An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War

by Patrick Taylor

  And Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, tough as nails, felt a lump in his throat but managed to keep his voice level as he said, “Och sure, and doesn’t a baby bring his own welcome? Well done, Doreen.” He swallowed, took a deep breath, and looked down to where Kitty had put the placenta in a dish and was finishing washing Doreen’s nether regions. “And well done, Nurse Kitty O’Reilly.” He grinned and blew her a kiss. “Do you know,” he said, “if you didn’t already have a job looking after me I’d offer you one.”

  O’Reilly looked hard at the woman he loved. He’d been absolutely right trusting in her professional skills to manage the delivery, just as, he shook his head, he’d been a bloody eejit mistrusting her about this business with the Spaniard before the war.

  He laughed and said, “I’ll tell you what I think, Kitty O’Reilly. As Donal might say, ‘You done good,’ and to celebrate let’s not bother going to Bangor today. We’ll go home and have a jar.”

  “I’d like that,” she said, and smiled at him.

  Kinky would be home with Archie, Barry was heading directly to Holywood to see Sue after his calls, and after a jar or two Fingal O’Reilly was going to show Kitty O’Reilly exactly how much he loved and trusted her.

  37

  Those in Peril on the Sea

  Fingal clutched the rope harness that suspended him between Warspite and HMS Touareg. This is bloody well terrifying, he thought as he was transported between the two vessels in a bizarre contraption called a breeches buoy. Even his vivid imagination had not envisioned this when he had risen before dawn for the morning watch. He felt like a spider crossing its web and looked up at the thick rope running between the two ships. His seat, a circular life ring with attached canvas short trousers, hung from a block trundling along the hawser from Warspite to the destroyer. The line being used to haul him across the sea, tossing and churning between the two vessels, swung, swayed, and, oh Jesus, dipped then tautened again, but at least he was making progress. He could hear the tumbled waves displaced by the passage of the two vessels slapping against their hulls. As ever, the roar of Warspite’s propellors thundered on. It was a feat of seamanship keeping the two ships running at exactly the same speed and maintaining the same distance between them. Fingal offered up a silent prayer that both helmsmen were really on their toes. His imagination had no difficulty conjuring up pictures of what would happen if the ships hit broadside to broadside with him, the mustard in the sandwich, or swung away from each other, pulling apart the rope and dumping him into the water. Being swept into Warspite’s four huge propellors was an image never far from his mind. He stared at the destroyer’s deck and willed the crew there hauling him in to hurry up. Hurry. Up.

  Everything had happened so quickly he’d barely had time to anticipate the precariousness of his current position, but he was making up for it now.

  When Fingal had reached his action station less than an hour ago, there had been no more sounds of the air raid, and the antiaircraft guns had fallen silent, so he’d assumed the surviving Italian bombers had gone home.

  Richard Wilcoxson had risen from his chair in the for’ard medical distribution centre. “It’s all right, Fingal,” he said. “We know you stopped to watch the air raid—”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No need to be. We’ve all done it. Curiosity’s a natural human response. So is a fear of heights. I hope you’re immune.”

  Fingal had frowned and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” He wondered why CPO Paddy O’Rourke and PO Fletcher were both looking at him as if he were a child about to be taken to the dentist instead of for an anticipated treat. “We’re four decks down here.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to be up in the air soon.” Richard clapped Fingal on the shoulder. “You can refuse if you like, but you’re the best officer I have for the job.”

  “What job?” What the hell was going on?

  “Did you see any of our ships hit?”

  “A destroyer.”

  “That was Vixen, an old V-and-W-class destroyer. She has damage for’ard but her engine and steering’s fine so ABC’s sent her home to Alex.”

  “And I saw an explosion on Gloucester’s bridge.”

  “It killed her skipper and seventeen others. She and Touareg both took a couple of very near misses. Lots of bomb splinters. Both ships are still able to keep up with the fleet and fight, but Touareg’s got three dead and a number of casualties, one or two serious. Their MO was one of those killed. ABC’s asked me to send over a replacement.”

  Realisation dawned. “And you want me to…? Oh shite…” And he’d known he couldn’t refuse, not if he ever wanted to look Richard or the SBAs in the eyes again.

