An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War

by Patrick Taylor

  He was blinking away the tears brought on by the Arctic wind of their passage when he heard from ahead the staccato crack of a destroyer’s 4.7-inch guns, the deeper bark of German 5-inch gun replies, and, over the Tannoy, a bugler sounding the charge, the call to action stations.

  It had begun.

  He set off at a good pace, the crashing of the other ships’ rifles and the bellowing of Warspite’s turbines filling his senses, surrounding him with noise. He was two decks down when a loudspeaker announced, “There is a German destroyer to starboard. She is burning, but her crew can be seen preparing torpedo tubes. She will be taken under fire.”

  There was a short silence. He knew what was happening above him. The gunnery officer’s team, way up in the fifteen-inch control tower, would be feeding range and bearing data to the turrets, where the nearly one-ton shells and their cordite charges would be loaded into the rifles. The gun’s crew would take aim. When the guns were on target, firing gongs would sound and—Holy Mother of Jesus. He had to grab on to the handrail as Warspite heeled to the blast of one, then another gun. The sound even down here was deafening. Nothing could have prepared him for the noise that surrounded him like an impenetrable wall and by its force seemed to be crushing his chest. Dear God, how did the gun crews survive even one firing? The row was infernal, inhuman. In moments the stink of burnt cordite assailed his nostrils. He could picture the vast tongue of fire leaping from the gun’s barrel and the all-enveloping cloud of brown fumes belching from the muzzle. They were firing at almost point-blank range on an already damaged vessel many times smaller, a killer whale devouring a penguin with a broken flipper.

  The Tannoy’s voice rang, flat, expressionless, as unexcited as if it were announcing, “Up spirits. The enemy has rolled over and is sinking.”

  As the battleship’s fifteen-inch guns and six-inch secondaries fell silent, Fingal spared a thought for the German sailors, but his reverie was interrupted by the squawk of the Tannoy. “Our Swordfish spotter plane, that we’ve nicknamed Lorna, has identified and sunk, by bombing, a German U-boat in Herjangsfjord, which is up ahead off our port bow.”

  He was greeted by cheering of the announcement as he opened the door and went into the medical distribution centre. Inevitably, the casualties would start arriving soon. Although Warspite was still unscathed, other British ships had been hit, some hard. The only question was when the medical staff’s work must start.

  Nobody would feel like cheering then.

  He sat down at his desk and opened the notebook with lined pages, now well thumbed from use. There was time to bring his war diary up to date.

  April 13, 1940. Second Battle of Narvik under way. Have heard the fifteen-inchers fired at an enemy destroyer. It was an absolutely devastating assault on all the senses and I’d better get ready for more because that initial duel was only the beginning. There are several German ships up ahead. Nothing seemed to faze Richard and the SBAs, but I find it claustrophobic down here knowing that all the watertight hatches between us and the open air four decks up are dogged down. It would have been the same for many of the crew on the sinking German ship.

  He looked at the grey steel walls and imagined the room filling with freezing oily water from sole to deckhead. Stop it, he told himself. Your imagination is far too vivid. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out her last letter, which had been waiting for him in Greenock after the most recent convoy. There was still the faintest trace of the musk she always wore. He would try to read it from beginning to end.

  My Darling Fingal,

  I wonder where you will be or when you will get this? Probably when you return to home base in … the next word was smudged over by the censor’s blue pencil. He smiled. Even though she knew perfectly well about censorship Deirdre from time to time seemed to forget, and for that matter so did Lars and Ma when they wrote. I hope you will be well and able to get some rest. She never stopped worrying about him, bless her. I am keeping myself very busy to help me try to ignore how terribly I am missing you and cannot wait until your next home leave so we can continue our sweet explorations, my pet. He smiled as he had done the first time he’d read it, cherishing his memories of their lovemaking, hurried the first time, then sweet and langorous. The softness of her and the urgency and—

  The whole ship shook as the great rifles roared their hatred at the Germans, and Fingal slipped her letter back in his pocket, took a deep breath, and settled down to wait for what the day might bring.

