An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War Read online

  “I like a man who knows his limitations.” Wilcoxson pointed to a bookshelf.

  It was full of medical textbooks and leather-bound copies of the Journal of the Royal Naval Medical Services. The reference works would be needed. Getting a consultation in mid-ocean would be problematical.

  “Help yourself to anything on there. The practical wound experience will come—I promise.” He shook his head and said quietly, “I started getting mine at Jutland in 1916 and I’ve taken courses between the wars at Haslar Naval Hospital in Gosport near Portsmouth. I’ll be able to advise. The rest of my staff is Volunteer Reserve and still have a lot to learn. A fine young physician and a dentist. They’re both a bit green. The dentist’s on a week’s leave.

  “There should be two surgeon lieutenants on establishment, so we can do our work in the day, and with one on call at night the others can get a bit of sleep. There’s a sleeping cabin in the sick bay so if he needs to, the duty officer can stay in the bay but have a zizz if he’s free. Sometimes we split the night work into two four-hour watches starting at eight P.M. After ordinary eight-hour nights, the duty physician has eight hours off the following day—unless we are at action stations, then it’s all hands on deck for as long as we’re needed. You’re replacing young Johnson. Broke a leg on our trip here.”

  “Poor man.”

  “Hmm,” said Wilcoxson noncommittally, then said, “You’ll meet the chaps in the wardroom anteroom aft for drinks before dinner.”

  “Still served at quarter to eight when in harbour?” Fingal’s long-empty tummy growled.

  “Still the same,” he said with a smile. “The Royal Navy’s a creature of habit and routine, O’Reilly,” the PMO said, suddenly serious. “And that applies to our customs too, so please don’t mind me correcting you on form. Some of the more senior regular officers, particularly in the executive branch, gunnery, torpedoes, navigation—”

  Fingal wondered if his old friend Tom Laverty was on board, but refrained from asking. Since 1931 they had maintained a desultory correspondence, and the last letter Fingal had had was from this ship and had been posted in Malta. Tom had been going to get married.

  “—that kind of thing, they’re very old school and can be sticky about etiquette and naval customs. Can’t have my staff getting a dose from the bottle for some trivial infringement. Rather ironic, don’t you think, considering we’re the ones giving out doses?” He chuckled.

  “I’ll remember, sir.” And Fingal recalled that a “bottle” was a reprimand, not a medication.

  “Good man, and while we’re at it, in here we aren’t usually formal except in front of the lower-deck patients, and we’re quite democratic with our sick berth attendants too.” He offered his hand, which Fingal shook. “I’m Richard.”

  “Fingal.”

  “Trinity, Dublin, I believe, Fingal. Fine school.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s Richard.”

  “Sorry, sir. I mean sorry, Richard. That’s going to take some getting used to when I’m sure the other officers will expect the deference due to their rank.”

  “They will, but you’ll not forget.”

  Fingal nodded. “I am Trinity,” he said. “And you’re?”

  “Cambridge for my university and Guy’s, actually, for my teaching hospital.”

  Fingal smiled. Already by the man’s Oxbridge accent he’d given himself away as upper-crust English, and it seemed impossible for any graduate from the famous London institution to answer questions about their alma mater without tacking on “actually” to Guy’s.

  “Joined the navy straight after I graduated in ’07. Destroyers first, then light cruisers. HMS Galatea.”

  Fingal whistled. “She first reported sighting the German ships at the battle of Jutland in 1916 and she took a hit from an enemy shell that didn’t explode. I was born in ’08 and only vaguely aware there’d been a naval battle eight years later, but I read a fair bit of naval history when I was on Tiger.”

  “Galatea’s where I started getting my trauma schooling.” Richard Wilcoxson’s earlier good-natured tone then took on an edge and, as was often the way of old warriors, he changed the subject. “Be grateful for your youth, Fingal. I don’t want to discourage you, but we can have our moments at sea even if nobody’s shooting at us.” He yawned mightily.

  “I think I understand.” Fingal saw again the dark bags under his senior’s eyes.

  “I don’t mean to sound patronising, but I doubt it. We’ve had a pretty rough time—literally—since the beginning of the month.”

