by James Hilton
It was, and most of them did, but McGuffey had devised another solution which, for him at least, seemed definitely preferable. When the doctor entered the ward he saw the boy lying flat on his back, with bandaged hands outstretched in an attitude of serene composure, while the little Javanese nurse whom they called Three Martini sat resignedly at his bedside, holding a cigarette to his lips and at intervals taking it away to flick off the ash. It made a charming picture, and the doctor was almost sorry to put an end to it with the gift of a holder, but the plain fact was that Three Martini’s time was far too valuable to be spent in such a way.
She was, indeed, one of the best of the nurses—one of the best nurses he had ever seen anywhere, the doctor later on decided. She was so quiet and skillful in all that she did; one wondered when she ever slept, she seemed to be flitting so constantly about the wards. Despite the efforts of the men, she learned no English, and seemed not to wish to; it was as if all her desires were in things that could be done without words. Even in a hospital so excellently staffed she stood out as someone probably untypical, and though she was obedient to rules and regulations there were often ways in which she acted with a curious patient individuality. For instance, Dr. Voorhuys was very kind and very efficient, but very busy also; when he went round the ward to look at the state of the burns, he sometimes tore off dead skin with a swift movement that was really merciful, because if he had done it slowly the pain would have been greater. But Three Martini was in no such hurry, and while Dr. Voorhuys was doing the rounds from one end she would start at the other, generally getting no farther than the first bed because she took such care. But there was another reason. The occupant of the first bed was Renny, who had severe burns, as well as internal injuries, and the girl paid much attention to this boy. The other patients thought it must be a romantic interest and chaffed them both about it, but actually it was not quite that, or else it was more than that; it depended on how one interpreted the facts, and as nobody except the girl herself (and later on the doctor and another man) knew them, misunderstanding was inevitable. The chief facts were that just before the men from the Marblehead arrived at the hospital Three Martini had donated blood, and blood had been transferred to Renny almost immediately after his arrival. Three Martini was certain (though perhaps not on absolutely reliable evidence) that it was her blood, and it gave her a curious feeling for Renny that she could not have explained even had they had a language to speak in. When, after his friend Bailey’s death, Renny seemed depressed and not to be making much of a recovery, the girl attached herself to him in a way that could not be criticized because it really did not mean that she neglected anyone else. It was a great day for her (and for him also) when she learned to pluck off his dead skin with tweezers so that the flesh below was not even touched. None of the other nurses could do this unfailingly, though all of them tried. When Three Martini found that the absence of this little extra pain made such a difference to Renny, she contrived that no one else ever attended to him in this way; she would stoop over his burned arm as over a piece of delicate needlework, saying nothing because there was nothing to say either in his language or in hers. Even when McGuffey talked to her across the ward, cracking jokes that he knew she did not understand, she would merely smile and continue her work.
Only once did the men see her gay and excited, and that was (oddly perhaps) just after Bailey’s funeral. The atmosphere of the ward was pretty low- spirited that day; and all at once Three Martini rushed through the doorway carrying a newborn child that had just been delivered in the Maternity Ward which happened to be next to the men’s. It was a brown child of her own race, and chattering all the time in Javanese, she held it up for the men to see. Then, as if afraid of being discovered in such a breach of rules, she rushed out of the ward as suddenly as she had entered, and when she returned a little later she was perfectly quiet again.
The doctor found other things to do for the men—little things, mostly, and by no means the kind one had to be trained to be a Navy doctor for. He bought quantities of oranges, for instance, and after much difficulty found shops in the town that stocked certain kinds of canned goods that the men liked. He also bought candy, because he worked it out in his mind that youth requires sugar, therefore candy is a medicine. He did not tell the men he was buying them these things, but gave them to the Dutch hospital authorities and let the men think they were part of the regular rations. Nor was it entirely his dislike of being thanked that made him do this, but chiefly a desire to do his duty as liaison officer in promoting good feeling between the Dutch and the Americans. The Dutch had a fine hospital and were giving the men excellent treatment; their food was good, too, but naturally different from the kind the men had been used to in the Navy, or in Wisconsin or Nebraska, for that matter. The doctor, having lived so many years in China and having acquired a definite taste for Eastern foods, knew how intolerant people can be in these matters, and how many a man will lay down his life for another country more willingly than he will cat that country’s delicacies without grumbling. So he spent further sums of Navy Department money in fostering international amity via the stomach.