  20

  Grim-Visag’d War

  At last the guns had fallen silent. The battle was over. “A, B, X, and Y guns’ crews may go on top of turrets,” the Tannoy announced. “Guns’ crews may go on top of turrets.”

  For the first time in the four hours since he’d last been on deck, Fingal didn’t have to strain to hear the words over the din of war. Even here, deep within the ship where the medical team was effectively locked up with all the watertight hatches sealed, the racket had been horrible. It hardly bore thinking about how deafening it must have been inside the gunhouses when the guns fired. And how suffocating as cordite fumes leaked back each time the breeches were opened. No wonder the crews were being let out into the fresh air.

  No one had been injured on Warspite and not a single casualty had been received so far from any other ships. Two portable operating tables were set up and waiting. Boxes of presterilised instruments were stacked against the bulkheads. A steam autoclave for sterilizing instruments was plugged into a power supply. All the other necessities for patching up wounded humanity were here, ready and waiting.

  Fingal was relieved and, he had to admit, shocked, that no one on Warspite had been hurt. The constant and unearthly din of the guns had given him the impression that topside things would be hellish and chaotic. And yet not a single man had been wounded. He knew from the running commentary of the Tannoy, however, that eight German destroyers had been sunk and at least two British ships were “badly damaged” and another “damaged.” He wondered where the dividing line between the two descriptions lay and if other ships had been hit.

  “I’m sure we’re going to be busy soon,” Commander Wilcoxson said, “and so will Davy Jones’s crew aft. So does anyone want to go on a short sightseeing trip, get a breath of fresh air?”

  Fingal nodded his yes. He felt claustrophobic in this porthole-less room down on the middle deck. He needed to breathe some air. And he needed a smoke.

  He was not alone. Before he could say anything, all five SBAs said they’d appreciate the opportunity. “Me too,” said Fingal.

  “Right,” said Wilcoxson, “everybody back in half an hour. I’ll phone Davy’s lot too. Tell them to take a break.”

  Fingal had his pipe in his pocket filled and ready to go when the little party emerged onto the foc’s’le deck. Paddy O’Rourke offered Fingal a Player’s Navy Cut cigarette. One did, even if you knew the other man was a pipe smoker or didn’t smoke at all.

  “No thanks, Paddy. Pipe.” As Fingal lit up and gratefully inhaled he looked up to see the crews of the big guns clambering out from the hatches on top of their turrets. Some of the men were already munching on what he guessed was another round of bully beef sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs.

  He and CPO Paddy O’Rourke walked along the deck past A turret to get a better view.

  Warspite had anchored at five P.M. in the oil-stained waters of Westfjord off the town of Narvik. Immediately to starboard, at the mouth of Beisfjord, one of the smaller fjords that joined the main one, the hulks of three German destroyers poured columns of greasy smoke to defile the sky, which was now the clear blue of an early evening above the Arctic Circle. The sun wouldn’t set for another three and a half hours. Black snowflakes from the fires, like smudges on clean paper, defaced the firmament. The surrounding snow-covered hills sparkled in the rays of a still high sun, but what should have been the tangy saltiness of the frigid air was overwhelmed by the stink of burning oil and paint—and of something roasting. He’d never smell
ed it before, but he was sure it was human flesh. Fingal gagged and took a deep pull on his pipe.

  Paddy O’Rourke grimaced. “Doze Jerries must have taken a hell of a pounding, poor sods,” he said. “And our lads, sir.” Paddy pointed astern to where a British destroyer had run aground. “There’ll be wounded coming off that ship. Her fore end’s a feckin’ shambles.”

  “I think that’s Cossack,” Fingal said. “She was hit hard early on. But,” and he jabbed much farther for’ard with his pipe stem, “that’s Rombaksfjord. You remember that our ships went in there—”

  “Eskimo was torpedoed, and she’s in rag order too, but we did for four Huns, the gurriers.” Paddy shrugged. “I think we’ve won this one, at least at sea.” He nodded toward the town. “How do you reckon we’re going to winkle the German buggers out of there, sir? I reckon they’ll be all over the place like clap on a heifer’s arse.”

