Searching for Sofia, page 32
‘So, Jack, in January last year, we had the 133rd British General Unit, and after that the 148th, but they are war units. They follow the fronts and stay close to the fighting to receive the wounded soldiers directly off the battlefields. From here, the 133rd went on to South Africa; but really, it could be anywhere now; and of course, there’s no saying that Sofia is still with them.
‘The most important thing for you to think about is getting yourself better—doing everything possible to save that arm. We plan to get you back to Australia as quickly as we can. Your shoulder will need surgery and that is best done in Melbourne. There’s a corvette heading there sometime next week. We’ll get you on it, and have you home before you know it.’
‘But I don’t want to go to home. I need to stay here and find Sofia.’
‘Jack, like I said, there is no Sofia here. I'll tell you what I will do. I’ll put out a few memos. You can even write a letter and I will hang on to it until I can make contact with someone who knows about her. That’s the best we can do for now, I am afraid. There are people through here all the time. Somebody’s bound to know something about her.’
Jack stared at her in disbelief, searching for a reply. How could he go home? He had to find Sofia. His mind whirled with ideas. Perhaps he could find a way to South Africa... follow the route that the British Medical Units took. As it turned out, Jack was going nowhere. Infection coursed from his shoulder to his fingertips, causing his arm to double in size; and he could barely move his fingers, his hand was so swollen. From this wound, the infection invaded his bloodstream, and with his body wracked with fever and delirium, the doctors battled, not just to save his arm—but to save his life. Hence, it was not until August that he was deemed fit enough for the sea journey, and early December, 1942, before he arrived in Australia.
Chapter 32
PART THREE - MELBOURNE
Jack squinted at the bright sunlight filtering through tall, narrow windows—one to his left, another to his right. Rippling flashes of gold and silver bounced off the walls. Tinsel? Christmas decorations? An overwhelming odour filled the air. Was it bleach or antiseptic?
A cheery voice startled him, and he turned to find a female wearing an apron and a nun-like white veil standing beside his bed. ‘So, he’s decided to come back and join us at last.’
It was then Jack realised that the source of the pungent odour came from a swab the woman held between the prongs of tweezers, and she was attending to his shoulder, which was draped in surgical green linen. A nurse? He tried to turn more, to see what she was doing.
‘Don’t move,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ll be finished here in a mo.’
‘Where am I?’
‘Melbourne, Australia. You are in Ward Six, the surgical ward of the Heidelberg Repatriation Hospital. It’s Christmas Day, so Merry Christmas to you. You’ve been here for over a week now. That infection really had a hold on you. Mr Martin insisted that you go to theatre the minute he saw your shoulder; he wanted to clean your wound properly. It was touch and go for a while. You’ve been very ill. Mr Martin is good, though... saves dozens of lives with his endless fussing about antiseptics and hygiene. You’ve been lucky to have him. Your shoulder was a right old mess.’
Jack thought that the nurse sounded as if she was thrilled by the right old mess of his shoulder, enthused by the challenge of getting it better.
‘Thank you.’ He was surprised by the rasp in his voice.
‘Our pleasure! We want to get you fellows well again, you know. This incision is pretty deep. But then again, Mr Martin had to go in a long way to remove a bone fragment and fix the damaged tendons. He couldn’t stitch it properly—too much infection. He did what he could, but we’ve packed it with gauze, and now we have to let it heal from the inside, so it will take a while. You’re actually doing quite well, all things considered.’
Jack nodded appreciatively, but he was too dazed to comprehend the details she’d just described. Her words became muffled, and he closed his eyes to escape the brightness that was giving him a headache.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Jack was again awoken, roused by the movement of two nurses who together encouraged him to sit upright and at least try to nibble on the plate of sandwiches they offered. This time, his mind felt a little clearer, and he did his best to assist them by leaning forwards as they packed pillows behind him. Despite the dryness of his mouth, Jack attempted to chew the food on the tray, alternating with sips from the cup of water they offered him. He felt like he might topple over at any minute; his sense of balance was upset as his left arm was rendered useless, now supported by a sling which had been bound firmly against his chest.