  “The breeches buoy is being rigged as we speak.”

  And here he was now dangling over the guard rails of the much smaller ship. Hands grabbed the contraption, dragged him inboard, and helped him to struggle free of the harness. Fingal, had he been on his own, would have dropped to his knees and kissed the iron deck.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” a petty officer said. “Hope you’d a pleasant trip, now hang on a jiffy, please.” He turned his back for a moment. “Right, you lot, breeches buoy crew, you know the drill. Get at it. Handsomely. You’re in charge, Ronson. Don’t drag that little battleship under if you can help it.”

  “Aye, aye,” said the leading seaman called Ronson, and the assembled men laughed and bent to their tasks.

  The PO turned back to Fingal. “Skipper says to take you straight to the sick bay, sir. No need to report on board to the officer of the deck. Better you get on with your job, sir. So if you’ll follow me?”

  Fingal fell in step with the man. The destroyer, tiny in comparison to the great grey behemoth steaming alongside, was certainly more lively. The deck pitched and rolled, which didn’t seem to faze the CPO. But twice Fingal had to grab at a rail for support. On his way he saw the evidence of splinter damage on the starboard side, bright scores in the steel of the upper deck, jagged holes in a gun shield and, high up, dents and a gap where smoke was leaking from a rent in the foremost of her two funnels. One ship’s boat was hanging drunkenly in twisted davits and had been smashed to matchwood. Damage-control parties were hard at work. One sailor, stripped to the waist, was swinging a sledgehammer against a lump of twisted metal and singing to himself to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

  Oh, I don’t give a fuck

  for the killick of the watch. Clanggg.

  or the chief of the working party. Clanggg.

  I’m watch ashore at half past four

  I’m Jack, me fucking hearty. Clanggg.

  He grinned and said, “Roll on my Blighty leave,” Clanggg.

  If this man was anything to judge by, the morale here was as high as it always had been on Warspite, Fingal thought as he was led to the sick bay.

  “The wounded are in here, sir. This is one of the SBAs, Leading Hand Johnston. He’ll show you the ropes and if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll be off.” The chief petty officer left.

  “So, you’re going to show me the ropes, are you, Johnston? Seems to me I’ve already been shown the damn things getting here,” said Fingal with a smile.

  The SBA, a man of about twenty-five, blonde, tall, and stringy, with “Mother” tattooed on his forearm, came to attention, stifled a laugh, and said in a thick Liverpool accent, “Yes, sir. Glad to have you aboard, sir.”

  “Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly. Stand easy, Johnston,” Fingal said. “How big is the staff of the medical department?”

  “The MO’s … well, you know about that, sir. Bloody sad if you ask me. He was a good bloke. It’s just me and my oppo now, sir, Leading SBA MacRae. He’s in the captain’s day cabin setting up. We use it for an operating theatre, and we’re going to need it. You’ll be happy to know Mac’s a bloody good anaesthetist.”

  “I am relieved,” Fingal said. Very relieved, he thought. He began to sweat, suddenly aware that the place was vibrating and noisy. The smell of disi
nfectant overpowered the smell of fuel oil. “God,” he said, “but it’s hot in here.”

  “Can’t be helped, sir. We’re over the gear room, and there are steam pipes all over the shop.” The man lifted his cap and rubbed a forearm over his forehead. “Still,” he said, “we’ve room for eleven cot patients and two bunks.” He pointed into the room. Two sailors, Fingal assumed they were part of the ship’s first-aid party, were moving between two rows of sitting and lying men, many sporting bandages and slings. One man, a first-aider bending over him, kept repeating, “Bloody hell I’m cut. Bloody hell I’m cut.” He was probably suffering from shell shock too. Both bunks were occupied.

  “And how many wounded need immediate attention?”

  “We’ve two men in bunks. One’s a pom-pom gunner who got a thump on the head. He’s out like a light. Before he went on deck, Surgeon Lieutenant Fenwick reckoned the lad had got blood in his skull.”

  “What the hell was the MO doing on deck in the middle of an air raid?”

