FIVE
Patrick walked down the front steps of the hospital, nodding politely to the men repairing a broken section of the handrail, and walked across the driveway and off into the grass to begin his post-breakfast walk. Sister Bernadette had been the one to suggested that some walking accompanied by deep breathing might help clear his mind. He had been skeptical, but like with many things, she was cleverer than he, for the walks had been very helpful. Unfortunately, they came with the downside of perspiration—quite a bit of it depending on how aggressively the sun beat down overhead, so he tried his best to take his walks in the morning to avoid the hottest points of the day.
A month had passed since he arrived at the Allied hospital and Patrick could finally say that for the first time since being captured by the Italians, he was beginning to feel like himself again. The tension in his gut had begun to unwind and the chaotic background noise in his brain had begun to dissipate. He still had nightmares, though only a few times a week instead of every night. He would also still jump occasionally when he failed to hear someone walk up behind him or if they walked unexpectedly into a room. Still, he continued to feel that each week was better than the one before.
When he had finally been shipped away from the front, Patrick feared that his mind was irreparable. Even in those early days he struggled to see a way through his trauma, and were it not for Sister Bernadette, he may not have been able to. She was, without any question, the key to his success. Her kindness, patience, and guidance had helped him traverse the worst of it. Once again, she had somehow become his savior, and he thanked God for that.
The routine of the hospital had also been valuable in clearing his mind of the storm clouds of trauma. At the front, the mere concept of a routine was an utter joke. He worked when he was needed, slept whenever he could find the opportunity, and generally ate only when his stomach began to cramp beyond the point where he could ignore it. There was always another injury, always another man that needed help, and when that help was needed, it was needed right that very moment without any chance to take a breath or plan.
The hospital helped calm his mind simply because it was calm as well. When a true emergency did arise, it was generally only once or twice a week, not an hour. As such, he was able to have a set schedule of when he was due to be on shift and when he was able to rest and take his meals. He was given time off, a concept that, just a few months earlier, would have been unfathomable. He was even permitted to use his time off to leave the hospital grounds and explore Rome if he so chose, but he had yet to do that as he worried what triggers he might encounter outside of the controlled grounds of the area strongly controlled by the Allies.
The shift work at the hospital allowed him to get back to the kind of work he most enjoyed: interacting with his patients, listening to them, and trying his best to help. He did rounds, reviewed cases, and performed non-emergency surgeries. As staff could be volatile depending on the needs of the front, he'd even done some bandage changes and wound care when enough nurses weren't available. Considering he hadn't heard a shell explosion in over a month, he would have been happy to do nothing but menial work so long as he didn't need to return to the front; even scrubbing the latrines by hand would have been better than the cacophony of gunfire and explosions.
Of all the parts of his new routine, he enjoyed his unscheduled evenings with Sister Bernadette most of all. Though they'd never made formal plans to do so, they seemed to both end up on the first-floor balcony after dinner on more evenings than not. He would often be smoking, and she would come up beside him and lean against the balcony. They'd talk about their day. They'd talk about how he was feeling. They'd talk about the oppressively hot weather, which was so different than what they were used to back home. Sometimes, they wouldn't even talk at all. He enjoyed every one of these interactions, as she seemed to have a strangely calming effect on him, which was ironic given his previous experiences.
For several years during his youth Patrick had attended a school run by nuns and he recalled being utterly terrified of them. They had been stern, unapproachable, and seemed to enjoy smacking the back of his hand with a ruler if he put a toe out of line. As an adult, he knew full well a nun would not hit him with a ruler but tended to give them a wide berth all the same. This had never been a problem because to that point he'd never interacted closely with a nun since leaving school.
Thinking of Sister Bernadette as a nun had been an adjustment for Patrick. Despite the visual confirmation every time he looked at her, his brain simply struggled to reconcile that the (not) mute village girl who had helped him was now the religious figure before him. Granted, his brain was trying to reconcile many other things at the same time, but it just seemed so unusual for someone so young and kind to be in the same category as the stern, aged nuns of his prior experiences.
