An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (56 page)

“Hello, Michelson. What's going on here?” Fingal shuddered with the sudden cold. The night wind of their passage was bitter and he had no duffle coat. He huddled in behind the gun shield.

Searchlight beams erupted from one, then several more British destroyers. Across the water he could see three warships, two large, one smaller, lit up like actors at centre stage. The enemy was steering a parallel but reciprocal course.

“Our officer reckons the Eyetie admiral doesn't know our lot's out here. Poor buggers don't have any radar. He's sent those ships to help out that one that's dead in the water. On our side we're in line astern and
Warspite
's leading
Valiant
and
Barham
.
Furious
's been told to bugger off and not risk getting shot at.” He pointed out to sea at the enemy ships. “Over there, the silly sods have all their guns trained fore and aft. It's point-blank for our guns. We've got 'em with their pants down this time. It's going to get noisy, sir. We fire broadsides in night actions. Fleet Gunnery Officer Barnard'll give the order to shoot once the big guns are on target.”

Movement caught Fingal's eye and he looked ahead. The rifles on A and B turrets were swinging outboard. Death riding smoothly on the well-oiled mechanisms. Fingal could hear voices coming from inside a gunhouse saying, “Ready.” Michelson gave Fingal a playful salute, said, “Any minute now, sir,” and clapped his gauntleted hands over his ears.

Fingal knew he should leave, but the scene was mesmerizing. The huge guns, the men in their antiflash gear, the night lit up by myriad blazing searchlights.

The
ting, ting, ting
of the firing bells was followed instantly by the blasts from all eight of
Warspite
's great guns.

His world dissolved into a maëlstrom of deafening basso sound, chest-crushing concussion, blinding light as tongues of dragons' breath seared the air and clouds of mahogany cordite smoke blended with the darkest corners of the devilish night.
Warspite
, all thirty-two thousand tons of her, heeled to starboard.

And from astern
Valiant
and
Barham
were lit up for brilliant seconds in the blaze of their big guns.

All the while, the six-inchers raved away, lethal terriers barking and snarling at the Italian destroyers which were now beginning to appear. And as the huge barrels ran in onto the recoil mechanism, returned to position, and once more hurled their shells, Fingal saw what the missiles were doing. Shells burst brilliantly on the enemy ships and whole turrets and masses of debris were hurled high into the air to splash back into the uncaring pitch-dark sea. In minutes, the three enemy ships were glowing masses, burning from stem to stern.

“Stop it. Please stop it,” he whispered. Those ships were defeated. Italians were dying, drowning, being blown to fragments, roasted alive—the worst fate of all—or horribly maimed. It didn't matter that they were the enemy. They were young men. He shook his fist at the B turret barrels. “Stop it,” he yelled. But as a tornado doesn't heed a mere human's plea to go away, the great gun ignored him and went on belching its message of hellfire.

To Fingal it seemed an eternity, but only ten minutes after the firing began, the order “Check, check, check,” was given. The main act of the Battle of Cape Matapan was over.

Fingal was chilled to the marrow. His ears whistled and rang. He was heartsore from the carnage he'd witnessed, and turning on his heel, headed for his station. There would be Italian survivors. During battles the big ships become floating hospitals for the injured—of both sides—just as
Warspite
had done at Narvik last April.

He descended the last companionway and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to dispel what he'd seen, yet hoping what he'd just witnessed might somehow help to shorten the war. May I and all those like me, he thought as he pulled open the heavy metal door, go home sooner to our loved ones. But what a waste. What a hideous awful waste.

 

45

It Is a Wise Father That Knows His Own Child

“Right,” said O'Reilly, bounding to his feet from a wooden chair as Barry appeared at the back door of the kitchen. “All done for the day?”

Barry slammed the door, cutting off a chilly blast from outside. He nodded and started to unbutton his overcoat. “Mother told me there'd be days like this. If I have to visit one more case of flu I'll—I'll spit. But yes, I'm done.” He stopped unbuttoning. “Fingal, why are you wearing your coat and gloves? It's hot as hell in here with the range roaring away.”

