An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

“Right,” the briefing officer said, “I’m the local navigation expert, Flight Lieutenant Bayliss. Smoke if you want to.”

  There was a small eruption of matches and lighters as everyone except Fingal lit up.

  “Beside me is Squadron Leader Rayski, who will be in command of this convoy.”

  The Pole stood, smiled, bowed, and sat.

  “The naval officer Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander O’Reilly will be a passenger on this run. Glad to have you, sir.”

  Fingal nodded and smiled back.

  The briefing officer took a pointer and indicated a ribbon that ran horizontally across the map of Africa from Takoradi in the corner where the continent starts its bulge to the west. The line ran to nearly the far eastern side, where the marker made a right-angle turn due north.

  “The run will be made in six legs, with refuelling stops on any leg over five hundred and fifty miles, to accommodate the six-hundred-mile range of the Hurricanes.”

  There was a muttering, but whether or not of assent wasn’t clear to Fingal. Not himself a flier, he reckoned a mere fifty-mile safety margin was cutting it a bit fine, but he must assume these airmen knew what they were doing.

  The pointer jumped from place to place on the map as the officer said, “Takoradi to Lagos, to Kano, to El Geneina to Khartoum then turn north to Wadi Halfa and finally on to Cairo. Do try not to come down between Kano and El Geneina. There’s bugger all but sand marsh and scrub on the ground…”

  Someone whistled but was ignored.

  “Squadron Leader Rayski will brief you before takeoff from each landing field about fuel mixture settings, meteorology, compass headings, ceiling, winds, and your next destinations. He’ll also inspect your aircraft. The radial engines on the Blenheim can get buggered up and air filters can get clogged with sand and that’s bad for Hurri engines too, so pay attention to what he tells you. Flight Sergeant Park, who’s from Brisbane,” he nodded to the older man, “will be lead navigator. If all goes according to Hoyle, it’ll take five days.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” one of the young pilots asked.

  “All the squadron leader can do is get a fix and radio in a report. Each plane carries a desert survival kit. If you get down in one piece, you’re going to have a sod of a long, hot walk home.”

  Fingal squirmed in his narrow seat beside the Blenheim pilot. That had been gallows humour if ever he’d heard it.

  * * *

  He didn’t remember dozing off, but Fingal was awakened by a violent roaring coming from the starboard engine. He stared, mouth agape, as a long yellow flame burst from under the cowling and blazed away behind the wing. He had an overwhelming urge to yell “Do something!” but swallowed down the impulse. Ever since he’d had to anaesthetise Flip Dennison, the burned Hurricane pilot, Fingal’s morbid fear of being burned himself had gained new life, and this bloody plane’s engine was on fire somewhere over the Sudan between Khartoum and Wadi Halfa. He remembered Angus saying, “One thing about Blenheims, if one engine conks out they can keep flying on the other.” Fingal stared at the flames and hoped to God the Scot was right.

  The Polish voice said as calmly as if the man was ordering a pint, “Extinguisher on.”

  There must be one built into each engine, because as Fingal watched, transfixed, yet as alert as a cobra facing a mongoose, the tongue of flames shortened and withdrew beneath the cowling. The engine was blackened, the cowling distorted, and the shining disc of the whirling propeller had vanished, only to be replaced by three idly spinning blades.

  “Feathering prop.”

  The blades turned to present their narrow edges to the air and cause as little drag as possible.

  “All right down there, Navigator?”

  “No worries, mate, but bring your heading to zero zero two degrees magnetic, Skipper.”

  “Zero zero two. Roger.”

  The plane banked slightly to port and settled on her new course. Fingal snatched a quick glance to see the six fighters conforming. He exhaled and inhaled slowly. There was a bang, a shriek of tearing metal, the cowling blew away, and he was staring into a blast furnace where the starboard engine should have been. “Holy thundering Mother of—”

  “Hold tight everybody. Diving.”

