Surgeon at Arms

'I eat it all myself,' he said. 'Incidentally, I pay for it from my own pocket.'

'But you buy churns of the stuff!'

'I happen to be particularly fond of ice-cream.'

Captain Pile looked baffled. Trevose was an eccentric, quite off his head. 'Furthermore,' Pile recalled, 'you sent six shirts to the hospital laundry last week. The maximum permitted number is three.'

'Good God,' muttered Graham.

When Bluey arrived at the annex he had no idea what might be in store for him. He had no imagination at all. It was an essential ingredient of his limitless courage. The Ministry of Information, hungry for heroes, had trumpeted him as the Australian 'ace', printing his photograph and his number of enemy kills in the newspapers. He was a rewarding subject, tall, good-looking with dark wavy hair, unmarried, a sportsman splendid at cricket, swimming, and tennis. But a hero has no more likelihood of being pleasant than lesser men. Bluey was pushful, overbearing, and vain, as malicious behind the backs of his superiors as into the faces of anyone unlucky enough to be set below him. Since puberty he had seduced as many girls as he could lay hands on, regarding them all as the fortunate recipients of his passing favour. In the air, he would risk his neck for anyone. On the ground he would lift a finger only for himself. No one in the squadron had much time for Bluey.

'Good morning, Flight-Lieutenant Jardine.' A young nurse with a mature air, holding a board with a clip of notes, approached as he stood at the ward door trying to take it all in. 'We've put you in the far end bed. That's a bit of an honour, you know. It's supposed to be quieter.'

Bluey looked round anxiously. It was certainly a change from the last hospital. The long narrow lower ward of the annex was crammed with beds, though the patients were mostly dressed and lounging about, smoking, laughing, or chatting noisily. They struck him as an odd bunch. The majority were bandaged heavily about the head, some wore slings and plaster casts, others had their hands in bulky dressings like boxing-gloves. The ward radio was at full blast. It always was at Smithers Botham, from early tea to lights out, right through the war. Graham often idly wondered how many people died to the strains of Geraldo.

'Do you want me to turn in?' Bluey asked.

'Not unless you're tired. In the annex we like to keep everyone up and about. Dr Bickley thinks it stops you getting bad chests.'

'Who's Dr Bickley?' asked Bluey warily. You never knew how many of these medical jokers were waiting to have a go at you. 'I'm under Dr Trevose.'

'Dr Bickley's the Gasman. The anaesthetist. You'll meet him later. You can smoke whenever you like, there aren't any rules. Have you got enough cigarettes? The boys'll help you light them.'

'I'm all right.' He wasn't going to feel gratitude towards anybody.

'Is there anything special you like to eat? We'll try to get it, but we can't guarantee results.'

'I'm not particular.'

'Here's Peter.' The nurse smiled. 'He'll look after you. He's the oldest inhabitant.'

The nurse left Bluey with another man in flight lieutenant's uniform, his tunic hanging from his shoulders and his sleeves pinned to the pockets. Bluey inspected him with fascination. His face was mostly hidden in crepe bandages, but a strange yellowish-pink sausage sprouted from the middle of it. This was fixed to his left wrist, held against his cheek by a plaster cast. His hands were bandaged, but his thumb was free enough to grasp a cigarette in a long holder.

'I'm Peter Thomas,' announced the apparition amiably. 'Welcome to the mausoleum. You're the Australian, aren't you? I remember seeing you in the _Daily Mirror._ If I recollect aright, you were sharing the page with Jane.'

'What do they do to you in this place?'

'Make you look like an advert for Brylcreem.'

Bluey stared round. 'How long before they let you out?'

'Well, it's inclined to be a long job, as possibly you can see for yourself. The Wizz doesn't believe in rushing things.'

'The Wizz?'

'The Wizard. Trevose. He made this elephant's trunk affair. It's a wrist pedicle. It started life as a slice of skin from my belly. The Wizz kept my wrist attached to my navel for weeks, before raising it to higher things. It's all a matter of re-establishing the blood supply before making the next move. You'll soon pick up the lingo. We become very professional here, you know. The pedicle's going to be part of my nose, incidentally.'

The two officers started walking along the line of beds.

'It's noisy,' observed Bluey. 'The place I came from, they shut me up alone in a room.'

'Life is very informal in annex D. Everyone mucks in together, all Services, all ranks. It's the Wizz's idea. Good for morale, he says. Though I rather think he does it to annoy the brass-hats. We had an admiral in here last week. He fell on his face down a ladder. Drunk, doubtless. I don't think he cared for the atmosphere much. The only gentleman enjoying privacy at the moment is a German bastard shut in the padded cell.'

As Bluey stopped short his companion gave a laugh. 'Didn't you know? This used to be a nuthouse. The change isn't always apparent. Which part of Australia do you come from?'

'Outside of Melbourne. My people own a sheep-station. I came over to join up before the war.' His near-lidless eyes stared round. 'Maybe all this means I'm on my way back again?'

'They'll notice a change in you,' said Peter Thomas crisply.

It was a remark in the spirit of annex D. The men had grown a shell of arrogance towards the world which had brought them to such straits. To be pitied was so unbearable, any eye sensed to be softening with compassion fired only an explosion of rudeness. The nurses got used to it-if they didn't, Graham had them shifted to more conventional wards. The elderly hospital padre found his attempts to 'cheer up the poor boys' so unwelcome, his Christian fortitude collapsed beneath him and he avoided the place. Even well-meaning ladies with baskets of gifts saw them accepted without a flicker of gratitude. After all, the patients felt the country owed them more for their pains than a few bars of chocolate.

'I suppose I've caught it pretty badly?' Bluey hazarded.

'Oh, I've seen worse,' Peter Thomas told him with an air of authority.

'When did they get you?'

'I was one of the earliest. I've been in here so long I'm practically one of the staff.'

'What's happening outside? Nobody's told me any news.'

'The Germans seem to be crying off. In daylight, at any rate.'

'That's funny. I thought we'd go on like that. Flying every day till the end of the war.' They stopped at Bluey's bed, the last before the partition dividing off the operating theatre. 'I was just starting to believe in my luck.'

'If you like, I'll see if I can find a newspaper,' Peter Thomas offered helpfully. 'Though the selection isn't very uplifting. There'll probably be a _Daily Press,_ which is good for at least one laugh.'

'Thanks. I reckon I've a lot to catch up.' Bluey sat on his bed and inspected his surroundings. There was no need for mirrors in annex D. He could see himself in the monstrosities all round him. He suddenly realized he was an outcast, a frightening object, something to make any man wince and any woman run away in horror. For the first time the bitterness of his humiliation swept over him. He wanted to cry in self-pity. But his lachrymal glands were burnt, and even to weep was impossible.