“I know, but I've been waiting for you. Keep your coat on,” O'Reilly said, “I need your help. Come on.”

“Help with what?”

“I'll explain in the car,” O'Reilly said, “but it's not flu, I promise.”

“Bloody hell,” Barry muttered sotto voce, but said, “all right.”

The stiff northerly breeze was raw on O'Reilly's cheeks as they crossed the back garden, a back garden quite devoid of Arthur, who was in the lounge, snug in front of the fire where he'd been all week during the cold snap.

“Hop in.” O'Reilly let himself into the Rover.

Barry did, and like a grand prix racing competitor O'Reilly took off as if from a Le Mans start.

“Lord, Fingal, where are we going? Is someone bleeding? What's the rush?” Barry clung to the edges of his seat. “The roads are pretty icy, you know.”

“I'm used to them,” O'Reilly said as the back of the car slewed sideways and he straightened the Rover up. “You remember that Lorna Kearney was being discharged yesterday?”

“Yes. Is she okay?”

“She's fine and so is the baby. Here.” He handed Barry a letter. “I got it this morning and I haven't had a chance to get you to explain it to me fully. You read it aloud and I'll try to tell you what it means to see if I've understood what I think I've learned. You can correct me if I'm wrong. I reckon I'm understanding this Rhesus business a lot better now. Fair enough?”

“You hauled me away from a warm kitchen and a chance to put my feet up after a very long afternoon of visiting coughing, feverish, tetchy customers, to explain a letter to you?” Barry shook his head.

“Sorry about that, but I'm in a hurry.”

“Why? There's nothing urgent about a neonatal checkup.”

“Ah,” said O'Reilly with a grin, “but if we get it done quick we'll have time to nip into the Duck before Kitty gets home.”

“Doctor O'Reilly,” Barry said past pursed lips, “sometimes I despair.”

O'Reilly ignored the lad's irritation and reached out to tap the letter in his lap. “Skip the ‘Dear Doctor O'Reilly' stuff and all the things we already know like her last period and her blood pressure. Just stick to the Rhesus stuff.”

“I want it known that I'm doing this under protest.” Barry began to read the report, “‘The results of the patient's first amniocentesis showed that the optical density level was in the moderate zone on the prediction chart. It was decided to wait for two more weeks—'”

“I remember that.”

“‘A second uncomplicated amniocentesis was carried out on the morning of Wednesday December the seventh when the pregnancy was thirty-five weeks and five days. Results were received that day. The optical density of the fluid was reported as being point zero six—'”

“So Doctor Whitfield plotted that on the prediction chart and determined the severity?”

“Right. It showed that the level was almost in the severe zone.”

“She was nearly thirty-six weeks by then. Safer to deliver the baby than let the isoimmunisation get any worse. I'd try to get labour started.”

“And you'd be right again, that's what they did, and—Jesus Murphy, Fingal, look out.”

O'Reilly had not quite judged his line into the crown of the hairpin bend where a lane led to the Donnellys' cottage. This time, despite his best efforts, the car skidded sideways and just missed hitting the road embankment before he was able to get it back on course. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Go on.”

“Nothing to worry about? I thought I was going to be having a chat with Saint Peter. Slow down.”

O'Reilly said nothing.

Barry's voice trembled as he read, “‘Labour was induced that afternoon by rupturing the membranes and giving intravenous oxytocin to stimulate uterine contractions. The normal delivery of a healthy female infant occurred at four sixteen on the morning of December the ninth.'”

“Sounds like a fair while,” O'Reilly said, accelerating onto a straight bit of road.

“The baby was clearly not in a hurry—unlike you,” Barry said. “Will you please slow down, Fingal? There's plenty of time to get Lorna and the bairn seen to and get to the Duck.”

“Oh, very well.” O'Reilly let a few miles an hour bleed off the speedometer. “Happier now?”

“A bit, but I think I'd be happier still if I were driving.”

“If you were driving, then how would you read the letter?”

Fingal took a sidelong glance at Barry and saw the boy's lips twitch into the faintest of smiles. “Please carry on, Doctor Laverty.”

“Right. ‘While induction was initially slow, the onset of the active phase of labour began at two
P.M
. on the ninth.'”

