The baby, who had been so silent, suddenly began to cry.
"Hey, little one, what's the matter?" Patrick said, looking a little worried. Unlike Shelagh, he still did not speak fluent baby. He checked her nappy and found it was dry, so he wondered if she was hungry. He put his finger to her mouth and she began to suck.
"I think that answers my question," he cooed softly.
Patrick stood up and carried his daughter into the kitchen. As he warmed the baby's milk in a bowl of hot water, he rooted around in one of the cupboards and pulled out Shelagh's jar of Horlicks. One handedly, and rather expertly he thought, he warmed some milk for himself and made a large mug of Horlicks. He had not had Horlicks since he was a small child, but he knew it was a favourite of both his wife and the residents of Nonnatus House, and it always appeared when someone needed cheering up or had had a hard day. He decided to test the theory.
Making two journeys, he got himself, his daughter, the milk and the Horlicks back to the sofa without any major disasters. He propped the baby up in the crook of his left arm, and fed her, whilst drinking his Horlicks from the mug in his right hand. He had quite forgotten how good it tasted.
"If Mummy could see me now, she would be so impressed with my multi-tasking! Though I'm not sure how impressed she will be when she finds out that she will have to share her Horlicks from now on!"
When she had finished her feed, Patrick made sure she was comfy, drained the last dregs of his Horlicks and settled down on the sofa again, and resumed his story.
"I spent another six months in France, and then spent the next two years of the war being sent around Europe to wherever the Allied forces needed a medic. Firstly I was sent to Belgium, and then the Austrian border. Oh those mountains. They would have been so beautiful had they not been full of enemy soldiers waiting to gun us down. Finally I ended up in Italy. By this time, I had been in Europe for three and half years, and although I was lucky in that I never found myself as close to death as that night in France, the suffering I saw was enough to kill even the strongest of men. Day after day, week after week, month after month, the endless hoards of injured men, dying men we could not save."
Patrick paused. He felt his lip begin to tremble again, his hands were shaking against his daughter's body, and tears began to well up in the corner of his eyes.
"One night, thirty or forty men were brought in, victims of an attack on their convoy earlier that day. My colleague Frank Higginson and I were the only two medics on duty that night, and there were a couple, no, three nurses, if you included Matron Sanderson, who we had to get out of bed. The treatment centre was already fairly full, so those with less severe injuries we treated on the floor in the corridor. Most of them sported typical battle injuries, gunshot wounds, embedded shrapnel, wounds that look unpleasant but could be treated. But then I saw those two men. One was probably in his forties, the other probably about twenty. They were barely alive by the time they reached us. I had never seen injuries like the ones they suffered, at least not on a pair of bodies belonging to men who were conscious."
Patrick wiped tears from his eyes.
"The older one had had both his legs blown off and a large chunk of his abdomen was missing. His face was peppered with shrapnel, and his right eye had been taken clean out. The younger one, oh good God, that poor boy! Half his skull was missing, his brain exposed. There was a hole the size of a rugby ball in his chest, shattered remains of ribs lay on his exposed organs. His right leg was severed six inches below the pelvis. And yet they were alive, breathing, talking."
Patrick balled his hands into fists, his knuckles white, he squeaked and whimpered. His whole body shook.
"They were alive!" he screamed.
"I didn't know what to do, where to start. I began to try and patch them up. I tried to make them as comfortable as I could. I cleaned their wounds, tried to stem the bleeding, and removed the shards of shrapnel. But it was no use I could not stop the bleeding. They became weaker and weaker, they screamed in pain, but they were alive, conscious, breathing. And then, Frank came in. Frank is older than me, and had been an army medic since just after he qualified. He pulled me away from the table where the two men were lying.
'Patrick, you can't do anything for them. You must make their passing as swift as possible.'
I looked at him dumbstruck.
'What? No, I can't, that's…"
'The kindest thing you can do.'
'That's murder.'
'Patrick, you must make difficult decisions in these situations' he said so matter-of-factually that it hurt me 'There is enough suffering around us, let's not create any more.'
I could not respond to him.
'Come on Patrick, I'll do one, you do the other.'
He drew up two syringes full of morphine. He handed me one and moved towards the table.
'Do it,' he said, 'You're a good Doctor, and they need your help. That's what Doctor's do, they help.'
I took a deep breath, and plunged my syringe into the older man's arm. Frank did the same to the young lad. They lived a few minutes, and then slipped away.
Frank saw me shaking.
