“Got her, sir!”
“Get the medical team to Griffiths. I think he’s dead.”
“You’re covered in blood over your coat, sir.”
“Just a scratch. Check the front first.”
A few seconds and Yarney appeared shaking his head.
“He’s a goner, sir. Three rounds in his chest and two more lower down. Can’t have lasted a minute, sir. Let’s get you out, sir.”
Peter stood and staggered, unexpectedly weak.
Bracegirdle ran across, having taken the time to put on his uniform, unlike many of the men present.
“The Commander to the sickbay. Mr Griffiths as well. Chief, take SS9 into the hangar. Mr Pickles to take her over, obviously. Payne, telephone to Captain Troughton, tell him what we know at the moment, which is not bloody much! Inform him that Polegate will patrol as normal this morning. Cooks! Early breakfasts! Get hot cocoa on the go as well for soonest. We all need something at five o’clock in the bloody morning!”
“Half past four, sir.”
“Even worse!”
Peter refused a stretcher, walked across to the medical hut reflecting that six months in the Trenches had turned Bracegirdle into a fine young officer, liked as well as respected by the ratings. He must make sure Troughton knew to promote him rapidly.
He was sat down on an upright wooden chair.
“Just taking your upper clothes off, sir. You stay still and we’ll get them off without hurting too much.”
“It’s no more than a scratch. Bullet or a splinter more like, just nicked the flesh.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but there ain’t no hole at the back of your coat. Good chance you’ve got a bullet stuck in your shoulder. Just going to have a look…”
Silence for a while.
“Yes, sir. Gone in under the collar bone and travelled a bit. Reckon maybe it hit something first, got slowed down before it hit you. I’m not touching this, sir. Needs a medical officer, a doctor, not a Sick Berth Attendant One what I am. Jonesy!”
A lean, tiny fellow who Peter vaguely recognised as part of the sick bay, stepped forward.
“Run across to Mr Bracegirdle and say as how the Commander ‘as got to go to the hospital. Ask whether to call an ambulance, what will take the better part of an hour to get here, or to send him off on a stretcher in the back of a Crossley.”
Jonesy ran.
The SBA found a white gown and draped it over Peter’s upper body.
“Cold in early morning, sir. Even late in May, it is.”
They waited less than five minutes, heard a petrol engine outside.
Jonesy appeared.
“Stick the Commander up on a stretcher, SBA.”
Peter grinned as he heard the formality that would never normally be used. The three men in the sickbay would certainly be on Christian name terms with each other, but not in front of the Commanding Officer.
Twenty minutes saw them into the hospital at Eastbourne, the elderly duty doctor half awake and ordering Peter to the operating table.
“Try to do it with a local anaesthetic, sir. Looks as if it is a straightforward low velocity entry wound. What happened and when? This wound is a few hours old.”
Peter explained that he had flown his balloon back from Belgium, being unable to land at night.
“What? What were you doing in Belgium? Forget I asked! None of my damned business! What is the world coming to? Shot in Belgium and flying back to Eastbourne for treatment. Didn’t happen in my day! Still, I have seen enough bullet wounds lately that I remember well what to do with them. Nurse!”
Two nurses moved into action, stripping Peter of his remaining clothing and quickly washing and disinfecting the skin around the wound. One of the pair produced a huge glass hypodermic and advanced on him.
“Don’t look at it if you are going to faint, sir!”
“Sorry, nurse. I hate those damned things!”
“Tut! Dropping bombs on submarines from one hundred feet without turning an eyebrow then going all pale at the sight of a needle!”
The doctor showed interested.
“Are you that one, sir? Well done. A couple of minutes for the injection to take and then we shall see what can be found.”
An unpleasant quarter of an hour disclosed a deformed bullet and scraps of leather, wool and linen from his coat and uniform.
“More dangerous than the damned bullet, sir. All cleaned out and made tidy now. No damage to the bone, or not worth talking about, anyway. Muscle tear that will be annoying, will take longer to heal than all the rest put together. No sense telling you to stay in bed for the next week. Just keep the arm in the sling for at least a fortnight and then exercise carefully. Don’t go out flying for a month – you need to rest and build up your strength. You ought to stay here for two days at least, but you would only be a nuisance to yourself and everybody else. Keep off your feet for a few days.”
The Crossley was waiting and they eased him into the front passenger seat and sent him on his way quietly swearing to himself. He would not have objected to a couple of days rest in a hospital bed but that was for ordinary men – heroes had to be seen to rise above mere wounds.
Troughton appeared as he sat to a breakfast, carefully cut up for him by his steward.
“Sit down, man! What happened? I know Griffiths was killed. Damned bad luck, the boy had a good career in front of him.”
Peter recounted the day’s doings, taking some pains to point out that Intelligence had sent him out with the minimum of briefings and had not even waited to see him take off.
“Bloody hell! That’s poor behaviour. I shall tell the Admiral so. They could and should have done better than that. They can whistle for the use of our balloons in future, Naseby!”
The captain listened to the story of the actual landing and escape.
“You made your delivery and were shot at by a patrol that appeared coincidentally, you believe.”
“I thought I saw a train stopped on the line a half a mile or so distant, on an embankment crossing the river valley.”
“Saw the balloon, stopped and came to investigate? Bad luck and a bright officer combined. Bloody stupid place to have you land, in sight of a busy line!”
Peter agreed, wholeheartedly. The anaesthetic was starting to wear off.
“Griffiths opened up with his Lewis and was hit by return fire, as were you. You then dropped the water ballast and took off fast and hard, very wisely. Nowhere to land in the dark, so you came home.”
“A bit like a stray tomcat, had a night on the tiles and back home bedraggled in the morning, sir.”
“Not how I would describe it, Naseby. You saved the balloon, and that is important to us. Pity about the Belgians – nothing you could do for them, or for Griffiths. Bracegirdle tells me that he had five wounds in chest and upper legs, would have died within seconds. Bad luck for the lad.”
“So it was, sir. A good youngster. Could have done a lot.”
“So could so many others killed in action, Naseby. Home for you for two weeks. Leave Bracegirdle here in command for that time?”
“He is more than competent, sir. Make him acting lieutenant commander now and give him one of the new bases we are opening along the East Coast when I come back.”
“Will do. I shall send a staff car across this morning, Naseby. You and your servant to go home. Come back fit in a fortnight.”
Chapter Twelve
“This is Oadby, Mother. He is my sailor servant.”
She was not entirely sure of the significance of the term; she knew how to make accommodation for the servants of guests. She also knew to remain calm and collected, as was proper, at all times. The sight of her second son, pale faced and haggard, arm in sling, did not alter her show of composure.