The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) by James R. Benn Page B
Authors: James R. Benn
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The thought was horrifying.
“At least I was low on fuel, which saved my life, such as it is,” David continued. “I thought I’d made it, but one of the Jerries gave me a final burst. Came at me from the left, a bit too high. He put a single twenty-millimeter shell through my canopy. The wind sucked the flames past my face like a blowtorch. They said the goggles saved my eyes, but I don’t remember anything after that long tongue of flame. I landed the Spitfire, although I have no memory of it. The ground crew pulled me out seconds before the aircraft exploded.”
He drank again.
“You’re certain there’s nothing more a specialist could do?” Kaz asked.
“Piotr, I have been in the hands of a great physician. Have you heard of Doctor McIndoe and the Guinea Pig Club?” Neither of us had. “Archibald McIndoe, a truly great man. He heads up the burns and reconstructive-surgery section at the Queen Victoria Hospital in Sussex. It’s exclusively for RAF pilots and crewmen who have been badly burned.”
“Why ‘guinea pig’?” I asked.
“McIndoe had to create new techniques and equipment. No one had ever seen so many burn cases before. The medical staff are all members of the club, and I was inducted a couple of months ago.”
“But you were injured a year ago,” Kaz said.
“Yes,” David answered. “But you have to have had at least ten surgical procedures to be admitted. We can’t just let anyone in.” There was pride in his voice, and I wondered if David felt more at home with the members of the Guinea Pig Club than at Ashcroft. “You’d be laughed out of the ward with that pathetic little scar of yours, for instance.”
“It sounds like Doctor McIndoe has the right approach to the job,” I said.
“He does. Some men have lost their hands and faces; they come to the hospital thinking they’re beyond redemption. And the injuries are nothing compared to the surgeries,” David said, clenching a fist as he thought of the pain. “But he does his best to create a bond between the staff and patients, even with the locals. He got some of them to organize visits for home-cooked meals, to help the lads prepare for going out into the world. They were wary at first, both the locals and the men, but now when they walk through town, they’re greeted instead of gawked at.”
“Did it help you, David?” Kaz said. “To come home?”
“Listen, Piotr—and Billy. There’s something I wanted to ask you,” David said, ignoring the question and answering it at the same time. “I’d like to go back on active service. As soon as possible. I thoughtwith you being at SHAEF and all, you might be able to pull some strings.”
“Can you still fly?” I asked.
“Not in combat, no,” David said. “With only one decent eye, my depth perception is off. I wouldn’t last a minute in a dogfight. I can still fly a fighter, although I doubt they’ll let me. I need to do something useful.”
“You mentioned a doctor’s appointment in a few weeks. Won’t Doctor McIndoe help you out?”
“It’s not up to him, unfortunately. The RAF medical section rules on return to duty, and so far it hasn’t been promising. It’s not the burns—I know of badly burned men who’ve been given desk jobs. But one bum eye combined with the burns seems to have them in a quandary.”
“Perhaps you should wait and see what this doctor decides,” Kaz said.
“If he invalids me out of the RAF, my chances are dashed,” David said. “I thought if you could put in a word for me now, there might be a place for a bright Oxford chap on someone’s staff. They took you, Piotr.” David stopped and glanced at me, then back at Kaz. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. I think I’ll go mad if I have to sit around Ashcroft on Sir Rupert’s charity any longer.”
“Don’t worry, David. Billy knows about my heart condition. We have no secrets.”
“Good, I was afraid I’d said too much. Well, what about
“At least I was low on fuel, which saved my life, such as it is,” David continued. “I thought I’d made it, but one of the Jerries gave me a final burst. Came at me from the left, a bit too high. He put a single twenty-millimeter shell through my canopy. The wind sucked the flames past my face like a blowtorch. They said the goggles saved my eyes, but I don’t remember anything after that long tongue of flame. I landed the Spitfire, although I have no memory of it. The ground crew pulled me out seconds before the aircraft exploded.”
He drank again.
“You’re certain there’s nothing more a specialist could do?” Kaz asked.
“Piotr, I have been in the hands of a great physician. Have you heard of Doctor McIndoe and the Guinea Pig Club?” Neither of us had. “Archibald McIndoe, a truly great man. He heads up the burns and reconstructive-surgery section at the Queen Victoria Hospital in Sussex. It’s exclusively for RAF pilots and crewmen who have been badly burned.”
“Why ‘guinea pig’?” I asked.
“McIndoe had to create new techniques and equipment. No one had ever seen so many burn cases before. The medical staff are all members of the club, and I was inducted a couple of months ago.”
“But you were injured a year ago,” Kaz said.
“Yes,” David answered. “But you have to have had at least ten surgical procedures to be admitted. We can’t just let anyone in.” There was pride in his voice, and I wondered if David felt more at home with the members of the Guinea Pig Club than at Ashcroft. “You’d be laughed out of the ward with that pathetic little scar of yours, for instance.”
“It sounds like Doctor McIndoe has the right approach to the job,” I said.
“He does. Some men have lost their hands and faces; they come to the hospital thinking they’re beyond redemption. And the injuries are nothing compared to the surgeries,” David said, clenching a fist as he thought of the pain. “But he does his best to create a bond between the staff and patients, even with the locals. He got some of them to organize visits for home-cooked meals, to help the lads prepare for going out into the world. They were wary at first, both the locals and the men, but now when they walk through town, they’re greeted instead of gawked at.”
“Did it help you, David?” Kaz said. “To come home?”
“Listen, Piotr—and Billy. There’s something I wanted to ask you,” David said, ignoring the question and answering it at the same time. “I’d like to go back on active service. As soon as possible. I thoughtwith you being at SHAEF and all, you might be able to pull some strings.”
“Can you still fly?” I asked.
“Not in combat, no,” David said. “With only one decent eye, my depth perception is off. I wouldn’t last a minute in a dogfight. I can still fly a fighter, although I doubt they’ll let me. I need to do something useful.”
“You mentioned a doctor’s appointment in a few weeks. Won’t Doctor McIndoe help you out?”
“It’s not up to him, unfortunately. The RAF medical section rules on return to duty, and so far it hasn’t been promising. It’s not the burns—I know of badly burned men who’ve been given desk jobs. But one bum eye combined with the burns seems to have them in a quandary.”
“Perhaps you should wait and see what this doctor decides,” Kaz said.
“If he invalids me out of the RAF, my chances are dashed,” David said. “I thought if you could put in a word for me now, there might be a place for a bright Oxford chap on someone’s staff. They took you, Piotr.” David stopped and glanced at me, then back at Kaz. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. I think I’ll go mad if I have to sit around Ashcroft on Sir Rupert’s charity any longer.”
“Don’t worry, David. Billy knows about my heart condition. We have no secrets.”
“Good, I was afraid I’d said too much. Well, what about
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