Surgeon at Arms

by Gordon, Richard

  Bluey reached fifteen, yawned deeply, and fell asleep. John plucked out the syringe, simultaneously freeing Bluey’s breathing by holding up his chin. ‘This stuff was invented by our friends the Germans,’ he told the nurse. ‘I ought to use it as a routine. The boys get pretty browned off, being suffocated every time with gas. That can’t be much fun when you have to face a dozen operations on the trot.’

  Like all specialist anaesthetists, John Bickley brought to his work the artistic touch of an experienced chef. First he held a triangular padded mask tight to Bluey’s patchwork face, and concocted a delicately proportioned mixture of oxygen and nitrous oxide gas. Then he moved a lever on a bottle of blue liquid to add a trace of trichlorethylene vapour—a more powerful anaesthetic to deepen Bluey’s unconsciousness. John edged across the lever on another bottle to admit the pungent vapour of ether, the main ingredient of the dish. Bluey coughed fiercely. He always did, John reflected. He should insist that Graham stop his patients smoking for a least a week before their operations. But Graham objected that would be bad for morale, and they’d smoke in the lavatories, anyway. Graham objected to almost everything he suggested, it struck John wearily, ever since he had started calling for Sunday lunch.

  Two coloured bobbins already danced up thin vertical glass tubes on John’s anaesthetic trolley, indicating the volume of oxygen and nitrous oxide flowing to his patient. When he judged the anaesthesia deep enough, he sent a third bobbin spinning by adding carbon dioxide to the mixture. This stimulated Bluey’s breathing, until he was heaving away as though finishing some desperate race in his sleep. With economical movements, John laid aside the face-mask, reached for a narrow, stiff, greased, red-rubber tube, and inserted it into the remains of Bluey’s right nostril. He edged it inwards gently—an unsuspected nasal polyp would bring blood all over the shop and an even worse row with Graham—listening to the breath-sounds as it slipped behind Bluey’s flaccid tongue, then finally through his widely open larynx into his windpipe. It was a technique invented by Harold Gillies’ own anaesthetist, Ivan Magill, to deliver the anaesthetic directly into the patient’s lungs while leaving his face and mouth as a sterile unoccupied battlefield for the plastic surgeon.

  ‘That looked prety easy, I must say,’ observed the nurse, who like all nurses had long ago ceased to be impressed by her medical overlords. But her remark pleased John. The trick was rather like playing darts in the dark, not easy at all. Only the experience of twenty years made it seem so.

  As Bluey himself knew, the operations was to be a simple affair. Graham cut a thin graft of skin from Bluey’s thigh with a Thiersch knife like an oversized razor, then stitched it along his chin where a former one had failed to take. Bluey was back in bed within the half hour, struggling to consciousness through dreams about flying, which were always unpleasant but soon forgotten. He woke up deciding he didn’t feel as bad as usual. The Gasman’s injection was a winner. The next night he’d be fit enough to finish the bottle of rum in his locker, then slip out with half a dozen others to The Oak.

  Knowing the habits of his patients, Graham made a point on Saturday nights of taking a bus to the pictures in Maiden Cross. That Saturday he queued to see an American film about the war, in which all the Germans conversed in villainous guttural undertones, all the British officers had Oxford accents, and all their men talked like Sam Weller. The star was Stella Garrod, the woman Graham had made a fool of himself with before the war. He wondered wryly if she ever bothered to think of him. In fact, she spoke fondly and often of her affair with the little London surgeon, immorality with Englishmen having, after Dunkirk, considerable kudos in Hollywood.

  When Graham reached home on the last bus the pub was already closed, but Bluey and his companions had been disinclined to finish the evening. They had staggered down the Smithers Botham drive singing Cats on the Rooftops, and the night being moonlit someone noticed a collection of builders’ materials stacked outside Captain Pile’s office under the gleaming portico. Bluey gave a whoop as he found a tin of paint and a brush. A porter appeared through the complicated blackout screening the front door to investigate, but identifying denizens of the annex retreated instantly. Bluey painted across the portico a single word in large letters, one on each of the four columns. Then they went singing and laughing back to the annex and bed. The night nurses were used to it.

