“Dr. Philips-” Mrs. Graham was indignant.
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Graham. I have a duty to help. Forgive me, but I must go.” I could see the anger in her eyes. I’d disappointed her in some way, but there was nothing I could do about it now. “Dr. Philips?”
He touched his nonexistent hat to her, then took my arm and led me away, his strides twice the length of mine.
“I expect I’ve caused you no little trouble, Miss Crawford. But I’m rather desperate, and my patient comes first. I’ll do my best to smooth matters over for you.”
He was a tall man, prematurely graying, with dark eyes. A strong odor of pipe tobacco swirled in his wake as I tried to keep pace with him. We’d reached the house he’d just come from and were hurrying up the walk. “What’s the matter with your patient?”
As I spoke I looked back. Mrs. Graham was standing where we’d left her, staring after us. I turned away and followed Dr. Philips through the door of the house.
Dr. Philips was saying, “This is a man who suffers from shell shock. You don’t have any preconceived notions about that, do you? Cowardice, and all that? No? That’s good. He terrifies his poor wife, but there’s nothing she can do when he has one of his spells. I’ll give him an injection and he’ll calm down. But you’ll be there to see to it that he does himself no harm meanwhile.”
I had had some experience with shell shock. None of it the sort of thing I wanted to walk into the middle of, not knowing the circumstances.
“Who is in the house with this man-besides his wife?” I asked.
“No one at the moment, worst luck. It’s the housemaid’s day off, and she’s gone to Cranbrook to visit her sister.” We stepped into the cold entry, went through the inner doors, and turned down a passage on the left side of the stairs.
A harried young woman stepped out of the nearest room. She had been crying. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do-I left him there, I couldn’t watch him any longer.”
“You did just the right thing, Mrs. Booker. Now run along to your mother’s house and let her take care of you. Miss Crawford and I will see to Ted.”
He was walking on as he spoke, opening the last door along the passage, pushing it wide for me to enter. It was a small back parlor where a man sat in a chair in front of the windows, a shotgun across his knees.
I stopped, surprised. I hadn’t expected to find him armed. Small wonder the man’s wife had been terrified.
“Come along, Ted,” Philips said in a strong voice. “You aren’t going to kill yourself here, in the house. Certainly not in front of this young woman. You don’t want to upset her, do you? Let me take the gun and give you something for the pain.”
From across the room Ted Booker stared at him, unaware who the doctor was. I could see the blankness in his eyes. Ignoring us, he went on talking to invisible companions, men he could see clearly and appeared to know well.
He was arguing, vehement and insistent and profane. It appeared that a sniper had already killed three of his men, and he was on the field telephone, asking someone to do something about it.
“I can give you his range, damn it.” His voice was ragged, close to the breaking point. “We can’t hold out much longer. I tell you, the Hun’s got us in his sights-”
He ducked then, swearing, and shouted, “Someone stop that bastard! No, not you, Harry-” There was a garbled exchange, as if he were struggling with another man, the shotgun jerking wildly in his grip. And then he cried out, screaming Harry’s name over and over again, springing to his feet and finally bending to someone lying there in front of him, pleading with the man not to die.
I said quietly to Dr. Philips, “Who is Harry?”
“His brother.”
Dear God, no wonder this poor soul was distraught!
The doctor tried again, but I could see he wasn’t getting anywhere asking the man to buck up and put the past behind him. Ted Booker was in a dark place no one else could reach. But there might be a way…
Ignoring the shotgun, I crossed the room to take Booker’s arm. “We must get him to the dressing station,” I told him urgently. “Hurry, he’s bleeding badly.”
He shook me off. “Harry, speak to me, for God’s sake, speak to me.”
“If you wait any longer, he’ll die.” I reached out and took the shotgun away as his hands flexed open, trying to help the wounded man. I put the weapon behind me, and Dr. Philips was there, I could feel his grip above mine, then he stepped back. I held on to Booker’s arm. “What rank was he? Do you know?” I asked Dr. Philips in a low voice.
“Er-lieutenant, I think.”
“Don’t stand there staring, Lieutenant Booker! Here, take his shoulders, I’ll get his feet.”
He seemed to rouse himself, looking up at me, then telling Harry it would be all right, there was help now.
And then between us, we lifted the wounded man I couldn’t see, and Booker started out the door and down the passage with him between us, urging me in his turn to hurry, hurry.
Confused as we entered the passage by the stairway, Booker hesitated.
I said, “That cot. Over there. Doctor! This case is critical.” We put Harry down at the foot of the stairs, with Dr. Philips hovering in the background.
“Well done, Lieutenant. Look, here’s someone to see to Harry now. Sit down over there-yes, out of the way.” I led him to a chair against the opposite wall, put out a hand, and Dr. Philips set the needle into my palm. “Here, you’re exhausted. You must be calm when you see him again. Let me give you this-” The needle went home, and Ted Booker started up. I thought for an instant he was going to strike me. “Steady, young man, or I’ll make you wait outside the tent,” I said harshly, the voice of Matron and not to be trifled with. “Now sit down and be quiet while we do our work.”
But he shook me off, still calling to Harry.
Dr. Philips came up, took his arm as I had done, and said, “Soldier, you’re in the way. I can’t work-sit down. See, you’re distressing the wounded man-”
I turned my head to stare at him-it didn’t sound like Dr. Philips’s normal voice at all. It sounded like a medical orderly giving orders. We had found ourselves swept up in Ted Booker’s nightmare, playing our roles to an invisible audience.
Booker, distraught, clung to him. “Harry-” he began.
“Harry’s in good hands. You mustn’t let your men down, you know. Good example and all that.”
We finally got through to Booker, and then he sat down on the floor and began to cry, holding his dead brother in his arms and rocking him like a child. It wouldn’t be long now before the injection took effect.
I said softly to Dr. Philips, “The shotgun. Get rid of it.”
He turned to do as I’d asked, and I bent over to touch Booker’s shoulder.
“Lieutenant. Come in here, out of the rain.”
Ted Booker got up, stumbling a little, and let me lead him toward the dining room.
Halfway there, he twisted free and went back, calling for Harry. But his words had already begun to slur, and it was just a matter of minutes before he was half conscious and easily led up the stairs to the nearest bedroom. We got him onto the bed, his shoes off, his collar loosened, and a blanket over him against the chill. By that time he was out, and snoring from the drug.
Dr. Philips said, “Thank you for your help. You must have done this before-you got through to him.”
I couldn’t tell him I’d never dealt with such a severe case before. Not alone. But I’d learned from Dr. Paterson not to interrupt whatever world the patient inhabited. It was easier to enter it, and use it to help.
“They’re accustomed to the sisters. They usually mind well enough.” I was suddenly very tired, a reaction to the tension we’d been under.