The Story of Dr. Wassell Page 5

  As soon as the train restarted, McGuffey came over to the corner where he sat and, handing him some change, remarked: “I suppose you’re wondering what happened to me, Doc?”

  “No, I’m not wondering at all. I know. You went off with a girl and you had some drinks and by doing all that you lost your chance of getting out.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Well, it’s all your own fault.”

  “Sure…But besides the girl and the drinks there was something else. I went to the Navy people and tried to join one of the ships.”

  “Then you must be crazy. You’re under orders—same as we all are…don’t you realize that? You can’t go acting like the lone ranger in this outfit—nobody can…I suppose they made that pretty clear to you.”

  “Sure, they did, and I got mad. One of them—he was a doctor—told me I had to have plastic surgery on my ear and it would take six months. I told him he was a damn fool and I didn’t want any plastic surgery, I wanted to get back in the Navy. So he booted me out, and then I was so mad I had more drinks, and when I got to the dock the Breskens had left. I thought you’d all of you gone on it, but then somebody said you were back at the railway station. I got here just in time to jump on the train.”

  “Just in time is right. Well, I hope it teaches you a lesson.”

  “There’s only one more thing, Doc. Since I am back with you, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it, you might let me give you a hand sometimes.”

  “I’ll not only let you,” answered the doctor grimly, “I’ll make you.”

  McGuffey did not seem discomfited by the reply. “Okay, Doc. Then let’s have a drink on it.” He produced a couple of bottles of beer from some mysterious hide-out.

  “I told you not to get one for yourself.”

  “You said not to drink any, Doc. And I didn’t…so far.”

  “All right, all right.”

  Presently McGuffey remarked: “I guess it counts against you in the Navy to do what I did.”

  “You mean asking to be taken back before they want you?”

  “No, not so much that—but—well, making a scene and calling a doctor a damn fool.”

  For some reason (certainly not one he could explain to McGuffey) the doctor began to smile. “Listen,” he said, suddenly less angry with McGuffey because of a recollection that crossed his mind. “Listen, son…it’s no good crying over spilt milk. And as for the doctor—aw, don’t worry about that . I’ve called plenty of doctors fools in my time…”

  He kept recollecting, during the rest of the long train journey; because most of the men had fallen asleep, and he couldn’t sleep himself. Even McGuffey had fallen asleep. He remembered that diphtheria business, when he was medical officer and wanted to give free inoculations to everybody and some of the local doctors had claimed it was unethical to do things for nothing if patients could pay for them. “You damn fools,” he had said then, at an association meeting, “I suppose you’d rather have a diphtheria epidemic than lose a few of your measly little two and a half bucks…” Which, of course, had possibly been unfair, and had certainly been unwise. But then he had done quite a few unwise things in his life. Enough, anyhow, to give him a slight fellow feeling for McGuffey.

  He moved quietly round the box car, watching the men as they slept. And suddenly a queer feeling came over him—that they were not just the men from the Marblehead any more; they were his men, even including McGuffey. It was an awful and yet a rather gentle thought. He lit a cigarette and stuck it into his long cigarette holder and began puffing at the doorway of the car—a sliding door that stood a few inches open to admit enough night air for ventilation. The Javanese countryside rushed past, the strange trees almost brushing the train, and all at once, on a horizon momentarily disclosed by a dip in the slope of the railway cutting, he saw a pale glare flashing upwards to the sky.

  They arrived just after dawn, and the doctor thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. It was almost as if he had never before noticed how beautiful the hospital and its grounds really were. The sun rose over the rim of the hill and flooded the tops of the trees with light, while deep in their shadows the bungalows and one-story wings were still half-hidden. Then, as the ambulance took the curving upward drive that led to the main entrance, a little cool breeze stirred the foliage, so that the first sunshine made a patchwork on the stucco walls, on the stone portico when they approached it, and on the faces of the nurses who were there to greet them.

