‘Yeah, the nurse said I had to have the baths twice a day. Thanks, Sister.’
She nodded and walked away with her head held high. She reminded him of his old high school teacher – Mrs Stewart, a middle-aged woman with the roar of a lion if you crossed the line, except her bark was worse than her bite. He looked around. So this was the top place for plastic surgery. The ward was basic – a primitive wooden hut in the grounds of the hospital. It was drab, just like the RAF bases the Eighth Air Force had requisitioned. Tatty, rusty tin can huts with rustic, shabby furniture left behind by the RAF, sparse and moth-eaten. Still, the Mighty Eighth had moved in and made everything shipshape, discarding old for new.
Bassingbourn had been in pretty good shape to begin with, and Mac’s outfit had been lucky. Brick-built buildings and real rooms – no sleeping in Nissen huts. They called it the Country Club, and it sure was a cut above the rest. He wished he was there right now, and he wondered what the guys were doing. The barracks had almost become a home from home and for some, it would be the last home they would ever know. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as the sharpened edge of realisation nudged him in the guts. Birdie was dead. Whether it had been the fire or the flak, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as the pilot, he was responsible. His heart thudded harder and faster, skipping a beat at times, and the breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass. It usually did.
‘Ready for the bath, mate?’ Jimmy, the bathroom orderly, stood before him at the foot of the bed with a wheelchair.
‘Sure, I got no place else to go.’ Mac eased himself into the wheelchair, wincing at the sting in his lower legs, which shook and almost gave way when he first stood up. Jimmy had a rounded, friendly face with a long, pointed nose and Mac guessed he was mid-forties, with short, thinning, dark brown hair. He sighed, feeling suddenly tired. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted Stella. That had ended badly, and he longed to see her now. If only he’d gone back that day, but it had seemed hopeless. He didn’t exactly understand things, but he ought to have respected her commitment to a friend, regardless of what he thought of Alex. What if he’d lost her? He guessed he probably had, and his heart clenched.
The saline bathroom lay at the end of the ward. Mac stared, bewildered at the many dials and pipes on the wall. ‘The first day you brought me in here, I thought this was a lab.’
Jimmy laughed. ‘Don’t be daft. It’s an ordinary bath, but there’s a bit of technical stuff that goes with it. He helped Mac undress. ‘It’s quite clever, isn’t it? But then the Maestro is a genius. He realised quite early on that the pilots who came down in the sea healed quicker than anyone else. Something to do with the salty water.’
‘Well, it sure is soothing.’ Mac lay back in the water as Jimmy unravelled the bandages on his hands and those on his lower legs. Within minutes, the dressings lifted off painlessly and floated to the surface. Now when he saw his burns, he no longer had to suppress the rush of nausea that lurched in his gut, although as he gazed at his hands, he gritted his teeth – they were the worst. They remained swollen and chubby, fingers like plump scarlet sausages, a little contracted. He tried to straighten them out, but it was hopeless. Small, pale pieces of dead skin floated all around him, translucent in the water, and as he stared, mesmerised, an image of men tumbling from their aircraft sailed into his head and he turned his gaze away. He sucked in a breath as he visualised Stella’s hand in his. She wouldn’t want these hands to touch her, and she wouldn’t want him. Like a crisp, fallen bloom, he was caught on the breeze, hurtling this way and that to someplace bleak.
Wilson had said he was lucky. He looked down at his hands again. Jeez, would they ever be normal? He held his right hand up in front of him. The red, fleshy appendage was flecked with charred, black patches extending down to his fingertips, and he hoped to God he wouldn’t lose his fingers. A searing pain pierced his palm, and he submerged it once more beneath the warm saline.
‘Don’t worry, the Maestro will fix you up, you’ll see. You’re in the best place.’
‘Why does everyone call the doc that?’
‘Well, he’s in charge for a start. Some of the lads call him the Boss, some of them call him Archie.’ Jimmy raised his eyebrows at that, and Mac guessed he would never do it. ‘Some have even called him God.’ Jimmy strode over to the door and peered out. ‘Fancy a fag?’ He produced a pack of John Player’s.
‘Sure.’