“That's not so bad then.”

“Not bad at all. Perfectly normal for an oxytocin-induced labour.” Barry shuddered and said, “Did we just pass five men on skis hauling a sledge?”

“What are you on about?”

“I thought we just passed Scott's last expedition on its way to the South Pole. Lord knows it's cold enough in here. Why isn't the heater on?”

“Um,” O'Reilly said, feeling a little chastened. “It's broken.”

“Well, get it fixed then.” And implied in Barry's tone was “you buck eejit.”

O'Reilly was about to snap at Barry when he realised how out of character the young man's irritation was. Sue Nolan would be home in four more days. Maybe Barry's mood would take a turn for the better then. For now he was getting a fool's pardon. “I will, but what else is in the report?”

“It goes on, ‘A sample of cord blood was taken at birth and a direct Coombs test—'”

“You've lost me.”

“Foetal red cells are mixed with an antibody that will stick to globulins, proteins, on cell surfaces. Anti-rhesus antibody is a globulin. If the baby's red cells stick together, that's proof that they have antibody attached to them. The test was positive, so the baby was affected just as the results of the two amniocenteses had predicted.”

“How badly affected?” O'Reilly knew that some wee ones were given exchange transfusions. Their own blood contained the breakdown product of the red cells, bilirubin, which caused severe effects like the neurological disorder
kernicterus.
The neonate's blood was removed, taking the bilirubin with it, and replaced with fresh Rhesus-negative blood, which would not be attacked by any residual anti-Rhesus positive antibodies remaining in the baby's circulation.

Barry managed a weak smile. “Clinically, according to the letter, she was mildly jaundiced but exhibiting no signs of any neurological disorder. The baby's bilirubin measured on the same blood sample was less than three miligrams percent, which is below, and her haemoglobin was fifteen grams per one hundred millilitres, which is above the cutoffs for needing an exchange transfusion. They did put her under phototherapy lights for two days. The lights change the structure of the bilirubin and render it harmless.”

O'Reilly decelerated, indicated for a left turn, and pulled onto the lane to the Kearney's farmhouse. “I read about that away back in 1958,” he said. “A Doctor Cremer published a paper in the
Lancet
.”

“Actually,” Barry said, “the effect of light was first noticed by a nursing sister at a hospital in Essex. She thought that sunlight was good for preemies and noticed that it improved jaundice in affected ones.”

“Discovery,” O'Reilly said, “favours the prepared mind. And there are no better prepared minds in medicine than good nurses'. Smart young doctors cotton on to that early in their careers.” He would have expected Barry to comment on the misphrasing of Louis Pasteur's famous doctrine, or the observation about nurses, but given Barry's mood O'Reilly was not surprised when the lad ignored the remarks and simply said, “And by yesterday the paediatricians were satisfied she would be fit for discharge.”

The car jounced and quivered.

“If you keep bouncing over ruts like that, you can add new springs as well as a new heater to your mechanic's bill,” Barry said.

“Nonsense,” O'Reilly said. “The Rover company builds cars as tough as Sherman tanks.” He parked and sat back. “The hospital folks just want us to make sure baby's being kept warm, is established on breast-feeding, not badly jaundiced, and that Lorna knows to take the babby to the follow-up clinic at RMH next Thursday. Come on then. Let's get the job done.”

Reggie Kearney answered the door and ushered them in.

O'Reilly remembered the big living room from when he and the marquis had called in for a hot half-un after their day's snipe shooting in October. He wondered how Lars was getting on sorting out John MacNeill's affairs.

Even though the room was overly warm, O'Reilly moved to stand in front of the fire. He rubbed his hands and said, “Jes…” He remembered the Kearneys' devoutness. “Brrrr. It's bitter cold out today. I'm half foundered.” Barry was right about having the old Rover car's heater fixed.

“Warm yourselves, Doctors,” Lorna said from where she sat in a comfy chair beside the hearth. “Doctor Whitfield told me to expect a visit.” A crib on rockers stood beside her chair and Reggie, her husband, stood beside her, one big hand on his wife's shoulder.