Now, after two days of incessant aerial attack, she had anchored in Alexandria’s West Harbour in the small hours of the morning of May 24th. Belowdecks, the long list of those needing treatment was coming to an end. Above deck, dockyard maties had already swarmed aboard to determine whether the ship’s wounds could be treated here where she lay at anchor or whether she should be patched up before being sent to a bigger, better-equipped yard.
“I’ve got the butcher’s bill,” Fingal said. That grim naval expression for the list of dead, wounded, and missing dated back to Nelson’s day, and from the start of casualties being brought down, he’d been detailed off to keep a running tally.
Richard sighed and said, “Let’s be having it.”
Fingal produced his war diary. “Twenty-four missing. Some men were blown overboard and the exec reckons it’ll be a week before they’ve recovered the last body lost from the starboard mess deck. Eight dead,” he inhaled deeply, “they’ll be buried ashore, and I’ve seen about a dozen I don’t think will make it. Sixty-nine wounded, including your patient there, who I am pleased to tell you is the last man who’s going to need surgery.”
“Hear that, Paddy?” Richard asked CPO Paddy O’Rourke, who was giving the anaesthetic.
“Hold the lights. I’m delighted,” Paddy said. “I’m so feckin’ tired I could sleep standing up—on a milk bottle.”
“We’re all pretty done in,” Richard said, “but at least we’ll be able to ship all but the less-severe walking wounded to the base hospital here.” He arched his shoulders and yawned. “Last stitch,” he said. “You can start waking him up.” He stepped from the table and stripped off his rubber gloves. “Right, Paddy. You’re the senior SBA here. Arrange for your crew to clean up and get ready in case we get bombed in harbour, then one of you’ll have to stay on duty for a couple of hours. I’ll leave the details of the SBAs getting some kip in your hands.”
“Aye aye, sir. I’ll take the first watch.”
“Fingal. I want you to find the exec, give him the figures, then make one last round on the mess deck. The shore parties from the base hospital should be here very soon to get patients evacuated.”
“Right.”
“Then you’re off-watch for eight hours.”
“What about you?”
Richard made a kind of grunty laugh. “I’m heading aft to the other distribution station, get everybody organised there, then I’m going to the sick bay on-call cot. I’ll be on watch from there for eight hours. You can tell your relief where to find me, Paddy.”
Fingal shook his head. Old Hippocrates, what his staff affectionately called him behind his back, was indeed a man of steel.
* * *
Fingal waited under the blue Alexandrine skies as the early-morning sun climbed toward its noon zenith. He’d found a haggard, unshaven executive officer, Commander Sir Charles Madden, on the upper deck, deep in conversation with a man in civvies who held a clipboard and was pointing out some figures. They were both staring down the great hole where a four-inch gun and its crew had been until the bomb hit. Wisps of smoke drifted out. An overwhelming array of smells overcame the usual odour of bunker oil: the stench of burnt paint, the hydraulic fluid that two days ago could have turned him into a human torch, scorched metal, and something Fingal recognised, having first smelled it at Narvik, but preferred to try to ignore.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” the civilian was saying, “our preliminary examination’s pretty conclusive. We can patch her up, but she’ll have to go in to dry dock for complete repairs, I’m afraid, and we can’t do that here.”
“Very well. I’ll report that to the captain. Thank you, Mister Robbins.”
“I’ll send a full written report as soon as I can, but I’ll be off now.” The man left.
“Yes, O’Reilly.”
“The PMO sent me, sir. I have the casualty figures.” Fingal handed over the ruled notebook. “I haven’t had time to use a proper report form.”
“None of us have,” said the exec. He scanned the numbers. “Could have been worse, I suppose. I’ll let the skipper know.” He yawned, stared out over the harbour, and absentmindedly started flipping over the notebook’s pages. He looked down, scanned, and frowned. “Keeping a diary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you got much chance to get any info other than the Tannoy reports of what was happening to us over the last few days.”
“No, sir.”
The man sighed. “They’ve been bad. We’ve lost the cruisers Gloucester and Fiji and two destroyers here in the Med, and we’ve just got the word from the Admiralty that the Bismarck and Prinz Eugen have broken out of their Norwegian fjord and are headed for the Atlantic. Bismarck sank Hood this morning in the Denmark Strait.”
