The Story of Dr. Wassell Read Free Page A

here—Navy orders—you know what that means. Maybe there’ll be
different orders later, it’s quite on the cards…But in the meantime, you’re
pretty lucky—this is a good place, all you’ve got to do is to hurry up
and get well…Matter of fact, I wouldn’t worry about the future if I were
you—our number’s on top.” After that it was a blessed relief to turn
back to McGuffey, even if the boy was fresh. “ Now then…is there
anything else anybody would like—something practical—something I can do? Thought of anything yet, McGuffey?”
    McGuffey answered, half-derisively: “Aw, don’t you worry about me, Doc.
But I wouldn’t say no to a chocolate malt.”
    The same halfhearted laughter flickered again along the length of the ward
as the doctor walked away.
    Across the corridor there was a small room that the Dutch authorities had
allotted, on account of his rank but against his protests, to an officer
named Wilson. He was very badly burned, and the doctor did not think he would
be conscious after the ordeal of the dressings; but when he entered the room
through the open doorway a gruff voice came through the bandages.
    “Morning, Doctor.”
    “Good morning. How do you feel?”
    “Just like a truckload of scorched earth. I overheard most of your little
speech to the men, by the way. Heartily approve. I mean—no standing on
ceremony or anything like that. No salutes if we happen to meet on the way to
the—er—”
    “You won’t do that yet for a while,” interrupted the doctor drily. He knew
that Wilson’s brusque facetiousness was something of a pose. Every man had
his own way of fighting agony. “You’ll be flat on your back for a month at
least.” He took out his notebook. “How about supplying me with a few of the
necessary derails?”
    “Necessary or nauseating?”
    “Both are part of my job.”
    “Mine as well. Filing everything in triplicate.”
    “That’s okay. We’ll lick the Japs in triplicate one of these days.
Now—just answer these questions.”
    “All right but before you ask ‘em, answer me a few. Tell me about
the men—how are they—I don’t even know who they
are—are they all going to be all right? And shut that door so you can
speak the truth.”
    The doctor shut the door, then came back to the bed and gave the names of
the men, and a rough summary of their injuries.
    “But they’re going to recover all of them?”
    “Hope so, but burns are nasty things—it’s the shock that kills, not
the injuries themselves. The crisis’ll come a few days from now—most of
‘em won’t know how bad they are till then. Bailey’s pretty bad, and I’m a bit
worried about Edmunds. He’s already lost an eye and he may have to lose a leg
as well—Dr. Voorhuys wanted to amputate tonight, but I begged him to
give it a chance. Not that he isn’t a thundering good doctor—it’s just
that I’d have taken a chance myself and I believe Edmunds would. Goode’s also
lost an eye, and Muller’s arm is smashed up—I don’t quite like the look
of that either…But the rest might be a whole lot worse.”
    “What about me? Nothing but the truth, mind!”
    The doctor did not tell Wilson the truth, because his burns were among the
severest, and he honestly thought he was among those who would die in a few
days. He said with a smile: “You’ll be all right if you keep quiet…Now just
these few questions and I’ll let you sleep.”
    He made his notes, and was about to leave when Wilson called him back with
a gruff: “Say, what d’you know about the general situation?”
    “Not much,” answered the doctor truthfully. “There was an air raid on
Surabaya yesterday while I was there.”
    “Oh, was there? And how d’you like air raids?”
    “Not much,” repeated the doctor, again truthfully.
    From that moment on, the doctor and Wilson knew they could be friends.
    The doctor took the Ford car and Javanese chauffeur that had been assigned