  “Oh?”

  “We were in the Med when war broke out. Admiral A. B. Cunningham used us as his flagship for the Mediterranean Fleet. Not much happened. We were based in Alexandria.”

  “His father was a professor of anatomy at Trinity. He was before my time, but we used his dissection manuals.”

  “So did we. I had no idea he was ABC’s dad. Interesting. Anyway, we were ordered to join the Home Fleet. We left Gibraltar on November the sixth for Greenock, but were redirected to Halifax, Nova Scotia, for escort work. In all my thirty-two years at sea I’ve never seen a series of storms like it. Both outward and inward bound. Non-bloody-stop screeching winds, huge waves, and Warspite’s a notoriously wet ship. Spray was thrown so high it was hitting the bridge. Because of the oil in the tanks flowing about when they’re only half full, she does a double roll to each side. Poor old Johnson fell down a companionway. Bust his tibia and fibula. Precious little sleep for any of the crew and the medical department were kept busy. Johnson wasn’t the only one to get knocked about.”

  “Sounds pretty hellish.” Fingal had no trouble remembering North Atlantic winter gales.

  “It was. Before the war, the RMS Queen Mary could do Southampton to New York in about four days. It took us nine to get from Halifax to here. Whole damn convoy had to heave to for two days so some of the smaller ships could ride out the gale. We made eighteen miles—sideways. Still,” he managed a smile, “weather like that keeps the U-boats at bay so I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies. We only got into the anchorage yesterday. Sent Johnson and some of the more badly battered cases that were better dealt with by specialists ashore.”

  A head appeared around the curtain. It was the chief petty officer who had opened the door to the sick bay when Fingal had arrived. “Excuse me, sir, can you take anudder look at Engine Room Artificer Stewart please, sir? His temperature’s gone up.” The man had a thick Dublin accent.

  Commander Wilcoxson rose. “CPO Padraic O’Rourke, I’d like you to meet Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly. He’s joining us.”

  There was of course no question of a handshake. The middle-aged, thickset man smiled at Fingal. “Welcome aboard, sir.” He cocked his head to one side. “O’Reilly? Irish?”

  Fingal nodded.

  “Dere was a young fellah of dat name once worked for Doctor Phelim Corrigan in Dublin—”

  “In Aungier Place.” Fingal laughed.

  The CPO’s grin was vast. “I’m from Frances Street in the Liberties meself. My cousin, John-Joe Finnegan, lives there too, on High Street. Him and me have a jar or two together when I’m home on leave. He bust his ankle a few years ago. I remember him saying he knew a Doctor O’Reilly. Said he was a good skin.”

  “I left Dublin a couple of years back. I’m in County Down now. But it’s a small world,” said Fingal, who was warmed inside by being remembered.

  “It is dat. And saving your presences, Doctors, it’ll be grand altogether to have another Irishman—even if you are from the wee north, sir—among all the Sassenachs on this ship. Most of the lower deck are from London, the Midlands, and we even have some hairy-kneed Scotsmen. There is another northerner. CPO Thompson, a gunner from Holywood.”

  “Not far from my home in Ballybucklebo,” Fingal said, “but I can’t claim to know him.”

  “And I thought one bog-Irishman was enough, Paddy,” Wilcoxson said, and they both laughed.

  From tha
t exchange, it was clear that his superior officer was no martinet and allowed his staff a fair bit of leeway. He turned to Fingal. “And if you take my advice, Fingal, if you’re ever stuck medically, ask CPO Paddy O’Rourke.”

  Fingal had learned as a student that it was an amadán, an idiot, who ignored the advice of senior nursing sisters. The sick berth attendants, particularly the petty officers, would fill the same roles here. “I’ll remember.”

  “Fair play til you, sir, I t’ink you’ll fit in grand altogether.”

  “And I think, Paddy, that you and my young colleague here are a couple of … what’s the word?—um—bletherskites. Perhaps we should see the victim?”

  “Right dis way, sir.”

  “And I’ll explain a bit more about the medical facilities as we walk,” Wilcoxson said.

  Fingal followed them through the room he’d first entered and into the sick bay proper.

