The red bar-shaped light came on. They were bringing in the first wounded, the most serious ones from the convoy; others, less seriously hurt, had been lifted to the nearest ships in the convoy to have their wounds attended to later in Halifax.
As the nurses hurried to the emergency bays, rubber soles squeaking along carpetless passageways, it struck Lana how well insulated the ship was, for the big Chinook was almost upon them and yet the sound of both its rotors was barely audible. Until she reached the floodlit stern. Opening the last door, she saw rain pelting through the air above the landing platform, a platform that only weeks before had been a swimming pool, tourists languidly drowsing their hours away en route to — where, it didn’t matter, the journey itself being the occasion. She bowed her head in the face of the driving noise and spray, then withdrew, as ordered by the deck officer, to what had been a “pub” aboard the cruise liner. At least, she thought, there was no doubt about the destination of this ship, the purpose of one’s life aboard her, as stretcher after stretcher was lowered and unloaded by seamen straining and slipping on the weather-wild deck.
Despite the stabilizers of the Bahama Queen, the ship was rising and falling enough to make unloading the Chinooks a precarious business as they hovered twenty feet above the deck like some great insects in the night, intravenous bottles swinging with even the slightest roll in the choppy sea, everyone anxious for the ship to be under way so she could get her nose into the wind and reduce the yaw.
Refusing the bright yellow wet-weather gear available to her, Matron was the first nurse to meet the incoming wounded on the blustery deck. She, like the officer of the deck, had ordered the others to wait inside, and watching her, several of the nurses warned that she’d catch her death of a cold, but Lana doubted it. “The cold would be too afraid,” she told her friends.
Yet Lana admired “Battle-ax,” as Matron had become known among the junior nurses, and when one of them commented, “It’s a grandstand play, that’s all. Wants to show how macho she is,” Lana, looking out at the matron’s stout frame, no more than a white woolen cardigan over her uniform, and rubber boots, which Matron insisted on calling “gum boots,” to protect her from the elements, disagreed.
“I don’t think she wants to look tough,” said Lana.
“Well then, what’s she doing it for?” asked Elizabeth. “She got a death wish?”
“I think she wants to be the first one the men see when they come aboard.”
“Lordy,” said Elizabeth, “that face ain’t gonna cheer them up, honey. One look at her, they’ll want to head back to war.” The other nurses laughed except for Lana, her arms crossed, mood pensive as her group of four waited to be assigned one of the wounded.
“No, I think it’s important to her,” Lana continued, “that the wounded see a nurse’s uniform. Know they’re going to be looked after straightaway.” Lana paused for a moment, trying to recall the words from one of the Halifax lectures: “Remember, emotional first aid in the first few hours is psychologically…”
Elizabeth chimed in, “…as important to recovery as hands-on medical treatment.”
“Very good, Liz,” clapped one of the others.
Elizabeth was nodding toward the deck as the last two stretchers were lowered, ropes on either end held taut by deck crew to stop them from spinning. “Talking ‘bout ‘hands-on treatment,’ children, I’d like to get my hands on that bosun. I’d give that sweetheart all the first aid he wanted.”
“Elizabeth!” said Lana. “That’s disgusting.”
Elizabeth smiled across at her friend. “Lana, this war’s just startin,’ honey, and it’s gonna get a whole lot worse ‘fore it gets better.”
“If it can get better,” put in one of the two Canadian nurses.
“Exactly,” said Elizabeth. “So get it when you can, babe, before the mushrooms start sproutin’.”
“My God,” said the other Canadian girl. “You really think some crazy’ll push the button?”
Elizabeth, watching Matron trailing the last casualty into the reception area on the starboard side, where seamen were unbuckling the wounded, replied, “Some crazy started that, honey.”
All ten casualties now unloaded, the staff in the reception room, once the ship’s stern deck casino, were now quickly returning the stretchers to the chopper.
The matron entered, soaking wet. “La Roche, your charge is Spence — first name William.” She looked at the other two Canadian nurses. “You two prep him. I want a full sheet on him as soon as possible. La Roche?”
“Matron?” Lana had given up on getting her to call her Miss Brentwood.
“Before he goes into surgery, check his tags for allergies,” said Matron.
“Yes, Matron.”
The matron paused. “Have any of you seen an amputation before? I mean in theater, not in the training films.”
None of them had.
“Well, now’s your chance. My guess is you’ll be seeing lots of them, but there’s no time like the present. There is no observation theater aboard, of course, but I could ask the surgeon.”
“I wouldn’t mind, Matron,” said Elizabeth.
“Very well.” She looked challengingly at the other nurses, her eyes settling on Lana. “I think you should. More experience you get, more use you’ll be. If, of course, you want to be useful.”
They were all shamed into it.
“Good,” Matron said. “Theater Two in—” she lifted the watch that was resting on her ample bosom—”oh four fifteen,” she said, and let the watch go. “The captain will be heading into the wind to give us as much stability as possible, but there will, of course, be sliding from time to time. That’s where you can be of some help. Pick the instrument up and into the sterilizer straightaway.”
“Is it a bullet wound?” asked Elizabeth, in a tone that told them all she’d seen plenty of those.
“We’re not sure, but both hands will have to come off. Hanging by mere threads.”
“Oh, Matron—” One of the Canadian nurses turned the color of chalk; she had been feeling a little seasick since the ship had stopped, wallowing, more at the mercy of the sea than when under way.
“If only someone had packed them in ice,” said the matron matter-of-factly. “But the helo had to pick up another four casualties.” Lana was struck by the fact that the matron’s British turn of speech became decidedly Americanized when referring to military matters, such as calling the choppers “helos” rather than “helicopters,” as the two Canadian nurses did.
“My God,” said the other Canadian. “Are there any ships left in that convoy?”
“I’ve no idea. Ours is not to reason why. All right, enough chatter. To work.” She paused. “Oh, one more thing. After you scrub up, be sure not to use your hands to maintain your balance. It’s the natural thing to do aboard ship and it’s very unhygienic.”
As they undressed the wounded Englishman, Lana carefully avoided looking anywhere else but at the man’s face. It was the first shock she was to receive that night. He looked so young as to be no more than fifteen or sixteen — never mind that the ID tags said he was nineteen. There was no allergy code on the tags.
As they cut away the young sailor’s oil- and water-sodden blue shirt, woolen sweater, and trousers, careful not to touch the raw lumps of mangled bone and flesh that had been his hands, the strong smell of oil persisted, and Lana, bending down, sniffing unselfconsciously like a bloodhound over a corpse, discovered that the oil smell seemed to be coming from his hair, and made a note of it. Elizabeth smelled it, too. “They start that bone saw up in there, they could have a fire.”