  Fingal braced himself as Rayski put the plane’s nose down and, with the single engine roaring at full throttle, hurtled toward the ground. On the instrument panel, the altimeter unwound at a rate of knots like a child’s toy windmill on a stick in a gale, and outside the window the ground rushed up to meet them. And still the fire roared just outside his window until—until, as if somebody had shut a valve, it went out.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding, switched on his mike, and said, “It’s out.” He turned to see the pilot, both hands on the joystick, veins standing out on his forehead, straining to pull the yoke back and lift the aircraft’s nose. Fingal found himself clenching his teeth and pulling both fists into his chest as if his extra effort could help. He glanced ahead and the scrub bushes seemed to be moving astern, not rushing directly at him as before.

  It was the last thing he saw. A huge hand was forcing him into his seat. He couldn’t raise his arms and his face felt as if it was drooping like the watches in a Dali painting he’d once seen. Under the immense G-force, the blood drained from his brain. His last thought—we’re straightening up—was left unfinished as he passed out.

  “Hello, Wadi Halfa control. Hello, Wadi Halfa control. Woodcock flight leader calling. Over.”

  “Woodcock flight leader. Woodcock flight leader. Wadi Halfa control answering. Receiving you strength eight. Over.”

  Fingal struggled to sit upright, shook his head, looked ahead to a small town, and could make out a level sand landing strip, some parked planes, and a few low buildings to the northwest of the place. He listened to the pilot explaining about the fire and the ground controller’s instructions giving landing precedence to the damaged Blenheim and putting it in the circuit on final approach.

  His ears pained him, and as he’d been instructed he took off his oxygen mask, pinched his nose, clamped his lips shut, and blew. Hard. The pain disappeared.

  The undercarriage came down with a pair of clumps and in moments the plane jolted, bounced, settled down to taxiing and losing speed. Through the side window he could see a fire engine and ambulance racing along beside them. The plane stopped, and already the heat inside was making Fingal sweat. The single engine was turned off. As Squadron Leader Rayski started to unbuckle his straps, he turned to Fingal and said, “Przepraszam. Is Polish. Means I am sorry. Sands, they play hell with air cooling system. It was go and touch for a while.” The man’s English might not be perfect, but there was nothing wrong with his ability to pilot an aircraft.

  “But you got us down, thank you,” Fingal said, unstrapping and noticing a fireman in an asbestos suit up on the wing using a foam extinguisher to be certain the fire was really out.

  “You know what RAF say. Good landing is one you walk away from. Excellent one is when you can use kite again.”

  “True,” said Fingal, “and it was an outstanding one.” They had made it down safely, he wasn’t burned, and he would live to see Deirdre again. Life was very good and Fingal laughed and laughed until tears sprouted in the corners of his eyes. He was still chortling as he followed the pilot out of the plane and into the blazing heat of an African noon.

  * * *

  “… The poor old Blenheim had to stay at Wadi Halfa until a new engine could be flown in, but there was a Martin Maryland that had been left behind for repair and was waiting for a crew and so we took it instead to Cairo. The next day I pinched a ride from Cairo—on another Blenheim I might add, with my heart in my mouth—but here I am,” Fingal said to Tom Laverty and Richard Wilcoxson as they sat sharing predinner drinks in Warspite’s anteroom. The place was busy. Officers who were not having a run ashore were chatting, smoking. Four were playing liar’s dice. The buzz rose and fell. It was as if he’d never left—the ever-pervasive
smell of bunker fuel, the steady whirring of fans, the grumbling of machinery, the noticeable roll of the ship.

  He’d reported aboard the great vessel as she swung at anchor in Alexandria Harbour not an hour ago and had learned in very short order that since he had left Haslar in January, Warspite had seen much duty escorting convoys to Malta and had been bombed on numerous occasions both at sea and in harbour. She had escaped damage until January the second, when a Stuka had dropped a bomb on the starboard bower anchor. No sooner was she repaired than she had been accidentally rammed by the destroyer HMS Greyhound on January 31st, but was once again seaworthy.