  Fingal chuckled, cheered by the words from home, and let go a blue cloud that hung motionless. “No idea,” he said, “and be grateful it’s not our problem. See there?” Two destroyers, their names on their bows, Forester and Bedouin, were finishing coming alongside and mooring with their bows secured against Warspite’s quarterdeck. “I reckon they’ll be offloading casualties from the other ships to us. Maybe some German wounded too.” He took a final pull on his comforting briar. “I don’t mind telling you, Paddy, I’m worried about how I’m going to manage.” Although, he thought, the general surgical principles he had been taught in his year studying obstetrics and gynaecology would be of some help.

  Paddy grinned, and said, “Och Jasus, sir, look on the bright side, at least you’ll have me and ould Hippocrates keeping an eye on you.”

  * * *

  “I’ve been aft, Fingal,” Richard Wilcoxson said when he and Paddy O’Rourke returned to the medical station. “We’re going to be taking wounded from five of our damaged destroyers.”

  Five? That answered Fingal’s question about how many other ships had been hit. He wondered just how many cases that would mean. Again the worm inside nagged at him. Would he be able to cope?

  Richard continued. “I’ve been able to free up all but one of our fully trained sick berth staff to work here or in the aft medical centre on the patients who need us most. We’re not actually at action stations, but we might get bombed so we’ll continue to work below. The MOs of Forester and Bedouin will act as triage officers, spare us that duty. You remember, Fingal, I told you battleships serve as hospital ships after major actions. They’ll send the walking wounded to the various mess decks on the main deck and the MOs and their SBAs will pitch in there until it’s time for the destroyers to leave. Some of the wounded will have already been patched up on the way here. A lot of them can be cared for by our first-aiders. Others will only need a few stitches or wounds dressed. They’ll have to wait. We’ll be putting the surgical cases on the seamen’s mess deck both pre- and postoperatively. I’ve detailed one of our SBAs to work with that group. The other four on our team will work with us.”

  “I’ll go there now, sir,” Paddy said, “and come down and let you know when the first surgical cases start arriving.”

  “Good man,” Richard said, then, taking a deep breath, pursed his lips. “Those badly wounded for whom all we can offer is morphine…” Wilcoxson frowned and shook his head. “The poor devils will be made as comfortable as possible in the seamen’s mess too. The chaplain’s trained to give the medication and he’ll stay with them and offer what support he can. He’ll have two bandsmen/stretcher bearers to help.”

  Fingal understood but hated what must be done. In wartime, brutal decisions had to be made, and the limited medical resources put to where they could do the most good. The hours of surgery spent on one patient who would still probably die were better invested in caring for men with lesser wounds who could be saved. Some men must be left to die. “I see,” he said, and his heart ached.

  “Simpler cases, uncomplicated fractures, lacerations, minor burns, will be treated in the aft medical distribution centre by Davy Jones, the dentist, and their team, and,” he clapped Fingal on the shoulder, “the tougher ones will be brought here.”

  “You’re the most senior surgeon,” Fingal said. “I understand.”

  “Paddy O’Rourke will assist me…”

  And I’ll give the anaesthetics, Fingal thought, and shuddered.

  “Barker will assist you.”

  “Me?” Fingal’s voice rose. He was, he thought, between the devil and the deep blue sea. On one hand, he was still terrified at the prospect of having to give anaesthetics, and also relieved that it didn’t look as if he was going to have to.

  “You’ve had a year of gynaecological surgery training, you told me. The basic surgical priciples are the same in men and women.”

  “I have.” But, Fingal thought, there would be a huge difference between performing a simple hysterectomy and treating someone with a belly full of shrapnel.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Fingal swallowed and said, “Aye, aye, sir.” Needs must when the devil drives. Fingal felt his stomach turn over.

