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Truck, train, car . . . I only need to take a boat and a plane, and I’ll have used every form of transport known to man.
Travel-weary, Meg leaned against the telegraph pole outside the RAAF supply-store and waited for a ride to her new posting. A duffle bag containing her new set of uniforms lay at her feet. The clerk had grudgingly handed over a replacement kit when she told him hers had been lost in the Darwin bombing. The paperwork had been painful, but it hadn’t been worth getting into a long explanation with him. Most of what she’d lost had been uniform items, but she regretted the loss of her family photos. And given her poor recall for mundane details, the loss of her little address book limited her ability to write to friends.
But she’d memorised the information about Seamus’s company. In her first free moment, she was going to contact him. Had he teed up an army chaplain already? At least she’d have a new uniform to walk down the aisle in, but a small part of her regretted not being able to dress up for him. He’d never seen her dressed to the nines and she was just vain enough to want to wow him on her wedding day.
A jeep pulled up beside her and a corporal leaned across the passenger seat. ‘Lt Dorset?’ Meg nodded and the driver patted the seat. ‘Hop in.’ He came around her side of the jeep and tossed her duffle bag onto the back seat while she climbed in. ‘I’m to take you to the MRS, Central Sick Quarters.’
Her tired brain couldn’t remember what she’d heard about this unit. ‘Central? Does it serve all defence forces?’ Meg prayed it included the army. Surely it would be easier to find Seamus if she were based in a hospital that included the army.
‘It serves the squadrons out at Garbutt Airfield. Central Sick Quarters is a RAAF acquisition. It’s an old home that’s been acquired. We’ve taken out walls to make two wards and now we’re turning the rear rooms into an operating theatre.’
Matron had promised Meg she would be furthering her skills as a theatre nurse. It looked like she was coming in on the ground floor, but the news she was to be stationed in a RAAF hospital wasn’t so promising. Not when she still had to find Seamus. Grateful he hadn’t yet been deployed, her mind turned over her driver’s comments, and thrilled to the information about the operating theatre. In Darwin, before the bombing had changed everything, she’d already decided that being a theatre nurse was where she felt most at home, and she had requested as much time there as her matron was prepared to give her.
‘Do you know where my barracks will be?’
‘On site at Currajong. There are huts for the nurses around the croquet green. Croquet, hey! The owners must have been posh.’ Her driver said no more until they turned a corner and he pointed ahead. A soldier was guiding a reversing truck down a driveway while another stood in the middle of the street, holding back a single civilian car until the truck cleared the road. ‘That’s you, where the truck just turned in.’
He pulled up near the front corner of the property and Meg clambered out of the jeep. Turning back to grab her duffle bag she asked, ‘Where and to whom do I report?’
The corporal was halfway to the front steps when he flicked an abrupt finger along the driveway. ‘Down the side that way. Temporary office in the first hut you come to. Can’t miss it. I’ve got to get back to work.’ With no more small talk, he strode up the front steps and through the door.
Meg looked at the building set well back from the road. The front garden must have been sizable judging by the cleared ground. Sounds of hammering came through the open front door of what, despite the army’s worst efforts, had clearly once been a beautiful home.
Palm trees filled one corner of the property but churned up earth surrounded them, and Meg wondered if their days were numbered as she approached the fence line. Two prefabricated tents with wooden flooring had been erected and wooden pegs indicated where others would be added.
The house was a grand structure, gracious and beautifully proportioned, with a wide veranda running down each side. Soldiers were in the process of adding flyscreening and materials for multiple beds were stacked nearby. This was a major facility and Meg more fully appreciated Matron’s recommending her for the transfer. The size and scope of what was happening here would be good experience and once the war was over, she hoped it would help her to find work in a surgical hospital.
Following the churned-up driveway, the sounds of hammering and sawing grew louder, and she glimpsed her driver on a ladder climbing onto the roof. Rounding the corner, she understood why he hadn’t bothered to escort her further. Overgrown grass, lush, but contained within a croquet-shaped area was surrounded by huts. She’d found the nurses’ accommodation, but nowhere stood out as an office where she could report her arrival.
Slowing her pace, she strolled towards the nearest hut. At the open door she peeked inside. A WAAAF officer sat at a file-covered desk, a set of shelves lining the wall behind. The woman looked up suddenly. ‘Can I help you?’
