Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Jeremy lay exposed to below his loins, lying on a waterproof sheet, naked except for a jacket of adhesive plaster binding his chest and a plaster-of-paris cast on his left arm. His throat bore the unhealed scar of an incision from which numerous black stiches struck out like whiskers on a tight-shut mouth. His scrotum lay in a pad of gauze looking like a huge blowfish, mottle-skinned, black and blue and red and green. It was the senior nurse who uncovered this part of him, her lined eyes growing wide with concern at the sight.

  The silence of the waiting nurses brought the senior doctor from the last case. He turned, glancing with long yellowish eyes, seeming to be reckoning what this case had to do with him, then, when his eyes lit on the swollen testicles, exclaimed, ‘Ah!’ and fairly sprang upon them. A long forefinger extended to probe the mottled mass. Jeremy winced. The tall spare figure was bent almost double, as if the scimitar nose were sniffing diagnosis while the finger probed. The young doctor followed it all with sharply mobile black eyes. Almost a leap and a gasping in response to an extra-deep dig woke the senior doctor up to the fact that someone was attached to the fascinating thing. The yellow eyes slid up to meet the grey looking out of their meaty sockets. The thin lips opened to speech that was harsh-sounding yet kind enough: ‘Not too good this end, I’m afraid. But we’ll get you right. How’s the rest of you?’ The doctor moved up, to lay a great wax-yellow ear against the chest, rose up, saying, ‘Doing nicely. And the throat?’ Another long finger poked at the scar. ‘Ah, healing nicely. Let’s hear you speak.’

  The hoarse whisper: ‘Why’m I . . . un-der . . . re-straint?’

  The thin flap of mouth widened in a happy smile. ‘Good! We weren’t too sure of saving your voice. Should come good slowly.’ Then the long fingers came up to run the hollows of the cheeks, erasing the smile. ‘But I don’t like those old knackers of yours. Best have ’em out, I think.’

  The yellow eyes met the staring grey, narrowed as the grey widened in obvious protest. The doctor looked away towards the blowfish, stroking his chin now, said musingly, ‘It’s not as if you were a young man. Sooner or later you’ll be having a prostatectomy, anyway.’ He swung back with the smile again. ‘So what about it, old feller?’

  The hoarse whisper came sharply, ‘No!’

  The yellowish face reddened slightly. The trap of the smile closed. The yellow eyes left the grey to flip over the medical colleagues, with a look that plainly said: The things we’ve got to put up with from ’em! All three pairs of eyes agreed. Then he bent over the blowfish again, had another good look, and took another good poke, making Jeremy gasp. Having made his point, he looked back at Jeremy. ‘You’ve heard of gangrene?’

  It took the whisper a moment to get out: ‘I . . . veterinary surgeon.’

  The doctor looked pleased again. ‘Ah . . . then you’ll know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I . . . I won’t be . . . castrate’.’

  The doctor pulled his long lower lip, let it flip back into place. ‘You came to us in a pretty bad way, you know . . . or, rather, you don’t know. Fact, you’re lucky to be alive . . . and wouldn’t’ve been, but for this wonder-drug, Sulphanilamide.’ He had another pull at the lip while it sunk in, looking down, frowning benignly at the upstaring grey eyes. ‘You were brought in with a roaring empyema. You have three costal fractures, one with deep penetration of the left lung and the grossest infection I’ve ever seen. We had to pump the pus out of you while we mended the ribs. Trouble was that those who first had you didn’t realise the extent of your injuries till too late . . . concentrated on a slight cranial fracture and the arm. As I say . . . Sulphanilamide saved you . . . your throat, your arm, your thoracic condition . . .’

  ‘Then . . . then . . . let it save . . . my testes.’

  ‘It won’t . . . or it would have done, with load of it we gave you. You have an emphysema there . . . certainly turning gangrenous. As you must know, there’s no cure for gangrene but revitalisation of the affected tissue, or excision of it. There’s no hope of revitalisation . . . in your condition and at your time of life. Without excision, I’d say your chance of survival is . . . well, two per cent.’

  The eyes held. Again it took a struggle to get the whisper out, such as to bring sweat bursting from the square of bruised face, ‘No!’

  Now the doctor looked annoyed. ‘For godsake, man . . . after all the trouble we’ve taken to save your life . . .’

  ‘No!’

