A Man Called Darius Read online

  Title Page

  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 time ever in my life, I believed in love at first sight... and yet I was afraid.

  ***

  Darius Crane came to the Theatre as I had arranged, together with two other applicants for the post of Operating Room Assistant, commonly known in the Medical Corps as an O.R.A. There were only four qualified O.R.As in the Middle East Forces at that time. I remember, it was very unusual to have more than one application for this job, for even volunteers for the Medical Corps appreciate some free time of their own and there wasn’t much of that if you were an O.R.A. This post also restricted promotion in the ranks, since Corporals and Sergeants were made up from the clerical staff of the hospital and very few of the nursing staff ever became a non-commissioned officer, unless there were very exceptional circumstances. After all, we S.R.Ns were at the highest level of nursing in that field and we were given a commission... how then could you make an officer of a nursing orderly, regardless of how good he might be? One of the other lads fainted as soon as he saw a leg being amputated. He collapsed with the leg in his arms as he was asked to bind it to arrest the bleeding... so he was out. He apologised profusely when he came round but I explained that there was no shame in his actions and that it was best to find out if one was suited or not to this type of intimate and detailed surgery, at the outset, rather than half way through the training. The second soldier who applied for the duties in the Theatre, failed miserably in his oral exam. I rather felt he had more dramatic visions of the job than were really there. Watching too much of Doctor Kildare, I guess, but its not like that in real life. We didn’t have to say any more. He drew his own conclusions as to why he was unsuited and withdrew his application, to return to the wards, where I felt he was better suited. Somehow or other the cap and mask give a mystery to our work, but it is far from mysterious. It is bloody hard, down to earth, back breaking labour, most of the time and not what it appears to be in fiction novels.

  ***

  Darius had watched the amputation without a flinch and also took care of the orderly who fainted... as well as wrapping the leg in a surgical towel. He enjoyed a nice cup of tea when the ordeal was over, as I remember. His oral test surprised the surgeon, the anaesthetist and I think, most of all me, with his answers, as we stared at each other in cool amazement, sure that he must have had some previous experience, but he assured us that, apart from his short period of time on the wards, he had never had any working experience with the sick in this way.

  “I want to save life... I do not want to kill, even if I am a soldier. I never asked to be here. I was conscripted into the army, “ was his only answer.

  Colonel Steel removed his spectacles as he studied the exam paper. He was a very experienced and well-practised surgeon in the Medical Corps and had conducted many interviews for the recruitment of Theatre staff. He rubbed his eyes.

  “But... doesn’t the sight of blood affect you... even in the slightest way?” he asked and blinked at the interviewee, hoping perhaps to find some minor flaw in the indomitable character who sat so upright before him.

  “Of course... but the job has to be done,” was the answer.

  The Colonel looked from the anaesthetist to me with one slow movement of his head and I took my opportunity to ask something that had been on my mind since the start of the procedure, but my enquiry was weak, for I wanted this man Darius Crane to join our team, at all costs.

  “You could do just as well where you are on the wards... the surgical wards in particular, if you feel this way, surely.”

  I asked my question and I could have bitten out my tongue. Why the hell was I being so contrary... so perverse? Why couldn’t I just leave things alone and stretch out my hand in welcome? I was being a woman, I suppose... but I didn’t like what I was doing.

  “If you don’t want me, just tell me,” was his only answer and I was defeated in that one stroke of resignation.

  Colonel Steel glanced at Major Tarapor, the anaesthetist and then back to me.

  “Then I take it that you really want to do this kind of work,” he asked as Darius looked boldly at him, with a determined confidence in his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t volunteer if I didn’t,” he said and lowered his eyes to look at the floor. I asked Darius to wait outside whilst the two medical officers and I discussed his case. I was biased as I watched him remove his white cap from his head and untie the tapes of his mask from around his neck, for I had seen those magnificent eyes, highlighted and emphasised in that narrow space between his forehead and nose and I hoped he would stay with us. The medical officers could find no objections and Darius Crane joined the Theatre staff on a probationary period of three months.

  ***

  He stood near me daily, watching and listening and learning, making his notes in the interval periods when we were not active at the Theatre table and he proved to be very efficient in everything we taught him in the short period of time that I was there, before my leave was authorized and I was to quit Iraq within the week. We never met outside of Theatre hours, much to my regret and there was no way I could have changed this situation, unless by some chance, the Officer’s Mess had a dance, or something like that where private soldiers functioned as waiters and barmen. I was an intolerable snob...and I regret that now.

  The only flaw in my leave was the replacement Sister who had not yet arrived. We learned that an Indian Nursing Sister was due to arrive from Baghdad’s 22nd General, but she was not due at Basra until the 24th., and I was due to sail on the ‘Venezuella’ on the 2lst. I had hoped to be home for Christmas, as it would take about three weeks to arrive at Southampton, via the Cape and calling at Toulon on the way. Colonel Steel studied my leave documents and knew there was nothing he could do to change the dates. The bureaucracy of the army was unflinchable and I was to leave Basra on the ‘Nairn bus,’ which would get me to Cairo for the departure date, which was on November 21st 1945.

  After much deliberation, it was decided to keep the Theatre ‘lists’ of operations in low key until the replacement Sister arrived and Darius would help out by scrubbing up for the operations, if necessary. This meant he would have to assist the surgeon directly with the operation, handing him the required instruments and sutures, together with assisting with the general external stitching. Quite a mammoth task for a novice... but we had
no other option. By ‘Low key list,’ I mean operations that were not urgent, for example old gunshot and bayonet wounds that had to be cleaned up and repaired and which had been left due to the rush of immediate surgery whilst the war was still on or simple things, like the incision of boils or cysts or such likes. Major abdominal and bone surgery would have to wait for the arrival of Sister Jacnara... and I hoped an emergency appendix wouldn’t arise ...in the reign of Darius Crane....

  Chapter Two

  The journey took three weeks and two days and I arrived at Southampton on December 15th l945. It was raining heavily as I had expected it might be, but it was heaven just to feel that glorious cool rain on my face and to close my eyes and let it run down my neck. I know this sounds crazy but when you haven’t known cool rain for over two years, it is a welcome delight, I can assure you and a wonderful welcome back to dear old Blighty …

  ***

  I was fortunate enough to get a lift into London from two W.R.N.S. officers who were returning to their units in Woolwich and they very kindly dropped me off at Jeremy’s Aunt Martha’s place in the Old Manse near the Kings Road. It didn’t look any different... well, at least from the outside as I stood there on the pavement gazing at the familiar green front door, with my three heavy grips at my soaking feet. I rang the bell and studied the fading brass knocker with nostalgia. It wasn’t that I loved this place... I didn’t really, but pictures were coming back to me as I stood there waiting... pictures and scenes that I had taken so much for granted and which now acknowledged me again upon my return with a strange acceptance that I had never realized before. I suppose it is true, that absence does make the heart grow fonder...