Chapter Text
‘You can put your shirt back on now, Inspector.’
Jack sighed in mock irritation as he pulled his vest over his head. ‘If I had known that recommending you as coroner would have meant you worming your way in as police surgeon…’
The doctor grinned at him over her untidy desk.
‘Don’t give me that. You knew damn well that the Commissioner was looking to save money by filling both posts with a single over-worked fool.’
‘Well, what’s the verdict?’ Jack finished buttoning his collar and began knotting his tie with swift, expert flicks of the hand.
‘Well, it’s always nice to see one’s diagnosis confirmed.’
‘Diagnosis? What diagnosis?’ Jack tried to keep the trace of anxiety out of his voice.
‘Hmm…? Oh, just that I was quite right in my identification of the most suitable specimen for mating, if I ever found myself that way inclined. You, my good man, are disgustingly fit and healthy.’ Mac leaned back in her chair and flicked casually through the file she had plucked off the desk. Jack choked slightly, and then laughed.
She levelled a look at him. ‘So, the ribs don’t give you any trouble these days, then?’
‘My ribs. No. They haven’t done for years. But how do you know about…?’ Jack leaned forward and, drawing on years of police experience, read the file she had now placed on the desk upside down. He sat back suddenly, his voice now genuinely outraged. ‘Is that my repat file? How the hell did you get your hands on that? Those army boys never let any of their precious paper work out of their sight!’
She grinned at him again, this time wickedly. ‘I’ve had more than enough experience of getting around recalcitrant MOs, Jack. More than you have at any rate. It was one of the first skills we had to hone during the war.’
‘We?’ He looked puzzled.
‘Women doctors.’ She stretched her legs out, looking into the distance reminiscently. ‘I was with the Scottish Women’s, first in Serbia then at Royaumont. We had to fight to even be allowed to help – when Dr Inglis first went to the War Office offering to help, do you know what the idiot official said to her? “Go home, my good women, and sit still!” To Elsie Inglis, of all people! Heaven help the man!’
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘I take it she didn’t go home to her knitting?’
Mac laughed. ‘You clearly never met Elsie! No, she got in touch with the French and Belgians directly. They were more than happy for our help – and, of course, the Serbians were desperate, poor bastards.’ Her voice trailed off, reminiscently.
‘You miss it?’
‘Hmm…?’ Mac came back from somewhere far away. ‘No, not really. The job was hell – I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhausted in my life - and patching up men because they have decided that the best way to prove themselves is to poke holes in each other or blow each other up is not my, idea of job satisfaction. But there were compensation, I suppose.’
‘Yes, there always are.’
She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Care to tell me about it? That rib fracture, for instance. I’ve been trying to piece together what happened, but it looks to me as if you had a goodish spell in hospital for a wound like that. How did you wangle that one?’
‘PUO,’ he declaimed sepulchrally, then cocked an eyebrow to gauge her reaction.
‘That old chestnut! Go on, tell me all about it, man. I’m dying of curiosity.’
Jack sighed. Once Mac got her teeth into a medical matter she wouldn’t let go, he knew. He glanced at his watch, not that he had anywhere to be that afternoon, and the endless reports would wait. They always did. He leaned back in his chair, gazed up at the ceiling and began.
* * *
It had been an ordinary trench raid, himself, the sergeant and a couple of lads up from base, a quick run to give them a sense of the sector. They had made it across to the section of barbed wire that needed replacing, made the necessary repairs as best they could and were on their way back when the shell had dropped not far in front of them. One minute Jack had been crawling along between shell holes, the next he knew nothing.
He must only have been out for a second. He came to to the sound of the sergeant’s groans and the whimpering of one of the men. He tried to push himself up but gasped and fell back as fire shot through his ribs. Something broken there. Damn!
Turning his head, he spotted the sergeant, who appeared to have leveraged himself into a sitting position and was now gazing ruefully at his leg, which lay at an odd angle. He noticed Jack’s movement and shook his head. ‘Bloody leg’s gone, sir. You alright?’
‘Ribs, I think,’ Jack gasped. ‘Can’t sit up.’
A flare went up, showing the sergeant’s face, livid and streaked with blood, suddenly crumpling with concern.
‘You’re bleeding, sir! You’ve been hit.’
‘Am I?’ Jack looked down to see blood spreading over this tunic jacket. He prodded at the places carefully. ‘Shrapnel. I’ll get a field dressing on the worst one if I can.’ Carefully, he groped for the canvas parcel in his pocket, his ribs screaming with pain with each movement.
‘’ere, you lie still, sir. Martin can see to it, can’t you, Martin?’ The sergeant’s voice was matter-of-fact, even cheerful, and Jack realised he was trying to soothe the remaining soldier. It seemed to work as the whimpering stopped.