  Early the next morning Mrs Sedgewick-Smith came down the hospital drive, hurrying to a long-standing appointment with the elderly padre. Mrs Sedgewick-Smith was the wife of a stockbroker who commanded the local Home Guard, and before the war had filled the vacuum of her life by fussing over the mental patients at Smithers Botham, or as many of them as remained socially presentable. She had organised whist drives, jumble sales, demure dances, and extremely amateur theatricals, invited the inmates for tea or for outings in her Rolls, all of which she bracketed as ‘giving the poor things a nice little break’. The war presented even more poor things as targets for her deadly solicitude. She had installed herself as unofficial welfare officer at Smithers Botham, and was beginning to hope the war would go on long enough for somebody to give her a medal for it.

  She saw the word.

  She was horribly shocked. It was not a word which could possibly appear in print, but she had of course overheard it, from workmen, soldiers, lunatics, and the like. She had always imagined it spelt with a ‘ph’, like ‘phutt’. To see it splashed in black paint across the portico was absolutely outrageous. And on a Sunday morning, too. She would have to find Captain Pile.

  Captain Pile occupied a comfortable villa in the grounds, where he managed to live in unmilitary domesticity with his wife and two children. He was in his braces, enjoying his breakfast. He put on his tunic and inspected the word officially. Though he used it frequently himself, he had to affect an air of disgust as pained as his informant’s. Mrs Sedgewick-Smith must be humoured at all costs. She was a powerful lady at Smithers Botham, the dispenser of valuable grace and favours, mostly unobtainable off the ration.

  When Graham arrived at the annex at nine for an informal Sunday ward-round with his new sister, his spirits fell as he noticed Miss Mills in close conversation at the ward door with Captain Pile. He caught sight of

  Mrs Sedgewick-Smith, and they dropped further. He had often noticed her fluttering in and out of the Tudor house across the village green, but hearing she was a professional busybody had taken pains to avoid her. Besides, she was thick with Denise Bickley, and probably knew far more about his personal affairs than she deserved.

  ‘Good morning,’ Graham greeted the visitors politely. ‘Anything I can do for you?’

  ‘I’m afraid a most serious matter has arisen, Mr Trevose,’ Captain Pile told him solemnly.

  Oh God, this is going to be a bore, Graham thought. ‘I expect you’ve seen the main entrance this morning?’ the Captain added.

  ‘No, I came here direct, through the orchard.’

  ‘A word—a most offensive word—has been written across it in paint. Mrs Sedgewick-Smith was most disturbed to see it.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. But—I know the annex has a bad name—why hold my patients responsible?’

  ‘For the simple reason they were seen by the night-porter. Flight Lieutenant Jardine and some others.’ Graham nodded slowly. That’s encouraging, he thought, Bluey’s getting enough function in his hands to wield a paint brush. ‘Then I can only apologize most sincerely to both of you and Mrs Sedgewick-Smith.’

  ‘You realize they’d been drinking?’

  ‘Had they? I don’t mind that. I even encourage it,’ Graham explained mildly. ‘It’s a matter of pride to my anaesthetist if they feel capable of taking a few drinks after his attentions.’ Seeing the captain’s irritated expression he continued, ‘You see, I want these men to live a normal life. Or as normal as they can manage. I want them to think of an operation as something as casual as a visit to the dentist, not the upheaval of a lifetime.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ the c
aptain told him testily, ‘but you have to maintain discipline—’

  ‘I’ll talk to them,’ said Graham firmly. ‘I promise. Isn’t that enough? It won’t happen again.’

  ‘No, that is not enough, Mr Trevose. You cannot simply take the affair into your own hands. It is my duty to see that appropriate action is taken.’

  ‘Listen, Captain,’ said Graham briskly, ‘I alone am responsible for these patients. Neither you nor the Army nor anyone else has the first idea how to cope with them. Will you kindly understand that?’

  His patience suddenly broke and he felt angry. In peacetime he had been a somebody, the friend of rich and influential men, a doctor with a name almost as familiar to the general public as Lord Horder’s. Now he was being lectured by some hack in a uniform which passed as a substitute for intelligence.

