Oriental Hotel (18 page)

Elise stepped into the dress, fastening it to the neck.

‘I've offered to help with the wounded.'

‘
You
?'

Elise ignored the surprised reaction. ‘I wouldn't have thought it would hurt you to do the same,' she commented.

They were silent, but she could almost hear their incredulity. After a moment, Linda asked, ‘They need nurses, do they?'

‘I should imagine so. I should think they'll need all the help they can get.'

She smoothed down her skirt, looking critically at the part she was able to see. It was hardly practical as a nurse's uniform, but it was the best she could do. Folding the silk blouse and trousers, she replaced them in the trunk and left the cabin without bothering to say any more to the Wrens.

As she emerged on deck she checked her step for a moment, surprised by the hive of activity which had erupted while she had been below. Men were rushing about making preparations for taking survivors aboard, some working with silent urgency, others whistling sharply and calling to one another.

At first she could not see Gerald Brittain and she wondered if he had disappeared on purpose. Then she saw him helping to make ready a scrambling net, and hurried towards him.

He glanced up as she approached. Sweat was standing out in beads on his face and her eye travelled instinctively to the scarred hand, now drawn into a tight claw by the effort of holding on to the net. To use it was clearly excruciatingly painful, but the set of his face told her that he had no intention of letting it prevent him from doing what he could – neither would he welcome anyone commenting upon it.

‘I'll be with you in a minute,' he said between gritted teeth.

She averted her eyes, looking out to sea. While she had been below dawn had broken fully and the purple had become dull, misty blue.

Out there would be wounded men – men she had offered to help care for. A moment's sharp doubt assailed her. Gerald Brittain had been right to mock – a First Aid course in a girls' school had been no training for this. She could be worse than useless – even a liability. Perhaps it would be better to admit it …

‘Right then, I'll take you down to medical quarters.' Gerald Brittain straightened, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Elise knew that to tell him she had changed her mind would require more courage than to go through with it.

The ship's hospital was on ‘C' deck. In the days when the
Stranraer
had been a luxury cruise liner, it had boasted all the trappings of a Harley Street clinic, with draped cubicles, each brightened by a bowl of fresh flowers, and treatment rooms gleaming with chromium.

Now Elise's first impression was of one long ward, stripped for action.

As she followed Gerald Brittain, a white-jacketed officer came to meet them, drying his hands on a paper towel.

‘Yes?' His voice was brusque, and the ‘full set' beard – black, peppered with iron grey – added to the air of formidable unapproachability.

‘I've a volunteer for you, Frank. Mrs Sanderson has offered her help,' Gerald Brittain said, adding aside to Elise: ‘This is Frank Walker, the Surgeon Lieutenant.'

‘A volunteer? Good! I can use every pair of hands I can get.' Dark eyes above the dark beard assessed her swiftly and lingered on the plain but still clearly expensive dress. ‘Come with me.'

As Elise followed him he glanced at her over his shoulder.

‘When I saw you, I thought you'd come for treatment! And to be truthful, I can do without minor aches and pains today. We're going to be very busy later on.'

‘I don't know how much help I can be.' Elise decided honesty was the best policy now. ‘I've had no real training at all.'

‘Hmm. Well, I daresay we can find something for you to do, even if it's only rolling bandages and handing out soup and cups of tea. You can make tea, I take it? Carter! Can you come here a minute, man?'

A short squat man, also clad in a white jacket, approached.

‘Yes, sir!'

‘Look after our volunteer and show her the ropes, will you?'

‘Right, sir.'

‘And find her something suitable to wear.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Elise felt the irritation colour her cheeks. Why did they keep harping on about her clothes? Her dress was clean enough to be safe from the patients' point of view, and she wasn't at all worried about spoiling it.

But conscious of being very much the novice here in the hospital, she said nothing. She put on the white coat, several sizes too large, that the orderly found for her and followed him on a brief guided tour of the hospital as he showed her the operating theatre and isolation ward, the casualty treatment rooms and the small galley where she could make tea and soup for the survivors while they waited for attention.