Meg stepped into the room, lowered her duffle bag, and stood at attention. ‘Lt Dorset reporting for duty, ma’am.’
‘Dorset? You were in Darwin during the bombing, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And after that?’
‘On an evac truck to Adelaide River where I’ve been since Darwin.’
The woman sorted through a pile of files, pulled one out and opened it. Meg could just make out ‘Dorset, Margaret Olivia-Lt. Nurse’ on the tab. ‘You’re coming in as a theatre nurse. Good. The matron at Adelaide River recommended you as being cool and calm in difficult circumstances.’ Closing the file, she stood and came around the desk to join Meg. ‘I’ll show you to your quarters. Fifteen minutes to freshen up and then I’ll introduce you to Dr Ransom. You’ll be on his team and answerable to him in the first instance.’
Meg nodded. Why did that name sound familiar? Tired from the constant travelling to get to Townsville, her sludgy brain took a while to remember where she’d heard it before—Corporal Ransom had been their driver as they escaped from Darwin. As she followed the WAAAF officer to a hut two doors down from the office, she wondered if the corporal was related to the doctor she was to work under.
‘You’re the first to move in here, Dorset. Ablutions are in that building.’ Meg followed the pointing finger. Not that she needed to be told. Signs clearly labelled the block, and the nearby mess hut. Beyond these buildings and at a distance stood a separate building, as yet unnamed.
‘What’s that far building for?’
‘The morgue. Come back to my office when you’ve tidied up. I’m Lt Breeks.’ Turning on her heel, the lieutenant strode back the way they’d come.
Meg stepped into the basic hut and looked around. Two double-bunk beds were set at right angles along two walls. Four upright metal lockers and four hooks lined the third wall, and she stood in the doorway in the fourth wall, surveying what was to be her home for the foreseeable future.
Unless I’m pregnant or married.
If Seamus had arranged their wedding, she would have to remain quiet about the fact. Married women were not acceptable as nurses, and pregnant nurses—they were unheard of. Shelving the pregnancy question until there was something she could do about finding out, she chose a bottom bunk and set out a fresh uniform, grabbed her toiletry bag and headed to the ablutions block for a quick shower. The water was warm and plentiful, and washed away dust and her fatigue so that, when she presented herself to Lt Breeks fifteen minutes later, she felt ready to cope with anything.
Lt Breeks handed her a manual. ‘Dr Ransom has arrived. I’ll introduce you first, then you are to familiarise yourself with the contents of that before tomorrow. You’ll be helping the doctor to set up the operating theatre as soon as it’s finished.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Once again, she followed the lieutenant, this time to a hut on the other side of the croquet lawn.
The lieutenant tapped on the open door and waited until an authoritative male voice bade them enter. Snapping a smart salute, she stood aside, and Meg got her first glimpse of the doctor. She scrutinised his face but couldn’t tell if he might be related to the corporal from her Darwin trip.
A one-sided tilt of his lips suggested he was holding back a smile. ‘Do I have something on my face, Sister?’
Her eyes widened and she stood straighter. ‘No, sir, sorry, sir. It’s just—the corporal who drove us down from Darwin was named Ransom too. It’s a somewhat unusual name and I wondered . . .’ Her cheeks heated and she kept her gaze on the loop on his shoulder. Stop blathering like an idiot and show him you’re a professional. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘As it happens, I do have a younger brother who is a corporal. It could have been him. Now, Lt Dorset, isn’t it?’
Meg nodded.
‘We need experienced theatre nurses. More than are available. You have been recommended for this position. I’ve been told our operating theatre will be complete and ready to go operational soon, as in by tomorrow. I like my operating theatre to run in a certain way so I will train you to assist me since it seems most of our nursing staff won’t be arriving for a few days.’
‘Excuse me, Doctor, but am I the only nurse to have arrived so far?’
‘You are the first, Sister, and so you will have the task of helping me set up once we are able to access the theatre. Before we begin receiving patients, I will test you in procedures until you can do them in your sleep, and believe me, Sister, there will be times when you will feel as though you’re doing just that.’
‘Sir, I’m looking forward to improving and learning new skills.’