  ‘Can’t you see? These men aren’t invalids.’ Graham’s outstretched arm indicated the ward, where the patients were lying in bed reading the Sunday papers, trying hard to give the impression they weren’t listening. Bluey himself was asleep at the end, snoring loudly. ‘Underneath their wounds and scars they’re full of life, fit and lusty. They were youngsters with charm and sex-appeal, and what happened? In a few seconds they were turned into objects of horror. Then they were locked up in this converted madhouse. And that’s not to be their fate for a week, or a month, or even a year. When the war’s over and everyone’s back in their comfortable little slots these patients of mine will still be coming up for another graft, another pedicle, another operation of some sort. How are they going to face that miserable prospect if they can’t run wild now and then?’

  Captain Pile tried to say something, but Graham went on, ‘Do you know what happened in the last war? When I first heard of plastic surgery I was a patient myself in a sanatorium. There was a plastic unit billeted in half the wards. Every afternoon, under King’s Regulations, the men had to be marched by an N.C.O. round the countryside for exercise. You can imagine the effect.

  People weren’t so well educated then, were more superstitious. You’d have thought an army of ghouls was advancing on them. They locked their doors, covered their windows, and hid their children. So the Army confined the poor fellows to hospital, with nothing to look at but each other—an inspired piece of morale-building. I don’t want any of that nonsense in this war. There’s one thing my patients ask from the world, and only one. To be treated as normal individuals. Oh, I know it’s difficult, they’re freaks. But the effort isn’t much to ask.’

  ‘I think Mr Trevose is perfectly right,’ announced Mrs Sedgewick-Smith.

  Captain Pile spun round. The unexpected desertion of his ally appalled him. Trevose was a difficult customer at the best of times, and that morning he needed all the support he could muster. She stood tugging the hem of her tweed jacket and staring at Graham with large grey eyes. She must have been quite a good-looking girl, Graham thought. Even now, I could do her face a power of good.

  ‘After all,’ continued Mrs Sedgewick-Smith crisply, ‘there are no children roaming the hospital. And the rest of us surely know that expression exists.5

  ‘Exactly,’ said Graham.

  Mrs Sedgewick-Smith had undergone a change of heart. She had been dying to meet Graham for eighteen months. He was the Graham Trevose, the man you once saw in the Tatler, the surgeon one or two of her friends could talk about, quite breathlessly. Now she saw him at close quarters she realized he had a distinction, a dignity, an authority, an air about him which Captain Pile despite his uniform so sadly lacked. In short, Graham Trevose was a gentleman. And, war or no war, the ladies and gentlemen of England had to stand shoulder to shoulder together.

  ‘We mustn’t wallow in our indignation,’ she continued calmly, ‘and I’m sure the paint can very easily be cleaned off. Mr Trevose, I appreciate every word that you have said. Isn’t there anything I can do for your patients? To give them a nice little break?’

  ‘There most certainly is. And it isn’t very much. Just ask them to tea, invite along some girls, and talk about the weather.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with a breach of discipline,’ Captain Pile broke in furiously.

  ‘Surely, Captain, if Nelson could turn a blind eye you can?’ asked Mrs Sedgewick-Smith tartly. ‘There are so many regulations these days, none of us can avoid breaking one or two, can we?’

  Captain Pile fell silent. He had been rather afraid of this turn in the conversation. Regularly every Friday Mrs Sedgewick-Smith brought him half a dozen eggs from her hens, in a cardboard box labelled as Red Cross library books. A side of bacon had once been smuggled into his house, wrapped in a sheet to resemble the laundry. There had been pots of gooseberry jam, pounds of sugar, even a few ounces of butter. It would be sad if the flow ceased. Captain Pile was extremely fond of egg and bacon for his breakfast. It was a testing decision. Should he pawn his military honour for a handful of eggs?

  ‘I suppose if you don’t feel inclined to press the matter, Mrs Sedgewick-Smith, I—’

  ‘Extremely sensible of you,’ she said quickly. She turned to Graham with a smile. ‘Mr Trevose, I do hope you can drop in for a little drink some evening? I’m sure my husband can find something in the cupboard.’ Graham promised. The bargain struck him as cheap at the price.

  When Graham finally started his ward-round, he said to Sister Mills, ‘I’m sorry about that. It doesn’t happen every Sunday morning.’

