The Story of Danny Dunn (27 page)

Jennifer had been an enormous help and instrumental in their choice of St Louis and the Barnes Hospital. John Glicks had initially been transferred from Brisbane to Valley Forge General Military Hospital in Pennsylvania because of his success with bad facial wounds sustained by American and Australian troops in the Pacific War. During his medical training, plastic surgery, as it became known, wasn't recognised as a part of the American Board of Medical Specialities, and was considered simply a part of normal surgery. In 1941, when John was already a military surgeon, it had finally received recognition. Not an area in which most military surgeons felt comfortable, it was nevertheless one to which he felt intensely drawn, and as a result, he'd been given most of the cases coming into Brisbane from the islands. His reputation had reached the States, where there was an enormous need for competent plastic surgeons to treat troops returning from Europe and the Pacific, and he'd been drafted to Valley Forge.

Jennifer
had written to say that, despite her husband's considerable military reputation and senior surgeon status in the army, he'd wanted to learn more and that, in civilian life, this meant working under John Barratt and Vilray P. Blair, known to be among the best plastic surgeons in America. He had accepted a post as a surgeon at the Barnes Hospital, where they both practised as senior plastic surgeons. She had, after consulting with her husband, suggested that Danny come to St Louis, where John Glicks could be his personal surgeon under the supervision of the great Vilray P. Blair, adding that all Danny and Helen would be required to pay would be the hospital costs – her husband would waive his surgeon's fee. Helen winced when she heard what these additional costs might be. They were considerably more than Danny's army back pay, which they had hoped would stretch to cover their living expenses over the six months they'd be away. Her plans were almost in tatters before she'd begun.

But Helen wasn't easily daunted, and when it came to someone or something she cared about, pulling strings she might not strictly speaking be entitled to pull was the least of it. Helen with a cause was a formidable opponent. She called the American embassy, using her obsolete army rank, and asked them to help locate Doctor John P. Mulhall Jnr, another senior army surgeon she'd known in Brisbane. They replied that he was still in the army and based at the Walter Reed Army Medical Centre in Washington, DC. She had written to him, including copies of Danny's medical history, to see if she could get him admitted to a military hospital as a gesture to the Australians who had fought alongside the Americans in the Pacific. The Americans were known to be generous, but even so it was drawing a long bow. Danny wasn't happy when he heard the lengths to which Helen was prepared to go for help.

‘Helen, don't do it. Using your former rank could get you into a lot of trouble. Besides, we don't have to beg. I'll go to uni instead and one day we'll be able to afford it.'

A couple of weeks later Dr Mulhall wrote to say it could be arranged but that the waiting list for surgery of the type Danny would need to undergo was two and a half years at the very least. For now at least, that seemed to put the kibosh on the whole idea.

Next, Danny, at Helen's urging, had turned to Dr Craig Woon and Colonel Rigby, the doctor at Concord Repat. They'd hastily arranged for Danny to go in front of the Disability Allowance Board, which had allocated a disability allowance that covered some of the costs, although it was obvious they were still miles short. But Helen had remained cheerful. ‘At least we've got enough to live in the States now. It's comparatively cheap apparently,' she volunteered.

‘Yeah, great, but how do we get there in the first place?' Danny asked. ‘Helen, you always wanted
to do your doctorate after your masters. That's something tangible we can do with this money, and if you get a tutorship in combination it will just about pay for our living expenses while I'm at university. My face may not be very pretty but I don't think my brain has been damaged.'

‘That remains to be seen,' Helen said with a smile. ‘But, Danny, that's way, way into the future. Firstly, I have to apply for the right to prepare a dissertation for my doctorate. Then, I'll have to go on at least one dig with a British archaeology team to Egypt or Mesopotamia, and then, as you know, I can't do a doctorate in ancient history in Australia, so I'll have to apply to the University College, London, to do my dissertation. Then, of course, it has to be marked and accepted. It could take years. Thanks for thinking of me, darling, but for the moment I'm concentrating on getting us to America.'

