FUSSY, CHAPTER 29: HIPPOCRATE OU HYPOCRITE?
It was evening, and Newkirk was propped up in his infirmary bed, wincing as Doktor Magnusson located a vein and poked a needle into his arm, as Bevan, the Welsh orderly, watched. The medicine that had made Newkirk so drowsy in the middle of the afternoon had worn off, and he really felt that pinch. Relief followed as the doctor released the tourniquet from his arm and taped a thin tube in place.
"There," Doktor Magnusson said. "You'll notice an improvement soon."
Newkirk looked up and sighed. He'd been through this before. The rubber tubes that ran from the crook of his arm were connected to a thick glass bottle. He could feel the liquid from the bottle entering his arm; the drip, drip, drip felt cool, and he shivered involuntarily. Newkirk jutted his bottom lip out as he watched Bevan adjust the bottle, which was now hanging upside down on a pole beside his bed. Bevan jotted down some notes and then exited, but the doctor remained. He stooped down and held the stethoscope to Newkirk's chest to listen to his heart.
"What's in it? That bottle, I mean," Newkirk asked, trying not to sound petulant, and not succeeding. The problem wasn't that the needle hurt; it didn't after the initial sting. It was that LeBeau, who had come to the infirmary with him, had disappeared. Nothing put Newkirk in a fighting mood faster than not knowing where his best mate was. And Louis would know whether the Kraut doctor was on the level, whether they could trust him.
Doktor Magnusson was surprised by the question. He had seen a lot of this particular patient on his daily visits to Stalag 13 over the past several weeks, and he rarely spoke except to the French corporal who always seemed to be at his side. It was a good sign that he was taking an interest in his treatment, the doctor decided.
"It contains salt and glucose to build your strength back up," Doktor Magnusson said. "I'm checking your lungs now, so breathe in and out."
Newkirk inhaled and exhaled as the doctor held the drum of the stethoscope to his chest, then prodded him to lean forward so he could listen from the back. "You are wheezing a bit; we can treat that. You want to know about the intravenous fluid, eh? You'll get 500 milliliters to start, and another 500 milliliters in about four hours, when this bottle is empty. Breathe in and out again, please."
Inhale, exhale. "Is it calories?" Newkirk asked. "Is that what that means?"
The doctor laughed as he removed the earpieces from his ears and let the stethoscope hang from his neck. "Yes, among other things, but the main purpose is to replace fluids that you've lost from vomiting so much. You will need to take some food by mouth as soon as your stomach is settled. Are you able to eat something now?"
Newkirk sighed. No, he wasn't hungry and wouldn't be until Louis arrived to look after him. He glanced up at the doctor and wondered what his story was. He was probably in his fifties, he decided, and he looked tired. It wasn't just the streaks of gray in Doktor Magnusson's thinning hair that gave Newkirk that impression. He could see that under the white lab coat that all the doctors and medics wore in the infirmary, this doctor's clothes were rumpled, and the hem on his trousers was frayed. He probably worked hard.
Newkirk ignored the doctor's question, because he had questions of his on. "Ffffour hours, you said?" Newkirk inquired. "Will you still be here? How late is it, anyway?"
"I just got here at 8 o'clock," Doktor Magnusson, speaking absently as he fiddled with the tubing and made some notes in Newkirk's file. "I will leave when I'm done, which will be around 1 o'clock in the morning. I'd like to go sooner, but I need to start a second round of fluids for you and one other man, so I shall stay. Your medics can withdraw the drip when it's empty; they just can't insert it."
"Eight o'clock?" Newkirk asked. He suddenly looked bewildered. He could hear whistles and voices out in the prison yard.
Doktor Magnusson consulted his watch. "That was an hour ago. It's nearly nine o'clock now." He looked at Newkirk. "You're still too thin, soldier, so let's find some food for you. You must eat what you're given. Your French friend will be back here shortly to help you. And Bevan will administer a breathing treatment. Steam, eucalyptus and a chest rub will help." He was on his way out of Newkirk's cubicle when another question stopped him.
"Why do you come, Sir?"
"Hmm?" Doktor Magnusson turned to Newkirk.
"Wh-why do you come here? Don't you have a job in Hammelburg?"
"Hmm. Yes, of course. I supervise the Luftwaffe medical clinic for our region, and I look after Allied prisoners of war, too. Four or five hours a day, usually at night. Why?"
"J-j-j-just curious why a G-German doctor would look after us, that's all," Newkirk said. "I didn't think you'd… necessarily… well, w-want to do anything for us. Why would you help us?"
"Ah. I see. You're worried I won't provide proper care. Have you heard of the Hippocratic Oath?"
Newkirk narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. It was just a simple question. He wasn't counting on hearing big, incomprehensible words.
"It means that it's my bound duty to use my medical knowledge to benefit people's health."