  This, the doctor thought, as he began to wave his greeting from a hundred yards distant—this was the place where, in any sane world, the men would stay till they were completely healed, where they could rest till they were ready to make the journey down to the sea and the ships.

  But it was not a sane world.

  Until dawn he had been able to see flames on the horizon that meant either air raids or that the Dutch were destroying oil wells; he could not see anything now, but from time to time, over the thin air, came the sound of heavy, distant explosions.

  The nurses gave the men a wonderful welcome. They had tea for them, and sherry, and little cakes; they laughed and perhaps also cried as they scampered alongside the stretchers, just as if this were some kind of party that had been interrupted and to which the guests were now being welcomed back. Three Martini took special care of Renny, who had stood the journey less well than the others; and Dr. Voorhuys, as soon as the men were settled in their beds, came round and said a few words to all who were not already falling asleep.

  The doctor thanked Dr. Voorhuys in words that were few because they were so deeply felt.

  Dr. Voorhuys smiled and went so far as to pat the shoulder of his colleague from Arkansas. He was an austere man, and he did not pat shoulders easily. “Of course,” he said, “you and your men are doubly welcome because we know how disappointed you must all be. But it could not he helped. And you did right to bring them back here. There has been an air raid on Tjilatjap during the night.”

  “You know that?”

  “It came through—by telephone—a few hours ago. But it was only a very little air raid.” Dr. Voorhuys said that almost as if an air raid could be something rather weak and pathetic.

  “They tried for the docks, I suppose?”

  “Yes, they sank one or two ships. And they will try again and sink more…But of course that does not mean they will invade the country. It will just be very uncomfortable—for places like Tjilatjap.”

  “And even here?”

  “I cannot see any reason why they should raid us. We are not a seaport or an industrial target.”

  “All the same, though, things are getting closer.”

  “Undoubtedly. Oh, undoubtedly…And it occurs to me, remembering the argument we had once before, that if there is anything your men would like—whether it is against any of our strict rules or not…”

  “You mean like the smoking?”

  “Yes, like the smoking.”

  The doctor had a sudden thought. “Perhaps there is something. The men are so low today that I’d like to give ‘em a surprise when they wake up.” He hesitated, realizing that what was on his mind required tact. “Your hospital food is always wonderful, but the men are used to plainer dishes…less fancy, if you get me…more like the kind of thing they had in the Navy, or in their own homes…”

  “Of course that would be a question of cooking,” mused Dr. Voorhuys.

  “Yes, sure. And if you like, one of my men could help—he happens to be a cook, and he’s spoiling for a job right now…”

  “Ah, I know whom you must mean. The man with the burned ears.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “How comes it that he returned here with you—surely he was well enough to have gone on with the others?”

  The doctor did not feel he could go into the details. “It was just chance,” he answered at length. “One of those things that happen. Just chance.”

  “Let us say then a happy chance,”
replied Dr. Voorhuys, in a rather stately way to indicate that the conversation might end there. “Perhaps during the day you will introduce him to the kitchen staff…”

  The doctor realized that there were many risks in introducing McGuffey to the kitchen staff, but he was so rapidly developing a risk-taking mood that he took the bold plunge, after a talk with McGuffey in which the latter had very little chance to say anything but yes and no. A bit more of this sort of thing, thought the doctor with wry amusement afterwards, and I shall be a real martinet…

  The fact that there had been an air raid, even a small one, on Tjilatjap took some of the sting out of his own personal misgivings. He wouldn’t bother to tell the men about it (because it might make them fear a raid on the inland town), but for himself it seemed possible that he had got his men away just in time. It could be an omen—or couldn’t it?—of some future hairsbreadth saving of their lives. And suddenly, along with the omen, if it were one, came awareness of the job that he had still to do and was still only just beginning to realize. But next time there must be no hitch, no confusion, no mishandling.

  While the men still slept he telephoned the local airfield, where there were British and American planes. After a long delay he got through to an American Air Force major, introduced himself and explained his position, then waited for an answer to a question he had not yet asked.