  “First-aider found a bloke trapped under that smashed boat you probably saw. He was in awful pain—back injury, and too badly hurt to move without immobilizing him. Asked the MO to come and take a look. Give the lad morphine before they tried to shift him.” He pursed his lips. “Poor old Fenny was like that. Never could say no to a sick or injured man. We’ll miss him, sir.”

  O’Reilly nodded and hoped if a similar situation arose for him he’d have the guts to do what Surgeon Lieutenant Fenwick had.

  “Another near miss did for the trapped man and our MO before they could get down here.”

  “I see.” O’Reilly shook his head. Tragic, but his job now was not to mourn. It was to deal with the living. He’d think about his late young colleague when the wounded were seen to. “You said you’d two bunk cases?”

  “Aye. T’other lad copped it in his arm. We’ve a tourniquet on it, but…” He shook his head.

  Another amputation.

  Almost the same as the first two cases that Fingal and Richard had worked on after Narvik, but here there’d be no Richard Wilcoxson to ask for advice. “And the rest?”

  Johnston grinned. “Nine others. Bumps, bruises, couple of cuts’ll need stitching. We can do that here, and as best as I can tell we’ll be setting one wrist and one broken forearm. We have them in splints, but they’ll need to be put to sleep too, so you can reduce the fractures, sir.”

  Fingal slipped off his cap and battle dress blouse jacket. “Is there anyone of the walking wounded I need to examine before we start operating?” He was well used to the diagnostic skills of the SBAs on the battleship and was equally willing to trust these men.

  “Don’t think so, sir.”

  “Right,” said Fingal. “I’d better take a look at the head injury first.” No time, he thought, for names. Fix them fast, then move on to the next. Not his kind of medicine at all.

  * * *

  One successful burr hole to release the blood in the gunner’s head, one left mid-upper arm amputation, two reduced and plastered fractures, and four lacerations sutured and dressed later, Fingal was reexamining the recovering head injury. He’d found operating more of a challenge here than on Warspite. The little ship never seemed to be still, particularly when she heeled as she weaved, raced ahead, or altered course during three more air raids that, praise be, had stopped at sunset about four hours ago. The ending of the clamour of exploding bombs and the hammering of antiaircraft fire was a blessed relief.

  The only sounds now were those of the ship’s machinery, air fans, and the snores of some of the patients.

  He became aware of both the SBAs coming to attention, looked up, and in the dim lights of the sick bay saw a man in shorts and white shirt with straight gold bars on his shoulder boards. A Lieutenant-Commander, Royal Navy, who must be the skipper.

  A well-modulated voice said, “Please don’t let me disturb you, Doctor, until you’ve finished.”

  Fingal took the man at his word and satisfied himself that his patient was breathing normally, his pulse and blood pressure were normal, his pupils were equal and reacted to light, and his reflexes were normal. Fingal stood. “Sir,” he said and, remembering Richard Wilcoxson’s words, didn’t salute because neither he nor the captain were wearing their caps. “Surgeon Lieutenant Fingal O’Reilly, late of HMS Warspite, reporting on board.”

  “Glad to have you, O’Reilly. Welcome aboard.” He grinned. “I watched your ride over here. If you enjoyed it, you must be the only man in the navy who would have. Thank you for coming. I’m the owner—”

  Which by now Fingal knew was navalese for captain.

  “—Bill Huston-Phelps.” He offered a hand, which Fingal shook.

  “I’m not ashamed to tell you that I did not enjoy it…” Fingal said.

  The captain laughed.

  “But I am pleased to report that of the injured, sir, we are confident that all the walking wounded should make full recoveries. The man with the head injury and the one whose arm I had to amputate should be put ashore at the base hospital once we return to Alex.”

  “I understand. Seems to me you’ve done an outstanding job.”

  “With the captain’s permission, I couldn’t have without the professional skills of both leading SBAs. I feel they should be recognised.”