  Richard Wilcoxson pointed to where the curtain they had just passed was continued to Fingal’s right. “Sick berth staff’s mess is in there.”

  From where they stood, the large open space in front of them was L-shaped. Fingal could see a row of scuttles in the far bulkhead, so that must be the farther side of the ship’s hull. Lockers, a table, benches, washbasins, and shelves took up this part of the L. At its far end, where the room extended aft, he could see another curtained-off area astern.

  “Bathroom,” said Wilcoxson, who must have been watching Fingal’s eyes. Between it and the for’ard bulkhead were four two-tiered swinging cots arranged two abreast. Three were occupied, presumably by the not-so-badly damaged victims of the storm and the patient under discussion. “If we were to get more than eight patients we have room to sling nine hammocks. And if all that ever became full, we’d overflow into the mess decks, but so far it hasn’t happened—so far.” The tone of his voice was not confident. “And this isn’t the only medical space. We use the sick bay unless we are in battle.” He stopped walking, forcing Fingal and Paddy O’Rourke to do the same.

  Paddy, who must have heard it all before, waited.

  “If we are likely to be shelled,” said Wilcoxson, “the idea is to protect the medical staff and most of the equipment and supplies behind more armour, more deeply inside the ship.”

  “Like the surgeon working on the orlop deck well beneath the waterline in Nelson’s navy?” Fingal said. He’d been a devoted follower of C. S. Forester’s Captain Hornblower novels.

  “Exactly. There are two spaces called medical distributing centres amidships, one fore, one aft on the middle deck, that’s just below this one, but it’s four decks down from the open air. They are always partially set up and supplied. One MO; the dentist, who can give anaesthetics; and three sick bay attendants work aft. You, and me now that you’ve joined, and the other five SBAs will work for’ard if the ship gets into a fight—and she will sooner or later. There are first-aid parties detailed to look after the wounded where they fall, mostly bandaging and giving morphine, and stretcher parties to bring them to us. The ship’s bandsmen double up as stretcher bearers. We’re meant to stay below and not go on deck except under exceptional circumstances.” He laughed. “Apparently we’re more use alive than dead.”

  “Comforting thought,” Fingal said.

  “Isn’t it?” Wilcoxson chuckled. “Anyway, I’ll show you the distributing centres some other day. Now we’ve a patient to see.” He led the way to the nearest cot, where a young man lay in the lower berth.

  “For your information, Lieutenant O’Reilly, Engine Room Artificer Stewart, the patient, is twenty-t’ree,” Paddy said, “never been sick before. Commander Wilcoxson saw him this morning when the patient reported sick with vague pains in his belly, loss of appetite—”

  Fingal’s tummy gurgled. He himself was not suffering from that particular symptom.

  “—and a low fever of ninety-nine point two and that was about the length and the breadth of it. Dirty tongue, he smokes, and a bit of bad breath, but there were no real physical findings, so he was admitted for observation. There wasn’t much change until I took his temperature before I reported, sir. It’d gone up to a hundred, and although there was nuttin’ else in particular I could find”—he screwed up his face and shook his head—“I don’t like the look of him.”

  When a senior nurse felt like that it was time to take heed, and already Richard had praised CPO O’Rourke’s acumen. Fingal paid attention.

  The party arrived at the cot where a young, fair-haired man lay. Fingal noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead and how pale he looked. The man stiffened and Fingal realised that the patient was trying to lie at attention.

  “At ease, Stewart,” Wilcoxson said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty bloody peely-wally, sir.”

  Fingal heard the lowland Scots burr. “Peely-wally” was not a strange expression to him. Ulster folk also used it to mean feeling rotten.

  “This is Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly,” Wilcoxson said, then sat on the cot and stopped it swinging by bracing his foot on the ship’s sole. “CPO O’Rourke’s been telling me you’ve not got any better since this morning.”

  “I have not, sir. My belly’s awfully sore there.” He pointed to his epigastrium, the inverted V where the lower ribs and breastbone met.

  Wilcoxson nodded. “Have you thrown up?”

  “No, sir. But I could not eat a gnat.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Wilcoxson turned. “Lieutenant O’Reilly? Opinion?”