  He got another question. “How many are there of you?”

  “Eight stretcher cases. And one other.”

  “Making ten with yourself?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s possible. We haven’t any definite orders yet. We’re hanging around ourselves waiting for them. Call back in an hour and I’ll let you know. But you’d have to pack up quick.”

  “Quick as you want us.”

  “Okay.”

  Then he tried to telephone the Naval officer in Tjilatjap, but could not get through. He did, however, speak to some other man in authority, who replied brusquely: “Get out with your men any way except through here. We were raided last night and expect more today. And there are subs outside the harbor that got two of our ships.”

  “Not the Breskens ?” queried the doctor in sharp alarm.

  “Don’t know. Don’t know any of the details.”

  He waited till the hour was over, then telephoned again to the airfield. The major said merely: “We’ve only thirteen planes and there’s a crowd of us have to go—but we can make room for you on the last one.”

  “Sure, that’s fine. We’re not superstitious.”

  “Not what? Oh, I see—you mean the thirteenth plane?…Well, anyway, your bad cases can lie down—more or less. It’ll be damned uncomfortable, but it won’t last long—that is, if we’re lucky.”

  “How long?” inquired the doctor.

  “Say nine or ten hours. That means extra gas, so we can’t take luggage. Not even a razor blade. Get that?”

  “Sure. When do you want us at the field?”

  “I’ll call you an hour ahead of time. It’s three miles—you’d better know the way. Is an hour long enough for you?”

  “Plenty.”

  “All right, I’ll call you. It won’t be till night.” The doctor went back to the ward and looked at the sleeping men. It was still high afternoon, with the sun warm but not oppressive. He went to each plan’s bed and stooped over him, knowing that many had worsened and none could possibly have improved after the ordeal of the previous day. He caught Three Martini’s eye on him when he stood at Renny’s bedside, and he wondered what was in her mind, and if she could possibly be reading his.

  Sun, the Chinese, woke when he approached; still in considerable pain, the boy had no complaints. The doctor spoke to him, making a little joke as usual, but there was no smile.

  The doctor said in Chinese, for something to say: “You are like a Chinese boy I once knew in China. You are very like him—even in appearance. Many people in my country think that Chinese people all look alike, but of course that is not so to me, because I have lived in China many years. This boy served me at a mission station in Wuchang. He was a nice boy and I was deeply attached to him. And he was just like you.”

  Sun answered: “Yes, he was very like me. He was my brother.”

  “What? “

  Then Sun explained. It was not such an extreme coincidence, after all, for it was on the doctor’s recommendation that Sun had become a mess boy on one of the Yangtze gunboats of the American Navy. The doctor did not remember making the recommendation, but he had such regard for Sun’s brother that he would doubtless have done so without hesitation. “So you are here because of me,” said the doctor, hoping that this would make Sun smile.

  “Yes,” replied Sun, but he did not smile.

  The doctor had hoped that the men would wake about the time that McGuffey had finished his job in the kitchen, but actually, towards five P.M., the long shrill whine of the air-raid siren came over the air. Dr. Voorhuys entered the ward almost immediately, ordering that the men be awakened. All, he said, must be carried to the air-raid shelter at once; but as the shelter was some distance away, across an open space, and as at that moment came the first crash of bombs, Dr. Voorhuys shrugged and said maybe after all they’d better stay where they were. The concussion was shaking heavy pieces of plaster from the ceiling; one of the pieces, as large and heavy as a golf ball, fell on Renny’s bed and narrowly missed his face. “Pull the mattresses off and have the men lie on them under the beds,” ordered Dr. Voorhuys, and showed how this could be done without disturbing the men more than a little. Then he left, very competent and brisk, to see after the patients in other parts of his hospital. But one still had the impression that he was surprised.

  When he had gone the doctor supervised the carrying out of instructions, telling the grumblers that it really was a worth-while precaution, because although a bed wouldn’t save anyone from a bomb, it might stop those sizable chunks of roof that kept falling. Presently he had them all under cover, and crossed the corridor to recommend the same for Commander Wilson. But Wilson stoutly refused.