“She what? Holy Mother—The Hood? That’s terrible.” Fingal had difficulty coming to terms with the thought that Britain’s most powerful warship was gone, and how many of her crew of nearly fifteen hundred?
“I don’t know what the news is going to do to crew morale, which I’m afraid is going to get another shock. The skipper’s going to make the announcement at noon. The ship bringing our last mail bags from home was torpedoed off Durban.”
“No.” And he’d been so sure there would be a letter from Deirdre today. The last one had got here on May the fourteenth, ten days ago, and had been written in February. Fingal shrugged. “I’m sorry for the blokes on the mail ship,” he said. “I suppose we’ll just have to be patient.”
“That’s right.” He smiled. “And it’s not all misery and gloom, Doc…”
Fingal had wondered why the man was divulging so much information. The “Doc” gave it away. The executive officer’s job, as second in command to the ship’s captain, was a lonely one. He had needed, just for a moment, a father confessor.
“I do have some good news for you personally, though. I had a word with the skipper about your DSC. He’ll endorse my recommendation and pass it on to A.B.C. for ratification.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man handed Fingal back the notebook. “Carry on, O’Reilly.”
“Aye aye, sir,” and with that Fingal left to make one last set of rounds before—oh, the thought of it. Bed.
* * *
“The ship will be made seaworthy here and then sail for Bremerton in the state of Washington in the United States…”
The whole ship’s company, except those whose duties made them indispensible, were fallen in, and Admiral Cunningham’s address, which had followed a service of remembrance, was being relayed by loudspeaker. In an act of studied defiance, he had moved himself and critical members of his administrative team back to the battleship the day after she’d anchored. Warspite was, once again, his flagship, and the heart of the Mediterranean Fleet.
“The dockyard believe she will be ready to leave in late June.”
Fingal tried to pay attention, but the last twenty-four hours had passed in a daze of sleep, work, and meals. He was still groggy.
“And we will be reducing her complement for that voyage, which will mean Blighty time for many of you.”
It spoke volumes for the discipline of the crew that not a man cheered. Fingal knew he’d not be one of them, having returned so recently.
“And in conclusion may I say that our losses should not blind us to the magnificent courage and endurance that has been displayed throughout. I have never felt prouder of the Mediterranean Fleet. Thank you.”
The exec then did call for three cheers before the crew was dismissed.
Fingal made his way back to his cabin. He wanted to finish a letter to Deirdre. He sat at his desk, rereading a paragraph from her last, and it would be until the next mail ship got through.
Darling. Darling, Darling,
I love you. I love you. I love you. There. That couldn’t wait. And I miss you, but I hope the news will bring a smile to the lips I long to kiss. You are definitely going to be a daddy. Doctor Flanagan says the frog is certain …
Fi
ngal smiled. The old frog pregnancy test. It was wonderful to have the suspicions she’d raised in an earlier letter confirmed.
I saw him yesterday and he phoned today to give me the test results. I’m so excited …
He inhaled and thought of her and home.
Someone knocked on his door.
“Come in.”
“Sorry to disturb, Fingal,” said Richard, “but apparently Admiral Cunningham wants to see us both in his day cabin. It’s on this deck.”
Fingal rose and grabbed his cap. “Any idea what it’s about?”
“Probably your DSC, and I’m your department head.”
“Oh. That. Come on, then.”
Together they strolled along the corridor, past X and Y barbettes and through a spacious lobby to a door in the aft bulkhead where an armed Royal Marine sentry in his dress uniform standing at ease but on guard slammed to attention.
“Surgeon Commander Wilcoxson and Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander O’Reilly to see the admiral.”
The sentry put one hand behind his back and opened the door.
Fingal, feeling somewhat overawed by his imminent meeting with such an exalted figure, followed Richard’s lead, took off his cap, tucked it under his arm, marched in beside Richard, and halted at attention before a desk placed amidships, behind which the great man sat.
“Gentlemen, please stand easy and be seated.” He indicated two simple chairs in front of the desk.