‘I – I can try, sir,’ the man stammered, ‘but me arm…’
‘Good lad. ‘ere, I can’t move but you come and take my field dressing and use it to patch up the lieutenant there, along of ‘is, and your own. You got it? Good lad. Now, make sure you don’t drop ‘em, particularly once their open. Remember what the MO said? They must be clean when they go on the wound. No good at all if they ain’t clean.’
Martin, a skinny lad of about twenty, appeared in Jack’s line of vision. His arm was clearly broken, but thank god it was his left and he was right-handed. Soothed by the sergeant’s voice, he was able, with Jack lending a hand, to get the three pads of cotton in place and tied firmly to staunch the flow of blood. The bandages bit into Jack’s ribs like fire, but he knew that the pain was the price he would have to pay if he did not want to bleed to death.
‘Right, lad, well done. Let’s see about that arm of yours now. That’s all our bandages gone, isn’t it? Okay, come here and take my puttee. Ow –‘ the sound was almost a scream, ‘not that leg, you goddamned fool! The good one! That’s it. Right, come ‘ere. Let’s get you strapped up.’
The sling was rough but seemed to be effective, once in place.
‘Okay, off you ‘op. Get back to our lines, find the MO and get ‘im to send out the bearers. Quick as you like, lad. They won’t thank you for hanging about any more’n we will.’
Martin hopped, disappearing into the gloom at a steady slog. Silence descended. Jack lay looking up at the sky, wondering how long it would take the bearers to find them, if they ever did. Too long and he would die in this god-forsaken shell hole, miles from home, every breath an agony…
‘You alright there, sir?’
The sergeant’s voice came as a blessed relief.
‘Just about, sergeant. Yourself?’
‘Not so dusty. Getting a bit cold. Could do with a kip.’ Was it Jack’s imagination, or did the sergeant’s voice sound fainter? He couldn’t let him fall asleep; that was how men died of exposure out here.
‘Now don’t you go falling asleep on the job, sergeant. I need you to keep an eye out for the bearers when they get here. I can’t see a damned thing at this angle. That was a nifty bit of sling work you did with your puttee, by the way. Where did you learn that trick?’ Keep him talking, that should help keep him awake. And it might help the bearers find them out here.
‘Thank you, sir. I did a course with the St John’s Ambulance, the summer before the war started. They always said to use whatever to was at ‘and to make a sling or a splint if you ‘ad to. Improvisation, they called it.’
‘St. John’s Ambulance? You interested in medicine, then? You should have joined the poultice wallahs.’
The sergeant laughed. ‘So I should – nice cushy job behind the line, mebbe, although knowing my luck I’d end up in a sanitary section, shovelling shit. Think I’d rather take my chances with Jerry.’
‘Well, I’m damned glad you ended up here with me rather than with the medicos. I couldn’t have kept that poor boy Martin calm on my own. What happened to Brown, by the way?’
‘Copped it.’ The sergeant’s voice was grim, and Jack decided not to pursue the matter further.
The minutes ticked by. Jack could feel himself getting colder and knew that he mustn’t fall asleep either. He started again, although the constant pain in his ribs made talking agonising, asking the man about himself, what he did in civilian life (head groom at a livery stable) and his family (a wife and three kids, all of the growing like weeds and wearing out their boots faster than he could send money home to buy new). In return he told the sergeant about Rosie and about his work. The man was impressed and pressed him for more details.
‘Can’t see there being much future in my line of work after all this is over, not with all these motor cars and everyone learning to drive them. The police just might suit me, nice steady job with a bit of security.’
‘Well, the force is always on the lookout for good men.’
‘Would you put in a word for me, sir? If we both get through this, I mean?’
‘Well, I can try, but I’m only a senior constable in the force, you know, and god knows what the war will do to my chances of promotion. But my father-in-law has some pull. He’s a chief inspector and knows all the right people. What’s your name? Jakes? Well, write to me when we’re out of this, Jakes, and I’ll see what I can do.’ Not that either of them were likely to make it, Jack thought. He was losing blood and the cold was getting to him. He wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer; he could already feel himself slipping toward the comfort of oblivion.
‘Right you are, sir, thank you.’ The sergeant’s voice sounded increasingly far away, as if he were retreating, although the rational part of Jack’s mind knew that he could not have moved. Then suddenly, ‘Ssh!’
Jack held his breath and strained his ears. In the quiet he could just hear the sound of careful footsteps, then a voice calling, ‘Sergeant Jakes? Lieutenant Robinson?’
‘’ere!’ The sergeant fumbled a box of matches from his pocket, lit one and raised it aloft. The tiny flame held steady for only a second before blowing out, but it was enough. The footsteps came closer, and then four helmeted heads peered into Jack’s face. The bearers had arrived.