Jimmy lit one and placed it between Mac’s lips. ‘There you go, chum.’ He took one for himself. ‘If you hear Sister’s footsteps, you let me know. God help me if she catches me smoking.’ He winked and turned to check on the water temperature.
‘Say, there’s a guy out there with a weird nose. What’s that all about?’
‘Oh, that’s a tubed pedicle flap. It’s amazing how it’s done. If someone needs a new nose, the Maestro takes a piece of skin, a flap, say from the stomach, stitches it into a tube, leaving one end still attached to the stomach for the blood supply and he stitches the other end to the arm. After two or three weeks, when the blood supply is healthy and strong, he removes the end from the stomach and attaches it higher up on the chest. So then the arm’s connected to the chest, see?’ Jimmy held his arm to his chest, just so, and Mac nodded. ‘After another few weeks, it can be removed from the chest and attached to the bridge of the nose, so then the arm is connected to the nose. Then the last stage is modelling it into a new nose. Bloomin marvellous what he can do. New eyelids, lips, ears, entire faces. Modern medicine, eh?’
Mac closed his eyes. It dawned on him that he truly was one of the lucky few. He could only imagine what it felt like to lose your entire face. He wondered what he looked like. Why were there no mirrors here? He sighed. Was he really that bad?
‘By the way, you’re allowed to smoke as long as you can flick the ash, but once your bandages are back on you’ll have to ask one of the lads. They don’t mind helping each other out. Everybody mucks in. We’re like one big family in here.’
Family. One dead, the rest ripped apart. He’d received a letter that morning from Wilson, letting him know that Danny was okay and they were all back on duty, filling in as spares with other crews. Mac’s eyelids suddenly grew heavy and flickered closed, and his entire body relaxed for the first time in a week as he drifted off to sleep.
Later that evening, as Mac sat in bed, all he could think about was Stella. Did she even know where he was? Some of the guys were playing cards at a table in the middle of the ward, and they burst out laughing. They seemed buoyant enough, despite their gruesome injuries. When the young VAD had fed him earlier, he’d felt like a baby, and he hated it, but he realised he’d have to get used to it. He couldn’t use his hands at all – not to bathe, feed, dress, or write letters home. What a way to lose your independence. It was kind of hard to take. Afterwards, she’d helped him to the bathroom, where she undressed him and pulled on his pyjamas. God, his face had burned. Being unable to undo your own pants was damn frustrating. The nurse looked younger than him, for Pete’s sake, and what seemed worse was her calm, quiet manner. She barely uttered a word the entire time, although she told him her name while she tucked a chestnut curl behind her ear – Lily.
He lay back and closed his eyes. No, Stella wouldn’t bother with him after this. At the previous hospital, he’d dreamt about her, and he swore her gentle voice had sung in his ears, but he’d woken to loneliness. He clenched his jaw, and a searing pain shot through his right cheek, a timely reminder that everything had changed. He didn’t need anyone taking care of him, and he didn’t want any pity.
His gaze followed Lily as she attended to the guy opposite. His entire head was bandaged, with slits for a nose, mouth, and eyes, and Mac imagined what lay beneath, conjuring up a legion of ghoulish images. There were a few like him here, and as Dickie had said earlier, they were well and truly mashed, boiled, and fried.
The poor guy in the next bed kept on hollering, ‘It’s a bloody madhouse in
here.’ He seemed real distressed.
Sister Jamieson appeared, her face growing more thunderous by the second. She bellowed at a few of the guys, who laughed and yelled at one another while racing around the ward in wheelchairs, gripping their beer glasses snugly between their knees. Beer swilled and slopped, soaking their legs and the clean floor. And poor Lily, ordered to tend to the mess, meekly grabbed a mop and bucket like a scolded child and risked life and limb as she tried to clean up the spillage, dodging wheelchairs and slaps on the bottom as they whizzed past. Her face flushed scarlet to match the cross on her white VAD apron. A group of guys sauntered over to Mac’s bed and gathered around him in a cluster, with cries of support as if cheering on champion jockeys.
‘Three to one that Jerry wins,’ Pete said, taking a swig of beer.