  Now the doctor was angry. He almost shouted, ‘You’re not going to die on me for the sake of some silly notion of being castrated.’

  ‘Rather die . . . than be . . . eunuch.’

  The mobile face changed from anger to pleadings and with it the tone: ‘Look, old man . . . I’ll do my best to . . . to Cut You Proud, as you fellers say . . . leave what I can to maintain some glandular functioning. How’s that?’

  ‘Then I’d be . . . a rig . . . doctor. No . . . no . . . no!’

  The doctor’s narrow head drooped, to sway from side to side, while he muttered, ‘Then you’ll die. You’ll be dead within a week.’

  ‘You said . . . you said . . . two per cent chance.’

  ‘One per cent.’

  ‘I . . . take . . . it.’

  The doctor swung away again towards the others, with an expression of dismay that if not genuine was consummate acting. A moment, then he turned back. ‘I’ll give you time to think of it. But you’ll have to be quick about it. Gangrene doesn’t wait. No . . . no more talk. You’ve talked too much already.’ He glanced at the scarred throat, adding with a sigh, ‘Not that all the good work I put into it’ll matter, if you’re going to let gangrene beat us.’

  He turned away completely now, heading, stoop-shouldered, for the door, muttering, half-indifferently as he went, ‘Glycerine-belladonna to the scrotum for the time being.’

  The dark little doctor cast Jeremy a look of deep reproach as he followed. The young nurse also went out. The senior, redressing the neck, spoke remotely: ‘You’re a very foolish man if you don’t do what doctor says.’

  He whispered through her hands, ‘Please let . . . me . . . get up.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish.’

  The nurse came back with a bottle of treacly manure-smelling stuff. The senior soused lint with it, packed it about the blowfish, with an expression as if she were dealing with a poison snake. As they began to adjust the restraining sheet again, Jeremy whispered, ‘Please let me out of . . . this thing.’

  ‘I’ll ask doctor,’ said the senior. ‘Can I tell him that you agree to let him do it, too?’

  Again the hoarse whisper came sharply, ‘No!’

  Buttoning up her mouth, the senior turned, went out. The younger nurse hung for a while, to give him a sad look and a shake of the head. Then she was gone. The presumed police officer, who had been watching from the outer doorway, retired to his seat on the balcony.

  Far from lapsing into sleep again, Jeremy showed signs of deep agitation: flapping his hands, waggling his feet, heaving himself up from his pillow as much as encased chest and arm would allow. However, before long, purpose came into his movements. Evidently he was trying to reach his loins with his right hand. By then the policeman had become disinterested, returned to his paper.

  By dint of straining, at length Jeremy was able to pluck at the sheet above the bulge of his swollen testicles. Clinging to it, he wriggled, gasping and grunting surely with pain. Then with a great sigh he relaxed, with sweat pouring from his face.

  A few minutes later the door opened again. The policeman leapt up and entered. It was the young nurse, carrying a tray. She was quite pleasant to Jeremy now, saying she had brought him some tasty high-protein broth to replace the intravenous feeding they’d been giving him. The policeman lent a hand to prop the patient up, adjusting the slope of the barred bed-head. However, when the nurse approached with the feeding cup, Jeremy turned his face from it, whispering, ‘Want feed myself . . . free my . . . hand.’

  ‘Can’t do that.’<
br />
  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘You’re under restraint.’

  ‘W-what for?’

  ‘You were delirious for several days. Might’ve hurt yourself.’

  ‘Not de’rerious . . . now.’

  ‘Can’t help it. Come on.’

  ‘Sister said . . . ask doctor.’

  ‘Sister didn’t say anything to me. Now, come on. I’ve got lots to do.’

  He gave in. When she had done feeding him, she smiled. ‘Feel better with something in your tummy, eh?’ He belched. ‘Now to make you comfortable,’ she added. She pulled the sheet clear of his right shoulder, reached for her tray, swabbed the shoulder with spirit.

  The whisper, ‘W-what . . . you do?’

  She didn’t answer, but from a covered dish produced a hypodermic syringe and ampoule. When she came to him he asked, ‘W-what?’

  ‘Just something for the pain.’

  ‘Morphine?’

  ‘Something like that. Now . . . what are you doing?’