  He had been assigned a cabin, stowed his gear, put his war diary and the photo album Deirdre had given him at Christmas into his desk drawer, and headed for the mess where he’d been delighted to meet his chief and his old friend. Fingal had immediately conveyed messages from Marge and had seen the look of intense relief on Richard’s face when it was confirmed for him that Tony was safe and sound. Tom puffed out his chest at the news that Fingal had been able to phone Carol, Tom’s wife, before he left Gosport and she’d said that Tom’s son, Barry, was growing like a weed.

  Then his friends naturally had wanted to hear about his adventures. He’d kept the story short and to the point.

  “Sounds bloody hair-raising to me, an engine fire,” Richard said.

  “It was,” Fingal said, “but everything happened so quickly.”

  “All’s well that ends,” Tom said, “and it’s,” he assumed a Belfast accent, “sticking out a mile to have you back.”

  “It’s good to be back among shipmates, including you, Tom, you Ulster bollix,” Fingal said. “Mind you, Richard, your Marge was a tower of strength and your friend Angus Mahaddie is a gentleman of the first order, and a fine teacher. I enjoyed their company. I’m still no Sir J. Y. Simpson—”

  “Who?” Tom asked.

  “Scotsman who discovered in 1847 that chloroform was a good anaesthetic,” Richard said.

  “But I reckon the victims will be a bit safer now. Thanks for the opportunity to learn, Richard—and for the opportunity to get married.”

  “My Marge says your Deirdre is a lovely girl. To both of you.” He raised his glass.

  Richard and Tom drank.

  “I think you both got out of England in time,” Richard said. “Portsmouth was hit on January 10. Poor old Guildhall got it. Gutted, I’m afraid. Just the outer walls and tower standing.”

  “Lovely old building. What a shame. I first met your son Tony outside the Guildhall in October when he was—”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Fingal turned to see one of the petty officers who handled the ship’s mail. “Yes, Ingersoll?”

  The man handed Fingal a letter. “It come three weeks ago and my officer saw you come aboard, sir. Reckoned you’d want to see it.”

  “Thank you.” Fingal recognised her handwriting. “Your officer was right. Carry on, Ingersoll.”

  The man left.

  “Deirdre?” Richard asked.

  “Yes.” Yes, yes, yes.

  “Don’t mind us,” Tom Laverty said. “Read your letter.”

  As Fingal ripped the envelope open, he seemed to vanish into his own world as the conversations, the clink of glasses, the smell of smoke and beer receded into the background.

  The letter, a single sheet of paper, was dated November 9, 1940. She’d written it immediately after their honeymoon.

  Darling Fingal, darling husband, he read,

  I know it takes nearly three months for a letter to reach where you are going in January and I want to be sure you’ll get this the minute you arrive. I know this will be read by a censor, but I don’t care. I want to thank you, my dearest, for marrying me, for loving me, for caring for me. I want you to know that no woman could love a man as much as I love you …

  He had to swallow and blink until he could focus on the words. He’d thought by mailing a letter from Gosport he’d surprise her, but she’d thought of exactly the same thing, bless her.

  I love you for the choice we made the day the deer came and pray that soon I’ll have the news we both are wishing for.

  I don’t want to run on. Hearing the same thing over and over can be numbing. I only want you to know that your Deirdre loves you from the bottom of her soul, always has and always will, misses and aches for you and begs you to take care and one day come home safely to me.

  I love you, Fingal, and when you look at the rose in the album, think of me and send your love to me across the miles.

  Deirdre

  He read it twice, put the letter back in its envelope, and slipped it into his pocket. Deirdre. Deirdre. Wonderful girl. Fingal took a deep breath, cleared his throat and said, “Deirdre sends her love.” He could hardly wait for the meal to be over and he could rush back to his cabin to write the loving reply that would go into tomorrow’s mail.

  43

  The More Difficult the Choice

  “Come in, Doctor Stevenson. Thank you for driving down from Belfast after a night on call,” O’Reilly said as he ushered the smartly dressed young woman into the hall.

  “We get the mornings off after, so I’m free until two o’clock,” she said. “Thank you for asking me.”

