The Story of Dr. Wassell Read Online Free

wage a long slow battle against shock and poison.
    Bailey’s case seemed the worst; he had shrapnel wounds and one could hear
the air going in and out of a hole in his back. Of all the sufferers, too, he
was most inclined to he introspective and to speculate unhopefully on his own
chances of recovery. He was very friendly with Renny in the next bed, and
both men would try to wake at the same time so as to exchange a few words,
even amidst pain. Bailey had made an effort to appear detached and
clear-minded when the doctor spoke to him first; he wanted to discuss his own
injuries, and when the doctor would have none of that, he tried to interest
him in a dream he had had. Fie said he had dreamed he was standing in an
enormous bookshop when suddenly he noticed, sitting quietly reading, a person
whom he half-recognized but whose identity was so terrifying that he wanted
to shriek and shriek and yet somehow couldn’t. “I guess that must mean
something, Doc,” he said.
    The doctor smiled not very encouragingly, for he didn’t want the boy to
talk much. “Perhaps it just means you like books.”
    “Yes, I do. Don’t you? Especially modern writers. What do you think of
Steinbeck?”
    The doctor answered, after a difficult pause: “To tell you the truth, son,
I don’t advance my knowledge by reading near as much as I should—and
that’s more shame to me, I know that, because my mother did her best to give
me a spanking good education, bless her…”
    So instead of talking about books the doctor talked about his mother, and
soon, a little happier in mind, the boy fell asleep from the drug that was
given him whenever he woke to pain and consciousness. That night he began
crying out in his sleep and the doctor vas sent for; he touched the boy’s
hand and forehead, gently calming him; then he sat with him while he went on
sleeping.
    When Bailey woke he found the doctor still with hind, and beyond the
doctor, separating them both from the outside world, there were high screens
and a curious little lizard that hopped about between the top of the screens
and the window ledge.
    “Hello, Doc,” he said, almost cheerfully. “I had that dream
again—you know, about the bookshop. Only this time I did shriek
out…Hope I didn’t disturb anybody.”
    “That’s all right,” answered the doctor. “No harm done.”
    And as the same thing could have been said of Bailey’s entire life (he was
eighteen), perhaps this was why he lay still and comforted, after that, until
he died.
    Javanese workmen dug the grave in the local cemetery, and the doctor
attended a service conducted by a Dutch padre. There were no Navy men to make
up a firing squad, but an Air Force detachment came over from the neighboring
airfield. Everything was sunny and bright-colored, and the doctor took a
photograph afterwards of the grave covered with the flowers that the local
people had sent. He thought he would send this photograph later to Bailey’s
mother.
    The time of crisis came for most of the men, and they faced it as well as
they might, enduring the pain of dressings and redressings, while the smell
of scorched flesh hung about the ward continually. The doctor had expected
other deaths, but none took place, and there came a day when the crisis
seemed to pass almost simultaneously for several of the doubtful cases, so
that when he entered the ward with his usual cheery “Morning, boys” he was
greeted with a chorus of answers in a new key. “Well, you’re certainly
looking a whole lot worse today!” he cried, striding between the beds and
taking in the new situation. “Anybody want any wooden
boxes?”…Laughter…“All right, then, but go easy—don’t overdo
things.” He took their temperatures, joking with them all in turn. When he
came to Sun he made his jokes in Chinese, laughing at them himself, while Sun
remained respectfully impassive. “One of these days,” he said, turning to
Sun’s