‘Good. I see Lt Breeks has given you the manual on setting up an operating theatre. Tomorrow, I’ll test you on the instruments and handling procedures. I trust you will quickly learn to anticipate my needs and meet them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dismissed.’
Meg turned to go, but before she reached the door, Dr Ransom stopped her. ‘On a personal note, how was my brother when you saw him?’
Memories of Pte Jackson’s death on the track were crystal clear in her mind, but she chose the most suitable to share. ‘Your brother was well and helpful. He dug a grave for a young soldier we couldn’t save in the evacuation from Darwin on the drive down to Adelaide River. I knew him for little more than a day.’
‘Trust Terry to be in Darwin when it was bombed. But we’re safe here—all those aircraft at the air base to defend us, right, Sister? I’ll see you at 0800 tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Meg left clutching the manual. First, she’d make a cuppa and then she planned to find a shady patch of grass and become familiar with how to set up an operating theatre. And after that she would find someone who could tell her where Seamus was.
##
The wide central hall of the house channelled a breeze towards Meg as she held the handset of the wall-mounted phone. Soon, an operator picked up, and Meg asked for, ‘Army HQ please.’ She’d read the manual on setting up an operating theatre from cover to cover and would read it again, but now she was going to find Seamus. Just hearing his voice would be enough for the moment, but she wanted his arms around her soon. And she needed to tell him that she might be carrying their child. She needed—
Had someone picked up the phone on the other end? Drawing a breath ready to answer, she pressed the telephone to her ear and waited . . . and waited. She could hear men’s voices at the other end of the line and wondered if the soldier who had answered her call had forgotten her. At last, he returned. ‘Are you there, Sister?’
‘I’m here. Did you find Corporal Flanagan, my fiancé?’
‘I traced him. Sorry, Sister, but he shipped out two days ago.’
Her heart nose-dived, if one could say that of such a central organ. Nose-dived and sank without trace as reality hit. Seamus wasn’t here. Seamus probably wasn’t even in the same country as her now. She couldn’t speak to him; couldn’t tell him about their perhaps-baby; couldn’t marry him right away. All she could do was accept that, like so many others, this war was keeping them apart. Her breath juddered as she drew it in. She pushed out a soft ‘Thank you.’ At least, she thought she said the words before she hung up the phone.
Two days. She’d missed him by two days. It might as well be a year. It wouldn’t have mattered if there had been room on a passing truck a day earlier. She’d still have missed him. A lone tear slid down her cheek. She leaned her head against the wall beside the phone and wiped it away.
‘What’s the matter, Sister? Bad news?’ Of course Dr Ransom had chosen that moment to walk down the hallway. Of course he had seen Meg crying, but right now, she didn’t care. Well—maybe she cared a little.
Quickly she wiped both cheeks and took a deep breath before turning to him. ‘Sort of, though not the worst. I was hoping to see my fiancé, but he shipped out. Two days ago.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s lousy timing. Let’s start your first lesson. That should help take your mind off it for a bit. We’ll set up the autoclave.’
In some ways, Dr Ransom was not so much unsympathetic as practical. She would do well to emulate his attitude. Everyone had disappointments. Everyone had to face absences of loved ones in a war. No matter how much her heart hurt, she was no different.
Standing tall, she dug her short nails into her palms and nodded. ‘I’m ready, doctor.’ She followed him into the operating theatre and stopped by his side. He lifted the lid of the metal box. Inside, the metal drainer was similar to the one she had used in Darwin. ‘When will the other nurses arrive?’
He shrugged and set the lid down beside the autoclave. ‘A day or two or three. I have no idea, but what I do know is that all of you will require training in preparation for when the worst happens and we’re inundated with casualties. You’re here so I’ll train you. If you live up to your matron’s recommendation, you might become my head nurse. When the other sisters arrive, we will both teach them what you have learned. Okay, so—you’ve used an autoclave before?’
Meg nodded. ‘Autoclaving is the most effective method of sterilising equipment, which we do after each procedure.’
He picked up a handful of medical instruments and set them in a single layer on the metal drainer then replaced the lid. ‘Always like that; never in an untidy pile, which, believe me, I have seen happen. Once the lid is in place and secure, turn the power on and note the time. We can’t expect that all of our nurses will be fully trained and competent. I want to reduce the chance of errors, so I want the autoclaving times for various instruments and beakers posted on the wall above.’