And then there were other jobs, especially when a batch of long-delayed mail came in, crumpled and soaked from sea-water immersion. Most of the men had letters from home, and most of these had been penned before Pearl Harbor, so that there were undertones of irony in sentences that the men read out to one another. The doctor had already helped the men with bandaged hands to write home (much as he detested the physical act of writing), so it was natural that now, having been initiated, so to say, in their family affairs, he was invited to hear further news of Pa. and Ma and brother Joe and Aunt Nell. And then, also, there was Goode, who had lost one eye and had the over covered over, so that he could not read the letters he had received. They lay in a little heap next to his pillow, and the doctor thought it rather odd that the boy had not asked his neighbor to read them for him. But then Goode perhaps was odd, if it were odd to be far more depressed by his injury than Edmunds was, who had also lost an eye. Or perhaps it was Edmunds who was really odd, for not seeming depressed at all. The doctor could not quite make his mind about the matter, but he went over to Goode’s bed and asked if the boy would like to have his letters read, and when the answer was a quiet, almost indifferent affirmative, the doctor sat on the edge of the bed and began to read one letter after another in a low voice, so that no one else could hear. They were all from a small town in Iowa, and the first two that he read were just family gossip about the farm, and the new automobile, and Jim’s baby. The third, however, was from someone who signed herself “Helen,” and after the opening sentences the doctor had a queer feeling that made him glance ahead and over the page, whilst pretending to clear his throat. He saw then that it was a kind of letter hardly calculated to raise the spirits of an injured sailor lying on a hospital cot ten thousand miles from home; for briefly and leaving out the apologies, it was to tell him that Helen had changed her mind and had already married somebody else.
The doctor had to make a quick decision, which was hard for him, and then to say something glib, which was fairly easy for him when once he had decided. He finished clearing his throat and continued: “Well, that’s about all—except that she sends you her love and hopes you’ll soon be home on leave because she’s simply counting the days…”
“Why don’t you go on reading what she says?”
The doctor braced himself for a stupendous feat of improvisation. “Gosh, boy, that’s what I am doing, only the handwriting isn’t so very clear—I was just summarizing for you in advance. Here’s her own words—‘Darling, I’m simply counting the days, and that’s the truth too, because I love you to death, and when you come back from the war—’”
“She wrote that on December first,” interrupted Goode. “Don’t tell me she knew we were going to be at war a week before it happened.”
The doctor realized he had blundered, but there was nothing for it but to hold fast.
“Why shouldn’t she? I know plenty of people who had a hunch all this was coming. And she’s a smart girl, from the way she writes—maybe she did know, or had an intuition or something—”
“Or maybe she didn’t write any of that at all,” said Goode, “and you’re just kidding me.”
The doctor didn’t quite know what to say.
“Yes, you are,” Goode continued, in a level voice, “because I know the truth. Muller just told me—he’s from the same town, and he had a letter with the news in it about Helen. I guess he thought he was breaking it to me gently.”
“I’m very sorry,” said the doctor.
Goode smiled—a curious, forced smile.
“Nothing to be sorry about. I’m glad she ditched me before she knew. It would have been awful if she’d stuck to me just because she learned I only had one eye. She might have. She’s that kind of a girl. Ever know that kind of a girl, Doc?”
The doctor started as if he had suddenly been reminded of something, and when he answered it was in a changed voice. “Sure,” he answered, and then added to change the subject quickly: “Now let me read the rest of the letters.”
He did so, without comment, then patted the boy’s hand and went away. When he reached the corridor outside the ward he saw a group of nurses chattering together as if they too were facing tough luck. They told him, as he passed by, that Singapore had fallen.
That was oil February fifteenth, and the same day the Japs crossed over to Sumatra and also began the invasion of Bali. However impregnable Java was, one could not forget that Sumatra and Bali were the two islands at either end of it.
As the men improved in health they began to talk more about the general situation, for though the radio news kept on dishing out encouragement, the fact that events were growing daily more serious could not be concealed from them. They could read it, if nowhere else, in the eyes of the Dutch doctors and nurses, in the air of expectancy just before the times of the day when news was broadcast, and in the preoccupied look that Dr. Voorhuys carried around with him during his daily visits to the wards.
The doctor from Arkansas did not want to talk much about the war with the men, because he thought it would not be cheering for them; but he would have liked to discuss certain aspects of it with Commander Wilson, because—quite frankly—he was beginning to foresee possibilities in which the advice of a superior officer might be helpful. What, for instance, should he do if an invasion of Java were actually attempted, or if the tide of battle should collie inland? Should he stay at the hospital with his men, or try to get them to some safer place?
Once, in this mood of seeking advice, he called up Surabaya on the telephone, asking for a man at Navy headquarters whom he had got along with pretty well during his last visit. He was surprised to learn then that all Navy officials had left Surabaya and were now concentrated at Tjilatjap, on the south side of the island.
When he asked the Dutch doctors what they thought Would happen, they just shrugged their shoulders and declared for the fiftieth time that there would be no surrender of Java.
And Wilson was still too ill to talk much.
Amidst this mounting tension McGuffey chose to absent himself one night, returning in the morning after adventures which he did not specify, but which included female companionship, and a grand discussion of wartime strategy with some British soldiers stationed at the local airport.
The doctor was furious. “Nov I’m just mad at you, McGuffey—sneaking out at a time like this! And you needn’t think I shan’t report you for it! I’m here to see you get decent treatment, and by golly you’ve been given it, and it’s up to you to give something in return…not go breaking rules all over the place! I suppose you don’t care about all the extra worry you caused us!”
“Sorry, Doc, but you didn’t have to worry. There’s more than me to worry about, anyway, if you’d heard all that I heard. Some of those English fellers told me things that make your hair stand on end! I mean about Singapore, and the way the Japs carried on when they took the place. Seriously, Doc—isn’t it time we got the hell out of here?”
