Page 88 of Summer in Greece

I could hardly speak, and only managed to squeak, ‘Yes, Matron.’

‘There’ll be no Christmas celebrations, ladies,’ Matron continued. ‘The usual three-day ceasefire over the holiday has been cancelled this year. The murder will go on.’ She stood taller and shook her shoulders defiantly. ‘However, everyone’s name is entered into a pillow-bag, and every Monday at dinner, I’ll draw six out. Those nurses will be taken for a day out at the beach or the mud-baths with a picnic, weather permitting. Any questions?’

‘Excuse me, Matron. I just want to thank you for putting me in theatre. I won’t let you down, and my father will be very proud.’

She lifted her chins, huffed, and continued on her way, but as she turned, I saw the flicker of a smile, though it probably had nothing to do with me.

*

I managed to write to my parents every Sunday. Once a month I received a small parcel with things I had requested, plus a few treats from Mother; her Dundee or parkin cake, or a bar of prized chocolate. She told me, Father was proud to read I was training as a scrub nurse in the theatre.

I found the position much more rewarding than being in the tent ward.

‘You wanted to rise through the ranks, Gertie,’ Josephine said. ‘Now, we’re so short-staffed there are no restrictions on how far you may go. Just work hard and be eager.’

The operations were fascinating. My first theatre experience was a leg amputation, which reminded me of handsome Corporal Perkins, and the operation I’d missed on the island of Kea.

Josephine was the anaesthetist, and her being there took away some of my nerves.

The surgeon, Rumley, was a highly respected Australian. ‘Ready?’ he called as he entered the stone-built theatre with two orderlies and a poor wretch on a stretcher.

‘Yes, sir,’ we all replied.

‘You, new girl,’ he said to me. ‘Stand next to the anaesthetist and do whatever I or she says, and don’t speak. I can’t abide chattering nurses.’

The patient writhed vigorously, his eyes staring in unashamed terror as he struggled against the orderlies.

Josephine spoke calmly over his whining. ‘You’ll be fine in a moment, soldier. Count ten for me. Come on now, let me hear you. One, two . . .’

She handed me a bottle with a glass stopper. ‘Open when I say and close immediately after I’ve filled the dropper – and don’t inhale the fumes.’ I nodded. She had what looked like a miniature bullhorn, with a pad of cotton inside. ‘Open.’ I did. She took a dropper of liquid and said, ‘Close’. Josephine emptied the chloroform dropper into the contraption and held it over the patient’s mouth and nose. The hypnotising smell wafted around us like oriental silk. The patient continued to writhe while Josephine talked soothingly, but soon he became dopey. The red-faced orderlies let go of his limbs. Josephine continued until he lay still, then she pulled his eyelid back to check his pupil.

‘Ready to go, sir,’ she said, adding more drops to the mask.

‘When nurse says so, open a window,’ Rumley ordered, nodding at me.

‘Right, give me the bottle and open the window,’ Josephine said moments later. Then she instructed me to apply a blood pressure cuff and tell her the reading.

The surgeon and the theatre nurse cut away the filthy bandages that tied the leg to a length of wood. Then they cut away what remained of the shredded uniform trousers.

‘There’s a mess,’ Rumley said, examining the two ragged wounds where shattered bones protruded. ‘Hit in the back of the knee. Blown off his entire knee and the ends of the tibia, fibula, and femur. We can’t repair what isn’t there. Let’s get on with it and amputate at the lower femur as close to the knee as possible.’ He prodded and peered. ‘No sepsis. Right, let’s have a belt tourniquet on the thigh and get started. How are you doing, nurses?’

I’ll never forget that; to be addressed as ‘nurse’ by a surgeon for the first time. How I wished Father had been there.

The operation was nothing like the line drawings in Father’s medical book. Once the leg was in two separate parts, he lifted the lower half and dumped it in my arms. ‘Stand it in the corner, nurse.’

Oh!

The limb was unexpectedly heavy, and I was shocked! Really shocked! I caught a glance from Josephine and understood this was a test.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said strongly, ignoring the foul-tasting saliva that rushed into my mouth. I propped the limb on its blackened, swollen foot in the corner; stuck my head out of the window and hauled in a fierce breath, then returned to the table. Rumley trimmed the muscle so that there was a good flap to sew over the end of the stump. Then he stitched the wound around a rubber drainage tube.

‘Pay attention, nurses. I spend too much time on external sutures when any of you could relieve me of the task.’ Without looking up, he said, ‘New girl, how’s your bandaging?’

‘I’m the best, sir,’ I said boldly, wishing I had the courage to tell him I could have done the stitches.

‘Then get on with this and be snappy, there’ll be another chloroform job in ten minutes.’

I am proud to say I applied my finest dressing to that limb. I thought of Corporal Perkins as I worked and I wondered if his wound had healed cleanly. Was he measured for a prosthetic, and could he go back to being a mechanic? Now, I realised the surgeon was right to take away a little more leg than appeared necessary. Better safe than sorry was the general consensus.