Surgeon at Arms
Sedgewick-Smith, and they dropped further. He had often noticed her fluttering in and out of the Tudor house across the village green, but hearing she was a professional busybody had taken pains to avoid her. Besides, she was thick with Denise Bickley, and probably knew far more about his personal affairs than she deserved.
‘Good morning,’ Graham greeted the visitors politely. ‘Anything I can do for you?’
‘I’m afraid a most serious matter has arisen, Mr Trevose,’ Captain Pile told him solemnly.
Oh God, this is going to be a bore, Graham thought. ‘I expect you’ve seen the main entrance this morning?’ the Captain added.
‘No, I came here direct, through the orchard.’
‘A word—a most offensive word—has been written across it in paint. Mrs Sedgewick-Smith was most disturbed to see it.’
‘I’m sorry about that. But—I know the annex has a bad name—why hold my patients responsible?’
‘For the simple reason they were seen by the night-porter. Flight Lieutenant Jardine and some others.’ Graham nodded slowly. That’s encouraging, he thought, Bluey’s getting enough function in his hands to wield a paint brush. ‘Then I can only apologize most sincerely to both of you and Mrs Sedgewick-Smith.’
‘You realize they’d been drinking?’
‘Had they? I don’t mind that. I even encourage it,’ Graham explained mildly. ‘It’s a matter of pride to my anaesthetist if they feel capable of taking a few drinks after his attentions.’ Seeing the captain’s irritated expression he continued, ‘You see, I want these men to live a normal life. Or as normal as they can manage. I want them to think of an operation as something as casual as a visit to the dentist, not the upheaval of a lifetime.’
‘That’s all very well,’ the captain told him testily, ‘but you have to maintain discipline—’
‘I’ll talk to them,’ said Graham firmly. ‘I promise. Isn’t that enough? It won’t happen again.’
‘No, that is not enough, Mr Trevose. You cannot simply take the affair into your own hands. It is my duty to see that appropriate action is taken.’
‘Listen, Captain,’ said Graham briskly, ‘I alone am responsible for these patients. Neither you nor the Army nor anyone else has the first idea how to cope with them. Will you kindly understand that?’
His patience suddenly broke and he felt angry. In peacetime he had been a somebody, the friend of rich and influential men, a doctor with a name almost as familiar to the general public as Lord Horder’s. Now he was being lectured by some hack in a uniform which passed as a substitute for intelligence.
‘Can’t you see? These men aren’t invalids.’ Graham’s outstretched arm indicated the ward, where the patients were lying in bed reading the Sunday papers, trying hard to give the impression they weren’t listening. Bluey himself was asleep at the end, snoring loudly. ‘Underneath their wounds and scars they’re full of life, fit and lusty. They were youngsters with charm and sex-appeal, and what happened? In a few seconds they were turned into objects of horror. Then they were locked up in this converted madhouse. And that’s not to be their fate for a week, or a month, or even a year. When the war’s over and everyone’s back in their comfortable little slots these patients of mine will still be coming up for another graft, another pedicle, another operation of some sort. How are they going to face that miserable prospect if they can’t run wild now and then?’
Captain Pile tried to say something, but Graham went on, ‘Do you know what happened in the last war? When I first heard of plastic surgery I was a patient myself in a sanatorium. There was a plastic unit billeted in half the wards. Every afternoon, under King’s Regulations, the men had to be marched by an N.C.O. round the countryside for exercise. You can imagine the effect.
People weren’t so well educated then, were more superstitious. You’d have thought an army of ghouls was advancing on them. They locked their doors, covered their windows, and hid their children. So the Army confined the poor fellows to hospital, with nothing to look at but each other—an inspired piece of morale-building. I don’t want any of that nonsense in this war. There’s one thing my patients ask from the world, and only one. To be treated as normal individuals. Oh, I know it’s difficult, they’re freaks. But the effort isn’t much to ask.’
‘I
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