Man Called Darius , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Paul Kelly

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121 pages

English

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FRANCESCA BARRINGTON-SMYTH ... Frannie as she is known in the story is a young debutante of the Second World War generation and she is tired of the seemingly useless and pretentious life that she is leading in London. She takes herself off to train as a nurse in one of the large London teaching hospitals and after her probationary period, she qualifies as a State Registered Nurse and volunteers for military service, with the Queen Alexandra Imperial Military Nursing Service,the Q.As as they were commonly known and travels abroad as a Theatre Sister. Frannie eventually arrives at the 22nd Indian General hospital in Basra, Iraq and spends a year there before the war was ended in 1945 where she met DARIUS CRANE . . .

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	05 décembre 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781849898287
Langue	English

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A MAN CALLED DARIUS

A ROMANTIC DRAMA IN FICTION

By
Paul Kelly

Publisher Information

A Man Called Darius published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Paul Kelly

The right of Paul Kelly to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chapter One

I first met him in October 1945 on a sticky, humid, stifling afternoon when the sun was at its hottest. He stood alone, looking very much a new recruit to the 15th Indian General Hospital in Basra, Iraq, where I had been Theatre Sister for the past eighteen months and the war had only been over for the past six months. I was expecting my first leave home to London in the next four weeks, providing the army could arrange for a replacement Q.A Sister in the theatre and I knew only too well how he was feeling, being the old desert military veteran that I was, as he stood there in his new tropical uniform, complete with his immaculately new pith helmet and his equally immaculate white ‘ Blighty’ knees.
I remember smiling as the tip of his nose was quite red and the skin was peeling and I thought, as I stood there looking at him with this strange fixation that I had and which would not leave me, that I had seen many recruits, just like him and in so many ways, standing there on the exact same spot, looking and feeling as I was sure he did and yet... he was different... I glanced down at my arms and at the solid, deep tan that I had there and I knew he was wishing that the next eighteen months or so would pass quickly so that his arms would have a tan like that, but I didn’t suppose for one minute, that he could have envisaged the spate of ‘prickly heat’ that went as a fore runner to such a healthy appearance, however that was another question and few, if any, were ever able to avoid that merciless irritation, as they splashed themselves liberally and daily with calamine lotion. It took at least four seasons before they could feel relaxed with the sun’s rays, if ever one really could.
I watched him squinting at the newness of his surroundings and I knew that he had not seen me. One saw places and things before one saw people and I was standing well away from the glare of the afternoon sun, in the shadows of the Theatre ‘tunnel’ anyway. The wards and offices were built at ground level but mercifully, the theatres were built underground in the desert, so that air-conditioning equipment could be installed and used to the fullest advantage. The theatre rooms were always cool and often in the siesta times between noon and three o’clock daily, when everyone did as little as life would allow considering we were a very busy hospital. I would often lie on the waiting room trolley during this time in a bra and knickers and with only a mosquito net to cover me. If that sounds very lazy of me, I should add that we worked the theatre list of operations in the mornings, starting at 6.O a.m. and continuing until noon. We would then commence our list again at 3.O p.m. and go on until we had finished the day’s commitments, very often not before midnight and we would then grab a jeep and go swimming, either in the nearby R.A.F base at Abadan or even into Kuwait on occasions. It was a unique world in which we all lived at that time. Some might say it was lonely out there in the desert sun, but it wasn’t without its moments of happiness, despite the heat and the sand and the scorpions, and the fact that we were a million years away from the bright lights of London and its bustling crescendo of civilisation. We moved to a pace that suited the temperament of our living... working and playing in hours that would have been totally unacceptable in most other places, but Basra was a port of heat and humidity, reaching 130 degrees Fahrenheit, in the shade, on many an occasion. The heat could be unbearable during the day, for we Brits... and darkness would fall in a second, without warning, when the shades of night would abandon the sun to the welcome of the shimmering and cooling moon.

