Blue Madonna by James R. Benn Page A

the entrance to the airfield attached to the Spitfire factory. The guards let us in, and we followed signs marked with a red cross. They had their own fire station, in case of airplane crashes, and what was more a small clinic than a hospital. A nurse met us at the door and called for the doctor as she led Blake into an examination room.
    â€œFirst gunshot wound,” Dr. Raymond Jeffords said. His face was lined and his hair stark white, but his hands were steady as he removed Blake’s shirt and bandage. “In this place anyway. Plenty of cuts and scrapes from the factory floor, and the occasional injury when one of the airplanes doesn’t behave, but no bullet holes in my patients, thank God. I had enough of that in the last war. Now steady, lad.”
    He cleansed and probed the wound as Blake grimaced and groaned.
    â€œIs it serious?” Kaz asked, probably worried about finding a decent restaurant in this neighborhood.
    â€œMight have been, an inch or two to the left,” Jeffords said. “Or if the round were a larger caliber. But it went straight through, no broken bones or debris in the wound. Back in my day, this would only call for a few days’ rest and then back to the trenches.” He smiled, and I had the sense that was to keep Blake’s spirits up. Especially since there were no trenches in sight.
    The doctor stitched up the bullet holes, telling Blake sternly each time he cried out that it was a fine thing to feel the pain. If he could focus on a bit of light needlework, it meant he hadn’t been badly injured. It was an effective bedside manner; Blake even managed a smile when he was done.
    Jeffords ushered the three of us out of the examining room while a nurse bandaged Blake. “The lad will be fine in no time,” he said. “The young heal fast. He’ll need bandages changed in another day, and that arm needs to stay in a sling. A bit of rest is what he needs.”
    â€œWe have to take him to London,” Big Mike said. “We have a jeep.”
    â€œThat’s a hundred and twenty miles or so,” Jeffords said. “It would probably be all right in a car with proper seats, but I’d worry about those stitches in a jeep. Why don’t you take him to the Dudley Road Hospital? It’s not far, and he can rest overnight.”
    â€œNo, that won’t cut it. Maybe a train,” Big Mike said.
    â€œA first-class compartment,” Kaz said. Now we were talking his language.
    â€œSafe enough,” Jeffords said. “I’ll need your names for my report. Gunshot wounds must be reported to the police, you know.”
    â€œI’m sorry, doctor, but we can’t do that,” I said.
    â€œAs I cannot let you go without the proper information,” Jeffords said. “And why is a mere private speaking for an officer and a sergeant? Damned odd.”
    â€œDoctor Jeffords,” Kaz said, withdrawing a letter on SHAEF stationery from his jacket, “this may answer your questions.”
    â€œHmph,” Jeffords said, reading the letter. “Any and all assistance, eh? Well, I’ve given you that, but I’m wary of not reporting a gunshot wound. Can you tell me what all this is in aid of?”
    â€œAn undercover investigation into the black market,” Kaz said. “We hope you can keep this quiet. We don’t want the criminals to know we’ve been here.”
    â€œWe can be discreet,” Jeffords said. “It’s a small staff here, enough for first aid and to stabilize any serious injuries. I should be long since retired myself, but I don’t mind doing my bit.”
    â€œThank you, Dr. Jeffords,” I said. “We’ll take the patient to the train station as soon as he’s ready.”
    â€œDo you have any other compatriots, or is this a small operation? Need to know and all that?”
    â€œQuite small,” Kaz said. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œWell, your