  ‘Oh, what a pity.’ She smiled. ‘I thought you were terribly impressive, Mr Trevose. Though I can’t for the life of me see what all the fuss was about.’

  ‘Neither can I, said Graham. It suddenly occurred to him he didn’t even know what the word was.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE HOSTESS opened her own front door. In peacetime, as she was half-tempted to explain, there would have been a maid in a lace apron. ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ Mrs Sedgewick-Smith greeted them brightly.

  Bluey and the half-dozen others who had courted disgrace on the Saturday night found themselves standing on Mrs Sedgewick-Smith’s doorstep the following Monday afternoon. Graham had conscripted them as a punishment. The outing had not struck them as at all attractive. Tea didn’t promise much fun, and an invitation from the local grand lady had an intolerable air of condescension about it. But if the Wizz told them to go, go they must. Even Bluey agreed a bloke would do anything to please the Wizz.

  ‘Hello, Missus,’ announced Bluey. ‘Here’s the Home for the Sick and Crippled. Frankenstein’s monsters’ annual outing.’

  Mrs Sedgewick-Smith gave an uncertain smile. But years of intense social struggle with the wives of other stockbrokers had tempered her conviviality like steel. She hesitated only a second before continuing, ‘But do come in. Quite a charming afternoon for the time of year, isn’t it?’

  Bluey led his companions into the hall. He stared round. Graham had warned him to be on his best behaviour, but he was determined to keep the social balanced tilted in his favour.

  ‘Old place you’ve got here, Missus.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Parts of it go back to Henry the Eighth.’

  Bluey sniffed. ‘Smells like it.’

  There was an awkward silence as the patients stood grinning at their hostess, like mischievous children with Hallowe’en masks. I must treat them as normal people, she reminded herself, as perfectly normal people. Like the charming young men who used to call before the war for tennis. And surely if they were officers they must also be gentlemen? Even the one with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve was aircrew, and as things went at the time socially acceptable. Her loss for something to say was relieved by the oak door of the sitting-room opening, to emit a slight girl in a yellow-and-white flowered dress, with rigidly outstretched hand and a rigidly fixed smile.

  ‘My youngest daughter Stephanie,’ said Mrs Sedgewick-Smith, on a note of enthusiasm.

  ‘Spiffing to meet you,’ said Stephanie, hand still outstretched.

  Stephanie was at an age which should have changed her from a
grub in boarding-school uniform to flutter gaily amid the dances and parties of the ‘season’. As it was, she was trying to decide whether to start as a probationer nurse at Smithers Botham or to make Sten guns in the shadow factory at Maiden Cross. But Graham had prescribed girls, and girls being like everything else in short supply, Mrs Sedgewick-Smith had patriotically concluded that Stephanie must do.

  ‘You should have warned us, Missus, you’d a houseful of beautiful women,’ said Bluey sarcastically.

  ‘You mustn’t say things like that,’ smiled her mother. ‘You’ll turn her head.’

  Stephanie went pink. ‘Oh, Mummy! ’

  ‘You must forgive my daughter for being a little shy,’ Mrs Sedgewick-Smith apologized uneasily. ‘You see, she doesn’t have much chance to meet young men these days. The war has quite ruined our social life.’

  ‘It’s ruined a lot of things,’ said Bluey.

  They went into the timbered drawing-room. There was a small fire, an eggless cake, and meat-paste sandwiches spread with margarine—Mrs Sedgewick-Smith considered raiding the butter-ration as carrying compassion too far. She fiddled anxiously amid the teacups, aware that her guests were going to be terribly difficult to entertain. Of course, one couldn’t—or at least mustn’t —blame the poor things for being rather peculiar. She hoped it wouldn’t have any lasting effect on Stephanie, who was sitting on a low chair with the arresting habit of repeatedly crossing her legs then nervously tugging her hem over the knee of her lisle stockings. Her mother had instructed her sternly to treat the guests as perfectly normal. Her boarding-school had instructed her even more sternly how to carry such things through. As she chatted haltingly it amused Bluey to see her struggling to pretend they were ordinary-looking individuals. She’d be a virgin for sure, he decided, though might make a satisfactory bang if touched up enough first.