Barnes Hospital, where Danny’s operations would take place, seemed to be innovative, and not only in plastic surgery. It was linked to the Washington University School of Medicine, and was partly staffed by Washington University faculty members, serving as a centre for research as well as education.
Helen had phoned Jennifer Glicks from Los Angeles, telling her the time of their arrival, and she met them at the station and drove them to the Roberts Mayfair Hotel in the centre of downtown St Louis. Helen had arranged a special rate for the three weeks they would need to stay for the operation. Jennifer had, of course, offered the hospitality of her home, but Helen insisted that it would be best if they stayed in a hotel.
That night they had dinner with John and Jennifer Glicks. The two women talked almost non-stop about Australia and the old friends they had shared during the war. Mid-morning the following day, Danny attended Dr Glicks’ consulting rooms at Barnes Hospital.
John Glicks was a quietly spoken, serious man who tended to give answers to questions rather than to volunteer information. It was the unconscious attitude of many doctors, Australian as well as American, based mostly on the belief that laypeople wouldn’t understand the mysteries of the medical profession. Sometimes they had come to believe in their own privileged status, and that it put them above the need to explain their decisions. Danny believed that no man was innately superior and that explanations were necessary in all areas of life.
John Glicks had received by mail a copy of Danny’s complete medical history and Helen had brought all the X-rays of his face with her. Danny now handed these over.
‘We may need to take some of our own, but I’ll look at these later and decide,’ Dr Glicks said, accepting and laying them aside.
‘I think you’ll find they’re in focus; there’s certainly plenty of them,’ Danny said, with just the slightest suggestion that he didn’t want to be patronised.
John Glicks didn’t miss a beat. ‘Perhaps you forget I worked in your country and was frequently impressed with the high standards of your medical system. It’s unlikely, but there may have been some slight changes since these were taken.’
Danny realised he’d been put in his place and that he’d been out of order; his paranoia was showing. ‘Doctor, before we start, I am very grateful for your offer to do this operation pro bono, but Helen and I believe that this is too generous. We have enough saved to pay your fee and I’d like to make that offer now before you begin.’ Danny, while including her in the decision, hadn’t discussed this option with Helen, but he’d thought about it a lot – they had a little more money than they needed, and he didn’t want any more freebies. Helen had worked a miracle to get them here and that was enough.
To his surprise John Glicks didn’t brush him off and tut-tut over the idea of being paid. ‘We all like to be rewarded, paid for what we do, but in your case that would be extremely awkward, Danny. Let me explain. Dr Vilray Blair has agreed to work with me simply because you are . . . er, well, not an American citizen, and the hospital can be seen to be making a contribution outside normal practice. Both he and I have had to obtain permission from the hospital board to perform your surgery. In fact, while Jennifer originally informed Helen that you would need to pay the hospital costs, I was about to tell you that the board has decided that these, too, will be available to you free of charge as part of our ongoing research budget. It would be very awkward, and certainly delay proceedings, if you now insist that you become a paying patient.’
Danny could do no more than gracefully accept. ‘Thank you, John. When will I meet Dr Vilray Blair?’ he asked.
‘I shall be in close consultation with him after I’ve examined you, but he will only attend during surgery, when you will undoubtedly be under anaesthesia. Now, if you’ll get onto the examination table, I’d like to have a closer look at you, Danny.’
After nearly fifteen minutes of gentle prodding and tweaking, very different from the rough handling Danny had received from the fat buffoon in Rangoon, the American surgeon clipped several of the X-rays Danny had given him to a large light box. After examining them for some time he remarked, ‘These are excellent, but they show that the damage to your nose has been extensive.’
‘You don’t need to tell me, doctor. I’m aware of that every morning when I shave,’ Danny said ruefully. ‘I live in fear of the slightest sniffle.’
Dr Glicks, busy examining the remainder of the X-rays, didn’t appear to hear. ‘Hmm, difficult,’ he remarked at last. ‘The bones and cartilage that give the nose its shape have been smashed in and pushed to the left.’ He looked up. ‘That’s not good news but it could have been a lot worse.’ He grinned. ‘If the blow from the butt of the Jap’s rifle had been directly front on – that is, square – you would almost certainly have been killed.’
‘I didn’t wake up for three days as it was, and when I did I can remember wishing I was dead. Do I need to go through all that again? And can you do anything to fix it?’ Danny asked.
‘Oh yes, almost certainly. As far as plastic surgery goes, we should be able to get your nose looking almost as good as new. But, in answer to the first part of your question, the procedure is complicated by the fact that the bones, and in fact the entire structure beneath the skin, has long healed and knitted together in the new traumatised shape we now have.’
‘And what will you do to fix it?’
The surgeon hesitated. ‘I’m not sure you’ll want to know.’
‘Please, doctor. I have discovered that knowing is far less worrying than leaving it to my febrile imagination. I guess the advantage is that this time I won’t be awake while it happens.’
