He dropped the scissors and flexed his fingers and the blood spurted.
Even Bentley could see the bleeding was profuse, much more voluminous than anything before. His startled eyes flicked to Warren's face. He could see nothing in those sleepy eyes, except that they were not sleepy, but steady and alert.
"Duval's," he said crisply.
A shade quicker than before, Sister Lennon passed over the light, soft-gripping forceps. Merrie watched, her forehead screwed up into intentness. There was no sound in the theatre but the soft bubbling of the anaesthetic machine and the small, steady gurgling of the vacuum suction-nozzle placed in the wound.
The hands of Warren and Merrie worked swiftly. After his gaffe about the patient waking up Bentley could not be sure, but he sensed a crisis, regardless of the operating team's control. He watched with greater interest, if that were possible.
The forceps went on, flittering silver vices holding back the flow, holding in the stuff of life. A minute more and Merrie swabbed. The cut-open uterus showed again, reddened but clear. Merrie released her breath, seeming to confirm Bentley's opinion. Warren also heard the exhalation. His mask crinkled.
"Your first Caesarian section, Prescott?"
Merrie's eyes said, You know it is. She said: "Assisting, yes."
"Of course," Warren answered her eyes. His chuckle came, even more of a rustle through the mask. "Don't let that flow bother you overmuch," he went on, disproving Bentley's opinion. "Certainly the bleeding was profuse-but you've got to remember that it was coming from blood sinusus, not blood vessels. The vessels of a pregnant uterus lose their muscular and elastic coats-the gentlest of pressure can stem their bleeding. That's why we use those Duval lung forceps, nice and gently-gripping, or at least I do. Ordinary artery forceps can tear the soft muscle and you'll have your bleeding all over again. Right. Let's get on with it."
His right hand went in.
This was the moment. There was an electric intentness in the half-dozen pairs of eyes watching that hand; Merrie and Sister Lennon close by; Drummond and Bentley from the head of the table; the "dirty" nurse, the one with a roving commission to pick up anything dropped on the floor; the nurse waiting clear with a sterile cloth laid over her hands, waiting to take what Warren had to deliver.
Warren's eyes were slitted almost closed in his concentration. The whole faculties of his trained intelligence were devoted to the sense of feel in his fingers. His hand went down, insinuated in until the sensitive fingers slipped in under the baby's head. Then he stopped, and his voice, still crisp but conversational, rang like a pistol shot in the tense room.
"No hurry now, Prescott. This is where speed kills." Bentley wondered at his self-control. Instructing, now... "Don't hurry at all over this. The pressure of the head against the wound will help control the bleeding. And remember that you can lose a baby through cerebral haemorrhage by too quick a delivery."
Even Merrie's eyes narrowed at him in admiring respect. But Warren seemed oblivious of their impressions. Now he had the head visible in the wound, the tiny, wet, black-haired head. Staring at this thing showing in that, recognising it, Bentley was seized by a profound sense of wonder, amounting to awe. He caught his breath, unaware that he did.
Warren made a trough for the little head with his right hand, and with the other he pressed gently but firmly on the upper part of the uterus. Merrie wet her lips. The head had come through beautifully.
Intent of mind and eye, unconscious of Bentley's presence, she saw the upper shoulders appear, purplish-blue, sheathed in the cheesy vernix, the protective covering designed for this entry into atmospheric pressure and temperature. And then Warren's fingers went down and in again, this time lodging carefully beneath the little armpits; beneath comparatively hard bone, not pulling on tiny, unhardened muscles.
Gently, the shoulders eased out. Then the gloved hands, big with strength, gentle now with skill and always-renewed wonder, closed about the little rib-cage. Warren held it up, head down, and Sister Lennon softly inserted the rubber catheter attached to the sucker and cleared the mucus from the mouth and naso-pharynx.
But no longer "It". No longer just a hope, or wondering. Now revealed to all their smiling eyes as Mrs. Nelson's daughter.
"She'll like that," Warren murmured.
The team heard him, they knew what he meant, they had delivered babies before. But no comment was made. They heard Warren, but their ears were waiting for another, infinitely more significant sound.
The nurse with the sterile cloth over her hands moved forward and in the enclosed quiet of the operating theatre the sound pierced out-small, shrill, tremendous in its implications; baby lungs, baby diaphragm, giving tongue for the first time, a tiny and triumphant paean of life.
"Well," Warren chuckled, "that's a woman's voice if ever I heard one. We'll clamp the cord please, Prescott."
A minute later the baby's umbilical link with her mother was severed. Literally and symbolically on her own, she was taken to the resuscitation room just outside the theatre.
"Good Lord," breathed Bentley.
"Gets you, doesn't it?" said Drummond.
"Right," said Warren, "let's get rid of this one."
Merrie was watching him, ready for what still had to be done, so that she realised at once what it was he wished to be rid of. He peeled the glove from his right hand and dropped it into a bowl behind him. The "dirty" nurse moved automatically to clear it away. Now his right hand was gloved cleanly with that second glove, unbloodied.