Danny could see why Helen had risen to such a senior rank in army intelligence. She was like a dog with a bone and simply never gave up. He'd tried unsuccessfully to dissuade her from the American idea but now he had to level with her; this time he feared she'd met an insurmountable obstacle. ‘Well, get that brilliant brain of yours around this: Ben Chifley is restricting overseas payments to prop up British sterling; we're only allowed to take two hundred pounds' worth of foreign currency with us. Even if we had all the money we needed, that's not enough to live on
and
get my mug done.'

‘Half Dunn's working on that.'

‘Half Dunn?'

‘And Brenda.'

‘What, through Doc Evatt?'

‘No, of course not! We're going over to the Hero for dinner tonight.'

‘Helen, what's going on? Have you been talking to Brenda about money?'

Helen looked at Danny, her big blue eyes innocent. ‘No, Danny Dunn,
she
has been talking to me.'

‘Jesus, I'm embarrassed —'

‘Well, don't be. As you say, it can't be more than two hundred pounds anyway, and she's going to insist and I'm going to accept. If you're going to be stubborn about it and we're going to have all that Balmain boy bullshit, then we'll sign an IOU.'

‘How's it going to help if we're still miles short?'

‘Don't be so bloody negative, Danny. If this operation were for me you'd be asking Brenda to mortgage the pub.'

‘Yeah, sure, but it's for
my
ugly mug and I'm learning to live with it quite nicely, thank you.'

‘Bullshit. Then why do you cry in your sleep?' Helen asked, deliberately cruel. ‘It's affecting your entire life. Besides, if there is something that can be done, then it ought to be done,' she said firmly, refusing to back down.

‘Okay, I apologise. Christ knows what the boat tickets will cost, and then we'll need another – what was your estimate of the hospital costs in St Louis?'

‘About six hundred pounds.'

‘Jesus, that's two and a half grand in American dollars!'

‘Two thousand four hundred to be precise, and that's only an estimate,' Helen answered. ‘But the fact that John Glicks is doing you pro bono has saved us around three hundred pounds. Isn't that nice, darling,' she added in a soothing voice.

‘That's fucking ridiculous! Let's say three grand American all up. That is, if we could take it out of the country in the first place. We could buy a new motorcar for far less than that and it would buy us a house,
if
we had it in the first place! Let's get real for a change, sweetheart!'

Helen laughed. ‘We don't need a motorcar and when we get back we can rent a flat a short tram ride from uni. And, as you say, there's still the boat tickets, that is, if we can even find a boat that isn't fully booked and has a cheap cabin in steerage.'

‘Which is very bloody unlikely,' Danny cried.

Helen had heard enough. ‘Danny, in a few weeks we're going to be married. In my mind I'm marrying a man who never gave up, who ran a concentration camp and kept his men alive against all the odds. Your papers show that a near-record number of your men survived, despite enduring the most terrible conditions of any camp on the Burma Railway. That takes a lot of character, hope, tenacity and guts . . . but it also takes imagination and leadership of a very high order.' Helen slapped him hard on the arm. ‘Now
wake up
to yourself! If you can save your own life and the lives of your men, you can do this! If you think we can't and you're going to give up and creep into a corner and hide your face and spend your life feeling sorry for yourself, then tell me now so I can walk away! I'm far too good a woman to want to marry a coward or anyone who's sorry for the cards life has dealt him!'

‘But . . . but it's only for my face . . . it's always going to be ugly,' Danny protested.

‘Oh, shut up! You make me sick! Now get this straight. You're about to marry a beautiful woman and, it's true, right now you're an ugly bastard. But I think we may be able to do something about that. At least make you a slightly less ugly bastard. If I'm going to have to wake up to you in the same bed for the next thirty or more years, I want you to be the best-looking ugly bastard it is possible for you to be!' Helen suddenly burst into tears. ‘Now get your jacket. We're going to your parents' for dinner,' she sobbed.

