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notes, approached as he stood at the ward door trying to take it all in. ‘We’ve put you in the far end bed. That’s a bit of an honour, you know. It’s supposed to be quieter.’
    Bluey looked round anxiously. It was certainly a change from the last hospital. The long narrow lower ward of the annex was crammed with beds, though the patients were mostly dressed and lounging about, smoking, laughing, or chatting noisily. They struck him as an odd bunch. The majority were bandaged heavily about the head, some wore slings and plaster casts, others had their hands in bulky dressings like boxing-gloves. The ward radio was at full blast. It always was at Smithers Botham, from early tea to lights out, right through the war. Graham often idly wondered how many people died to the strains of Geraldo.
    ‘Do you want me to turn in?’ Bluey asked.
    ‘Not unless you’re tired. In the annex we like to keep everyone up and about. Dr Bickley thinks it stops you getting bad chests.’
    ‘Who’s Dr Bickley?’ asked Bluey warily. You never knew how many of these medical jokers were waiting to have a go at you. ‘I’m under Dr Trevose.’
    ‘Dr Bickley’s the Gasman. The anaesthetist. You’ll meet him later. You can smoke whenever you like, there aren’t any rules. Have you got enough cigarettes? The boys’ll help you light them.’
    ‘I’m all right.’ He wasn’t going to feel gratitude towards anybody.
    ‘Is there anything special you like to eat? We’ll try to get it, but we can’t guarantee results.’
    ‘I’m not particular.’
    ‘Here’s Peter.’ The nurse smiled. ‘He’ll look after you. He’s the oldest inhabitant.’
    The nurse left Bluey with another man in flight lieutenant’s uniform, his tunic hanging from his shoulders and his sleeves pinned to the pockets. Bluey inspected him with fascination. His face was mostly hidden in crêpe bandages, but a strange yellowish-pink sausage sprouted from the middle of it. This was fixed to his left wrist, held against his cheek by a plaster cast. His hands were bandaged, but his thumb was free enough to grasp a cigarette in a long holder.
    ‘I’m Peter Thomas,’ announced the apparition amiably. ‘Welcome to the mausoleum. You’re the
    Australian, aren’t you? I remember seeing you in the Daily Mirror. If I recollect aright, you were sharing the page with Jane.’
    ‘What do they do to you in this place?’
    ‘Make you look like an advert for Brylcreem.’
    Bluey stared round. ‘How long before they let you out?’
    ‘Well, it’s inclined to be a long job, as possibly you can see for yourself. The Wizz doesn’t believe in rushing things.’
    ‘The Wizz?’
    ‘The Wizard.Trevose. He made this elephant’s trunk affair. It’s a wrist pedicle. It started life as a slice of skin from my belly. The Wizz kept my wrist attached to my navel for weeks, before raising it to higher things. It’s all a matter of re-establishing the blood supply before making the next move. You’ll soon pick up the lingo. We become very professional here, you know. The pedicle’s going to be part of my nose, incidentally.’
    The two officers started walking along the line of beds. ‘It’s noisy,’ observed Bluey. ‘The place I came from, they shut me up alone in a room.’
    ‘Life is very informal in annex D. Everyone mucks in together, all Services, all ranks. It’s the Wizz’s idea. Good for morale, he says. Though I rather think he does it to annoy the brass-hats. We had an admiral in here last week. He fell on his face down a ladder. Drunk, doubtless. I don’t think he cared for the atmosphere much. The only gentleman enjoying privacy at the moment is a German bastard shut in the padded cell. ’As Bluey stopped short his companion gave a laugh. ‘Didn’t you know? This used to be a nuthouse. The change isn’t always apparent. Which part of Australia do you come from?’
    ‘Outside of Melbourne. My people own a sheep-station. I came over to join up before