Mac noticed that he too had a tubed pedicle and was growing a new nose. Pete grinned back at him from his heavily scarred face, completely unfazed by the trunk-like attachment. They’re all crazy, Mac thought. The cheering continued and finally Jerry, now breathing hard with rosy cheeks, was hailed the winner. Pete insisted that all three line up for the awards ceremony as he presented the winner’s prize – a scarf with a packet of cigarettes attached to it which he draped around Jerry’s neck like a lei garland while Lee handed out more beer.
‘Bottoms up.’ Pete flicked the radio on and ‘Kiss the Boys Goodbye’ drifted out into the ward. He turned up the volume, then passed Mac a half-pint glass of beer with a straw.
‘Thanks.’ Mac took a slurp. ‘Man, that’s watered down.’
‘Course it is, mate, but it’s still beer.’ Dickie slapped him on the back.
It sure felt good having a real drink, even if it was warm and he couldn’t hold it himself. Afterwards, when the excitement fizzled out and the guys retreated, Mac lay back, tired. Maybe it was the beer or the banter, but his heart lifted, and he decided to write to Stella. He sighed, realising he had to see her, even if it was for one last time. Stella, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.
His mother always said that things happened for a reason. Life’s mapped out for you, John. He could hear her voice now as if it floated in on the sweet, mountain breeze all the way from Montana, and a familiar ache squeezed his chest.
He was exhausted, and he tried to fight the fatigue as he dreaded the dream that drifted in the night shadows. He didn’t want to face Birdie tonight. Why hadn’t he been able to save him? But he had no control over flak or fighters in the sky. A lump lodged in his throat and as the guys crooned along to the radio, he longed to yell at them to pipe down, but his strength ebbed away as his eyelids finally lowered.
Bliss, tomorrow, Stella. Fatigue draped over him like a blanket, and he pictured Stella at home with him in Montana. The vast plains, the hills, and all that green beneath an endless crystal clear sky. And the only sound for miles was the lulling cattle that roamed the prairies or the screech of the golden eagle, scything through the silence like a fingertip touching water, casting ripples on the surface.
Chapter Sixteen
Nothing is Impossible, May 1943
Archie glanced at his watch. It was already quarter to eight. He’d have to make the ward round a priority before beginning his theatre list. As he slammed the door of his glossy black Austin 12, a sharp pain zipped through his hand, which immediately began to throb. He clenched and unclenched it a few times and rubbed it on his way through the grounds, and the fuzziness and pain faded away. It was all right. Or was it? He forced out a long breath. He kept telling himself that, but just lately it had worsened. Perhaps it was something to investigate. There was such a lot to contend with just now, and the lads had to be his priority. It was bound to be fine. He pushed his spectacles up onto his nose.
The spring sunshine warmed his face, the well-tended gardens bloomed with an array of flowers, and a mix of sweet fragrance drifted in the air as he swept by. It was shaping up to be a beaut of a day. He burst through the doors of Ward III and found Sister Jamieson marching along, inspecting the beds and their occupants, her hawk-like eyes sweeping across everything and everyone.
Archie nodded as he caught her gaze. ‘Morning, Sister. Any problems today?’
‘No, nothing you don’t already know about.’ Her thin lips curved into a pleasant smile.
‘Jolly good. Right, I’ll take a look at the new fellow first.’ Archie ran both hands through his hair, smoothing it down, picked up a medical file, and began to flick through the pages.
‘You’ll find him in the saline bath.’ Sister stood with her hands clasped together in front of her, waiting. ‘The war artist is with him, painting.’ She pursed her lips and her brow furrowed. ‘And I’m afraid Mac’s a little down today, too.’
‘Ah, right. Thanks.’ He dropped the notes on the desk and headed towards the bathroom, nodding as the boys greeted him along the way. So, Mac had taken a bit of a dive. It was only to be expected. Good to know Freddy had made an early start, although using Mac as his muse might not have been such a great idea. A group of boys sat around the table listening to the radio with faraway looks in their eyes as ‘He Wears A Pair Of Silver Wings’ swayed out into the ward.
At the bathroom door, Archie took a deep breath before entering. ‘Morning, all.’ He glanced at Freddy, who sat in the far corner on a stool, with his sketch pad on his knee and a charcoal pencil in his hand. He then settled his gaze on Mac, who didn’t bother to look up but carried on staring into the water as if in a trance. Still, it was early days.