Jack tried to make sense of his surroundings. Melbourne? Australia? He was home!
Shortly after his lunch, he watched as an elderly couple entered the ward, their gait slow, the man shuffling on a walking frame. Tears sprang to his eyes as they approached his bed; it was his parents. He looked at them, and they at him, as if each barely believed what they saw.
It had been three years since they’d last seen each other, and clearly, much had changed.
‘Jack. You are awake, at last! What a wonderful Christmas surprise this is!’ His mother was the first to speak, wiping her eyes and gazing at him in disbelief. He felt her hand reaching for his forehead as though she were checking his temperature, a habit she’d had since when he was a small child. ‘Thank God! I knew that you would return, despite... well. Never mind, you are here now and that is all that matters.’
Jack wondered what they had been told, and he felt pangs of guilt. He should have contacted them. Worked harder to get a message home to assure them he was okay. He tried to apologise, but Marian waved his words away.
‘No, Jack. What are you apologising for? You have been terribly ill. Don’t be so silly.’
He turned to his father, whose face was familiar, but his body that of an elderly stranger. The once-broad shoulders now slumped forward; the hands that had deftly worked his fountain pen and manipulated garden shears now grasped the handles of the metal walking frame as if that was their sole purpose. Tears streamed down hollowed cheeks, channelling towards the creases surrounding his mouth, and the rivulets flowed onto his chin. Clutching a handkerchief to his mouth, he attempted to speak.
‘Ja...’ he whispered.
‘It’s okay, William.’ Marian patted his hand. ‘Jack’s awake now, and he’s looking well, don’t you think? Come now, let’s sit for a minute.’ She assisted William to sit on Jack’s right, and Jack reached out and clung to the hand stretched towards him. He smiled at his father before turning back to his mother enquiringly. What had happened, he wondered, to cause William to be so debilitated?
Marian ignored the question in his eyes with a brief shake of her head. ‘The matron has only given us half an hour, but still... its good of them, because it is outside visiting hours. They are usually terribly strict about these things. We’ve been coming in each day to sit with you. We were in earlier, weren’t we William, but you were still out to the world, Jack. We had to come back, though, when they phoned to tell us that you had woken. It’s been over ten days since you got here. We’ve been waiting for this moment. I can barely believe that you are finally awake!’
‘It’s so good to see you both.’ Jack’s voice quivered with emotion as he looked between them. ‘How is home? The garden? Your roses must be in bloom by now?’ What a funny thing to ask, he thought.
‘Yes, they are,’ his mother replied. ‘That’s the thing about roses. The whole world goes to war, bombing and killing each other, and the roses—well, they just continue to form their perfect buds and burst into wonderful perfumed blooms, as if nothing’s changed. They’ve been hard to appreciate, though, what with you missing and all. Mind you, on that Thursday, when we got the call that you were here, and... well... after laying eyes on you and learning that you were going to be okay, we went home and I made us a cup of tea, and we sat in the garden, inhaling every ounce of the sweetness of the air, and we thanked God, didn’t we, William? And I am telling you, Jack, even though it’s overgrown and the weeds have gone mad, my garden has never looked more beautiful than it does now that I know that you are home and safe.’
Jack nodded and again turned to his father.
‘Dad! It is so good to see you!’
William nodded, his blue eyes sharp, albeit watery, and more tears spilled down his cheeks.
Jack looked at his mother. ‘What has happened?’ he asked.
‘We got a letter that you were missing, Jack. It came last June. It didn’t offer any words of hope and... well, of course, we were shattered. Dad took a little turn, but you are getting much better, now, aren’t you, William dear? It’s wonderful to see Jack looking so well, isn’t it?’
William nodded, again grunting, trying to speak words that refused to form, and Marian intervened on his behalf. ‘Dad’s so pleased to see you, Jack. We both are. It’s an answered prayer. I kept saying to William, “Our Jack is fine. He will be home soon.” I just knew it, Jack, the same way that I know that the sky is blue and the grass is green. And here you are!’