‘No, of course not. We’ll perform what is known as rhinoplasty, which is a relatively simple process had you come directly off the battlefield. Then we would simply manipulate the tissue from inside the nose and bring it back into shape, cleaning up the broken bone, but that method is no longer available to us. Now, we will need to make a series of incisions to open the nose up from underneath and inside to expose the structures, and then we will cut the bone where it has knitted incorrectly and reconstruct the damaged bridge and septum, reattach dislocated cartilage and realign the bone structures as far back as your frontal sinuses.’ He paused, took a breath and smiled. ‘I don’t believe I’ve gone into that much detail since my med exams. When that’s all done, of course, we close everything up again. With a bit of luck you’ll heal well and make a quick recovery and be almost as good as new, with little or no scarring apart from a few small lines around the base of your nose.’
‘What about my cheekbone – any luck there?’
‘Ah, a much simpler procedure. We’ll do that at the same time as your nose and you can expect a full recovery and no noticeable scars.’
‘And how long – I mean, in weeks or months – until we’ll be able to go home?’
‘Well, that depends; not everyone heals at the same rate. There will be some discomfort, of course, and you’ll be on strong pain medication, but you’ll be able to leave the hospital after ten days. You’ll have to wear a facial plaster cast to keep everything in alignment until the bones knit. There may be some swelling, though not necessarily after the first two weeks. I’ll want to see you again, with Dr Blair, in two months, then we’ll decide if you can go home.’
If Danny had previously experienced any doubts about John Glicks, he’d long since dismissed them. They had expected to be away a year, so two or three months was great news. What’s more, his questions had been answered in a forthright and direct manner and he began to wonder why the surgeon needed the help of Vilray P. Blair. ‘I must say, you’ve given me a great deal of confidence, John. Thank you,’ Danny said.
Dr Glicks laughed. ‘I hope so, Danny. While war is hell, it’s heaven for plastic surgeons. A year in the Pacific and then Valley Forge Military Hospital, where I’ve done more than two hundred facial reconstructions – most
much worse than yours – is the kind of experience one can never gain in peacetime. Believe me, the damage a bullet, shrapnel and explosives can do to a face is horrific, not to mention the burns sustained by a pilot or rear gunner in an aircraft accident.’
Danny thought of Billy Scraper’s face, so much worse than his own. John Glicks continued. ‘The work on your face is by comparison fairly straightforward and I have every confidence that with time and care we’ll get a better than good result. I’m sure Dr Blair is going to agree with my diagnosis and prognosis. I’d like you to check in the day after tomorrow, which will give me time to consult with Dr Blair and arrange a theatre time that suits us both.’
‘This is very good of you, John. I only hope when you and Jennifer visit Australia we can repay you somehow.’
‘You already have, Danny. I get to work with Vilray P. Blair and, medically speaking, that’s a special treat.’
Fifteen days later, Danny, looking a fright with the middle section of his face in plaster of Paris, was released from Barnes into Helen’s care. She, of course, had made detailed plans for his recovery.
Billy du Bois, in response to a letter from Danny, had said that the moment he was released from hospital he was to come down to Louisiana to recover. He would not hear of them holing up in a hotel, and pointed out that there was a refuge for Danny at the du Bois plantation, where he and his family would show the newlyweds a little southern hospitality. He asked Helen to call him in New Orleans, where the family had a house, to discuss their plans. Danny, with both the missing eye and the good one edged in deep purple – usually referred to as a pair of black eyes – looked so bizarre that Helen realised he either had to stay cooped up in their hotel room or accept Billy’s invitation.
Billy du Bois immediately offered to cancel several appointments and drive up and fetch them back to ‘N’awlins’.
‘Thank you, Billy,’ Helen said, ‘but it’s simply no trouble to take the train. Danny is well enough to travel.’
‘Uh, y’all sure now? Give me the time you get into N’awlins and I’ll meet your train,’ he insisted, then added, ‘But how will I recognise y’all now Danny has had his operation?’
Helen laughed. ‘Easy,’ she said. ‘He’s the one with a plaster cast covering part of his face.’
Helen had a clear impression of Billy du Bois as a swashbuckling, larger-than-life character, for while Danny seldom spoke of the prisoner-of-war camp, he was fond of recalling the day they were liberated by the giant Yank, festooned in ammunition-belts on the Harley-Davidson with its sidecar filled with cigarette cartons. She pictured him in cowboy boots and jeans with a large Stetson hat and an open-neck shirt, hairy chest protruding, and said as much to Danny. He laughed, unsure himself how Billy might look in civilian clobber, but guessing it would be casual, or perhaps one of those light-blue American seersucker suits. It came as something of a surprise when the unmistakeably huge young man waiting for them was dressed in an immaculate and obviously tailor-made grey pinstriped suit, black business shoes, white shirt and conservative blue and red striped tie. He, of course, immediately recognised the face in the plaster cast and realised the beautiful blonde woman beside its owner must be Helen.
‘Well now, welcome to N’awlins,’ he said, his arms held wide as if to embrace them. His obvious pleasure and open-hearted declaration seemed to be welcoming them on behalf of the whole of the state of Louisiana. Looking directly at Helen and extending a bearlike paw he declared, ‘Uh, welcome, Mrs Dunn. We are most honoured and privileged to have y’all visit us. This is a truly grand occasion.’ He spoke with what they would come to recognise as a Louisiana drawl – slow, carefully enunciated, and seeming to convey that the speaker had all the time in the world.