His eyes, sleepy again, fixed on Merrie. "That other glove was passed below the baby's head. It may have come in contact with the external os, even the birth canal. Therefore I regard it as contaminated. And I don't intend to do a manual removal of the placenta with a dirty glove. You'll agree there, Prescott?"
"Yes, sir," said Merrie, nodding so quickly that Bentley knew how impressed she was. "But this is your own technique?"
Warren coughed, a grunt of sound. "It is." You're embarrassed, Bentley thought, and felt a malicious pleasure; it made up for the Victoria Cross bit.
"All right, Prescott," Warren said gruffly, "let's patch her up. We'll have a small hot sponge tucked over the uterus, Sister Lennon."
When they had finished, and Mrs. Nelson was whole again, Warren stepped clear of the table and said, untying the tapes of his mask:
"So our warrior hero didn't faint after all."
Bentley looked him in the eye, smiling at the smile there.
"No, Mister Warren. I was too interested in your technique."
"What he means, sir..." Merrie started hastily.
"I know damn well what he means," Warren growled, "thanks to you, Madam. Serves me right for picking a female assistant." He swung back to Bentley. "I see you're something of an analyst, Captain. But then you'd have to be, eh?"
"It helps," Bentley replied easily. The operation was done; they were two men now, equal in their fields. Warren seemed to sense the subtle change in attitude. Bentley pulled his mask down. For the first time Warren saw his face. He studied it for a moment with those sleepy eyes, then he smiled.
"Just how many men do you command?"
"Just under a thousand."
"Good Lord. A battleship?"
"Heaven forbid. I have a flotilla, five destroyers."
"I see, I see." The eyes seemed to go right off to sleep. "I'm an old man, so you can't tackle me. So I'll risk your renewed displeasure and ask how you won the Victoria Cross."
Again the heads turned and the theatre fell silent from the bustle of clearing up. Bentley caught Merrie's pleading glance, but his nervy edginess prior to the operation had quite eased away, and he answered pleasantly:
"My ship sank a Jap battleship."
"Christ," jerked Drummond.
"Your ship, eh?" said Warren, "not your own technique?" Before Bentley could reply he slapped his arm. "Take care of my assistant, she might make a good surgeon one day. Goodbye, Captain."
His untaped gown fla
pping, Warren brushed through the swing doors. The bustle started again. Drummond came up grinning.
"Come on, chum, I'll get you out of that sweat suit. If Madame will excuse us..."
"I'll give you five minutes," Merrie hissed at Drummond, and stood there smiling after her man.
Half an hour later-Drummond had been persistent about that Jap battleship-Bentley joined his girl in Warren's office. They were alone. Merrie poured coffee.
"Thanks," Bentley said, "I can use this. Brother..."
"Glad you came, then?"
"Yes," he said simply. "I learned a lot. Mostly I learned about you. Apart from anything else, that made it worthwhile."
Merrie's heart sang. The phone shrilled. She took it up, smiling her secret gladness.
"Doctor Warren's office."
She listened, and her smile drew in a little, then she said, "Yes, one moment," and handed the phone to Bentley. He took it, frowning.
"Yes? Bentley speaking."
Merrie walked to the window; trying not to listen, failing.
"Yes, Pilot, what's the strife? Say that again. That's what I thought you said. Marvellous, bloody marvellous! Give the old devil a bottle of Scotch, with my personal compliments. Wait. Have you done anything about Randall? Good man. Yes, of course it was the right thing. Don't forget to cancel all leave. I'll be on board in... an hour. Yes. Goodbye."
The phone clattered back. Merrie turned. He was staring at her, his face alight.
"Good news?" she said. Her voice was husky. He failed to notice that.
"Is it ever! That bloody old Scotsman. Worth his weight in Scotch. I felt all along he'd manage it."
"Manage what?" she asked, knowing, dreading to know.
Bentley jumped up. "Everything's fixed. We'll be ready to sail this afternoon, soon as Randall gets back. Ah..." he breathed, grinning at the desk.
"That is good news," Merrie said, and behind her bright smile, much too bright, she thought: So there was no need to see the operation after all. But he had learned more about her, he'd said that. It would be something for him to think about, to remember, up there...
"I'm ready," she smiled, and walked steadily to the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DRIVEN by an eager master, Wind Rode went up there at thirty knots.
She refuelled at Townsville, and there learned that the flotilla was back in Port Moresby. Late in the afternoon of that same day, shaping up for Palm Passage through the Reef, Bentley learned for the first time something of how his brother-in-law had fared in Sydney. Until then he had been busy with gun drill and testing the new asdic dome, dreading it would prove faulty. Now, with that happily behind him, they stood in the starboard forward corner of the compass platform, talking quietly. Pilot had the ship.
"I was bloody glad to get away," Randall muttered. "Not that," he said hastily, "but the farewell bit. You know. The more Gwen pretended it didn't matter, the more I knew how upset she was."
