'Sir, we've got about a dozen legs, four very nasty heads, three chests, three arms, and five feet--and that's only as far as the corner. Ambulances coming in all the time, sir.'
'Make sure we get the ones who can travel on the road as soon as possible. We need the room, and they need to be at the base hospital.'
'Yes sir.'
The orderlies hurried away to bring in the next soldier, while Simon looked down at the wounded man now dependent upon his judgment and skill, a young man with hair the color of sun-drenched wheat, and a leg torn apart by shrapnel. A young man who watched his every move so intently.
'Will you be able to save me leg, sir? Don't want to be an ol' peg-leg, do I?'
'Don't worry. I'll do my best. Can't have you not able to chase the ladies, can we, Corporal?' Simon smiled at the man, despite his exhaustion.
Maisie looked up at Simon, then down at the corporal, and as Simon removed the shrapnel, she cleaned the bleeding wounds so that he could see the extent of the injury. To keep the soldier's spirits up-- this man so conscious of everything happening around him--Maisie would look up for a second from her work and smile at him. And as Simon cut skin and brought together flesh, muscle, and bone that had been torn apart, the soldier took heart. For though he could not see Maisie's smile through the white linen mask that shielded part of her face, her warm blue eyes told the soldier what he wanted to hear. That all would be well.
'Right. On your way to Blighty you are, my man. Done the best for you here, and God knows you've done your best for Blighty. The sooner you get home, the sooner they'll get you moving again. Rest assured, Corporal, the leg is staying with its owner.'
'Thank you, Captain, sir. Thank you, Sister. Never forget you, ever.'
The soldier looked intently at Simon and Maisie, fighting the morphine to remember their faces. A 'Blighty,' a wound sufficiently severe to warrant being sent back to England--and he would keep his leg. He was a lucky man.
'This one's ready for transport. We're ready for the next one.'
Simon called out to the orderlies, and Maisie prepared the table as Corporal William Beale was taken to an ambulance for transfer to a base hospital closer to the port. He would be home within two days.
'I feel sorry for the ones who are left,' said Maisie.
She and Simon were walking by moonlight along a corridor of ground between the tents, quiet and ready to part quickly should they be seen together. Distant sporadic gunfire punctured their conversation.
'Me too. Though the ones I ache for are the ones who are injured so terribly, so visibly to the face or limbs. And the ones whose injuries can't be seen.'
'In the London Hospital, there were many times when a woman cried with relief at the passing of her husband or son. They had wounds that the family couldn't cope with--that people on the street couldn't bear to see.'
She moved closer to Simon, who took her hand.
'It'll be over soon. It has to be, Maisie. The war just can't go on like this. Sometimes I feel as if I'm doctoring in a slaughterhouse. One body of raw flesh after another.'
Simon stopped and drew Maisie to him and kissed her.'My Maisie of the blue silk dress. I'm still waiting for an answer.'
Maisie drew back and looked into Simon's eyes. 'Simon, I said to ask again when this is over. When I can see a future.'
'That's the trouble,' said Simon, beginning to tease her, 'Sometimes I think you
He held her to him again.'I tell you what, Maisie. I promise that I won't ask you again until the war is over. We'll walk together on the South Downs and you can give me your answer then. How about it?'
Maisie smiled and looked into his eyes, bright in the moonlight. Simon, Simon, my love, she thought, how I fear this question. 'Yes. Yes, Simon. Ask me again on the South Downs. When the war is over.'
And Simon threw back his head and laughed, without thought for who might hear him.
'God . . . .'
Simon's lips were drawn across his teeth as he looked at the wound to the soldier's chest, and uttered his plea to the heavens. Maisie immediately began cleaning the hole created by shrapnel, while Simon stanched the flow of blood. Nurses, doctors, anesthetists, orderlies, and stretcher-bearers were everywhere, rushing, running, working to save lives.
Maisie wiped the sweat from Simon's brow and continued to work on the wound. Simon inspected the extent of the injury. Lights flickered, and the tent shuddered.
'God, I can hardly even see in here.'
Suddenly it seemed as if the battlefield had come to the hospital. As they worked to save the lives of men being brought in by the dozen, the tent shook again with the impact of a shell at close quarters.
'What the bloody hell . . .?'
'Sir, sir, I think we're coming under fire,' an orderly shouted across to Simon. The operating tent was becoming part of the battlefield itself. Maisie swallowed the sour liquid that had come up from her stomach and into her mouth. She looked at Simon, and to combat her fear, she smiled at him. For one second he returned her smile broadly, then turned again to his patient. They could not stop.
'Well, then. Let's get on with it!'
Let's get on with it.
