by Janet Tanner
What happened? he wondered senselessly. What in the world happened? Automatically he glanced over his shoulder to where the inert figure of Kelly had slumped a few moments earlier, and he was rewarded by the weak but unmistakable thumbs-up of his gun-layer.
Kelly was not dead after all! And by some miracle he had managed to shoot the enemy aircraft down in flames!
A wave of weakness threatened Jack, and looking down he saw his cockpit was awash with blood. So dizzy did he feel that now, at the very moment of triumph, it was all he could do to keep from giving up. But the knowledge that Kelly was still alive drove him to one last effort. Kelly had saved him, now it was up to him to save Kelly.
With an enormous effort he turned the nose for home once more. The temperature gauge was now showing zero and he guessed that most of his water had gone. If so, his engine would probably seize. As he flew, he listened to it knocking and groaning, and somehow the ominous noise kept him on the edge of consciousness. He began muttering to himself again.
“A little further … a little further. Hell, these engines are marvellous to take a hammering like this! Ease her on, ease her on. Drop a little, look around. Why is everything red, even the sky? And the mist—not mist too! Come on Jack, hold on. A little further. You can do it.”
And then, beneath him, he saw the airfield, spread out like the arms of a waiting mother. He came in, almost unable to believe now that he and the de Havilland were home. His wheels skimmed the hangars, and then he was down, pancaking on to the tarmac. The nose fell forward, buried itself in the ground, and the tired tail tried to rise, then fell back. Men ran out towards the crippled aircraft, the heat from the engines scorching their faces, but mercifully there was no fire.
In the rear Maurice Kelly was unconscious once more, but alive.
And in the cockpit, his leg almost severed, awash in his own blood, Jack too hung on.
As they approached him, he looked at them with eyes weary, but feverishly bright in his white face.
“Thank the Lord,” he said.
And passed out.
JACK WAS taken to hospital first in France, then, when he was fit enough to be moved, hospital train and boat brought him to London, where the battle to save his leg continued.
At first he was too ill to know or care. As he surfaced from the black-edged hell of pain, the threat of losing a limb refused to seem real to him. It was still there, his leg, and it would mend. He was in England now, and English doctors could do anything.
But it was what went on inside his head that was the reality—the battles he still fought over and over again with the German triplanes, the bombs he had to drop, the air raids night after night on his base.
It was some time before the nightmares stayed at bay for long enough for him to notice what was going on around him. And the first person he became aware of as a flesh-and-blood reality and not a fevered hallucination was a girl.
She was tall and well-built, and her VAD uniform suited her. But there was something about her which seemed familiar—an impression he hastily dismissed as fanciful. He couldn’t know her, a nurse in a London hospital. But he watched her all the same, his eyes drawn to her by the vague chord she struck somewhere deep in his memory.
After a while he asked the young, curly-haired flier in the next bed to his if he knew her name. But he shook his head.
“Sorry, can’t help you. I haven’t seen her much myself before. But she’s got a pretty sharp tongue for all that she looks like the proverbial angel of mercy. I heard her giving that chap down at the end a piece of her mind earlier on.”
Jack smiled, and the young flier, who introduced himself as Nick Morland, went on, “ Just leave it to me. I’ll find out for you.”
This offer, Jack hastily declined. In lucid moments he had noticed Nick fancied his chances with the nurses, and he had no wish for him to begin heavy-handed advances on his behalf. If he had met the girl before, which he doubted, he’d no doubt find out all in good time. If not, well, in his present state, it didn’t matter much one way or the other.
At midday, however, when lunch arrived, he was pleased to see that it was the tall, attractive nurse who came to serve him. “ I hope you’re going to eat this all up today, Lieutenant. I understand your appetite isn’t all it should be!”
The faint burr in her voice struck another familiar chord, and he grimaced at the plate of watery tripe and onions. “The food here doesn’t exactly come up to standard, does it? Now if I had a piece of nice, juicy steak …”
“Chance would be a fine thing. With all the rationing, you’re lucky to get what you do. Now eat it up, or you’ll never be fit enough to go for a run up the batches this summer.”
He looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowed. First there had been a familiar look about her, then the familiar accent, and now she was talking about batches. Only local Somerset people called the slag heaps batches.
“I know you, don’t I?” he said.
The generous mouth lifted, the eyes, challenging and amused, held his. “You should do. I come from Hillsbridge, too.”
“I thought so! And you’re …”
“Stella O’Halloran. You probably know Grace better than you know me.”
Stella O’Halloran—Grace O’Halloran’s sister—of course! He should have known. She’d been away at school, of course, and so had he, and now, seeing her more or less grown up, and in uniform, he just hadn’t realized.
“Well, well, it’s a small world,” he said inanely.
“Isn’t it? But I must get on with my work, or I shall have Sister after me.”
He nodded, watching her go back down the ward. Stella O’Halloran, well, well. She wasn’t as good-looking as her sister, but she was still a very pretty girl for all that, with her mischievous grey eyes and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. And she was doing war work, too. He couldn’t imagine Grace doing that—for all that she had married Dr Scott. What a coincidence that Stella should be here, in London, nursing at the very hospital he’d been brought to!