  “I’m not getting under any damned bed, and I defy anyone to make me. Besides, my roof isn’t falling.”

  And that was true, since it was made of different material, so the doctor smiled and let it go at that.

  When he got back to the ward he found that some of the nurses, both Dutch and Javanese, had accepted shelter with the men, and most were enjoying cigarettes, judging from the wreaths of smoke that fringed every bed as if the beds themselves were on fire. The doctor thought it was a very odd spectacle, especially with the murmur of conversation and a few girlish giggles; it reminded him of something, he could not exactly say of what, and perhaps it was best not to remember. He was not sorry about the smoking and giggling; there were worse things that could happen during air raids. As the bombing and the fall of plaster continued he shouted: “All right, boys—you’re okay—nothing to worry about!”

  Then suddenly he saw a bed whose mattress still lay on top. McGuffey’s, of course. “Where’s McGuffey?” he thought, and almost exclaimed; but it occurred to him that wherever McGuffey might be, this was no moment to look for him. So he got under McGuffey’s bed, not bothering about the mattress, and saw a piece of plaster as big as a cocoanut crash to the floor within reach of his hand. “Gosh,” he thought, “getting under here was certainly a good idea.”

  Three Martini and Renny were under the bed next to his at one side; they were not talking or giggling or smoking, because Renny was too ill. But on his other side were Edmunds and a rather pretty Dutch nurse who spoke a little English.

  “Say, Doc,” Edmunds called out in a rather impudent voice, “what made you go in for being a doc?”

  The doctor did not mind the impudence, if it amused them and kept their minds off the raid. He answered: “Well, it was like this. I was bit by a mad dog in Arkansas when I was a kid and they sent me up to Johns Hopkins at Baltimore for the Pasteur treatment. I guess that impressed me a lot one
way and another.”

  There was an immediate outburst of laughter, as if it were great fun to be bitten by a mad dog in Arkansas.

  “Oh, you’re kidding, Doc…”

  “No, I’m not. It was a mad dog all right. But I guess even a dog had a right to be mad that year. A hundred and ten in the shade, it was, and so much humidity…Why, they say even a snake sweats in Arkansas in August.”

  “Ever been bit by a snake, Doc?” somebody else asked.

  “Sure I have. I lay down in a field once right on top of a rattler. Didn’t rattle soon enough—I guess that snake was as tired as I was…”

  The men went on laughing. When, half an hour later, the all-clear signal sounded, the doctor felt they had already half forgiven him.

  As if in swift reaction the ward became quite cheerful during that early evening. (Except for the few men who were still in heavy pain and could not escape from it save by fresh doses of artificially induced sleep.) The sun went down over the hills, and the waking men and the nurses ate heartily together and enjoyed themselves. And suddenly, in the midst of it, came an intrusion that might have been depressing, or at least sobering; but which, in the mood they were all in, made the atmosphere almost gay. A British Tommy, from whose legs had just been extracted two machine-gun bullets, was wheeled in straight from the operating theater, and for a moment it seemed as if the men from the Marblehead must hush their voices out of respect for a more recent sufferer. But the Tommy soon relieved them from any such obligation. “Gawd,” he exclaimed, as they laid him gently down. “A bed, a bath, and a square meal! I ain’t ‘ad any of ‘em for a month—it’s worth a couple of Jap bullets, strike me if it ain’t!”

  The doctor would not permit the square meal, but he gave consent to a less ambitious one, and also to a smoke afterwards; whereat a shower of cigarettes was aimed at the newcomer from all directions.

  He was such a cheerful little bloke. He told them he had been shot in the recent raid on the airfield; he wasn’t badly hurt, he didn’t even seem to be in much pain. “You boys ain’t ‘arf lucky to be in a place like this,” he said, grinning at the Javanese nurse who was attending to him.