Three of the beds in the hospital ward were already occupied by passengers or crew of the
Stranraer
who had been injured or taken ill during the voyage; white-coated orderlies were moving them to the far end in order to leave as much space as possible.

One lay listless and clearly in some pain, another hobbled on his heavily-bandaged foot behind the orderly who was moving his belongings grumbling all the while.

‘Bleeding carry-on, this is! Can't have a bleeding broken foot in peace on this bleeding crate …'

Isolated in the bowels of the ship, the hospital was a separate world in itself. The frantic activity on the deck did not: penetrate here; the portholes, below the waterline, gave no view.

It was, Elise thought, more nerve-racking than being in the thick of the activity – waiting tensely down here, living through the worst moments a hundred times so as to be prepared for any eventuality. And when she heard footsteps clattering down and a knock on the door, she was on her feet in a moment.

But it was girls' voices she heard in the narrow passage outside the Surgeon Lieut, ‘s office – voices she recognised at once.

‘We came to see if you could do with any help.' The Wrens entered, Linda giving her a quick, embarrassed grin, but the others ignoring her completely.

‘They're just beginning to pick up survivors,' Joyce said.

‘It looks as if there are quite a few; we thought maybe you could use some extra help.'

The Ward Master, who had taken over Elise's supervision from Carter, nodded.

‘Good! Any training?'

‘No. But if she can do it, so can we.' Ruth nodded towards Elise with a hint of her old contempt and as more feet clattered on the companion way outside, Elise straightened, tucking up her hair and smoothing her skirt beneath the white jacket.

If she had been uncertain of her ability before, she was shaking with doubts now. Why had she thought she could be of use? She knew nothing about nursing – nothing! And these three would notice every slip she made. She could imagine the amused glances they would exchange, the way they would giggle and mock afterwards, recounting her clumsy ineptitude.

But it was too late to back down now.

‘What the hell does it matter what they think of me anyway?' Elise asked herself. ‘If I can help just one man, it will be worth while.'

‘Here they come,' someone said. And the hospital doors were opened wide to admit the first of the survivors.

Within an hour Elise was convinced that both Gerald Brittain and the Wrens had been right – she would never make a nurse!

As the survivors were brought in – a sick and sorry procession – she tried hard to do as she was told by the trained staff in the hospital, but she was very much aware that it was not enough.

All the men were very weak – the long, anxious hours in the water had debilitated them to the point where many were unable to walk unaided, and most had wounds or burns requiring medical attention.

Standing beside the Surgeon Lieutenant as he inspected gaping wounds and burn-blackened flesh, she tried to concentrate on handing him the instruments he asked for. But no amount of concentration could stop the sickness that churned in her stomach all the time.

As Gerald Brittain had said, no First-Aid training could have prepared her for the sight of skin hanging away from flesh like the muslin bags her grandfather's housekeeper had used to make blackcurrant jelly, the angry red around curious greenish-tinged wounds and the smell, sickly sweet, that seemed to penetrate right inside her.

It was this smell that sickened her most. After three years of living in the East she had imagined herself immune to smells, but this was different: a living smell associated with living men – the smell of blood and sweat, urine, excrement and rum ration – and something else, most obscene of all: a litde like pork roasting on a spit.

It was impossible too, she found, to divorce herself from their suffering. More than once she was forced to turn her head away as makeshift dressings were eased from weeping wounds; more than once she felt sharp, helpless tears prick behind her eyes as the waste of broken young bodies was brought home to her. There was a mure acceptance in their eyes as the rescuers brought them in that tore at her heart, reminding her that their wounds had been untreated for at least twelve hours, but she knew she would never forget their groans, cries and agonised oaths when they were at last attended.