Given that she was a nun, Patrick also struggled to define his relationship with her. They were friends—sort of. They chatted like friends, but their friendship was also different than ones he'd had with his mates from school if for no other reason than they were of opposite gender. He'd never had a close female friend before, which was mostly due to lack of opportunity than desire not to mention a bit of social taboo. Still, he was glad for the experience and the lessons their interactions were teaching him.
After walking two laps around the hospital property, Patrick returned to the first floor ward ready to start his morning of rounds. Unfortunately for the peace and mental calm he had achieved while listening to chirping birds and feeling the sun on his face, the ward was already knee-deep in pandemonium when he arrived.
Two men stood facing off in the center of the room. One, a Frenchman, was shirtless with a large bandage around his abdomen in addition to the one atop his head like a hat. The other, a man Patrick did not recognize, but quickly determined to be American based on his accent, leaned heavily on crutches as his left foot was in a cast. The two men shouted at each other in their native languages, with the Frenchmen only using English to hurl insults at the American.
"Stop this! Stop this at once!" Patrick shouted, but neither man paid close attention to him. They continued to shout until the American used one of his crutches to swipe at the knees of the Frenchman. He jumped back to avoid the attack, but inadvertently tripped on the person behind him who had also been attempting to deescalate the situation; that person was Sister Bernadette. The two of them quickly landed in a heap at the foot of the Frenchman's empty bed.
Patrick's attention had been focused on the sparing men and thus he hadn't taken a close account of the others in the room. When he realized she was the woman the Frenchman was now on top of, he sprang into action. He hurried forward and, along with a female nurse, hoisted the soldier up. He then kneeled down beside the sister, who appeared more shocked than injured. "Are you hurt?"
She winced and gripped the elbow of her left arm, but after bending and straitening it twice she said. "I will be fine."
He stood and then reached down his hand to her. She grabbed it and he easily pulled her to her feet before addressing the men still snipping at one another.
"That is enough. This is conduct unbecoming and I will report both of you if you do not separate yourselves this instant."
He stared them both down for thirty seconds before the American began to hobble back to his bed. Satisfied they would retreat to their separate corners, Patrick began to survey the rest of the ward to make sure nothing else seemed out of place. For the most part, the patients were quietly watching the dramatic scene. He wasn't surprised by this, but he did feel his cheeks heat with frustration as the events processed through his mind. Scuffles between men in different units were hardly unheard of, though thankfully rare in his experience. He understood that the constant state of high alert and consistent lack of sleep added to the tension that made men have shorter fuses than they would have at home, but there was no excuse for fighting, particularly in the middle of a hospital ward!
Just as he made his way through the ward and was about to walk to the office area where he could pick up his white coat and clipboard, he heard an animalistic growl behind him and whipped around to see the right fist of the American sail into the gut of the Frenchman. The Frenchman dropped like a stone and the French nurse who had been helping him let out a small scream.
Frustrated and angry, Patrick poked his head out into the hall and yelled for a guard. Then, he made his way to the Frenchman and began examining his injuries. When he saw splotches of blood already appearing on the bandages over his abdominal wound, he looked at the French nurse and instructed, "Bring me his chart."
"What's going on, Lieutenant?"
Patrick looked up at the guard who had entered the room and the pointed towards the assailant. "That man needs reported to the American Lieutenant next time he is on site. He attacked this man and reopened his wounds."
"He started it!" the American shouted, but Patrick ignored this childish outburst.
When the nurse handed him the Frenchman's chart, he skimmed it quickly. The man had arrived from the front several days earlier. He'd taken a bullet to the stomach, which had been removed in the field, but he needed monitoring for sepsis. The doctor knew such wounds to be very delicate and suspected the blow from the American's fist may have ruptured sutures or worse. Upon seeing the man's bandages being progressively more saturated with blood, he knew there was only one choice to move forward.
"He'll have to go in for another surgery to stem the bleeding. Where…where is everyone?" he asked the French nurse, noticing for the first time the ward was missing its usual number of medical personnel.
"There was an emergency earlier; they are in surgery."
Patrick looked down at the injured man, palpated his belly gently, and took note of his short spurts of breath and clammy skin. "This cannot wait. You will need to assist and…" He gazed over at Sister Bernadette, the only other qualified person in the room. They had never talked in depth about her skillsets, but he knew if she'd graduated from the London that she had at least received basic training in assisting in an operating theatre. "Can you-"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "I can help."