Fingal remembered the soft Scottish burr from his earlier meeting with A.B.C. on a platform deck the day Fingal and Tom had watched the fifteen-inch rifles in action.
“Thank you for coming to see me.”
Fingal reckoned it was a bit like being interviewed by the headmaster. Schoolboys only spoke when asked a question.
“First, Lieutenant-Commander O’Reilly, let me congratulate you on the award of the Distinguished Service Cross. I have confirmed it today. You must be proud of your young man, Richard.”
“I am, sir. Very.”
The admiral rose, strode to the far bulkhead, strode back, and stood looking down at Fingal. “Doctor O’Reilly, the Admiralty asked me to inform you of the contents of a cable that arrived when Warspite was at sea.”
Fingal hunched forward. What telegram, and why not to him if it concerned him?
“I must be the bearer of bad news, and of the navy’s apologies for the length of time it’s taken to get it to you.”
Fingal’s eyes widened. His pulse raced. Was Ma sick? Was it Lars?
“No one knew you were married to a young nurse at the Women’s Hospital in Belfast. There was an air raid on Belfast Docks on April the fifteenth. Templemore Avenue was hit.”
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. She was injured, but she’d be all right. He inhaled and waited.
“It took quite some time to identify all the casualties—I’m sure you understand…”
Fingal did. He only had to think back to the scenes on Warspite’s bombed mess deck two days ago.
“You were not listed as next of kin so…”
“Please, sir…” Fingal didn’t want to hear explanations. They didn’t matter. “What’s wrong?”
Admiral Cunningham looked right into Fingal’s eyes. He softened his words. “It seems, and my boy, you have my deepest sympathy…” He paused for breath and Fingal, understanding dawning despite his attempts to deny it, felt like a boxer who had dropped his guard, had seen the knockout punch coming, but was helpless and unable to stop it.
“It seems your wife didn’t suffer.” It took Fingal a moment to recognise that the monotonous low moaning was coming from him. Deirdre. And his child. He felt an arm round his shoulder and looked up to see Richard crouching and looking, with ineffable sorrow in his own eyes, deep into Fingal’s.
“I am so sorry, Fingal,” Richard said. “So very sorry.”
Fingal O’Reilly, his heart in ruins, clutched his arms round himself for what? Comfort? There was no comfort. No comfort. And he felt his tears well and from the depths of his anguish came one aching word, “Noooooo.”
51
’Twas the Night Before Christmas
The traffic was light as O’Reilly drove the big Rover onto Belfast’s Albert Bridge across the oily River Lagan. It was Christmas Eve after all, and sensible folks would be with family and friends. The pre-holiday drink with Cromie and Charlie Greer in the Crown Liquor Saloon had been a tradition since 1949, and the boys had been in great form this afternoon. It had been a time of reminiscing, of Dublin memories, of days gone and auld lang syne. And one other memory that had risen unbidden. He’d not told the boys. Now, after his strict ration of two pints, he was heading home. But there was one more side trip to make, one he’d started making at this time of year since 1946 when he’d come home from the war.
O’Reilly left the bridge, headed along Albert Bridge Road, and turned onto Templemore Avenue, now well recovered from its wartime devastation. He didn’t intend to park as he had done all those years ago, just drove slowly past the new medical centre on the corner of Albert Bridge Road, past the redbrick houses with their pocket-hanky gardens, past the new Templemore Avenue Hospital where East Belfast GPs and midwives delivered their patients. He swallowed hard as he passed that place—the place where his love had been snuffed out.
He remembered sitting there in his car that first time in 1946, a Christmas Day downpour bouncing off the roof. He’d been surrounded by deserted building sites then, signs that this part of Belfast, like a lobster growing a new claw, was regenerating itself. Could he? Could he rebuild his life? The war had postponed his grief, and that day he had felt the loss as keenly as he had when he’d first learned of it in 1941. No one, even if they’d been stupid enough to be out walking, could see him crying behind the rain-runnelled windows of the car. He’d nursed his hurt, asked the unanswerable, the constant, the gnawing, why? Why his lovely girl? Why his unborn child? Why? He had kept chastising himself. She should have retired after they had married. Matron shouldn’t have turned a blind eye. If Deirdre had confessed to being pregnant, she’d have been safely away. Why, why, why had he not insisted she move from Belfast to the country? An imbecile could have guessed that the Belfast shipyards would be a target for the Luftwaffe. And looking back, he knew he’d missed an opportunity to be more forceful on Christmas Day about her leaving Belfast sooner. It was all his fault, and every December 25th would remind him of that. Damn Christmas Day. Damn it to hell.
