Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  McInroe returned the clip-board to the bed frame.

  ‘Right then. The burns… Once again, Daniel, you’ve been relatively lucky. Now I find from experience that young chaps in your situation feel much better if I set it all out for them. Alright by you?’

  ‘That’d be fine, doctor.’

  ‘Good man. Right… There are four different degrees of burns. First Degree, Second Degree, Third and Fourth. First Degree burns are minor burns to the outer layer of skin, which we call the Epidermis. They’re red and painful, yet take only about a week to heal. What you have on the left side of your face are actually Second Degree. This is damage to the Epidermis plus the next layer of skin beneath it, the Dermis. These are what we call Moderate burns – They’re painful, red and blistered, sometimes a sort of pearly white colour. They take about a month to settle down, and we’ve done a little of what we call Skin Grafting on them. This involves borrowing, if you like, a small amount of skin from your buttocks.’

  ‘Borrowing…’ Quinn squinted.

  ‘Yes. It’s a fairly ugly mug you’ve got there in the first place, isn’t it, so grafting from your bum could be less apt now, I would go so far as to suggest.’

  ‘Sir…’ Quinn couldn’t suppress a chuckle, though the nerves in his spine stabbed him right back for it.

  ‘Yes. And that’s why you’ve no doubt been feeling some measure of discomfort in that region. But it’s all for the best, rest assured of that. It’s called Plastic Surgery, Daniel. Doctor Hailey had a bit of a word to you about it, didn’t he.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Well good.’ McInroe’s tone remained methodical, and strangely comforting to Quinn for being so. ‘The skin on the left of your face may end up a bit paler than your normal skin colour… But that’s about it. Following me so far?’

  ‘Yes, doctor.’

  ‘Excellent. Now what you do not have, Daniel, is any of the Fourth Degree business. That only occurs when the muscles, tendons, ligaments, even bones beneath the skin are damaged or destroyed. This has not happened in your case.’

  ‘Thanks, doctor. …Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘Now your hands have experienced a combination of the Second Degree plus some of the Third Degree stuff – which is where the Epidermis and Dermis are actually broken down.’ His eyes were intense, yet encouraging. ‘You should regain near-perfect dexterity in your hands and fingers down the track, yet, obviously, the skin on them will always look and feel a bit different, won’t it.’

  ‘Yes… I imagine so.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve been reconstructing them, you see. More skin from your bottom again – you should be enormously grateful to it from now on – one skin graft operation already, plus probably a bit more in a week or two. But you’ll be well on your feet before then, old boy.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  ‘You’re one of the lucky ones, Daniel. Your face will return essentially to normal, your hands will work as they did. The chaps in Ward Three may recover mentally, though physically, will never quite be the same. No doubt about it, our ability to physically reconstruct these chaps – and your hands – is advancing in leaps and bounds.’

  His voice lowered.

  ‘This is due, somewhat ironically, to the fact that the Royal Air Force just keeps sending your type to us. Yet I digress. You will play rugby again. …If you want to.’

  He paused a moment, surveying Quinn’s face very intently.

  ‘You do want to, don’t you, Daniel…’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. That’s half the battle, you see. Wanting to. Physically, I’d say you’ll be fine even for Operations again. Not my kind of operations, the flying kind, that is. More’s the pity…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Daniel… you’re a bright kid…’ McInroe’s voice had softened further. ‘I can see it in your face. Well, in half of it anyway… Perhaps the half under the bandage is quite stupid. …And you’re only half bright,’ he smiled. ‘The point is, Daniel, I see a lot of young men’s faces. Or where they used to be… I do all day. Every day. Every day for the past three years in fact. Now I’m only able to tell you this as I’m not in the Royal Air Force as such. Oh, they’d dearly love me to be… Make me an Air Marshal, they say. I keep telling them no.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’

  ‘Well, amongst other reasons, as long as I remain outside the RAF, effectively a consultant to them, they can’t tell me how to run this little place, can they.’

  ‘Couldn’t they make things difficult for you?’

  ‘Not as long as they keep sending me you chaps, they can’t. Can’t afford to…’

  ‘I think I understand, sir.’