"Can't imagine why," said Bentley, deadpan. He felt a new man.
"Funny, funny," Randall said sourly. "Wait till you're spliced. How did you go, anyway?"
"Oh, fine. Merrie was understanding about it, quite bright in fact," said this supposed analyst. "I think she was more or less glad when the time came, me being a bit edgy, y'know."
"What about, for the love of Mike?"
"The flotilla, you nit."
"Oh." Randall grinned. "Didn't worry me."
"I bet. Me Mum was the worst, actually. Like Gwen, all stiff-upper-lip. Sometimes I wish they'd bawl their heads off, then you could comfort `em. But this strong silent stuff..."
"Damn it all," Randall defended, "she's had to practise it long enough. First your old man, never knowing when he'd be back, and now you. By God," he said vehemently, "my kids'll never join this outfit!"
"I'd like to make a small wager on that. Anyway, it's about time you had one."
"It takes nine months, chum."
Bentley's eyes opened at him, gleaming. "You mean... ?"
"No, I don't. I mean we haven't been married nine bloody months."
"Oh. Never mind, maybe you'll learn this trip you're to be a daddy. God, how will we live with it!"
Randall opened his mouth and Pilot called:
"Coming on the bearing, sir."
Bentley's tone changed. "Right. Take her through."
"Aye aye, sir."
Wind Rode leaned gently on the starboard turn; no thirty knots here, with pretty, ugly whiteness frothing close on either side. And here the captain stood beside his navigating officer.
Presently she was through, with the binding Reef astern and ahead of her the comparatively empty reach of the Coral Sea. Bentley nodded. Pilot spoke to the wheel. Rennie turned it, then steadied her up, and now she was running almost due north for Moresby.
"Speed, sir?" Pilot asked.
"Thirty knots."
"Two-seven-oh revolutions," Pilot said down the pipe.
"Soon as she's got it, you can secure special seadutymen."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Number One."
"Sir?"
"I think... Yes. Exercise the seaboat's crew, just manning and falling-out from the boat. You never know, we might have to use it."
Bentley never spoke truer words. But of course, blessedly hidden as the future is, he could not know that.
"Sea cabin," he said, and went below to write a letter. He hadn't posted one in Townsville; he'd better have one ready for Moresby. Seemed like Merrie had handled the farewell thing better than Gwen, but she still liked her mail...
"Is this all?" snapped Commander Dalziel, slamming shut the cover of the signal log.
"Of course it's not all," said the yeoman, "some of the signals I make paper darts with, just so's the log won't get too full."
The yeoman said this to himself. To Dalziel he said:
"Yes, sir. No estimated time of arrival from Wind Rode yet."
Dalziel glared up at him. "Why the devil do you mention her E.T.A.?"
The yeoman had no valid reason, not being privy to his master's worries, but he was painfully aware that the Old Man had been snarly ever since receiving a departure signal concerning a certain destroyer which had left Townsville two days ago.
"I just thought you'd be interested, sir," said the yeoman, "seeing as she's due any time now."
"Is that so? You know her speed, then?"
The yeoman happened to be one of those few who liked Dalziel, having been close to him for a long time, but that sarcastic tone and curled mouth tried him sorely. Yet he was a disciplined man.
"No, sir," he answered evenly. "But I know Captain Bentley, and I don't imagine he'll linger on the way back. Say twenty-five, thirty knots?"
Now that helped Dalziel's temper a lot, but happily for the yeoman's peace of mind there was more to him than sneering sarcasm; he knew the value of valued men, amongst whom the yeoman ranked high. His mouth uncurled into its normal thin-lipped line, his voice became normally curt.
"You're right, of course, about the E.T.A. Let me know as soon as it's received."
"Aye aye, sir."
On his way down the passage, mollified, the yeoman was hit by a bright thought. Maybe that was it-the Old Man didn't fancy giving up the flotilla. Of course!
Just below the horizon, out of visual range, Bentley was rounding off the account of his hospital experience.
"I'm damned glad I saw it. Not the blood and gore bit so much- though I'll never forget that kid's first cry-but Merrie. Oh, there are plenty of women doctors, but not so many surgeons, I imagine." He shook, his head. "It was a revelation, seeing her like that. Cool, calm and collected? Brother! Nerves like steel, no different whatever to the men in there. In fact, she could have been a man, the way they treated her. I liked that."
"I dunno," muttered Randall.
"What's that mean?"
"Forget it."
"Come on."
"Well, she sounds like... mind you, I like her, very much in
fact."
"Let joy be unconfined," Bentley jibed. "Now what's really on your mind?"
"Well, she sounds a bit... sort of masculine. Hell, I don't mean sexually. There's no doubt about..."
Randall stopped again, colouring. Bentley grinned.
"Damn you," Randall snarled. "She's feminine enough, you know that. I mean her attitude, like in that operating theatre."
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