  “The two other SBAs can use the mask and ether like you did the day you arrived. We’re going to need all the surgical hands we can get. Pity we’re not connected to the mess decks by phone. The SBAs and us will be too busy between cases getting ready for the next one so we’ll keep one stretcher bearer here as a runner to get his mates to take away each case back to the mess decks when we’ve finished. Have them bring the next one,” Richard said, “and we’ll all pitch in to get the dirty instruments washed and resterilized.” He clapped Fingal on the shoulder. “It’s going to be a long night and God knows when we’ll get finished tomorrow—if then. If you think you’re going to drop on your feet tell me. I have some benzedrine.”

  Fingal had heard of naval surgeons and indeed deck officers keeping going on the amphetamine stimulants. “I’ll ask if I need it,” he said.

  Richard nodded. “Good.” Then he said to Paddy, who had reappeared, “Well, what have we got so far?”

  “I spoke to the Bedouin’s MO. He reckons that between them and Forester, the other destroyer, they’re going to bring us at least two hundred casualties—”

  “Bloody hell,” Richard said, and frowned.

  It startled Fingal. He’d not thought anything could rattle Richard Wilcoxson.

  “Only about fifty of those will need to be looked after, either here with us or by Lieutenant Jones and his crew. The rest aren’t seriously hurt.”

  “Still, that’s fifty surgical cases, right?” Fingal said, and heard his voice rise. “Fifty?”

  “Don’t worry, Fingal,” Richard said, and his voice had returned to its usual unflappable tone. “With God’s help we’ll cope.”

  The words were a comfort. Fingal had already learned that Richard Wilcoxson was a Christian who kept his faith to himself. Fingal, whose own beliefs tended much more to the agnostic, couldn’t help but remember a remark he’d overheard a patient make at Sir Patrick Dun’s. A nursing sister had been reassuring her patient that God loved him and that he would come through his operation with flying colours. “Indeed God is good, Sister,” the Corkman had said. “But a wise man never tries to dance in a shmall narrow boat, so.” In other words, don’t expect the impossible under unreasonable circumstances.

  All Fingal could hope for was that they would manage. And after all, he smiled to himself, Warspite was a very large and beamy vessel.

  21

  Thus Must We Toil

  Barker, already gowned and gloved and ready to assist, faced Fingal across the operating table where his first case lay. Not AB Smith. Not CPO Jones. Not a real person, it seemed, merely a nameless case. Overhead lights glared down. The smell of ether mingled with the bitter aroma of Dettol and the coppery tang of blood. The SBA seated at the table’s head lifted one of the patient’s eyelids and said, “He’s out, sir.”

  Fingal watched as Barker poured disinfectant on a shatter
ed right thigh where a rubber tourniquet controlled the bleeding. There was no time for personal niceties. In the next few hours three doctors would have to perform more than fifty operations, and Fingal could feel the nausea of anticipation deep in his belly. The bone end, the femur, nacreous and jagged, stuck through the skin and muscle. The man had no foot and the lower leg and thigh were a mangled mess held on by a strip of skin.

  “Right,” said Fingal, and bent to his work, concentrating on the surgical steps. Cut the remaining skin and drop the wreckage into a bucket. Take off the tourniquet and clamp the spurting blood vessels. Ligate the arteries and veins. Use a scalpel to create hemi-elliptical flaps of muscle and skin in front and behind the bone. Saw off the jagged bone and take a file to smooth off the femur’s end. The rasping set his teeth on edge. Sprinkle sulpha powder on the insides of the flaps and sew them closed over the bone. Dress the stump. “Done,” he said. “Give him a quarter grain of morphine before he comes to, then wake him up.” He turned to the waiting stretcher bearer. “Please go and get your mate. You’ll be taking this poor bugger to the seaman’s mess then bringing the next patient.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The man left.

  Fingal began to strip off his glove.

  “I’d keep them on, sir, if I was you,” Barker said. “Remember the boss said we all help out washing the instruments?”

  “Of course.” Fingal looked over to where he could see Richard using a carpenter’s brace and bit to drill a hole in the skull of a sailor who had been hit on the head and, according to Bedouin’s medical officer on the basis of his clinical findings, probably had a blood clot on the brain. The senior surgeon’s actions were rhythmic, unhurried. Fingal envied the man his experience.