Chapter Fifteen

I had always thought there were no wounded from the air war. Here, however, the casualties from the whole of Bomber Command seemed to be congregated. They came, like myself, from the battles over occupied territory, the smashes and crack-ups, the hundred and one accidents that are part of a huge command with hundreds of planes and thousands of men.

They say if you want to really see war you have to see it from inside a hospital, for here were the wards of limb cases, the belly wounded, the eye cases, the head wounds; in fact every damned wound, injury and laceration you could conceive of.

With the dozen or so pellets in my skull I felt a bludger when I looked at the mass suffering of this flower of a nation’s young manhood.

Yet despite the lightness of my wounds I was unable to get myself right mentally. Every night, as planes droned overhead, I remembered the suspense and fear of that last op; the horrible sight in the early dawn of those two mutilated figures, their blood and brains splattered on the floor; of Snowden’s sightless socket and his hanging smashed eye.

During the week I underwent a couple of minor operations and they extracted some ironmongery. As a preliminary I found they intended shaving all my hair off. I kicked like hell, finally prevailing on the barber to shave only the back of my head, which he did with some misgivings, stating, ‘I don’t know what bloody surgeon’s going to say about this.’ Some dill said the back of my head looked like a baboon’s backside! A couple of pieces of metal were tangled with certain neck muscles. These, it appeared, needed a more cautious approach. No doubt they considered a gunner with a permanently stiff neck would be a liability, not an asset. As far as I was concerned I didn’t mind. The last thing I wanted to do was to go back on ops.

The doctor who examined me when I came in had a soft spot for me. Most of the patients were young fellows hardly out of their teens. He was in my age group and insatiably curious about Australia. ‘That’s the place I’m going to,’ he would say. ‘Fancy all that sunshine, those golden beaches, blue sea and surf. It doesn’t sound possible. You’re not kidding me, are you?’

He was a fine doctor with a genuine sympathy for his charges. What a difference, I thought, to the station medico and his cynical attitude that everyone was a malingerer.

Once he said, ‘You know, when I look at all these shattered young bodies I wonder if I’m really doing my part in this war. I often feel I should join aircrew and get stuck into those bloody Nazis.’ I looked at him in amazement, then, when I realised he really meant it, said, ‘You stay where you are, Doc. You’re doing more for this war effort than any man I know.’

During the second week a specialist operated and took out the offending pieces and I could see an end to my stay in Crothers. Despite the fact that I was feeling okay physically, I could not get myself right mentally. The thought of flying again was enough to send me into a cold sweat.

It was then I really began to think I was lacking in moral fortitude. One night as we were having a yarn, Doc said, ‘What part of Australia were you born in, Johnny?’

I answered unthinkingly, ‘West Wyalong, New South Wales. Down in the Riverina in the wheat and sheep country.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought I saw on your records that you were born in Ireland.’

For a moment we looked at each other and then both laughed.

‘Don’t think I was prying,’ he said. ‘My guess is you’re over age. I’d say you’re thirty-one or thirty-two. Am I right?’

‘Pretty close,’ I answered, ‘but does it matter?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’d say this. You’ve been really shaken up by this last do. I can get you off ops if you like.’

For a while I looked at him.

‘How?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we’d give your right age and classify you as unfit for operations. Possibly get you into a training school.’

The temptation was there – no more flying, no more sweating out those lonely dark hours. ‘Would they label me LMF?’, I queried.

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘Only in a delicate way, of course.’

‘Bugger that,’ I replied. ‘I’d be more afraid of having that tagged on me than I would of ops. Anyway, I’ll think it over.’

‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I thought you might teach me some day how to ride those waves,’ then added sardonically, ‘Now if you were an officer things would be simplified. We would merely classify you as USO – Unsuitable for Operations.’

‘Guess I’ll have to get a commission fast,’ I replied.

***

I was a walking patient, free to adventure where I pleased. While wandering through the lovely gardens that surrounded the hospital, I came to a wicket gate with a notice, ‘Out of bounds to patients’. The gate was slightly ajar and I do not know to this day what prompted me to push it open and peer in. On the other side was a smaller garden surrounded by a high fence.

A voice said, ‘Come in, pal.’ It was then I noticed the four patients attired in dressing gowns sitting at the small table playing cards. Three had their backs to me. The fourth, who had spoken, sat facing the gate. For a moment I thought he was wearing some grotesque mask, then as the others turned I stopped dead in my tracks, for the faces that looked at me were minus ears, noses, hair, eyebrows and eyelashes.

Their skins were puckered and scarred, one had a gaping cheek wound that was laid open like a sensual mouth. This same person clutched his cards in a pair of clawlike hands, through which the bones showed. These were burn cases, the men so scarred and warped by fire that they were segregated from ordinary patients. This, I found, was a kind of staging area before they went to the skin and bone-grafting hospitals. This was indeed the result of war in its most horrible form. I knew the shock must have shown on my face as I looked into these hairless scarred faces. ‘How in God’s name,’ I thought, ‘can these people live after what they have obviously been through?’ The chappie with the gaping cheek wound said, ‘Sit down, fellow. We don’t often have visitors.’ His nasal intonation meant one thing.

‘You’re an Aussie?’ I queried.

‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Fred Bliss is the name, from Melbourne. These are my cobbers,’ and introduced his companions.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Sydney,’ I said, then lamely, ‘See you boys have had a bit of trouble.’

‘Just a bit,’ said Fred. ‘What were you on?’

‘Bombers. Wimpys,’ adding apologetically, ‘Copped a bit of flak in the neck.’ Then, lamely, ‘I’ll be out in a day or two.’