That had been then.
Over the years the practice in Ballybucklebo, the patients, good old Kinky, and since the early ’50s a wriggling Labrador puppy called Arthur Guinness had helped make the hurt less. O’Reilly was now, and had been for some years past, able to smile in fond remembrance, not only of their love in all its shapes and forms, but also of little things about her like her terrible cooking, her wonder at deer drinking from a forest stream, her joyous laughter when his attempt to propose in 1939 had been interrupted by an Irish terrier called, of all things, O’Reilly.
But each year Christmas had come back to hurt him. The hold the ghost of Christmas past had on him had weakened, but the phantom had still been there. Those memories held little pain now, and last year, with the coming of Kitty, O’Reilly had not visited Templemore Avenue.
He waited his turn and nosed out, turning right onto the Newtownards Road that would take him past Dundonald where a brand-new Ulster Hospital had been opened in 1962, a quick left past it, over the Ballybucklebo Hills, and home, where guests would soon be arriving for the annual Christmas Eve hooley.
I’ll always remember you at Christmas, Deirdre, he thought, but with softness now. Not pain.
* * *
O’Reilly stood by the sideboard laden with bottles and glasses in the upstairs lounge of Number One. “What’ll it be?” he said to the first guests.
“Mine’s a Jameson’s,” Barry said. His grin was vast as, with his arm protectively round Sue Nolan’s waist, he said, “and my fiancée will have a…?�
��
“Vodka orange, please.”
She was glowing, and O’Reilly had to admit she looked gorgeous tonight in a red tartan mini-kilt and V-necked, short-sleeved, emerald-green cashmere sweater. She had a slight Mediterranean tan.
Barry had been like a dog with two tails ever since he’d picked her up at Aldergrove airport three days ago, and had that evening confessed with palpable joy to O’Reilly that he, Barry, would’ve been happy to have lost a ten-, never mind a five-pound bet about Sue being faithful in Marseilles. She had been. Of course, and Barry had been a jealous eejit, but he’d laughed at O’Reilly’s “You see? Absinthe does make the heart grow fonder.” If Barry had bet, his losings would have joined the pound he’d coughed up to O’Reilly following last week’s successful sale of all of Donal’s Woolamarroo quokka dogs.
O’Reilly poured the whiskey neat into a cut-glass tumbler. Funny, he thought, it seemed an age since Barry’s tipple had been sherry. The boy was growing into his job in more ways than one. He added C & C Club Orange to Sue’s vodka. “Voilà,” he said, giving her their drinks.
“Merci m’sieur,” Sue said, “vous êtes très gentil. Voici, Barry. Ta boisson.”
He noticed that her French had a hint of the nasal Provençal accent, and that he was being dignified with the formal “vous,” you, instead of “tu,” but Barry was given the intimate “ta,” your. Sue was a polite young woman, even in a foreign language.
“À votre santé,” said O’Reilly. “Grand to see you, Sue. Fit and well you’re looking, and we’re delighted that you can stay the night.”
“Barry and I are going down to Bangor tomorrow for Christmas dinner with his mum and dad,” she said. “Thanks for putting me up.”
“They’ll be here a bit later,” O’Reilly said. He was looking forward to seeing Tom, his old Warspite shipmate, and his wife, Carol. “Excuse me.” He inclined his head. “More guests, and I’m on my own up here. Kitty, Kinky, and Archie are in the kitchen getting the hors d’oeuvres ready.”
Barry and Sue wandered into the lounge, Barry to pet Arthur, who lay in front of the fire, Sue to sit and welcome Lady Macbeth onto her lap.
An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea Page 48
