Surgeon at Arms

'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 think Mr Trevose is perfectly right,' announced Mrs Sedgewick-Smith.

Captain Pile spun round. The unexpected desertion of his ally appalled him. Trevose was a difficult customer at the best of times, and that morning he needed all the support he could muster. She stood tugging the hem of her tweed jacket and staring at Graham with large grey eyes. She must have been quite a good-looking girl, Graham thought. Even now, I could do her face a power of good.

'After all,' continued Mrs Sedgewick-Smith crisply, 'there are no children roaming the hospital. And the rest of us surely know that expression exists.'

'Exactly,' said Graham.

Mrs Sedgewick-Smith had undergone a change of heart. She had been dying to meet Graham for eighteen months. He was the Graham Trevose, the man you once saw in the Tatler, the surgeon one or two of her friends could talk about, quite breathlessly. Now she saw him at close quarters she realized he had a distinction, a dignity, an authority, an air about him which Captain Pile despite his uniform so sadly lacked. In short, Graham Trevose was a gentleman. And, war or no war, the ladies and gentlemen of England had to stand shoulder to shoulder together.

'We mustn't wallow in our indignation,' she continued calmly, 'and I'm sure the paint can very easily be cleaned off. Mr Trevose, I appreciate every word that you have said. Isn't there anything I can do for your patients? To give them a nice little break?'

'There most certainly is. And it isn't very much. Just ask them to tea, invite along some girls, and talk about the weather.'

'This is nothing to do with a breach of discipline,' Captain Pile broke in furiously.

'Surely, Captain, if Nelson could turn a blind eye you can?' asked Mrs Sedgewick-Smith tartly. 'There are so many regulations these days, none of us can avoid breaking one or two, can we?'

Captain Pile fell silent. He had been rather afraid of this turn in the conversation. Regularly every Friday Mrs Sedgewick-Smith brought him half a dozen eggs from her hens, in a cardboard box labelled as Red Cross library books. A side of bacon had once been smuggled into his house, wrapped in a sheet to resemble the laundry. There had been pots of gooseberry jam, pounds of sugar, even a few ounces of butter. It would be sad if the flow ceased. Captain Pile was extremely fond of egg and bacon for his breakfast. It was a testing decision. Should he pawn his military honour for a handful of eggs?

'I suppose if you don't feel inclined to press the matter, Mrs Sedgewick-Smith, I-'

'Extremely sensible of you,' she said quickly. She turned to Graham with a smile. 'Mr Trevose, I do hope you can drop in for a little drink some evening? I'm sure my husband can find something in the cupboard.'

Graham promised. The bargain struck him as cheap at the price.

When Graham finally started his ward-round, he said to Sister Mills, 'I'm sorry about that. It doesn't happen every Sunday morning.'

'Oh, what a pity.' She smiled. 'I thought you were terribly impressive, Mr Trevose. Though I can't for the life of me see what all the fuss was about.'

'Neither can I,' said Graham. It suddenly occurred to him he didn't even know what the word was.

9

The hostess opened her own front door. In peacetime, as she was half-tempted to explain, there would have been a maid in a lace apron. 'I'm so glad you could come,' Mrs Sedgewick-Smith greeted them brightly.

Bluey and the half-dozen others who had courted disgrace on the Saturday night found themselves standing on Mrs Sedgewick-Smith's doorstep the following Monday afternoon. Graham had conscripted them as a punishment. The outing had not struck them as at all attractive. Tea didn't promise much fun, and an invitation from the local grand lady had an intolerable air of condescension about it. But if the Wizz told them to go, go they must. Even Bluey agreed a bloke would do anything to please the Wizz.

'Hello, Missus,' announced Bluey. 'Here's the Home for the Sick and Crippled. Frankenstein's monsters' annual outing.'

Mrs Sedgewick-Smith gave an uncertain smile. But years of intense social struggle with the wives of other stockbrokers had tempered her conviviality like steel. She hesitated only a second before continuing, 'But _do _come in. Quite a charming afternoon for the time of year, isn't it?'

Bluey led his companions into the hall. He stared round. Graham had warned him to be on his best behaviour, but he was determined to keep the social balance tilted in his favour.

'Old place you've got here, Missus.'

'Oh, yes! Parts of it go back to Henry the Eighth.'

Bluey sniffed. 'Smells like it.'

There was an awkward silence as the patients stood grinning at their hostess, like mischievous children with Hallowe'en masks. I must treat them as normal people, she reminded herself, as perfectly normal people. Like the charming young men who used to call before the war for tennis. And surely if they were officers they must also be gentlemen? Even the one with sergeant's stripes on his sleeve was aircrew, and as things went at the time socially acceptable. Her loss for something to say was relieved by the oak door of the sitting-room opening, to emit a slight girl in a yellow-and-white flowered dress, with rigidly outstretched hand and a rigidly fixed smile.