“Getting shot up has its advantages, eh, old man?” Nick Morland ventured from the next bed, and Jack grinned.
“The tripe, you mean?” he inquired wickedly.
As the days passed, Jack found that hospital life was a strange, limbo existence, unrelated to anything he had previously known. Time took on new dimensions, and the things that were important here bore no relation to the things that had been important in the world beyond the sturdy walls. Two years ago, he might almost have welcomed a stay in hospital as a golden opportunity to read all the books he never had time to read at home. But as soon as he recovered enough to begin to feel bored, he realized that in practice it didn’t work out like that. Here he was surrounded by frustrated young men who had no intention of letting him keep his nose in a book when he could be talking to them, or listening to their exploits, and even when he did have a few undisturbed moments, he found it difficult to concentrate for more than a sentence or two. It was irrelevant, all of it, he thought, stupidly futile, and it set his flesh crawling with irritation. He wanted to read. He longed to lose himself in a rattling good book. But somehow he couldn’t. And instead he watched for Stella.
She really was a rather remarkable girl, he thought, and more than a match for a ward full of love-starved young officers. With her engaging freckles and wide grey eyes, she was bound to be a target for their attentions, but her attraction went deeper than that. She somehow managed to be an intriguing blend of good-humoured fun and razor-sharp intelligence, a girl who had no intention of letting anyone take advantage of her, but who clearly enjoyed their trying.
They might make her blush from time to time, these frustrated young men who were emboldened by the comparative safety of their hospital beds, and who could make the most outrageous suggestions without the risk of the recipient calling their bluff, but they usually got their come-uppance. For not even the most dashing of them could maintain their dignity for long perched uncomfortably on a b
edpan, or made speechless by a thermometer left too long in their mouths, and Jack was able to watch and enjoy Stella’s mischievous triumph.
Although he never joined in the flippant chit-chat himself, he became obsessed by her. On nights when he could not sleep for the pain in his leg and the recurring nightmares of exploding planes, he forced himself to think of her instead, and the thoughts were balm to his jangling nerves and tortured brain. Staring at the ceiling, glow-lit behind the black-out curtains, he pictured every detail of her face, her generous body and her gentle hands with their spatulate fingers and nails cut short and straight. He wondered what her hair was like beneath that all-concealing nurse’s head-dress, and whether her legs were as well-shaped as her arms. And he imagined the way she would feel in his arms, soft and warm, yielding yet firm. After all the death and destruction he had witnessed, nothing was more appealing than her vitality.
But being Jack, he did nothing. It was not in his nature to talk to her the way the other men did, nor did he want to. For him, a woman still belonged on a pedestal. One day, perhaps, when his leg was mended and the bad dreams had stopped and he could see things straight again, he’d come back and try to court her in a real, old-fashioned way, with flowers and invitations to dinner and the theatre—all the things she deserved. In the meantime, he would content himself with chatting to her about people and happenings in Hillsbridge, and confine closer contact to those waking dreams where nothing was impossible.
But had he but known it, the worst was not yet over. The thing they had feared happened. Gangrene set in, and a decision had to be made swiftly and finally. His leg, or his life—he couldn’t keep both. The outcome, of course, was never in doubt. They operated late one afternoon and next day, when he came out of the anaesthetic, Jack found he had a whole new battle to fight, that of coming to terms with facing life with an artificial limb.
At first, he was too stunned to accept it. For one thing, it was hard to believe his leg was gone, except when the sheets were turned back and he could actually see the empty pyjama leg and the heavily bandaged stump, for it still felt to him as if the leg were there, nerves, bone, sinew and flesh, as painful as it had been since the day he had been wounded.
And besides, even after all he had been through, it still seemed to him that something as catastrophic as this happened only to other people. That he, Jack Hall, should find himself without one of the legs he had taken for granted since before he could walk was unthinkable. He had known, of course, that amputation was always a possibility but never did he believe it would actually happen.
Lying against the pillows, sunk in depression, he remembered all the pals who had been maimed or disfigured. How easy it had been to tell them it would all work out—and how difficult to accept when it was yourself to whom the terrible thing had happened! Around him, the world closed in, black, choking, and no longer welcome, and this time it seemed to him there was no way out of the well of pain, no chink of light to be seen.
With the darkness the nightmares began again, as vivid as ever. Only now they had an added dimension—an added horror—and time after time as he saw the aircraft spiralling downwards, it seemed to him that his leg was railing too, a bloodied, disembodied mess that nevertheless still belonged to him, still hurt with the fierce, burning pain that blotted out senses. Each time the dream recurred, it was pervaded by the feeling that if only he could catch it before it reached the ground he could save it. But no matter how he tried, it was always just out of reach. Always …
One night the dream was more vivid than ever, so that he fancied he was standing on the wingtips, reaching out and down, but then, it seemed he had lost his balance and was falling after his leg, down towards the bleak brown fields. Head over heels he spun, his heart missing beats, his scream echoing across the barren, empty landscape. And then, suddenly, miraculously, he was no longer alone. Someone’s arms were holding him. Someone was crooning to him, and he was not falling any more.
