a sixpenny packet of cigarettes; the man in the bed smoked one gravely and in perfect silence. The woman stayed with him for about an hour until they told her it was time to go; so far as Warren could detect they exchanged no words at all after the preliminary brief greetings. She came, and sat with him, and went away.
Perhaps, thought Warren, there was nothing to be said.
Next morning there was the bustle of preparationabout the riveter in the next bed. They took him to the theatre about half-past ten; an hour later he was back again with the screen drawn close around the bed.
Warren did not see him again. That the case was critical was evident from the attention of the doctors and the nurses. In the middle of the night Warren was roused by what was evidently a consultation of some sort; from behind the screen he heard a laboured breathing that was new to him. All the next day the sound of breathing grew in loudness with a rasping quality, as if the man were gasping for his breath.
“Pneumonia,” said the nurse. “He’s very ill.”
That night the riveter died.
“What did he die of?” Warren asked his nurse. “How did he come to get pneumonia from an ulcerated stomach?”
She shook her head. “It just happens. When you’re weak enough you can get anything, you know.”
She brought around the packet of cigarettes, from which only one was taken. “His wife said I was to give these away. Would you like one?”
Warren lay and smoked in meditative silence. He found that he had a great deal to think about.
Three days later, two more patients died on the same day. One was a man of forty-five or so with peritonitis, the other a boy of seventeen who had had an operation on his neck and jaw for some strange bone disease. To Warren, totally unused to hospital routine, there was no apparent reason for the deaths—the men went for operation, and then just died.
The Almoner came down the ward next day distributing her papers and books. He stopped her by his bed.“Have you got time to stop a minute? I want to know a bit more about this hospital.”
“Why—yes. For a very few minutes.”
She sat down by his bed.
He fixed her with his eyes, cold and purposeful; he was becoming very much himself again. “I don’t want to ask anything that you can’t answer, or that you ought not to tell me. But there’s something wrong here, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Something wrong?”
“All these deaths.”
She was silent. He went on, “I’ve been here ten days now. In that time four people have died in this ward, out of the nineteen beds—all after operations. I suppose there may have been eight or nine operations in that time, counting my own. The way I see it, that’s about fifty per cent of deaths. Surely that’s not right?”
“I think your figures are a little high. I should have said forty per cent, myself.”
“You mean, that when one has an operation here it’s little better than an even chance if one gets through?”
She hesitated. “I suppose that’s what it comes to.”
He was silent for a minute. Then he smiled at her. “I don’t want you to think I’m prying into what isn’t my business. After all, I seem to be getting over mine all right, and I suppose that’s all that matters to me. But I’d like to understand the reason for these casualties.”
He paused. “So far as I can see, the nursing here is good—very good indeed. I’ve nothing to complain about. I can’t judge of the surgery, of course. But he seems to have done a good job on me, and I’ve seen no bloomerson that side. And yet there’s this high percentage of deaths. It’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But you know why it happens as well as I do.”
“I promise you I don’t.”
In turn, she gave him a coldly, appraising look. “How long have you been out of work, Mr. Warren?”
He met her eyes. “About six months,” he said steadily. “You must remember that I only know conditions in America,
Perhaps, thought Warren, there was nothing to be said.
Next morning there was the bustle of preparationabout the riveter in the next bed. They took him to the theatre about half-past ten; an hour later he was back again with the screen drawn close around the bed.
Warren did not see him again. That the case was critical was evident from the attention of the doctors and the nurses. In the middle of the night Warren was roused by what was evidently a consultation of some sort; from behind the screen he heard a laboured breathing that was new to him. All the next day the sound of breathing grew in loudness with a rasping quality, as if the man were gasping for his breath.
“Pneumonia,” said the nurse. “He’s very ill.”
That night the riveter died.
“What did he die of?” Warren asked his nurse. “How did he come to get pneumonia from an ulcerated stomach?”
She shook her head. “It just happens. When you’re weak enough you can get anything, you know.”
She brought around the packet of cigarettes, from which only one was taken. “His wife said I was to give these away. Would you like one?”
Warren lay and smoked in meditative silence. He found that he had a great deal to think about.
Three days later, two more patients died on the same day. One was a man of forty-five or so with peritonitis, the other a boy of seventeen who had had an operation on his neck and jaw for some strange bone disease. To Warren, totally unused to hospital routine, there was no apparent reason for the deaths—the men went for operation, and then just died.
The Almoner came down the ward next day distributing her papers and books. He stopped her by his bed.“Have you got time to stop a minute? I want to know a bit more about this hospital.”
“Why—yes. For a very few minutes.”
She sat down by his bed.
He fixed her with his eyes, cold and purposeful; he was becoming very much himself again. “I don’t want to ask anything that you can’t answer, or that you ought not to tell me. But there’s something wrong here, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Something wrong?”
“All these deaths.”
She was silent. He went on, “I’ve been here ten days now. In that time four people have died in this ward, out of the nineteen beds—all after operations. I suppose there may have been eight or nine operations in that time, counting my own. The way I see it, that’s about fifty per cent of deaths. Surely that’s not right?”
“I think your figures are a little high. I should have said forty per cent, myself.”
“You mean, that when one has an operation here it’s little better than an even chance if one gets through?”
She hesitated. “I suppose that’s what it comes to.”
He was silent for a minute. Then he smiled at her. “I don’t want you to think I’m prying into what isn’t my business. After all, I seem to be getting over mine all right, and I suppose that’s all that matters to me. But I’d like to understand the reason for these casualties.”
He paused. “So far as I can see, the nursing here is good—very good indeed. I’ve nothing to complain about. I can’t judge of the surgery, of course. But he seems to have done a good job on me, and I’ve seen no bloomerson that side. And yet there’s this high percentage of deaths. It’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But you know why it happens as well as I do.”
“I promise you I don’t.”
In turn, she gave him a coldly, appraising look. “How long have you been out of work, Mr. Warren?”
He met her eyes. “About six months,” he said steadily. “You must remember that I only know conditions in America,
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