  He’d noticed her two weeks ago at the Royal Maternity Hospital. She’d been one of the learners the day Lorna Kearney had had her first amniocentesis. He could not deny that the young doctor’s thick auburn hair, cut in a fashionable bob, and bright green eyes had made an impression on him. She had the look of a younger Kitty. Something about the slant of her eyes, the curve of her neck. “Here, here, let me take your coat,” he said, feeling flustered. The young woman was remarkably contained.

  “Doctor Bradley and Doctor Harley both speak highly of you. I spoke to Doctor Bradley after the last clinic here, and to Doctor Harley on the phone last week.” On her professional credentials alone the job was hers—but only if she seemed someone with whom he and Barry could work.

  “Thank you, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “That’s something we need to get clear. It’s the usual medical formality in front of the customers, but among ourselves it’s Christian names. I’m not good at standing on ceremony. Please call me Fingal.” He’d acquired his preference for informality from one remarkable surgeon commander twenty-five years ago. “You are Nonie, I believe.”

  She nodded. “Nonie. Nonie Elizabeth. After my grandmothers.”

  “And I believe you know Barry Laverty?”

  O’Reilly had told Barry last Friday that she was coming down today for an interview and had asked his young partner to sit in. O’Reilly had been surprised when Barry had been pretty noncommittal about Nonie Stevenson.

  “We were together in the same year,” she said. “Barry may have told you that we didn’t have much chance to get to know each other. We worked in teams of two, four, or six students, depending on the service we were attached to. We weren’t assigned teams but chose each other, and that often meant the women worked together because most of the men preferred all-male company.”

  Fingal noticed a slight lift of Nonie’s chin as she said this. He laughed. “In my class at Trinity, if the women all worked together, they would have made exactly one team of four. I graduated from medical school in 1936. Shortly after Hippocrates.”

  She laughed. “Things are different now in some ways, and in others they haven’t changed at all. Barry and I only did one rotation together in six years. He seemed like a nice enough lad. There were a lot who didn’t think women should be doing medicine. Didn’t wrap it up either. Sometimes you had to fight your corner, but Barry was never like that. I’d be happy to work with him, Fingal.”

  O’Reilly had expected Barry to be more interested in a potential new colleague, but the lad still wasn’t at himself, still pining for his Sue. He had moments when he’d not shown enthusiasm about anything.

  “Come and meet him again.” O’Reilly opened the door to the dining room, where Barry immediately r
ose from his seat. Surgery would be starting a little late, but the patients would be understanding.

  “Morning, Nonie,” Barry said with a smile. “Nice to see you.”

  “And you, Barry,” she said. “Do sit down.”

  “Have a pew,” O’Reilly said, offering her a chair opposite Barry. “Coffee?”

  “Please. Just a bit of milk.”

  Barry poured.

  O’Reilly deliberately sat half-turned beside her, not wanting her to feel as if she were facing the Spanish Inquisition. “You don’t mind if we ask you a few questions, Nonie?”

  “’Course not, and I’ll have some of my own.” Businesslike. No deference being paid from a junior to a senior as was the ingrained custom in Ulster medical circles. He liked that.

  “So, Nonie, you’ve done two years,” Barry asked, “nearly halfway to finishing training as a specialist. Why quit now?”

  O’Reilly stole a glance at the lad. He looked relaxed but intent. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time.

  Nonie opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again quickly. Barry apparently hadn’t finished his question.

  “I mean, I did a year of obstetrics and gynae, but I soon found out I preferred GP so I came here. But to get through two years and quit? Seems odd to me.”

  She shrugged. “Pretty simple really. I’ve always enjoyed GP locums so I have some experience, but midder was my first choice. And I’m afraid,” her grin was self-deprecatory, “I discovered I can stand the occasional call out at night, but most nights in a busy obstetrical unit you get practically no sleep at all.” She yawned. “Like last night. I have to be realistic. I really need my shut-eye. I’m tired of hospital on-call bedrooms, and canteen grub too. I tried to stick it out, but I couldn’t see forty years of broken nights. It was starting to affect my—my health.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope,” Barry said.

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing serious. Just…” She inhaled. “If I get too tired I can get a bit … you know … a bit Bolshie.” She gave a little laugh.