“That’s nothing to do with you—or me. We have our orders—and they stand till we get new ones—if we get new ones. Maybe we will.” The doctor swerved into his usual line of cheerfulness. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they send us back to America pretty soon. So don’t look on the dark side.”
“I don’t.” (And that was certainly obvious.) “Matter of fact I’m not keen to go home—not particularly. I didn’t have too good a time there, one way and another. It’s the Navy I want to go back to. They’ve been good to me in the Navy. Treated me well, and gave me a decent job. I was a cook, and a good cook too—you ask the men. I’m all right now—except for this bit of an ear missing—why can’t I go back to a ship and cook some more? I like cooking.”
The doctor softened, because he liked cooking too—both the job and the result. And he also liked the Navy, and after some of the trouble he had had on shore he could say the same as McGuffey—that the Navy had treated him well, had given him a chance, had offered him the kind of work and also the kind of discipline he had craved for after a lifetime of one thing and another. But of course McGuffey couldn’t mean all that. He wondered exactly what the boy did mean. He said, on impulse: “Look here, son—I’m not the Secretary of the Navy. You’ll just have to wait for orders, sane as we all have—and if they don’t like the way you look without an ear, you better make the best of it. I won’t report you this once, but if there’s a second time…I’ll double what I was going to say. Get that?”
McGuffey smiled. “Sure, I get it. And thanks, Doc.”
Every morning, though he was still very ill, Wilson insisted on hearing news of the men’s progress. Apparently through one of the nurses he had heard the gist of McGuffey’s exploit, for the next morning he said: “Having trouble with the cook, Doctor?”
The doctor was noncommittal. “Oh no.” And putting on his richest Arkansas dialect he quoted: “‘I ain’t one to have no trouble with nobody.’”
“You’ll have it with McGuffey, though, I’m telling you. And I’m also telling you this—there’s good stuff in that boy.”
“There’s good stuff in most boys.”
“‘That’s what I think. But how did you find it out? You haven’t had a ship to teach you.”
The doctor answered: “I was once medical officer of a CCC Camp. I guess that could be a bit like the Navy…” He added after a pause: “Except that the Navy can fight its enemies.” He did not explain what he meant by that.
During the week that followed the fall of Singapore the Javanese situation “somewhat rapidly deteriorated”—a newspaper phrase favored by people when they didn’t want to mention unpleasant details. At the inland town the routine of hospital life went on with only the faintest slackening, as when a well-oiled machine continues almost effortlessly on its own impetus; the Dutch doctors and nurses were just a shade more preoccupied as they went about their daily business. One could not blame them for this, since most of them had relatives and friends in the Dutch Army, and these men, of all ages from schoolboys to elderly men, were mustering for the emergency throughout all the local countryside. The nurses were so efficient in their hospital tasks that it was hard to realize that outside their hours of duties they had lives and problems of their own.
Suddenly, as if a change of wind had brought an epidemic, the town became a prey to all kinds of rumors: that the Japs had landed on the northern coast, that the Japs had not landed; that parachutists were dropping out of the skies and hiding in the hills; that the Dutch officials were preparing to evacuate, that whatever happened the Dutch would never evacuate; and so on. The men from the Marblehead did not hear more than a fraction of these rumors, but the smell of them was in the air from morning till night, a whiff of something terrifying and intangible, as when a shadow motionless on a dark wall reveals itself as the possible shape of some loathed insect.
The men were not exa
ctly afraid, but they were undeniably uneasy. The doctor was uneasy too. He tried several times to telephone to Navy headquarters at Tjilatjap, but the line was busy, he could not get through. Then, when once he did get through, somebody at the other end yelled back that he ought to know better than bother people with questions nobody could answer.
The doctor kept reiterating to the men: “Navy orders, boys. That’s all we can do about it. You know how it is in the Navy.”
He would go round the ward at night and cheer them up (he hoped) by saying things he didn’t particularly believe. “Things’ll work out all right, don’t you worry. I’m not worrying. I’ve been in worse jams than this before and I’ve come out all right. Once I had to leave my house by the front door as bandits came in at the back. That was in China, during the civil wars. Funny the way they call some kind of wars civil, isn’t it? I’ve never met any kind of war vet that was really civil…or civilized…Say, though, don’t you think it’s time we had that ice cream I promised all of you? Tomorrow I’ll go into the town and get it. That’s a deal…”
But it was a deal he could not keep to. That night the Navy headquarters in Tjilatjap telephoned him to get his less serious cases ready for evacuation at once, and bring them down by train to the seacoast the following day. “Bring everybody who can stand a rough passage,” snapped a voice at the other end that sounded as if it had no more time to spare.
The doctor did not break the news to the men that night, because he guessed they would not sleep a wink for thinking of it. He did, however, do a few preliminary things: he went round from bed to bed, taking temperatures and re-examining injuries, asking the men how they felt and what kind of ice cream they would prefer the next day. With the bland duplicity of the innocent, he thought that this must surely thwart all suspicion; but he used it too much, until at last McGuffey exclaimed: “What’s on your mind, Doc? Why’re you making such a fuss about the ice cream?”