He moved on to a tray of surgical instruments. ‘Set these out according to the diagram in the manual. There is logic and reason for the order. When we operate, I expect immediate delivery of whatever I ask for. Let’s see your technique. Hold out your hand, palm up and flat.’
Meg did as she was told and Dr Ransom firmly placed a scalpel in her hand. ‘Like that, Sister. That’s what I expect from you. Your delivery of the instrument should be firm without smacking into my hand. The handle should be placed so that when I close my hand, the instrument is facing the right way ready to be used. In emergency cases, speed is as important as precision. Now, hand me that scalpel.’
Nervous at first, Meg took three attempts to set it in Dr Ransom’s hand firmly enough to suit him. ‘I’m sorry, doctor.’
‘Don’t be. You picked up my preference quickly. Sister Dorset, I’m confident that, with practice, you will become a good theatre nurse. Now, I’ll explain the procedure I expect for bringing a patient in and preparing him, and after that, I think we’ll have a break for lunch.’
##
‘Knock, knock.’
Meg looked up from the filing notes in her hand. A young corporal stood in the doorway and pulled off his cap when she noticed him.
‘Ah, Lieutenant, I have a package for a Sister Margaret Dorset, to be delivered to her hand only. Can you tell me where I might find—’
Meg pushed her chair back and held out her hand. ‘I’m Lt Dorset, Corporal.’
‘Then this is for you—’ He paused, and colour seeped across his cheeks. He pulled off his cap and gripped it between both hands. Clearing his throat, he met her gaze. ‘With much love, and a thousand apologies. I was told to say that.’ His cheeks flamed red as he handed over the package, and he shuffled his feet. ‘Corporal Flanagan made me swear on my granny’s grave that I’d be sure to tell you that. Especially the love bit.’
Heart thudding at this wonderful and unexpected gift from Seamus, Meg smiled. ‘Then I’ll be sure to let him know how perfectly fine your delivery of his message was when I next write to him. Thank you, Corporal.’
The bright red in the lad’s face eased, and his cheeks puffed with round good health as he smiled. ‘My pleasure, Lieutenant. I’m sorry I couldn’t get it to you any earlier.’ He saluted and disappeared down the hallway.
Meg sat slowly, thoughtful as her fingers teased out the shape inside Seamus’s package. A book.
She set the package on the desk and slipped off the string holding the brown paper wrapping in place. Folding the paper back, she saw it was a slim volume of poetry. Not new. Well-thumbed. Loved by its owner.
She lifted the front board and first page and held them open. There, in the top left corner, was written in a neat, schoolboy script: ‘M. Seamus Flanagan, 1932’.
Below, in a similar but adult version of the same hand, Seamus had written:
For my Meg
With all my love, always,
Seamus xx
She traced the letters of his name, read the inscription softly, and then fanned the pages of the book. Had he written a letter? A note? Perhaps he had marked his favourite poem for her? As she reached the back board of the volume, a single sheet of paper fell onto the desk. Ripped from a notebook, both sides were covered in pencilled words, scrawled, perhaps written hurriedly. She picked the paper up and tipped it towards the window. There was no attribution or year, and no other message to her, but Seamus had felt this important enough to include with his gift. She read:
SONG: WHEREVER WE MAY BE
Wherever we may be
There is mindlessness and mind,
There is self, there is unself,
Within and without;
There is plus, there is minus;
There is empty, there is full;
There is God, the busy question
In denial of doubt.
There is mindlessness and mind,
There is deathlessness, and death,
There is waking, there is sleeping,
There is false, there is true,
There is going, there is coming,
But upon the stroke of midnight
Wherever we may be,
There am I, there are you.
She sat, staring through the glass as afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches of a tree outside her window. Seamus was telling her they each existed because the other did. At least, she thought that was what he meant. Irish poets could be esoteric, her father had told her, and Seamus was both Irish, and a poet of sorts. But his gift was precious; something of his, treasured since he was fourteen, carried with him in his duffle bag, and now gifted to her.
Meg pressed the paper to her breast and closed her eyes. ‘I love you, Seamus. Wherever you are, I am with you, my love.’