"Yeah, but we're enemies," Newkirk replied. "How do I know you're not p-p-putting something bad for me in that b-bottle?" he said, gesturing toward the drip.
Docktor Magnusson smiled indulgently. "I wouldn't do that because I took the oath. It's a pledge doctors make to do our best to serve patients regardless of who they are, and also to do no harm—Primum non nocere. It's a serious promise." And, he thought, it was an unfortunate fact that since the Third Reich came to power, medical students no longer took the oath. It was different in his day, and nothing would change that.
Newkirk sat and thought for a moment while the doctor looked at him quizzically. "What about other prisoners?" he finally asked. "Not POWs, but Poles and Ukrainians and that lot. Ost-Arbeiter, their badges said. Who looks after them?"
Doktor Magnusson flinched. He'd seen them too; everyone in Hammelburg had. Filthy, ragged and wretched. He'd never been especially fond of eastern Europeans, but he was quite sure they didn't arrive in Germany looking so dirty and desperate.
"I believe they have doctors of their own, other Poles and Ukrainians, just as the Jews have their own doctors," Doktor Magnusson said.
"Their own doctors, eh?" Newkirk said, unable to hide a sneer. It didn't seem bloody likely. "Do they have their own mmmedical supplies, then? Infirmaries and bandages and cl-clean sheets and mmmedicine?" He was quite sure he knew the answer.
"I couldn't say," Docktor Magnusson said, growing uncomfortable under the young man's mocking glare. "My responsibilities don't extend to civilians. I'm attached to the Luftwaffe, and POWs like you fall under Luftwaffe care."
"Care," Newkirk spat.
"Yes, care," the doctor responded sharply. "Do you find something unacceptable in your treatment here? Something lacking that you would have received at home?" He was getting annoyed. This young man obviously came from nothing, so why was he being arrogant? And as a doctor, Magnusson knew he was doing his utmost to provide whatever care he could. The prisoners were no worse off than the Luftwaffe men he cared for in town. The only real difference was the Luftwaffe men had a significantly higher rate of venereal diseases, while the prisoners had skin infections and respiratory ailments that came from living in tight quarters. Perhaps they had to wait a bit longer for care, but that was all.
Newkirk felt like a schoolboy who had been rapped on the knuckles; he'd had quite a bit of experience with being put in his place, and while part of him wanted to rise up angrily, he was feeling sick and overwhelmed. He'd angered the doctor who was putting medicines into his veins; that wasn't very clever of Peter Newkirk, he scolded himself.
The truth was he'd hardly been to a doctor before he enlisted. The council sent nurses around to the schools to treat children for lice and other ailments, and he remembered when he was four or five that the midwives sometimes came by with milk and vitamins. But that was all. So no, nothing was lacking here, not really. The infirmary was cleaner than his home was, and so was the barracks, for that matter. It had fewer rats than he was accustomed to, any road.
"No, it's alright, Sir," Newkirk muttered. "I appreciate what you've d-d-done for me." He was embarrassed now; he wasn't quite sure what he was fussing about, and his stomach still felt queasy. Now he could feel a whistle in his chest too. He was bloody tired of being ill.
"We try our best, but resources are limited everywhere, young man," Doktor Magnusson said, trying to make sure his compassion came through. "Unfortunately, I can't give you any information on the Ost-Arbeiters. They are really beyond my remit, I'm afraid."
"I understand," Newkirk said. "Sorry, Sir." He looked up. "But if you saw one of them workers, would you help him? If you could do something to make them just a little better, would you do it? Because you're helping me, and they're much thinner than I am, Sir."
Doktor Magnusson nodded, not in agreement, but in comprehension. "I'd have to think about it," he said as he continued nodding. "Resources are scant." And consequences were swift, he added silently.
"You said you'd serve patients regardless of who they are. That you swore an oath," Newkirk persisted.
"Yes," Doktor Magnusson said. "Yes, I swore an oath and I live by it." As the words came out, his stomach fluttered. Did he live by it? Did he really? Or did he only think he did?
Suddenly they both noticed feet approaching, and in a moment, LeBeau popped through the curtain that surrounded Newkirk's bed.
"Mon pote, you're awake!" he said cheerfully. "You missed the longest roll call in weeks," he added with a dramatic mon. Bonsoir, Herr Doktor," he added with a nod toward Magnusson.
"I told you your friend would be back," Doktor Magnusson told Newkirk warmly, relieved to have an excuse to exit. "I'll have the orderly send in toast and tea and I want you to eat it all. If you're holding down food, Sergeant Wilson will be able to release you in the morning."
LeBeau and Newkirk both nodded absently; LeBeau was busy regaling Newkirk with the ridiculous things Klink had said during rollcall. They didn't notice as Doktor Magnusson slipped out, his head down slightly in deep thought. Where had he last seen those workers?