  ‘Half bright, anyway,’ McInroe smiled again. ‘If only I were a Brain Surgeon…’ He paused, and leaned in slightly. ‘The thing is, Daniel, while you convalesce, over the next month or so, I’d like you to think about something for me. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, doctor.’

  ‘Good. Daniel. In your position, with your hands as they are, no one has better grounds than yourself on which to base a request for honourable exemption from Operational Duty.’

  ‘But I’ve come so far, sir…’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he resigned. ‘So many like you… You volunteer for this, they pull you up out of the sea, send you broken to me, I put you back together again, then you re-volunteer. …Frankly, Daniel, once you leave this place, I’d rather not see you again. …Not professionally anyway. You see what I’m asking you to think about, don’t you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I do.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll think about it?’

  Quinn looked up into eyes now severe. ‘I promise, doctor.’

  ‘Good man.’ There came a tentative smile. ‘…Smoke?’

  *

  ‘Is that alright?’

  The back of Quinn’s bed halfway propped up, the young Waaf drew the cigarette away from his lips. He’d thought he recognised her as she stopped by the bed, then remembered his last night in London.

  ‘Lovely,’ he exhaled. ‘You’re an angel, Miss Brown.’

  ‘Alas no. Just a Section Officer.’ She ashed the cigarette for him in a bed-pan. ‘I must say, you’re looking better than you did initially…’

  ‘What, since you arrived just now?’

  ‘Since I first visited you, silly.’

  ‘You were here before now?’

  ‘Certainly. Managed to get down here when you first came in. You were a sight…’

  He paused a moment to look in her face. ‘…That was very kind of you, Jillian… But… how did you know I was here?’

  ‘Oh, I’m doing a short stint at Fighter Command HQ. They know everything,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘…On rare occasion even what the Germans are up to.’

  It was coming back to him now – their conversation at Cogers Inn, the party, the panel. ‘You were in Intelligence, weren’t you?’

  ‘Well, that still depends on one’s definition of “intelligence”,’ she grinned.

  A thought electrified Quinn. A sight? He tried to sit up further, only to be stabbed again by his lower back. ‘… Jesus… My face… Is it…’

  ‘You mean you haven’t seen yourself in a mirror yet?

  ‘Afraid I haven’t.’

  ‘Are you telling me you haven’t been to the lav’ in all this time?’

  ‘That’s what the bed pan’s for.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

  She fished in her purse. ‘Here. Use this.’ She opened a make-up compact and positioned it carefully in front of Quinn’s face.

  In its mirror, he saw a face that had been bashed. A red swelling extended across it from underneath the cloth dressing. The visible eye must have been black a week ago – He’d had them playing rugby. By now it had receded to a dirty purple.

  ‘Anyhow, Daniel, the face bandage’ll be coming off soon. Though I expect the hands must hurt very badly.’

  ‘Very. Look, Jillian, I’m
sorry about this, I was feeling alright just now but I think I’m going to be sick.’

  She grabbed the bed pan from the table beside him, knocked the ash out, and held it up under his chin.

  ‘Ready, Daniel.’

  *

  By his second week, the ward’s other occupants had become less of a blur in Quinn’s mind. The one on his left seemed to have been removed. Now a new bloke was in the bed, as yet, fitfully unconscious.

  To the right was a Canadian, name of Dean Giroux. From their exchanges, Quinn learnt he was a navigator, a Flight Lieutenant, and that he’d been in England from about the time Quinn had been marching up and down the square at Bradfield Park. Though Giroux seemed to have spent most of his time over Germany, having flown two full tours with Bomber Command.

  ‘How many ops does that make, Dean?’

  ‘Sixty. Then one’r two extra.’

  Quinn’s bandaged eye stung as it bulged. ‘My God… Flying what?’

  ‘Lancasters, until recently.’

  ‘Good aircraft?’

  ‘I guess… Best we got anyway. You on Spits?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Giroux let out a low whistle of approval. ‘I guess that makes you one hot shot pilot then.’ He pronounced it ‘hart - shart’.