  “ERA Stewart,” Fingal said, and smiled at the man. He didn’t want the patient to feel as if he were being discussed like an anonymous lump of illness. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling too sharp.”

  “Aye, it’s not so grand, sir, but I think I’ll live.”

  The lad had spirit. “I’ve no doubt you will, and I have to say”—he divided his attention between the ERA and the principal medical officer—“I’m not sure what ails you, Stewart. There are absolutely no other symptoms?”

  Wilcoxson shook his head. “Nary the one.”

  “Would you like me to examine him, sir?” Although what he was hoping to find was unclear to Fingal.

  “I examined him fully this morning. Really nothing to go on,” Wilcoxson said, and stood. “I don’t expect there’ll be anything new to find.”

  Vague pains in the belly could presage a host of developing disorders, Fingal thought, and any discussion of them would take place out of the patient’s hearing.

  Wilcoxson turned to Paddy. “Keep an eye on him and let us know if anything important changes. You’ll know where to find me, Mister O’Rourke.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  It was important to be formal in front of the patients, and CPOs, less formally called Chief, were entitled to the title of Mister.

  “Just try to rest, Stewart.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Right, Lieutenant O’Reilly, come with me.”

  They had to walk halfway across the sick bay to get to the door leading to the lobby outside and the companionway up. Once they were out of the patient’s hearing, Wilcoxson said, “Stewart’s apparently a good lad. I’ve spoken with his divisional officer and we don’t think he’s swinging the lead, trying to be excused duties. I think he is sick.” He stopped for a moment. “Are you a betting man, Fingal?”

  Fingal laughed. “I’ve been known to risk a bob or two.”

  “Right then, a pink gin says he’s going to blow up acute appendicitis before midnight.”

  “You’re on, Richard.” Fingal offered a hand, which was shaken. He agreed with his senior’s opinion, but thought the price of a pink gin worth it, if only to further an early developing friendship.

  “Good.” Richard opened the door. “We’ll settle that bet later, once we’ve made a final diagnosis. For the time being, when we get to the wardroom anteroom I’ll introduce you to my other staff. And as a welcome aboard, the first drink’s on me.”

  F
ingal grinned. From what he’d already seen of his senior, it would seem unlikely he’d take umbrage at a request for something other than the naval officers’ preferred tipple of sweet Plymouth gin with a hint of Angostura bitters. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to buy me a Jameson instead?”

  “Bloody bog-trotter,” Richard Wilcoxson said, but his grin was relaxed and natural. “I think Paddy was right, Fingal.” He produced a mangled stage-Irish impersonation. “Fair play ’til you, sir. I t’ink you’ll fit in here, grand altogether.”

  9

  He Had a Fever

  “Four pints, please, Willie,” O’Reilly said, “and can you bring them over when they’re ready?” He inclined his head to where Barry, Donal, and Rory Auchinleck sat in the midst of the packed pub. Saturday evening and every table in the Mucky Duck was taken, with men standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar. The hum of conversation, bursts of laughter, clinking of glasses on the bar and on tabletops rose and fell.

  “Aye certainly, Doc.” Willie Dunleavy had to raise his voice to be heard. He started to pour the black ale into four straight glasses. “Did youse get Kinky moved in all right, the day?”

  “We did indeed.” O’Reilly smiled. The only way to keep anything confidential in Ballybucklebo was to tell no one but yourself … and even then it might get out.

  “That’s good. Councillor Bishop come in earlier for a wee jar. He was blowing til everybody how he’d loaned youse a van for free. He’s not the boy til hide his light under a bushel, so he’s not. Mind you,” Willie lowered his voice until it was just audible, “and no harm til Mister Bishop, but he’s been a much nicer man since he took that wee turn last Halloween and scared the living bejasus out of himself.” Willie let the Guinness in the glasses settle.

  O’Reilly laughed. “Bertie isn’t a shy man. He’s always believed in credit where credit’s due—particularly when it’s due to him.” He fished out his briar and lit up, adding to the tobacco fug that struggled with the smell of beer for supremacy in the low-ceilinged single room. “I’d better get back to my table, Willie.”