  “Mmm,” said the captain. He turned to the two. “Very well, Johnston, MacRae. Well done. Stand easy. I’ll take Lieutenant O’Reilly’s recommendation under advisement.” He turned to Fingal. “Naturally, being the navy I’ll need your report in writing—” He must have seen Fingal’s eyes raised to the heavens. “I know,” the captain said. “Sometimes I think our service runs on paper, not fuel oil. Put it down and I’ll try for a ‘Mentioned in Despatches’ for them.”

  Fingal saw one grin at the other.

  “Now,” the captain said, “you all must be famished. I’ve arranged for a cook to see to you SBAs, one at a time in the galley, and, Doctor, if you feel you can leave your charges for a while?”

  “I think so, sir. They’ll be in good hands.”

  “My steward will rustle something up for you if you’ll come with me.”

  “Certainly, sir.” O’Reilly grabbed his battle dress blouse and cap and followed the captain.

  “MacRae, if you need Lieutenant O’Reilly, he’ll be in the wardroom or—” He turned to Fingal. “I’m sorry, but it’s the best we can do, the late Surgeon Lieutenant Fenwick’s cabin. You must get some sleep.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The captain stepped over the sill of the hatch and together they walked for’ard on the open deck between the burning stars above and the glow of the bioluminescence of the waters beneath.

  “Pity about Peter Fenwick,” the captain said. “He was a good man. A good MO.” He stared ahead. “I hope we can get a replacement in Alex.”

  The captain wasn’t being heartless. Already Fingal had learnt in war that as death was a constant the survivors tended to be very matter-of-fact about fallen friends, if only for mental self-preservation. He hadn’t known Fenwick, and yet Fingal’s heart ached. He almost missed the captain saying, “Lieutenant Simpkins was a good officer too.”

  “Who?” Fingal stopped in his tracks. “Chris Simpkins?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Good God.”

  “You knew him.”

  “No. No, I didn’t,” Fingal said. “But I’ve met his wife, Elly.”

  Huston-Phelps gave Fingal an appraising glance.

  “What the hell am I going to say to comfort her when we get back to port?”

  “She’ll have heard the news long before we’re back in Alex. When ABC sent Vixen home this morning he’ll have made arrangements for the next of kin of our fallen to be notified as soon as possible after she docks. Mrs. Simpkins will be visited by someone from the fleet chaplain’s office, and navy wives stick together. She’ll not be short of sympathetic company, O’Reilly, you can be sure of that.”

  “I see,” said Fingal.
He knew the captain was right. All the familes of the Touareg’s and Gloucester’s dead would have the support of the navy behind them, that was true. And while he felt for them, this was different. He knew Elly personally, had sat at her dinner table, sipped her wine, eaten her food, laughed and joked with her at that marvellous meal. It hurt him to think of her sad, lost, and grieving. What would he say to her once he was back in Alex?

  38

  It Is the Generous Spirit

  “Will I go over til the Duck and tell Dougie til come home and see his new son?” Mabel asked. “He’s a right wee dote, so he is.” She fussed about fluffing Doreen’s pillows and making sure her sister’s cup of tea was full.

  “Wait a minute, Mabel,” O’Reilly said. He had finished a more thorough and perfectly satisfactory examination of the newborn, who was snugly asleep under a blanket in a drawer that served as a cot. O’Reilly untied his rubber apron and handed it to Kitty. “Have we a lot of tidying up to do?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t use much from the midwifery bags other than a couple of clamps and scissors for the cord, and a basin for the afterbirth. The rubber sheet and a couple of towels need washing, but that’s about it, and it’s the midwife’s job to see to it. Won’t take me long.”

  “In that case, Mabel, you stay and keep Doreen and the chissler company, and if you’d not mind, Kitty, I’ll go over to the Duck.” He saw her frown and one eyebrow go up. “I know I said we’d go home to have a celebratory jar, and we will the minute I’ve finished there. It’s not what you think. I want to see Dougie, but there’s a man at the Duck I want to talk to in front of his friends.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought you wanted to see the proverbial man about a fictional dog.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Seeing a man about a dog” was a catch-all excuse for a departure and covered everything from needing a pee to nipping over to the pub.

  She smiled. “You run on and if you want to wet the babby’s head while you’re there, go right ahead.” She frowned. “But what’ll I do with the midder bags? They’re heavy.”