  Quinn found himself smiling: He’d have to be some sort of a pilot, or they’d never have given him a Spitfire. The smile died as he reflected it was half under bandages, he’d had the brand-new Mark IX blown out from under him, and that his new home was a hospital for burns victims.

  He stared across at Giroux. The young Canadian had dressings on his face, neck and hands, though was visibly at least in some stage of recovery – Having been here a month already, he could light and smoke a cigarette unassisted. Suddenly Quinn realised Giroux seemed to be contemplating him.

  ‘You got kills, bud?’

  ‘Yes. Five.’ Quinn remembered his last. ‘…Six.’

  ‘That’s whatcha here for, boy,’ winked Giroux.

  ‘Yes… You must be some navigator, Dean. …All those ops.’

  The Canadian’s reply came quietly. ‘Well… They don’t give you no second pair of wings if you ain’t.’

  Quinn knew immediately it was no boast. ‘You’re with the Pathfinders?’

  ‘You got it.’

  Quinn knew the reputation of the Pathfinder Group already, its members entitled to wear an extra pair of wings under their original, a golden pair no less; they were the elite of Bomber Command.

  ‘Tell me, Dean,’ Quinn recalled his first train trip to London, ‘did you ever come across an Australian navigator by the name of Don Charlton?’

  ‘Donny Charlton? Yes-sir-ree. Excellent navigator, old Donny. A swell guy an’ a smart one too.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Finished his last tour an’ went home.’

  ‘So…’ returned Quinn, ‘same for you now then, eh?’

  The Canadian lit a cigarette. ‘No… I guess I’m gonna see it through.’

  Quinn took a moment to marshal his thoughts. ‘You plan to continue? After two full tours?!’

  Through the thin plume of smoke he blew up to the ceiling, Giroux’s words issued slowly, steadily. ‘It’s like this, bud… Y’break yeur cherry, right? Y’get over that first, what, hump of inexperience, let’s call it. Then… you’re doin’ o-kay, see. An’ y’start t’get pretty damn good at what you’re doin’. When that happens, y’get this feeling… this feeling like you’re there.’

  ‘There?’ Quinn puzzled sideways to him. ‘How d’you mean?’

  Still focused on the ceiling, the Canadian drew in, and blew out another long cloud of smoke. ‘It’s a sensation like – how can I put this? – like bein’ in a long, dark tunnel… Except y’can see. An’ all the time you’re in it, y’see what’s inside.’

  Quinn hesitated. ‘See what?’

  ‘Well,’ Giroux ashed the cigarette, ‘things so far beyond the experience of normal life – and of whoever we used to be before this – ,’ he grinned, ‘that sometimes it don’t bear goin’ back to. …If y’see what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure, Dean…’ Quinn had heard the Pathfinders dropped great showers of coloured flares in the sky over Germany – target markers to guide the rest of Bomber Command, and out of necessity: It was all done at night. ‘…I think I see… sort of.’

  ‘You will… Once you’re inside that old tunnel, boy. An’ once y’are, y’just gotta make it to the end… Some guys get a feeling like, with all they’ve seen an’… all they’ve done… they get a feeling like… like what - else - IS - there?’

  Quinn now spoke quietly, but audibly: ‘Like the most intense rush of adrenaline you could ever know…’

  ‘That it is, boy. That it is.’ Giroux coughed as he ashed the cigarette. ‘Screwball thing about you Aussies… Y’make swell navigators.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Air Commodore Ronald Kennett. Founded an’ still commands the Pathfinders.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Aussie.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘No shit, Daniel. RAF Bomber Command said he was screw-ball, still do, I guess. Don’t matter, no how… ’Cause they’re nowhere without him right now an’ they know it. An’ I mean no -where.’

  Quinn considered the young veteran: With the most accurate navigators especially, his elite were now leading ever increasing hundreds of bombers every night over Germany, and on target – up to a thousand, on occasion. He then reflected that, as navigator in a Lancaster, Giroux was one of a seven-man crew: ‘I imagine you’re looking forward to joining your mates again then.’

  Giroux extracted the final drag of his cigarette. ‘No, I ain’t, bud.’

  Quinn didn’t understand. ‘No?’