He nodded back then directed the French nurse to prep the operating theatre. He and the guard lifted the man off the ground and carried him to the table in the theatre. Then, he moved immediately to the sink so he could begin scrubbing his hands. A moment later, Sister Bernadette joined him at the wide sink to do the same. He glanced over to see that she had removed her veil, though her hair remained covered by the tight white cap she wore underneath. Knowing he did not have extra time to stare at her, he forced his mind back to the task at hand.
"His initial surgery was done in the field, so it was probably a bit rough. I may need to do a lot of cleanup. I need you to focus on the bleeding. We'll need to tie off all the issues as quickly as possible."
"Yes, doctor."
With his hands cleaned and dried, he pulled on the gloves the French nurse held out for him. She also assisted with his gown and mask, before doing the same to Sister Bernadette. Once they were prepped, he stepped up beside the patient, waited for the sister to take her place across from him where the instrument tray rested, took a deep breath, and said, "Now, let's begin…"
After making sure the French soldier was settling into his recovery after the emergency surgery, Sister Bernadette stepped out onto the balcony and walked over to where Patrick was leaning against the wall smoking. He glanced over to her, stood a bit more upright, and then commented, "Interesting morning."
She let out a huff of breath. "You could say that."
He offered the cigarette to her, and she gazed at it cautiously before he encouraged, "Go on. We're celebrating a job well done."
Her hand began to lift instinctually but she tensed her arm to stop the progress for a moment, unsure if sharing a cigarette with him was something she should actually do. She had never been much of a smoker. She'd stolen some cigarettes from her father as a teen mostly as an act of rebellion and had picked up a bit of a habit during nursing school along with the other girls, but as nuns weren't generally permitted vices, she hadn't had one since joining the order.
Another second passed and she gave in to her urge and took the cigarette, promising herself she'd only take one puff. Only once the item was against her lips did she fully process that sharing a cigarette meant touching her lips to something his lips had also touched. That certainly was the most intimate act she'd had with a man in several years—not that sharing a cigarette had to be considered intimate; friends shared cigarettes all the time.
Knowing it was best not to indulge any further, she handed the item back to him along with a thank you.
"You did well today," he said. "When was the last time you assisted with a surgery?"
"During my training," she replied.
He hummed and nodded. "Thought as much."
A feeling of nerves skittered down her spine and she said, "Did it show that badly?"
He tilted his head and eyed her curiously. "Not at all. I merely assumed that based on what you previously told me about your experience, but I…I thought we worked quite well together, didn't you?"
"I did."
The whole morning had been quite a blur with barely five minutes between the argument starting, being knocked down in the middle of it, and then being pulled into an emergency surgery. Once the soldier's wound had been reopened, Patrick had discovered signs of infection inside, which led to a much longer surgery than any of them anticipated. She had been so focused on following his instructions and looking for bleeding or other issues, she hadn't even had a moment to be nervous—or to say a prayer.
Despite the fact that she hadn't been in an operating theatre in many years, she did agree with Patrick's assessment; they had worked well together. His directions were clear and easily understood. He maintained his calm demeanor even when they had a few troubles with stubborn bleeds. She also seemed to do well at anticipating his needs and was able to reach for the next needed instrument almost before he requested it. Though she knew her path would not lead her to doing more work of that nature, she was pleased with herself for their success and thankful God had allowed her to help when she was needed.
"I am going to pray for that man's swift recovery—and that the other finds peace."
"Did you hear what the fight was about?" Patrick asked. She shook her head. "The lieutenant told me. The American was showing around a picture of his girl back home and the Frenchmen called her a pig."
Sister Bernadette shut her eyes and shook her head. No justifiable reason existed for such behavior, particularly in the critical ward of a hospital, but it was extra frustrating that the spat was over such childish behavior. "Well, let us hope they both gain a bit more common sense."
"Yes, let's."
With that, she gave him a polite nod, and then returned to the interior of the hospital to continue with all the tasks she needed to get done that day.