Time ceased to have any meaning for her; she did what she could to the best of her ability, cursing herself for her clumsiness and the helpless sickness she seemed unable to control. And she felt oddly ashamed when they expressed their gratitude, ashamed that her lack of knowledge and training prevented her from doing more. Through the long morning they came – the men from the life-rafts first, then those who had been seen drifting further away on anything that would float.

One young man carried in by a stretcher party was badly burned, his lips a mass of dark blisters, his hands lying swollen and claw-like on the rough ship's blanket. He was little more than a boy, thought Elise – eighteen at most.

Swallowing at the now-familiar revulsion she crossed to the bed, smoothing out the clean paper sheet and supporting his head on the pillow as the men transferred him from the stretcher.

‘Lie still now. The doctor will be with you soon and he'll give you something to ease the pain.'

The boy's disfigured lips moved with difficulty and when his voice came it was just a croak, so low she had to bend over him to hear what he was saying. Then she made out the disjointed words:' My brother …'

‘Your brother? What about him?'

The boy's face began to twist and twitch, first in agitation, then in reflex at the pain the movement caused him.

‘Have you seen him? Ken Marshall – from the Engine Room …'

‘Was he on the same ship as you?' Under normal circumstances it would have sounded a stupid question. But disorientated by shock, some men asked for wives, mothers or children, convinced they had lost them in the m'lée.

‘Yes, yes! He was in the Engine Room!'

‘Have you seen him since the ship went down?'

His head moved imperceptibly on the pillow.

‘No. I couldn't find him. We were attacked and then we were on fire. We tried to keep it under control; I had to help. And the raider was still there, firing at us …' His eyes, looking past her, were wild with remembered terror. ‘Afterwards I went to look for Ken. But the fire flared up and I got trapped …'

‘It's all right.' Elise bent over him, smoothing soot-clogged hair away from his forehead. Miraculously the skin there was untouched – though smoke-blackened, it felt baby fine to her touch and tenderness momentarily swamped all other emotions. It could be Alex lying there, so young and agonised did the boy look.

‘I'll ask around for you and try to find out if he's on board,' she promised. ‘ We'll just get you cleaned up first.'

‘No – no – my brother!' The boy's agitation was growing and as he tried to move his burns caused him to scream with pain. ‘No, nurse! No! Don't you understand …'

Surgeon Lt. Walker, coming into the treatment room, overheard the last words and misunderstood the meaning behind them.

‘Try not to excite the patient.' His voice was testy with weariness and the injustice stung Elise.

‘I was trying to help.'

‘And keep your voice down too.'

Briefly her temper flared and it was all she could do not to tear off her white coat and march out. She wasn't a nurse and would never be one either. The names of the instruments confused her, the smells made her feel sick; even the bandages ruckled beneath her fingers.

‘Ken – I've got to find Ken …' The boy on the bed was whimpering softly like a distressed kitten and shame that she should be the one to complain stifled the uprush of anger.

‘This young man's anxious to know whether his brother has been picked up,' she said to the doctor. ‘Can I ask someone to make enquiries for him?'

Frank Walker's eyes flickered over the boy on the bed, assessing the seriousness of the burns and the treatment he could give.

‘One of the stretcher-bearers can do that. I need you here. The dressings tray, if you please …'

She nodded, rebellion forgotten as she tried to repeat the routine she was beginning to learn with more confidence. Maybe she did feel she would never make a nurse; perhaps the surgeon knew it – certainly the last hour must have given him ample evidence of her lack of ability. But the patients were not going to find out if she could help it!

The next half hour saw the flow of casualties reduce to a trickle.

‘Take a breather, Mrs Sanderson. Get yourself a cup of tea – or a strong drink if that's what you feel like. You've earned it,' Frank Walker told her.

She nodded, thinking he looked as if he could benefit from taking his own advice. He had worked tirelessly – now his face was showing signs of strain as clearly as his once immaculate white coat indicated the gory tasks on which he had been engaged.