  The Canadian stubbed the smoke out in an ashtray on the mattress.

  ‘They’re all gone, bud. All gone.’

  October 1942

  Dear Daniel

  Well, you’ve done it. Your own Spitfire, a confirmed victory and now a Flying Officer to boot. Congratulations!

  And what an account you wrote me! Bits of your letter were sliced out by the censor, as you said they might be, but I got the picture alright. How amazing - You actually snuck up behind the German. Maybe it was the missing bits, maybe me, but I had to read it a few times before it seemed real. (?)

  Loved the rest of your letter too. What a name for a city, COLON. Even Father O’Donnellan had a laugh about that one. Then across in the convoy, and all those places! Liverpool, Bournemouth, Scotland, Hornchurch, London. Can’t wait till I’m there.

  I went to the flicks last Saturday afternoon and the newsreel showed four Spitfires in formation, all peeling off, what a wonderful sight. And to think, one of them could have been you for all I know.

  Anyway, Dan, by the time you get this I’ll probably be studying for my final exams. Then (I know you don’t want me to as per your last letter) but it’s down to Woolloomooloo for me.

  Be seeing you as soon as I can, brother. Love from the whole family.

  Yours truly

  Matt

  PS. Mum was really comforted by your reassuring letter to her.

  *

  ‘Still hurting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A bead of sweat crept down Quinn’s forehead as McInroe slowly unwrapped the bandage cloth from his right hand. The flesh on the fingers gradually revealed looked brown and leathery.

  ‘The pain will pass, Daniel. I can guarantee you that. Your hands are doing very well actually… The skin is recovering splendidly. Which means, amongst other things, that you are blessed with superb circulation. No, I don’t think we need do any further grafting… Alright, nurse, you can re-dress them now, thank you. Though I think we’ll let the head dressing stay off… Yes.’

  Quinn saw the female face above him, quiet consternation framed in a bonnet. As she commenced her careful task on his hands, Quinn couldn’t help but appeal to the face sm
iling beside her: ‘It’s just…

  they’re so bloody painful.’

  ‘I know,’ McInroe reassured. ‘That’s for two reasons… Firstly, the burns were predominantly Second Degree, not Third…’

  ‘I thought Third’d be worse,’ struggled Quinn.

  ‘Actually no. Yes and no… Third are worse yet less painful… This is due to the nerve endings having been destroyed. So there’s nothing to feel, ironically. To this extent, certain fingers on your right, possibly the palm on the left may hurt less… if at all.

  ‘Secondly, the hands always feel pain more intensely than other parts of the body as they’re such keen receptors of pain: Alas, it would seem the brain wants the body to take special care protecting the hands. …That marvelous thumb.’

  ‘Thumb?’

  ‘Yes. The Opposable Thumb. Separates us from the Apes.’

  ‘I’m not with you, doc.’

  ‘Due to his opposable thumb, opposable to his fingers, that is, Man is the only primate who can clasp tools. And so make things; draw what he imagines; write what he thinks.’ McInroe took off his spectacles. ‘…Pity is, you young chaps seem to have been handed the wrong tools.’

  *

  ‘The face is looking good.’

  ‘As good as my mug ever could, Jillian.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Well, we should celebrate the new bandage-free Daniel Quinn. Would you like to go out today?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask, Miss Brown.’ For the first time, he noticed her eyes were green. Somehow feline, he thought. ‘…Am I allowed to?’

  ‘Allowed to? The Maestro encourages it. A compassionate soul is our Alisdair.’

  ‘Is there a medicinal beer nearby?’

  ‘In the Dorset Arms, there is. Anyhow, we should celebrate,’ nodded the Waaf. ‘…I’ve just been posted to 122 Squadron.’

  *

  Quinn couldn’t believe it.

  The place actually had cold lager.

  He sipped carefully, apprehensive how his fingers might react to the icy glass. They’d flinched to begin with, then felt fine on the pint, if a little strange. His mind was taken off them in any case: The beer was good to taste, and being in a pub, with a young woman, had a very soothing normality to it. She’d held her arm inside his on the way through the old town of East Grinstead, Quinn still a shade unsteady on his legs.