‘Half your luck,’ said one.

These boys really had me at a disadvantage and knew it. I felt my eyes flinching as I spoke to them and tried not to take in their terrible burns. They were hungry for news of squadron doings and everyday life. These young fellows with their grisly mementoes were the unfortunates of war. They knew no-one could look on them without horror and pity; they had to be segregated from ordinary patients. Skin-grafting and face-building were not yet the miraculous arts they were later to become, yet these men could still laugh and have their sly digs at their obviously rattled visitor.1

I stopped and chatted with them for perhaps forty minutes, which seemed almost as long as the sixty back across the North Sea on our last fateful trip, then a bell rang and one said, ‘Guess we’ll have to be going.’

‘Might see you tomorrow,’ I lied.

‘Fair dinkum?’, said Fred.

‘Why not?’ I declared. ‘That’s if the gate isn’t locked.’

‘It won’t be,’ said Fred. ‘We’ll see to that.’

When I went out I quite truthfully had no intention of returning. I was so shaken I returned to bed and had a couple of really vivid nightmares in which I was being roasted and toasted in varying degrees. When I awoke next morning I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders and mind. My worries seemed so infinitesimal that I was suddenly glad to be completely whole and alive. As I was going for my shave, I did something I had not done for months; I whistled a tune.

During the morning I decided to go back and honour my promise. If those poor devils can live with themselves, surely, I thought, I can overcome my squeamishness for half an hour. The gate was ajar as before and the four were sitting at the table as I walked in.

‘We didn’t think you’d come back,’ said Fred.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ he replied after a pause, ‘no-one else ever has. Perhaps you’re a tougher type.’

‘Balls,’ I said. ‘You boys heard any good yarns?’

That day we really go to know each other, for they had lost their embarrassment and my tummy had ceased doing flip-flops. My earlier calling gave me a good repertoire of yarns, and I pulled out the best of them. We were all laughing our heads off at one of Fred’s when a calm feminine voice said, ‘That must have been a good one.’

I knew from her uniform she was a sister, with a pair of grey eyes as hard as agates. She looked me over and said, ‘I thought this area was out of bounds, or are you one of our new patients?’

‘Well, er, er …’, I commenced.

Fred said, ‘It’s not Johnny’s fault, matron. We invited him in.’

‘I request that you leave this place by the way you came in,’ she commanded.

I looked at the boys, their eyes glued to the table. ‘She’s a bitch,’ I thought, and said aloud, ‘Good luck, fellows, see you in London some time.’

It rained for the next two days, which disposed of the awkward problem of trying to see them again. That night I told Doc about my experience.

‘No doubt about you, you get around,’ he commented.

‘Why do they keep the poor buggers to themselves?’ I asked. ‘All they want is someone to cheer them up.’

‘It’s not as easy as all that,’ he replied. ‘All who first meet them are visibly upset, some physically. It’s not everyone has a stomach as tough as yours.’

I remembered my first belly-jolting view of them and thought, ‘You could be right.’

‘They have a long tough road to travel,’ he continued, ‘medically, surgically and psychologically, but there’s an improvement in bone- and skin-grafting treatments. We are getting plenty of practice, you know. They’ll be all right.’

‘Well, I hope to Christ I go out clean. I’d hate to be burned like those poor devils.’ I never flew afterwards without that ugly little imp of fear sitting on my shoulder.

‘Anyway, it doesn’t seem to have done you any harm,’ replied the Doc.

‘No.’

I paused. ‘Ever hear of the saying, “I complained because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet”?’

We had a saying in my firm back home; ‘How’s your PMA?’ Positive Mental Attitude, in other words, your mental outlook. Prior to my visit to the garden, mine had been dragging on the ground, now it seemed to have been magically restored.

That night I decided to give the night nurse a hand. She was a solid, tawny-haired Scotch lass with green, unfathomable eyes.

I don’t know what prompted me, perhaps it was the direct way she looked at me, but while I was helping her to do some cleaning up in the room at the top of the ward, I suddenly put my arm around her, pulled her face around and kissed her. She returned my caress with an ardour that sent a thrill coursing up and down my spine and interest in things feminine revived with a rush.

I was impatient to get going. ‘Wait a while. I’ll see if the patients are okay.’ A quick inspection proved satisfactory. In the small office was a night lamp and a couch on which the night attendant could rest. Returning, she looked at me with those inscrutable eyes, then turned and switched the light off. I got very little sleep that night and kept remembering a saying of an Australian cobber, ‘Ever sleep with a red-headed girl? No, not a blooming wink.’

Next day, despite my lassitude, I was relaxed and almost contented.

Doc called me into his office at midday and said, ‘Looks as though you’ll be going out in two days. Sure you don’t want to go off ops?’

This time I was certain. The contact with Fred and his cobbers and the earthly pleasures of the night nurse had raised my morale. My PMA was right on top.

‘I’ve only got eight to go, Doc. I’ll battle it out. Thanks for the offer though.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you seven days’ leave. It may get you in nick for what’s ahead. Though,’ he added, ‘you’ve made a remarkable recovery over the last couple of days.’

The next two nights were a pleasant repetition of the first, and it was with deep regret I departed Crothers. Before leaving I went around to the gate. It was locked. I called, ‘Are you there, Fred?’, but only the droning bees answered. I thought of those young fellows and Doc’s words, ‘They have a long, hard road ahead.’ I felt glad to be alive.

I said goodbye to the Doc. He was a damn nice bloke who combined all the decencies of his profession with a deep and abiding compassion for his fellow-men. We renewed promises to see each other in Australia and I was off.