SURGEON AT ARMS

you suggest? That the dressing-stations do nothing in the way of first-aid at all?'

'That's exactly what I do suggest. I'm charitably assuming you treat burns with the equivalent of grannie's cold tea because, one, you can't think of anything better, and two, you want the casualties to feel something's being done for them. Well, something's being done, all right. Medieval mutilation.'

'I really don't think I need comment on that,' said Haileybury wearily. 'Ever since I've known you, you've ruined your advocacy of any cause, worthy or not, with the extravagance of your language.'

Graham suddenly felt angry. 'This situation doesn't need any language at all.' He pointed to the closed door of the wash-house. 'Haven't you eyes to see for yourself? That patient's a pilot officer, observer in a Blenheim, which failed to take off properly for some reason or other. The pilot was burnt to a cinder. By the time that poor devil turned up here his head and neck had skin like an elephant's. You know what it was, don't you? Congealed tannic acid. His hands were worse where he'd tried to pull his blazing clothes off. The fingers were drawn into the palms, webbed together, one black horrible mess. That's his real tragedy. With time and luck I can give him a face which will pass without too much comment in a crowd. But he'll probably never feed or wash himself again, even light his own cigarette. He'll be dependent on someone for the rest of his life. An awful prospect for both parties.'

Haileybury decided to be firm but patient. If the argument was to end in his favour, Trevose needed even more thoughtful handling than usual. 'I can appreciate how you feel involved with these men, Trevose. But you must try and see our arrangements as a whole. The application of tannic acid as a first-aid measure to burns isn't some shot in the dark. It's been most carefully thought out. It is the official procedure. It is _regulation treatment,'_ he emphasized.

'Then it's got to be changed. Do you know the first cases I had in here? A pair of naval ratings, picked up after an hour in the sea at Dunkirk. Both were badly burnt in the arms and legs. Both did splendidly. No tannic acid. Just salt solution like I'm using here, Nature's own.'

'Now you're being fanciful.' Haileybury started to sound irritated. 'I'm certainly not going to let you rush all of us into something entirely new.'

'Am I? Send me a lot more burns and make up your mind in six months. I'd like you to pull a few strings for me, by the way,' Graham invited airily. 'The unit's got to be expanded. I shall have to squeeze a second operating table into the theatre somehow. Tudor Beverley can run that himself. He's good enough. I'll need more assistants. And we want more huts desperately. It's like a slum in here.'

'You might reduce your difficulties if you ceased scouring the countryside for extra patients,' Haileybury told him bleakly.

Graham gave a grin. 'You heard about that, did you? It's the Services' own fault. It's weeks before I see some of the cases. They go on a ghastly traipse all over the shop, rotting for weeks in hospitals in Scotland or Wales, miles away. Faulty organization, that's the trouble. I'd like you to do something about that, too, please, and quickly.'

Haileybury became angry despite himself. 'Have you thought of making life easier for yourself and everyone else with some attempt to understand how Service administration works?'

'The only administration I understand is the one which gets me my own way.'

'No one's yet signed for the extra beds shifted here, sir,' interrupted Captain Pile, who was feeling out of it.

'Oh, do be quiet, Captain!' snapped Haileybury. 'Listen, Trevose, I know you're an enthusiast. Often enough, I'll admit, in a perfectly good cause. But you can't expect the Services to make fundamental changes according to your whim of the moment. Please get that into your mind for a start.'

'Do you imagine I haven't thought about these problems just as carefully as you or anyone else? You must issue instructions banning tannic acid.'

'Are you giving me orders?'

'Yes.'

Haileybury drew a breath. 'You might have the courtesy to recognize my position, even if you don't respect it.'

'Why should I? It's I who have to handle the patients. Anyway, I know far more about burns than you do.'

'You would seem to have lost nothing of your high opinion of yourself.'

'It's a justifiable opinion,' Graham told him off-handedly.

'As far as I could make out before the war,' Haileybury exclaimed, 'your best skill was concentrated in your cock.' He stopped, looking confused. He could not remember using the expression before. Trevose always seemed to bring out vulgarity in him.

'Then do as you please,' Graham said casually. 'I'll get the tannic acid banned by the R.A.F., at least. You know a Member of Parliament called Fergusson?'

'I've heard of him,' Haileybury admitted surlily.

'He's just collared a job in the Air Ministry. Have you met his wife Sally? Wonderful pair of tits. Guaranteed to stop the conversation at a party. Well, I made them. The couple are pathetically grateful.'

'You mean, you intend to go behind my back?'

'I've no inhibitions about going behind anyone's back if I think it's in a good cause.' Haileybury said nothing. It was all most frustrating. 'You know, I've made so many bad decisions in my life,' Graham told him with returning cheerfulness, 'it's good to find once in a while I've hit on the right one. I mean staying out of uniform.'

'I would offer no view on the lightness or wrongness of that.'

Haileybury looked at him sourly. It seemed he had lost the argument, as usual. He vaguely wondered why. 'As I am here, perhaps you would invite me to look round your wards?' he added as sarcastically as possible.

'Of course.' Graham smiled. 'You know that I am always ready to oblige an old acquaintance in any professional matter whatever.'

Graham opened the door of the ward. It was a terrible thought, he told himself, but he was really quite enjoying the war.

7

'But why don't you divorce her, Graham?' asked Denise Bickley. 'I can't understand why you don't divorce her.'

It was a subject which Graham chose to skip away from as quickly as possible. 'I hate having truck with lawyers, I suppose,' he told her. 'They give me the creeps. With their undertakers' clothes and their undertakers' faces, burying all your hopes under a mound of stony possibilities.'

'But unfortunately not at undertakers' rates,' smiled John Bickley, the anaesthetist, across the log fire.

It was a Sunday afternoon in the first week of 1941, when the Luftwaffe was bombing the country nighty, the onion had become a fragrant memory, whisky and bananas had vanished with the other flavours of peace, and the war was starting to change from a perilous adventure to a wearisome way of life.

'But you can divorce her, you know.' John's wife Denise was chillingly well informed about everything to do with the married state. 'You can these days. The law's been changed.'

Why does the woman continually go paddling in the muddy waters of my soul? Graham asked himself. 'So I understand,' he agreed. 'A. P. Herbert's Act altered everything. Maria's been mad for over five years, so I'm legally at liberty to rid myself of the encumbrance whenever I feel like it. Of course, it was different when I first had her locked up.'

Graham had hoped that putting the situation so starkly might shame Denise into changing the subject, but she persisted, 'I'd have thought it worth taking the trouble, if only to get things straight.'

'But how could it make the slightest difference to my life?'

'Supposing you wanted to get married again?' Denise exclaimed.

Graham laughed.

'Well, you never know.'

'I'm forty-six. Hardly the romantic age. Anyway, who's to be the bride?'

'How old must Maria be now?' asked Denise.