The bathroom orderly was busy hosing Mac’s face and neck with warm saline. ‘Morning, Maestro.’ He nodded and grinned.
‘Morning, Jimmy.’
The humidity grew steadily, and the tang of salt drifted in the warm, moist air, evoking childhood memories of family days spent by the sea in Dunedin. Archie inhaled deeply, savouring the memory that was equally tinged with sadness as he thought of his brother Jack, still a prisoner of war.
‘Now then, Mac. I see you’re the latest muse for Freddy here. Who knows, we might even see your portrait hanging in one of London’s galleries one day.’ Archie squatted down next to the bath. ‘I wanted to have a look at your hands. Would you raise the right one for me?’
Mac turned his head away as he did so, and Archie gently took his arm and guided it down to rest on the side of the bath. ‘I don’t think it’s as bad as I first thought. It was a godsend you had your gloves on – they’ve saved me a lot of work.’ He cast a reassuring smile, even though Mac was avoiding eye contact. ‘You’re a rancher back home as I recall.’
‘That’s right.’ Mac’s eyes darkened.
‘Ah, tough work. Well, you’re going to need your hands if you’re working with ropes and cattle.’ Archie studied Mac for a moment. He was a decent young man, a long way from home. From the look in his eyes and the edge in his voice, he was lost and floundering, no doubt thinking the worst. Still, he’d been lucky and pulled through a nasty infection. He had a mix of second and third-degree burns to his face, neck, and hands. It could have been a lot worse, and it was only natural for a chap to feel a little down after something like this. He had to find his way again. Spending too long in the dark did a fellow no good at all.
The roaring gush of water topping up the bath filled the silence. ‘Can you fix my hands, doc? If I can’t use them, I’m finished.’ Mac raised his chin, and his voice wavered, his speech slow.
Archie stared long and hard into Mac’s eyes, where a faint flicker of light flared. These boys had to deal with horrific injuries while struggling to cling to whatever little glimmer of themselves remained. It was the future outcome that mattered most. Archie had a vision for such things, unlike his patients. Allowing them to see the full extent of their facial disfigurements in the early days was simply too traumatic. A former patient, Geoff Page, flashed in his mind. With similar injuries, he’d recovered and was now flying again, but it had been a long, hard slog. Archie flicked a gaze at Freddy, who continued sketching, his charcoal pencil gripp
ed in his right hand as he made sweeping strokes on paper, his lips pursed.
‘It’s the fingers, you see. Saving them is one thing, but preventing contractures is another.’ Archie recalled the agony Geoff had endured, with his hands strapped to splints which mercilessly straightened his contracted fingers over time. There were always possibilities, and there was always hope.
‘Don’t worry. The surgery will fix that to an extent, but you’ll have to push yourself afterwards and do the therapy to get them working again. It will be hard and painful, but worth it in the long run.’ Archie lightly gripped Mac’s shoulder, and the muscle tightened beneath his hand. ‘As for your face, that will require a skin graft and more surgery in the future, and I’m afraid there will be some scar tissue, but it’s likely I can do something to improve that.’
‘So, how long will it take? I’m itching to get back to my squadron.’ Mac straightened up and met his gaze.
Another one. ‘It’s hard to say, but you’re going to need two operations initially, and you’ll require further surgery in the future. Rome wasn’t built in a day, unfortunately, and I’m afraid you’re a work in progress, but we’ll get there. As for returning to service, well, it’s a little too soon to be thinking along those lines. I can fix you up, but we still won’t know for certain how much hand function you’ll have. They won’t be as good as they were before, but they’ll work.’
Archie paused as Mac’s gaze returned to the water; his shoulders drooped and his mouth settled in a tight line. It was always the same. They couldn’t wait to wage war, and settle a score or two. Of course, Archie realised it was more complex than that. They needed to prove that they weren’t hiding behind their injuries, and there were always people who were quick to judge. The old saying – saving face – meant one thing to Archie and quite another to these boys. And then they needed the camaraderie of their brothers. Bonds forged in war, stronger than steel. He sighed. ‘I’ll do my very best for you, Mac. I’m afraid it’s going to take time, but if you’re determined then who knows what you could achieve.’
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 15