“It’s all right now. You’re all right. Hush now. Hush.”
Consciousness returned, but he did not open his eyes. He was unwilling, as yet, to relinquish the warmth and safety of the place in which he found himself, for it was as though he were a child again, cradled in his mother’s arms, not wanting to wake, nor wanting to sleep, for fear of being put down.
It was so long since she had held him this way, yet his fevered brain remembered not only the feel of babyhood, but the smell and the taste of it too. For a sweet fragment of uncounted time it lasted, then he awakened and knew grim reality had returned.
Impatient with himself, he turned his head, but his cheek encountered the cold metal of a nurse’s watch.
“Don’t, Jack. Just lie still. You’re all right now.”
Hot shame flooded through him then, driving away the last dregs of comfort. Stella! It was Stella! And he’d made the most utter fool of himself.
Angrily he wrenched himself out of her arms.
“I was dreaming.”
“I know. Was it bad?” Her face in the reflected light from the ceiling lamps was not teasing now, and her grey eyes seemed to mirror his pain.
He twisted his head to avoid looking at her.
“Oh, it’s the same bally thing over and over again. I expect I’ll get over it.”
“Yes, you will.” Her hands found his and held them. “Not for a long while maybe, but eventually. When you have other things to think about, other memories to take the place of … of what happened.”
“What other things?” His voice rose bitterly, and she touched his lips with her finger.
“Hush! You’ll wake the whole ward.”
He shifted angrily. His leg was throbbing unbearably.
“All right. But you tell me—what other things?” His voice was softer, but just as bitterly vehement. “My life’s finished.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly!”
“I’m not being. Talk’s cheap when you’re not in the position yourself.”
“Because it’s possible to see things more objectively.”
“Oh, yes? Well, I’m finished with flying, that’s for sure. They won’t want a pilot with one leg.”
She settled herself. “ Did you want to fly again?”
He shrugged. “ I enjoyed it. Just at this moment I don’t ever want to see an aeroplane again, but …”
“Well there you are then,” she said briskly, and her matter-of-fact philosophy, along with the pain in his leg, angered him again.
“How do you know what I want from life?” he asked truculently, then, at a warning glance from her, lowered his voice to go on. “I could have wanted to make a career in flying. But there wouldn’t be much chance of promotion for me now.”
“You trained to be a teacher,” she said reasonably. “ There’s no law against one-legged teachers. And you’ve never been a sportsman, have you? So that’s no loss.”
He didn’t answer. She was right, of course. He’d never liked football, and if he never ran to catch another cricket ball it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But she had no right to make it sound so easy.
“I’d like to have driven a car, or had a motor bike.” He knew he sounded peeved, but it still hurt when she laughed.
“Poor old you! That is a bit hard. After flying great big bombers, it is a bit of a come down not to be able to manage a motor bike, I suppose.”
He pulled his hands away from hers, not wanting to snap, yet unable to help himself. “You take it very lightly.”
“Because I’ve seen too many men carried out of here stiff and cold. At least you’re alive, and you’ve still got two arms and a leg.”
His anger died, and he felt his throat thickening. Dear God, surely he wasn’t going to cry in front of her.
“I thought,” he said slowly, “ when I was up there in the skies, trapped in a crippled aircraft, that nothing mattered except that I should get back alive. But I was wrong.”
“Oh, Jack!” Her voice was soft with compassion. “ Don’t
you see, you were right! You were right! Life is the most important thing.”
“No.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “The quality of life is what counts.”
“Maybe. But you can still have a good life.”
His throat thickened again, tears burned behind his eyes. How could he tell her what was in his mind, this pretty, earnest, innocent girl who thought she knew so much, and in reality knew nothing at all? How could he say to her: Who would want me now, an incomplete, imperfect, repulsive cripple? I was never the most handsome of men, but at least I had two good legs. Now I have only a stump, thick, squat, truncated, and covered by puckered, stitched-down folds of skin. How can anyone ever feel anything but pity or revulsion for me now? And how can I ever feel anything but embarrassment?
The words were there, churning in his head, but he knew he could never say them. So he stared down the darkened ward, using all his will to hold his chin and mouth immobile, but quite unable to stop the hot tears from running down his cheeks.
For a moment she sat motionless, her heart aching for him, and when she spoke, her voice was husky with suppressed emotion.
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” she asked, and when he did not answer, she reached for his hands again. “ Oh, Jack, you’re so wrong.”
Still he could not speak, and she turned him gently to face her.
“Jack, listen to me, if a woman loves a man, something like that makes no difference. You may think your stump is ugly, but for her, it would be part of you, just something else to love. Don’t you see that?”
Unconsciously her hand had gone to his bandaged stump and inwardly he shrank.
“It’s different for you. You’re a nurse.”
“I’m a woman, too.” Her eyes held his, and in their depths was something he could not read. For a long moment they looked at one another, then she tossed her head as if throwing some unwelcome thought away.