***

I saw him at various times during the following weeks as he went about his duties, in the wards and occasionally when he would bring a patient to the operating theatre on the trolley, but he would never have recognized me, even if I had wanted him to … and I did, really … I had my head covered with a theatre cap and wore a mask most of the time and the gowns that were issued to us then, were loose white, wrinkled linen, that took away any shape that you would care to show and I often I felt as though I was in a yashmak. We would pass each other without recognition, but I was always aware that he was there... near me. What ridiculous nonsense, most people would think. I was a Nursing Sister, an officer of the great British Army... a lieutenant in the Queen Alexandra Imperial Military Nursing Service... and he... he was a private soldier in the Royal Army Medical Corps. There could be no familiarity and I knew it. It was O.K. for a nursing sister to be dated by another commissioned officer, whether with higher or lower rank... that did not matter... even a Warrant Officer might be acceptable... but you were asking for scorn, or worse, if you fancied a Private. It just wasn’t done...
Then one day he reported to the theatre for training as an Operating Room Assistant. I could not believe it and yet... somehow I knew it was inevitable. I knew that fate was playing a hand in this drama, and I was afraid as well as apprehensive, but with a certain degree of excitement as well. You wouldn’t call him handsome, not in any way, I suppose. His nose was long and his mouth was just a little too large and with the most gorgeous white teeth, but he had remarkably smooth and sensual skin and his eyes were simply beautiful ...that’s the only way I could ever describe them. The only word I could find to use about those eyes. They were beautiful. They were of an unusual colour of amber and green combined. I had never seen anyone with eyes like that before and I observed him very closely as I interviewed him in the duty room where he seemed remarkably relaxed; not terribly communicative and certainly not afraid of the work he was about to undertake.
“Can I have your name please?”
I waited with excitement for his answer... this was the first and most important information I would ever get from this man and I watched his lips as he spoke, trying to appear very matter-of-fact and professional in my approach and he seemed to accept the situation more calmly that I did. I wanted to know everything about him. I was greedy to know everything. “My name is Crane... Darius Crane,” he said.
“How long have you been in the Medical Corps, Private?”
I hated using his rank, but I had to do it. “Since December last year, Sister... that’s about eight months.”
“Did you have any experience of nursing before you came into the army?” He raised his eyes and looked into mine and I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t and he continued to stare.
“No,” he answered, simply but frankly.
“What have you done since your conscription then?”
He kept looking at me and I wanted to tear up the application form in front of me and tell him it was an excuse... an excuse just to be near him... what the hell was I playing at?
“I’ve been on ward duties, Sister... mostly surgical.” He replied calmly and I recollected my thoughts when he said that.
“Is this why you are applying to become a Theatre Assistant?”
“Yes, I suppose so, Sister.”
My legs were becoming weaker as he spoke and I wished that the interview would come to an end, but there was so much I had to ask him and so much more I just wanted to know about him, personally.
“You realize, I suppose, the involvement this work demands? It doesn’t stop in shifts and you may have to work longer hours than you have done on the wards, even through the night... if necessary... you do know that, don’t you.” He nodded and I thought I could see the faintest trace of a smile.
“I am aware of that, Sister,” he said and I hated him using that title. I used the technique we are trained to use and I asked him how he felt about being “On Call” regularly and that he would have to remain within the hospital precincts at that time, but nothing seemed to put him off. I took his army number and signed the form, saying that I would arrange for him to attend an operation the following day and that he should report at 0700 hours in Theatre One. He stood to attention as he saluted me and the interview was concluded.
“Private Crane, will you please send in the next applicant as you leave?” He bowed slightly; a strange thing for a Private soldier to do, I thought at that time, but I felt there was something even in this gesture that I should recognise and I watched him leave the duty room, still wondering why I held this peculiar fascination for him. He was just one of many soldiers who had come to this hospital and yet, I knew... he was special... I don’t know WHY I knew it. I only knew that in that moment as he walked out of the door that Darius Crane, Private 14891735, R.A.M.C was to do something to my life that nobody else ever could …and for the first