit bag. “Just thought I’d let you know, seeing as how you was interested, like, I’m going on that course on Whale Island. I’m going to be a gunner.” His face was radiant, the gap in his teeth obvious when he smiled.

  “Congratulations, Henson,” Fingal said. This was great news and any guilt he might have felt for not having had a quiet word with Wilson Wallace to see if he could move things along for Henson was banished. “I’m absolutely delighted. I’m going on a course in Gosport myself.”

  A short silence hung in the air between them. Under ordinary circumstances two men who had shared the same hardships for nine months would be saying something like, “Maybe we could get together for a pint.” But in the Royal Navy, the upper and lower decks did not fraternise. Bloody class system was even more pronounced in the navy. There’d be no chance of making friends with Henson the way Fingal had with a Dublin tugger called Lorcan O’Lunney or a cooper with a bust ankle. Fingal glanced inshore and saw that the liberty boat was halfway to the battleship. “I wish you the very best of luck. I hope it won’t be long until you’re a petty officer.”

  “I hope so too, sir, and…” The man blushed and lowered his voice. “And then after enough time in rank maybe I could be a warrant gunner, even … even one day get a commission like you, sir.”

  Fingal was touched by the younger man’s obvious enthusiasm. “I hope you do, Henson. I hope you do.”

  “I’ll be off then, sir,” Henson said, and left.

  Good luck to you indeed, Fingal thought, leaning on the rail again and puffing away. Twice in nine months he had gone to war. Now he was going from the war to God knew what in England. But come hell or high water, he’d at least see Deirdre. He knew he was a very different Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly than the one who’d put Deirdre into a McCausland taxi outside the Midland Hotel in Belfast on a grey November day last year. How different again would he be after he returned to this ship next year? Time, he was sure, would tell.

  42

  Laughter and the Love of Friends

  O’Reilly stood aside to let Kitty and Sue precede him through the arched doorway and into the hall of the Royal Ulster Yacht Club. Barry, who was a member and knew his way around, was leading the little party.

  The hum of conversation rose as they approached the bar, and O’Reilly noticed the oil paintings and black-and-white photos on the hall’s oak-panelled walls, most of them massive yachts, each crowned with clouds of white sails. One portrait, of a middle-aged bald-headed man with a vast walrus moustache, caught Fingal’s eye. There was something arresting about the man, in his high collar and enormous floppy bow tie so favoured by the Edwardians. His eyes were alive with life and they crinkled at the corners from squinting into the sun and the wind.

  “That’s Sir Thomas Lipton and those are some of his Shamrocks,” said a voice from behind him. “He made five challenges for the America’s Cup over a thirty-one-year period but never won. He was a member here.”

  O’Reilly turned to see John MacNeill, Marquis of Ballybucklebo. “Hello, John,” O’Reilly said.

  The marquis smiled. “Evening, Fingal. Good to see you. I was sorry you and Kitty couldn’t come for the grouse last week.”

  “We were too, but it couldn’t be helped,” O’Reilly said. “Duty called, but there’s always next year.”

  “True,” the marquis said. “I’d love to chat, but as usual I’m late for a committee meeting. Why don’t you and Kitty pop over on Sunday for dinner? Myrna will be home and we’re having an up-and-coming young actor from Bangor, Colin Blakely, and his wife, Margaret, and an old school friend of mine who’s visiting from England. Six thirty for seven?”

  “I’ll have to let you know. I’m not sure who’s on call, but if Kitty and I are both free we’d love to.”

  “Grand. Give me a ring. I’ve got to trot now,” and with that the marquis headed up a staircase.

  He was never still, the marquis. Rugby committees, yacht club committees, Hospitals’ Authority, justice of the peace, encouraging up-and-coming talent like the actor, running his estate. Whoever coined the term “the idle rich” had clearly never met John MacNeill.

  O’Reilly went into the ba
r, where Barry had taken a table for six beside a tall, narrow window with mullioned squares in its upper quarter. Kitty was already seated, taking in the splendid view over the club’s rolling lawns, across Seacliff Road and out to the mid-August sun-dappled, dancing waters of Belfast Lough. Gulls wheeled over a herring boat heading up the lough for Ballybucklebo pier. She turned to him, her eyes lively with the delight of the scene before her, and patted the chair beside her. He took her hand and sat.

  “Isn’t that Jimmy Scott and Hall Campbell’s boat, the one we went on when we were mackerel fishing in June?” she said.

  “I believe it is.” He looked more closely. “Yes, it is. That was a good evening.”

  The mackerel always ran in June, just as the garden fête and horse show were always in July and the opening day of grouse shooting was always August the twelfth. The seasons in their sequence rolled through Ulster. Next month would see the start of wildfowling, and he and Arthur would get a day at Strangford. O’Reilly loved the reliability of it all.

  “Right,” said Barry, “my shout. Kitty? Sue? I’m sure you’ll be having a pint, Fingal.”

  “And you’d be right.”

  Barry took the women’s orders and headed for the bar.

  “You’re looking lovely tonight, Sue,” Kitty said.

  “Thank you, Kitty,” Sue said. Her smile was radiant and her hair in a single long plait shone like burnished copper in the light of the sun that was now moving westward over the Cave Hill behind Belfast. Her engagement ring sparkled on her left ring finger. “This is an important evening and I owe it to Barry to look my best tonight.”

  “And you’ve succeeded very well,” O’Reilly said. “If I was twenty years younger and wasn’t married to the best-looking woman in Ulster…” He saw the smile in Kitty’s grey eyes and simply let the sentence hang.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Sue said, cocked her head, gave a wry grin, and continued, “and if I wasn’t madly in love with Barry…” She too, let the sentence hang.