  He’d shrugged this shoulder back under the sheet. He shook his head, breathed, ‘No . . . no.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’

  ‘Won’t have.’ He drew his shoulder away from her searching hand.

  ‘You’ve got to have. If you don’t stop struggling, I’ll get the policeman to hold you.’

  The whisper fairly roared as Jeremy heaved up from the inclined pillow, ‘Illegal . . . my restraint . . . injection . . . illegal . . . without . . . my permission.’ The meaty eyes swung to glare at the ready policeman.

  Nurse and policeman exchanged glances. The nurse gave an impatient shrug. ‘Okay . . . I’ll get doctor.’ She put her things back, swished out.

  Jeremy challenged the policeman: ‘Show credentials.’

  The man only blinked, retired to stand in the outer doorway.

  In no time the door rattled again, now to admit the dark young doctor, the nurse, the sister. The doctor was frowning. ‘What seems to be the trouble now?’

  Jeremy hoarsed with some strength, ‘No seem ’bout it . . . illegal restraint . . . medication . . . won’t permit . . .’

  ‘You’re in police custody.’

  ‘W-what for?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘That’s not my business.’

  ‘Your business as access-access-ary . . . I take . . . action.’

  The doctor looked at the policeman. Jeremy hoarsed again, ‘Ask . . . what charge?’

  The doctor asked the question with his black eyes only. The officer answered with a blink of non-committal. The whisper did the answering, ‘Illegal cus-custody.’

  The doctor turned to Jeremy. ‘Go easy . . . your throat’s far from healed.’

  ‘How going . . . heal . . . lying trussed . . . want see chief . . . doctor.’

  ‘I’m chief at present.’

  ‘Who you?’

  ‘Surgical Registrar.’

  ‘You respons’ble . . . le’ me out . . .’

  ‘Stop talking . . . or you’ll ruin all our work.’

  In fact Jeremy’s voice was fading to faintness. Still he persisted: ‘Die if don’t . . . get . . . free.’

  ‘You’ll die if you don’t get those testes out.’

  Jeremy heaved up, eyes blazing, voice coming back again: ‘You tie me up . . . for that?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then . . . le’ me out . . . le’ me out . . . damn you!’

  The doctor sighed, pulled at his smooth round chin. ‘You’ve got a reputation for violence.’

  ‘Who say?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘What police? I . . . I ask that . . . that . . . for credentials . . . won’t show. I done . . . nothing . . . only help Jew refugees . . . Com’wealth police . . . hunting. You Jew . . . I help your people . . . make this trouble myself . . . help . . . name of Jews . . . help me . . . live . . .’ The last word was scarcely audible. The bandaged head fell back. The eyes closed with weakness.

  When Jeremy opened his eyes it was to meet the black eyes of the doctor, who said, ‘If you give me an undertaking not to be violent . . .’

  Jeremy struggled up again, whispering, ‘How can . . . violent . . . my con . . . condition . . .’

  ‘All right. But no more talk.’ The doctor nodded to the sister. Sister and nurse began to free the points of restraint.

  Then it was discovered that the belladonna dressing had been dislodged. As the sister was about to replace it, Jeremy jerked up, thrusting out his hand, husking, ‘Don’t want.’

  ‘But you’ve got to have it for the pain.’

  ‘Bel’don’ retard . . . periph’ral healing.’

  The doctor thrust away the staying hand, saying rather sharply, ‘You might be a vet, but . . .’

  ‘Also pharm’cist . . . and what you know . . . ’bout bel’donna . . . doctor?’

  The smooth face flushed slightly, glossy brows rumpled in a frown. The urgent whisper went on: ‘You surgeon . . . ask physician . . . bel’don’ only . . . only advance . . . gangrene.’ The whisper faded out.

  The dark eyes stared into the grey for a moment. Then the doctor turned to the sister, muttered, ‘Leave it. I’ll check.’

  As they turned from him, Jeremy swung his feet to the floor. The effort made him gasp and droop. The doctor turned back to him quickly, put a hand on his shoulder, exclaiming, ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  The policeman came loping. The doctor waved him back.

  Jeremy just managed to breathe, ‘Feet . . . on ground . . . please . . . please.’

  The doctor released his grip. He spoke to the nurse: ‘Get him pyjamas.’

  When he looked at Jeremy again, Jeremy breathed, ‘Thank you . . . thank you, doctor!’