Danny may have had very little time for most officers, but he was going to have to change his mind about at least one of them. He drew Helen towards him and kissed her on the forehead. ‘
Shhh!
Lieutenant colonels are not supposed to cry,' he chided softly.

‘Go to hell, you bastard!' Helen sniffed, pulling away from him.

Brenda had made a nice dinner and they'd talked mostly about the wedding, with no mention of the American trip, but afterwards, over a cup of tea, she'd turned to Half Dunn and said, ‘Well, go on then, Mick.' She was obviously pleased about something.

Half Dunn, a sly grin on his face, rose with what for him was alacrity. He was no longer enormous – portly but mobile would be a more accurate description of him now – and sometimes showed surprising energy. He left the kitchen and went down the hall into Brenda's bedroom. Danny would later realise he'd gone to the safe set into the wall above her bed. When he returned he was carrying what looked like a red morocco leather folder somewhat resembling a large wallet. He slapped it down on the table in front of Danny and said, ‘Go on, son, open it.'

‘What's this?' Danny looked in turn at each of his parents.

‘Go on, Danny, open it!' Brenda said excitedly. ‘It's sort of a wedding present, for when you go to America.'

‘Shit!' Danny gasped as he opened the wallet, not quite believing his own eyes. The large wallet contained a wad of banknotes three inches thick – not pound notes but American dollars. He fanned them out, noting they were mostly tens and twenties but that there were also hundreds – a lot of everything.

‘Mum! Dad! What's going on?' He looked at Helen. ‘Did you know about this?'

Helen looked at him wide-eyed. ‘What, darling?'

‘This . . . money.'

He pushed the wallet over to Helen, who opened it. ‘Goodness, no!' She looked at Brenda, obviously completely surprised. ‘I thought it was the two hundred pounds we talked about and the money Daddy gave me converted to dollars. This is more, much more!'

‘Oh well, Mick and I got to talking. We were going to give you a new motorcar for a wedding present. But then when you and I were having a cup of tea last week and you mentioned, you know, how Mr Chifley says you are only allowed to take out two hundred pounds in foreign currency, blah, blah, blah . . .' Brenda explained. She looked up at Half Dunn for him to continue.

‘Well, you don't sit on your arse on the same stool in the main bar for eighteen years without knowing a thing or two about . . . well, a thing or two,' Half Dunn began.

‘Now don't you go into one of your long stories, Mick, or we'll be here all night,' Brenda scolded, but with a smile that meant he had permission to wax on a bit.

‘Well, two things,' Half Dunn continued. ‘Jim Black, who works for the customs at Circular Quay, and Tater Murphy.'

‘Tater? You mean Sean Murphy, the sly-grog merchant's son?' Danny asked.

‘The same,' Half Dunn agreed.

Brenda jumped in again. ‘It just goes to show that in the end thieves never prosper!'

Half Dunn laughed. ‘Stupid ones, anyway.'

‘Didn't Tater Murphy join the Sixth Division, and get sent to Cairo?' Danny asked.

‘That's him. He got shot in the leg in Bardia – there's some say it was probably self-inflicted – but either way they sent him home with a crook knee, a bit of a limp and a fair old thirst he must have picked up in the desert. They discharged him early and he went into the old man's business up at Kings Cross and in the brothels in Crown Street, selling grog to the nightclubs, strip joints, whorehouses – excuse the term – as well as to the Yanks during the war. His old man, Sean, once tried to put the hard word on us to supply him but we told him to go to buggery, even though there was a fair quid in it. It didn't stop him dropping in for a drink and a bit of a whinge every once in a while. Still occasionally does.'

Brenda poured Half Dunn a fresh cup of tea. ‘Get on with it, love,' she said, though not unkindly. She and Half Dunn seemed to have long since sorted out their differences. Danny had returned from the war to find them seemingly content in each other's company, with Half Dunn now very much more than a bloated barfly, though Brenda still made most of the decisions.