‘Helen, it’s Helen. I don’t answer to anything else,’ she said with a smile. ‘We are equally delighted to be here. I’ve heard so much about you from Danny.’
‘G’day, mate,’ Danny said, trying to sound cheerful. The painkillers he’d taken before they’d left were beginning to wear off, and although his speech was greatly improved it was still a bit wobbly after the operation on his cheek. He attempted to shake Billy’s hand, but Billy grabbed him, and the two big men – the American and the Australian who’d met under such unique circumstances – hugged each other. ‘It’s a long way from the rice paddies of Thailand,’ Danny managed to say, his throat constricting with sudden emotion.
Billy drove a very large, new black Buick with whitewall tyres. ‘Uh, y’all say if it ain’t convenient, but I thought maybe you’d like to stay in the town house tonight and tomorrow, then on the weekend we’ll go visit La Fonteine. What say y’all?’
‘That sounds lovely,’ Helen said from the back seat. ‘But where and what is La Fonteine? Danny has to take things pretty quietly for
a while.’
‘Ain’t nowhere quieter in the State of Louisiana, Helen. It’s further south. Been in the du Bois family now two hundred years.’
‘Two hundred years!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘That includes the time of slavery?’
‘Sure does, ma’am. We’ve been right lucky with our coloured folk; many of the original families have stayed to this day. There was no good part of slavery but I guess my forebears were a might more tolerant than most. La Fonteine is a lucky place for us; the original old house was requisitioned for officers’ quarters during the war, which saved it from being burned to the ground.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t realised that you were directly affected by the war. What was it, fifth column sabotage? American Nazi movement?’ Helen asked, curious.
Billy du Bois threw back his head and roared. ‘Only one war round these parts, ma’am, and it ain’t the one you and I and Danny just fought in. The war I was referring to was the Civil War. It’s a habit I acquired from my daddy – everything in this part of the south is dated either before or after the Civil War.’
They had entered what appeared to be an older part of New Orleans and so it turned out to be. ‘Uh, this is Vieux Carré, the old French Quarter. I guess we’ve had a home here almost as long as we’ve had the plantation.’ The big Buick drew up in a quiet street and Billy sounded the horn. The street was not unlike one of a row of large terrace houses in Sydney, with wrought-iron balconies fronting directly onto the street, and which, apart from elegant front doors and a carriageway on the side, would have looked at home on a leafy street in Woollahra. It was only when the whole of the house was seen that the difference became obvious. It was built entirely around a magnificent courtyard garden, with a continuous balcony upstairs and a verandah downstairs that ran all the way around it. It was a perfectly preserved example of a wealthy antebellum home in New Orleans and was at least three times the size of a large terrace in Sydney. The house was called La Trianon and there was little doubt that it represented serious money.
Their luggage was taken inside by a manservant named Jackson, whom Billy informed them also acted as chauffeur and would be taking them around when Billy wasn’t available to do so himself. Inside they met Aunt Mary-Louise, the coloured housekeeper and cook, who looked after Billy but came from La Fonteine, as had Jackson. Both lived in the servant’s wing of the large house.
Aunt Mary-Louise had set out afternoon tea in an elegant drawing room that Helen would later describe to Brenda as positively reeking of old money. The tea service was antique Limoges, and the cutlery antique silver. Several varieties of home-baked French pastries were displayed on an elegant platter.
For Helen, who had developed an eye for the authentic and well preserved, the house was like a page from history, though on second glance she realised that the antebellum ambience and sense of grandeur disguised the latest in kitchen and bathroom appliances, and that the house, although sporting a grand fireplace in the main drawing room and smaller versions in every other room, was centrally heated.
Billy du Bois may have been a knockabout master sergeant in the Specia
l Forces of the United States army, but he was every inch an old-fashioned aristocrat in his native Louisiana. He explained that he was the youngest of the three sons of Marcel and Heloise du Bois. His father, now retired, was still fussing and taking unnecessary trips to the plantation to make a nuisance of himself with Billy’s brothers, Frank and Andre, who ran the plantation and the mill respectively.
‘What, cotton?’ Danny asked.
Billy laughed. ‘No, sir! That’s the standard notion of the old south. Mark Twain probably didn’t think sugarcane was as romantic as tote’n’ cotton along the Mississippi; “The old sugarcane fields of home” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. But, in fact, my family have been growin’ sugarcane at La Fonteine nigh on one hundred and eighty years. The spring sowing is just over so there’s a bit of time to welcome y’all to the plantation.’
Billy went on to explain that his parents now spent most of their time at La Trianon but that his father made a point of being on the plantation for sowing and harvesting, where he drove everyone mad, and his mother went along in a mostly vain attempt to stop him doing so.
‘And you, where do you fit in?’ Helen asked.
‘Uh, I run a distribution company that my uncle, William “Billy” du Bois, left to me after I graduated from Louisiana State University. He was a youngest son, and had no heirs. Youngest son to youngest son, both with the same name – I guess it was meant to be. The business was left in the care of a manager when I enlisted and now I’m in the process of building it up again.’
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 25