* * *
Jack’s second visitor for the day was Margaret, who arrived minutes after his parents left, flying into the ward, accompanied by the strident tones of a none-too-happy charge nurse calling, ‘Five minutes and not a second longer. These men need their rest!’
Flinging her arms around Jack, she hugged him tightly.
‘Jeez, Margaret! Watch a man’s arm, won’t you? You’ll open my wound and then I will be back in surgery, being put back together again.’
‘What happened to you? Why didn’t you write?’ Margaret sounded at once annoyed and relieved.
‘Well, darn the war, I told myself. Why dodge bullets and throw grenades around when I could camp out on a tropical island in the middle of the Mediterranean and leave the world to deal with the craziness all to itself? You know, palm trees swaying... great food... swimming and fishing. It was like heaven on earth! No post office, though, I’m sorry to say!’
‘You're lying, Jack. That was no tropical island holiday, that’s for sure! You were on Crete, forced into hiding from the Germans. I have my information. I was sure that you had been taken prisoner—heaven forbid! When we didn’t hear from you... well, I wrote to every person I could, trying to piece together what had happened. I traced you from Bardia to Tobruk and then to Greece. They told me about the sinking of the Costa Rica: and given that only one death was reported, I was confident that you had survived that. But then all the information got a little obscure. It took ages to work out whether you managed to escape to Africa or Palestine or wherever. No one would tell me anything. To be honest, there were so many mixed stories, I think that even the army is in a state of confusion about it all. A bit embarrassing for them to lose so many men.
‘I finally concluded that you were most likely on Crete, one of the thousands left behind after the evacuation. Damn the army for leaving you! You were abandoned as far as I am concerned, and I let them know it, too. The whole operation sounds like it was a first-class disaster. They would have got you out, they told me, but what with the Japanese entering the war, all attention was turned to the Pacific. It was near impossible to find out anything from them after that, and they as good as told me to give up, implying, of course, that you had probably been killed. God, I hate war!’
Margaret’s tone reeked of bitterness, and Jack did not smile. He knew that his circumstances—missing in action—would have been an awful reminder of the love she’d never forgotten nor replaced, when over twenty years earlier he’d been killed in the Great War. Jack also knew that, had he not come back, she would have been shattered.
‘Well, here I am, Margaret, so you can stop worrying about me now. And look at you; what is that you’re wearing?’
Margaret looked rueful as she ran her hands down the sides of her jacket. ‘I am not saying that I agree with war, Jack. In fact, at heart I am a rampant conscientious objector, but after you left, I felt that I should do my bit. I couldn’t see myself knitting socks or sewing uniforms, but the Explosives Factory Maribyrnong seemed to be a worthwhile project. Who knows, perhaps one of the bullets that I make might save some young man’s life.’
Jack restrained himself from replying that bullets usually ended the lives of young men. Margaret knew that, firsthand.
She continued, ‘Not that I’d mind firing a bullet or two into any Nazi that cares to come my way. I hate thinking about all the fellows that we send to the other side of the world to fight battles that...’
She never finished her rant, for the formidable charge sister appeared.
‘Miss, it is time for you to leave. Now!’ The sister’s tone was absolute, quelling even Margaret’s objections.
‘Right-o. Bye for now, Jack. I will be back as soon as I can.’ She quickly hugged him one more time before scurrying from the ward under the charge nurse’s reproving gaze.
* * *
Over the following weeks, the highlight of the long days on the ward was the routine of watery scrambled eggs, cold toast, tepid cups of tea and overcooked roasts and lemon sago pudding, of which Jack loved every mouthful. After years of roughing it in the army barracks, and then on the war fronts, and then on the island, he couldn’t deny that it was pleasant to revel in the comfort and safety of home. Nonetheless, it did not stop Jack from joining in the other men’s favourite sport: complaining loudly, teasing each other and chatting with the nurses, whose pleasant laughter and witty banter brightened their days.
