didn’t recall Carlisle or Morris, but the curiously named sergeant was not a man you forgot in a hurry.
‘There’ll be another reception tent taking the overspill,’ said Jennings. ‘About a hundred yards up the hill, on the left. I should imagine they are in there.’
De Griffon looked relieved. ‘Thank you, miss. I hope to see you soon, Major.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Watson said. After he had gone he glanced at his nurse before turning his attention back to the new patient. ‘That is one anxious young captain.’
‘The officers become very protective of their charges,’ Jennings said. ‘Often they are like father figures to men ten or fifteen years older than them. It’s strange to see sometimes.’
‘Right, who do we have here?’
‘McCall, sir. Is it no’ a Blighty, Doc?’ the soldier on the stretcher asked in a broad accent once he realized he had Watson’s full attention. Beneath the mask of filth was a mere boy of eighteen or nineteen.
‘Well, let’s take a look,’ Watson said noncommittally. Being a Blighty or not was the least of the lad’s worries. He had read papers on the survival rates from abdominal wounds, of the festering caused by the soil and cloth forced into the lacerating wounds by the shrapnel. Of the resulting gas gangrene, which caused the skin to inflate until it was as tight as a drum before it split and released, as Mrs Gregson had observed, a smell of putrefaction that, once inhaled, was hard to forget. Some of the isolation wards at Bailleul had reeked of it even after repeatedly being scrubbed down.
Watson registered the wound stripe on the lad’s soiled tunic. ‘Where did they get you last time?’
‘Bullet in ma shoulder, sir. No real damage.’ Watson’s own, now ancient, wound in the same location stirred in sympathy. ‘I don’t wan’ it to be a Blighty, sir.’
‘Is that right?’ Watson asked, surprised.
‘Aye. Don’t wan’ to leave ma pals. Don’t you believe wha’ you hear. There’s parts o’ this war that’re reet gut fun.’
Watson winked, as if they were sharing a guilty secret. The man was right; there was a dangerous thrill to conflict, and marvellous comradeship. Some thrived on it, no matter how gruesome the conditions. There was much Watson had missed when he left the army. That, however, had been a different kind of war. Although he supposed some things never changed – the thrill of being tested in battle and coming through head held high, eating, sleeping and fighting alongside men you would lay down your life for, the bittersweet elation of a victory, no matter how small. It could be a euphoric mixture. He had rarely experienced anything quite like it since, apart from when Holmes had stirred him out of his comfortable existence.
‘Staff Nurse Jennings, can you fetch me some scissors? Best take a look at what’s under here.’ He rechecked the label. No ‘M’. Just ‘PAW’, name and rank. ‘Did they give you anything, Private, at the dressing station?’
‘Like wha’, sir?’
‘Something for the pain?’
‘MO had a wee bit of rum. It’s naw too bad.’ He managed a cheerful grin, but it soon faded.
‘Lie down now. We’ll get you something. Morphia, please.’
‘There is none left,’ hissed Jennings.
‘What?’
‘No morphine. We have sent to the Big House for more.’
‘Aspirin, then. You have that?’ It wasn’t a given, as phenol shortages had curtailed production of the drug on both sides.
‘We do.’
‘Then we’ll try that.’ Aspirin might be a German drug, but he was sure the lad wasn’t too fussy. ‘Hold on, any
tinctura opii camphorata
?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
It was the weakest of all the opium preparations, but had the edge on aspirin.
While an orderly went to fetch the elixir, Watson cut away the top swathe of bandage. More blood began to well from the edges. ‘Doesn’t look too terrible,’ he lied. ‘You lay your head back down, Private McCall. Have a little
‘There’ll be another reception tent taking the overspill,’ said Jennings. ‘About a hundred yards up the hill, on the left. I should imagine they are in there.’
De Griffon looked relieved. ‘Thank you, miss. I hope to see you soon, Major.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Watson said. After he had gone he glanced at his nurse before turning his attention back to the new patient. ‘That is one anxious young captain.’
‘The officers become very protective of their charges,’ Jennings said. ‘Often they are like father figures to men ten or fifteen years older than them. It’s strange to see sometimes.’
‘Right, who do we have here?’
‘McCall, sir. Is it no’ a Blighty, Doc?’ the soldier on the stretcher asked in a broad accent once he realized he had Watson’s full attention. Beneath the mask of filth was a mere boy of eighteen or nineteen.
‘Well, let’s take a look,’ Watson said noncommittally. Being a Blighty or not was the least of the lad’s worries. He had read papers on the survival rates from abdominal wounds, of the festering caused by the soil and cloth forced into the lacerating wounds by the shrapnel. Of the resulting gas gangrene, which caused the skin to inflate until it was as tight as a drum before it split and released, as Mrs Gregson had observed, a smell of putrefaction that, once inhaled, was hard to forget. Some of the isolation wards at Bailleul had reeked of it even after repeatedly being scrubbed down.
Watson registered the wound stripe on the lad’s soiled tunic. ‘Where did they get you last time?’
‘Bullet in ma shoulder, sir. No real damage.’ Watson’s own, now ancient, wound in the same location stirred in sympathy. ‘I don’t wan’ it to be a Blighty, sir.’
‘Is that right?’ Watson asked, surprised.
‘Aye. Don’t wan’ to leave ma pals. Don’t you believe wha’ you hear. There’s parts o’ this war that’re reet gut fun.’
Watson winked, as if they were sharing a guilty secret. The man was right; there was a dangerous thrill to conflict, and marvellous comradeship. Some thrived on it, no matter how gruesome the conditions. There was much Watson had missed when he left the army. That, however, had been a different kind of war. Although he supposed some things never changed – the thrill of being tested in battle and coming through head held high, eating, sleeping and fighting alongside men you would lay down your life for, the bittersweet elation of a victory, no matter how small. It could be a euphoric mixture. He had rarely experienced anything quite like it since, apart from when Holmes had stirred him out of his comfortable existence.
‘Staff Nurse Jennings, can you fetch me some scissors? Best take a look at what’s under here.’ He rechecked the label. No ‘M’. Just ‘PAW’, name and rank. ‘Did they give you anything, Private, at the dressing station?’
‘Like wha’, sir?’
‘Something for the pain?’
‘MO had a wee bit of rum. It’s naw too bad.’ He managed a cheerful grin, but it soon faded.
‘Lie down now. We’ll get you something. Morphia, please.’
‘There is none left,’ hissed Jennings.
‘What?’
‘No morphine. We have sent to the Big House for more.’
‘Aspirin, then. You have that?’ It wasn’t a given, as phenol shortages had curtailed production of the drug on both sides.
‘We do.’
‘Then we’ll try that.’ Aspirin might be a German drug, but he was sure the lad wasn’t too fussy. ‘Hold on, any
tinctura opii camphorata
?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
It was the weakest of all the opium preparations, but had the edge on aspirin.
While an orderly went to fetch the elixir, Watson cut away the top swathe of bandage. More blood began to well from the edges. ‘Doesn’t look too terrible,’ he lied. ‘You lay your head back down, Private McCall. Have a little
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