  ‘Now, you must take it easy.’

  ‘Must exercise.’

  ‘Later on.’

  Jeremy let himself be pushed back gently to the pillow. The sister covered him with the sheet. Having done so, she asked, ‘Will you be wanting me any more, Dr Solomon? I’ve got . . .’

  ‘Okay, Sister.’

  As the sister departed, Jeremy whispered, ‘I knew a . . . Dr Solomon . . . but he . . . Syrian.’

  ‘I’m of Syrian descent.

  ‘Not Jewish?’

  ‘No.’

  The nurse came with the pyjamas. When she would have set about putting them on him, Jeremy stopped her. The doctor waved her away, helped Jeremy himself. Thanking him, as he sank back to the pillow, Jeremy added: ‘Old Doc Solomon . . . used to travel country . . . turn-out . . . South Australia . . . when I . . . a kid.’

  The doctor looked interested. ‘That would be my grandfather. He wasn’t a qualified doctor, though.’

  ‘No . . . herbalist . . . but best physician . . . the country . . . knew well . . . used to camp our place . . . my father . . . policeman.’

  ‘Is that a fact? I’ve heard my father talk about the old days. My father’s a qualified physician. Used to travel with the old man sometimes.’

  ‘’S right . . . family. We used . . . to play together . . . kids. Your father still . . . alive?’

  ‘Oh, yes . . . and practising. He’ll be interested. I’ll tell him. Now, you’ve got to keep quiet . . . you’ve got to make up your mind about those testes.’

  ‘Mind made up.’

  ‘Dr Paton told you he’d leave some gland if he could. Besides . . . nowadays there’s Testosterone . . . implants.’

  ‘Still castration . . . no . . . old bull . . . he’s bull to last. If I die . . . I die . . . entire . . . as we vets . . . say.’

  The doctor stroked his chin as if to crease it like his master’s. He asked, ‘And you don’t want anything for pain?’

  ‘Want all will . . . to heal.’

  The dark head shook. ‘Going to take more than will, old chap. Well, don’t overdo it. Sleep a bit. I’ll be back to see you later.’

  ‘Thank you . . . son.’ The eyelids drooped. Before Dr Solomon was out of the room, Jeremy was sleeping. />
  It was the changing of the guard that next woke Jeremy. A new policeman came in with a new nurse. It was dusk. The light was switched on. The nurse had more gruel for him, and vitamin tablets. He refused to be fed, having to use hands to express himself to begin with, because the whispered words came slowly. Then, taking the tablets from the nurse, he sniffed and tasted them before swallowing. Both nurse and fresh blue-jowled officer watched him blank-faced.

  When the nurse was gone he swung his feet to the floor again. Now he essayed to rise, only to have to sit down again at once, panting. The policeman watched from the outer doorway. Jeremy tried again, held the stance a little longer, before dropping back, with sweat streaming from his face. Evidently he was suffering great pain in the loins, the way he clutched at them. Still he tried again, this time to totter a few steps. He stood swaying, looked like going at the knees, swung, grabbed at the locker beside the bed. It was on castors, and moved at his touch. He came down on his knees, clinging to it, gasping with pain.

  The policeman came to him, placed a hand under his good arm. He jerked free of it, whispering hoarsely, ‘Le’m’lone.’

  ‘Only helping you up.’

  ‘Le’m’lone.’

  ‘What you trying to do, anyway?’

  With his one hand Jeremy dragged himself up with an effort that left him hanging over the locker breathless.

  The policeman said, ‘Let me help you back to bed.’

  The whisper came stronger, hoarser: ‘Hand off me . . . illegal custody.’

  The man shrugged, retired to the doorway. Jeremy turned to the bed, fell upon it groaning, was soon asleep again. The policeman settled down with the evening paper.

  Night fell. The sister came to take temperature and pulse. When she was gone, Jeremy rose again. This time he took hold of the locker for support, shuffled a few steps after it, came back with it. A rest. Then another and better excursion. Thus till he was able to reach the other wall, hang there for a while, return to the bed. The policeman watched, as one might who was in charge of a dangerous animal doing unaccountable things. Jeremy acted as if the man did not exist, even later massaging his testicles. When at midnight the guard was changed again, the two officers had a long conference out on the balcony, evidently about the peculiarities of their charge, the way they stared in at him while talking.