His shoulder was dressed three times a day, its gash horribly deep, slow healing and repeatedly dogged by infection despite the nurse’s best efforts to keep it clean. The nurses and doctors were in constant discussion about how it should be managed and various treatments were tried, with varying degrees of success. Jack had no doubts that had the wound been lower on his arm, the limb would have been removed without hesitation, and he would be left with a neat, clean stump for his left appendage. He wasn’t sure that he would have minded, given the pain that he suffered each time the nursing sisters rattled their stainless steel dressing trolley towards him—continuously battling the wonky rear wheel that refused to align with its three counterparts—in readiness to cleanse his shoulder and replace the purulent dressings.
‘Got your licence for that beast?’ could be heard through the ward a dozen times a day, along with disparaging comments about women drivers. It was a credit to the patience of the nurses that they listened to the tired old jokes with such humour.
Before they even had to ask, Jack got into the habit of rolling over, baring his shoulder and gritting his teeth before swabs doused in saline and peroxide scoured the hole in his flesh. Gauze soaked in Acriflavine packed the cavity, with a layer of padding applied over that to provide protection; and then the whole affair was bandaged and strapped into a sling. Jack’s ability to move was hindered by the immobility of his left arm—but that was all—and he knew that he was luckier than most of the men here. He was able to sit, stand and walk, and he passed the hours sitting beside those unable to leave their beds, fetching a urinal or extra blanket, and passing cups of tea to those with lost limbs, shattered nerves or any number of other equally debilitating injuries.
Alternatively, he’d go outside, joining the men who sat in the sunshine, smoking, playing cards and sharing stories of their time overseas.
Many of the men had been in the hospital for months, and although they were ready for discharge, they were reluctant to leave—anxious about what their futures held in the civilian world. Jack understood their fear of living amongst people to whom the loss of a leg, a cringe at imagined bullets ricocheting through a fragile mind, or a patch on an empty eye socket invited questions that were impossible to answer. And, for all of the grumbles about ‘getting out of this prison,' when the nurses were bossing them, it was easy to see that many of the men were thrilled when one ailment or another held the time for their discharge at bay.
A cocktail of morphine mixture, taken morning and night, kept Jack pain-free, though nothing helped to quell the discomfort induced by the regime of penicillin injections administered daily. The wonder drug was going to kill his shoulder’s lingering infection and thus save his arm, so he was told.
The injections were absolute agony—a thick, creamy concoction that was plunged deep into his gluteal muscle via needles as thick as a straw, attached to glass syringes that squeaked their resistance to being plunged. They might have been sharp once, but endless stabbings, cleanings and autoclave treatments had left them blunt—and daily the nurses cursed before stabbing his exposed rear, apologising in advance for the pain they were inflicting.
Jack was not alone in his dread of the penicillin injections. The sight of nurses approaching with their kidney dishes always brought howls of complaint from across the ward. ‘Whoa, has that got a barb in it? What are you trying to do, catch a flounder?’ the men often cried, or ‘Those German bayonets were nothing compared to these bloody needles!’
With grim humour, they laughed at each other’s pain, and the recipients made unseemly gestures to their teasing ward-mates before setting their jaws in readiness to endure the torture. Jack always knew when the brisk footsteps were coming his way, as if the glass syringe rattling in the silver kidney dish had its own signal for him. Ignoring the jokes of those around him, he’d roll over and cast his mind to those around him with shocking injuries they’d received on the battlefield. The pain of these lifesaving injections was trifling compared to the agonising wounds that some of these boys would carry for the rest of their lives. A hole in his left shoulder, and possibly an arm with limited movement, was nothing compared to missing limbs and blinded eyes. He was one of the lucky ones, he knew.
Chapter 33
In early March, Jack was surprised by the sight of a man approaching his bed, who greeted him with the warm familiarity of an old friend. ‘Captain Tomlinson, how are you?’