'Let's take them to the mortuary, I'll write up the death certificates and the letters to the next of kin. Go and get some rest, you look like you need it.'
I went back to my quarters and broke down. I cried for hours, I hid under my blanket shaking, like a frightened child. What did I do that night? I had just committed the worst crime a Doctor could commit. I killed one of my patients. Yes, I knew, deep in my heart that I couldn't save him, and that he would succumb to his injuries. But I murdered him. I know, I had killed before, but killing an enemy in battle, and killing an ally, someone you were supposed to be caring for, that was different. I had to kill those Germans, it was my duty, a terrible duty yes, but I had to do it. I didn't have to kill that man. I could have patched him up, given him something for the pain and left him to sleep. But I didn't."
Patrick held his daughter tighter to him, kissing her forehead. Tears rolled down his nose, onto her head.
"When I eventually slept, my dreams were plagued by images of death, blood, shattered bodies, piercing screams. I had had nightmares ever since that night in France, but nothing like the one that night. I woke up screaming and shouting, jerking like I was having a fit or something. I don't know how long I had been screaming, but long enough to alert both Frank and Nurse Chesterton, who ran into my room. They restrained me and I remember Frank saying he was going to give me a sedative. Frank and the camp commander decided to relieve me from duty for a few weeks, and so I was sent forty miles behind the front line. A few weeks away from duty revived my spirits a little, but as soon as I was considered fit, I was sent back to the hospital. Within three days, the nightmares which had barely occurred while I was away remerged with devastating force. I woke up in cold sweats, screaming, every night. I began seeing things, bodies, blood, death wherever I looked. I had migraines, I kept fainting, I barely ate or drank, I lost so much weight."
Patrick patted his stomach.
"Hard to believe I know, but I used to be quite trim. By the time I lost the weight, I looked half-starved. By this point, my colleagues began to notice that things were not well. Frank tried to get me to talk, but I couldn't say anything. I just ended up screaming, rocking in my chair and breaking down in tears whenever he mentioned it. Frank sent for a psychiatrist to come and assess me. I don't remember anything about the assessment, I was so distressed, but for the week after, I was confined to my room. I went stir crazy in that week. I was climbing the walls, trying to get out. I screamed at the door every time I heard someone's footsteps, begging to be let out. But no-one came. I never left so alone in my life."
He paused.
"No-one came, no-one."
He wiped a fresh batch of tears from his cheeks.
"When someone eventually came to see me, I was told that I had been discharged from the army with immediate effect. I was told to pack up the few possessions which I had left, and prepare to be sent back to Britain. I was devastated. I felt weak, useless, unwanted. The journey back to England took nearly four days, and when I arrived at Southampton, I expected to head to the train station, and then get the first train to London. But I was met by a group of medics and nurses.
'Dr. Patrick Turner?' one of them said.
'Yes, how can I help?'
'Please come with us.'
I was escorted to an army car and was helped into the back of it. I was sat between two burly men, I felt like a criminal.
'What's happening?' I asked 'Where are we going?'
'Did they not tell you?' one of the nurses said blankly, 'You're being admitted to Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital, it's near Birmingham, we'll be there soon, don't worry.'
Psychiatric hospital! Those words stabbed me harder than any bayonet.
'What? No! I can't go there. There's nothing wrong with me. Let me out! Please, let me out!'
The two men either side of me grabbed onto me, restraining me against the back of the seat. I was admitted to Northfield in April 1945 and was diagnosed with War Neurosis. War Neurosis, battle fatigue, shell-shock, call it what you like, they did not really know how to treat me, or any other of the poor men there. Away from the horror, I was able to bottle up everything I had seen. I could try to forget everything. I spent five months there and when I was considered cured, I was discharged and I moved back to London. I suppose I was cured from the nightmares and the visions of the horror which plagued me in Italy, but the pain of my experiences could never be cured. It was still there, just hidden. I returned to work in December 1945 and soon after I began to rebuild my life. My GP career was going from strength to strength, Liz and I finally married in the autumn of 1946, and then, eighteen months later, Timothy was born."
Patrick paused and smiled.
"I've never told Timothy this, but when he was born, he made me feel happier than anything else in the world had ever done. He was beautiful. Sister Evangelina delivered him, and when she handed him to me, I could not believe he was ours. Finally, after all the pain, the hurt, the long years of separation which we had both been through, we were a family. I hoped, more than anything I had ever longed for, that this perfection would last until the day I died."
And with that thought, he broke down again.