Belinda of the Red Cross

A YOUNG MAN OUT OF THE AIR

Two white-uniformed orderlies guided the stretcher on its rubber-tired wheels into the corridor—the corridor which was all white tile, marble, enameled steel and glass.

The military-looking surgeon stalking ahead had not adjusted his mask; the jetty, cropped beard he wore on his full chin gave his countenance an especially sinister expression.His black eyes—their glance of a peculiarly penetrating quality—embraced the two immaculately dressed nurses on the settee beside the door of the operating room.Sue Blaine and Belinda Melnotte had just been speaking of the Herr Doktor; perhaps they looked conscious under his swift, keen scrutiny.

Sue Blaine had begun tragically: "Belinda, I hear the elevator creaking again.It's either you or me to assist the Herr Doktor.And I'm so tired of it all!"

"Yet you took upon yourself the novitiate of a trained nurse for two years."Belinda Melnotte's laugh was low, full, delicious.It was no saccharine giggle, but came from a splendid chest in a robust body with a bell-like tone to it that delighted the ear."Two whole years, Sue!Still, I wish I were just entering, after all."

"What?"gasped the other."Why!when I am through here I shall incinerate my apron, cap and first-aid kit with appropriate ceremonies in our back-yard.I'll refuse even to do up my little brother's finger if he cuts it.No, I am through—through!"

"Hush!The Herr Doktor!"Belinda Melnotte breathed.

The black-browed surgeon arrived.

"You will please to act with me, Miss Belinda.It is perhaps an important case."

Belinda Melnotte's cheeks burned warmly.It secretly angered her that she should blush when Doctor Herschall looked at her or spoke to her.But she almost always betrayed that mark of confusion.He was the only member of the great hospital's medical staff who called her by her given name.

He was quite a wonderful man, she knew, this tall and broad-shouldered surgeon.Many of the nurses admired him immensely, for he was not unsocial in spite of his stern and aggressive appearance.

He was a keen and analytical surgeon, with ten years of practice in the city to add to his first fame gained in his own country.He was but thirty-five.Others of the medical staff of the hospital, ten years his senior, were of sprightlier manner than Doctor Herschall and seemed to Belinda far younger.Then there were his personal peculiarities—the boring glance of his black eyes, the almost feline touch of his hand—which were obnoxious to the nurse.

Having been called into consultation as a specialist in her father's case, Doctor Herschall had met Belinda in her own home.Therefore he assumed a familiar manner toward her from the very beginning of her hospital training that incensed her, yet it was too indefinite for her to show open resentment.

Had she wished to do so, this was not a time to display her private distaste for the Herr Doktor, as he was called throughout the hospital.The rolling stretcher was at hand.Under the canvas sheet was a still form; but a high, querulous voice—the unmistakable tones of delirium—babbled like a running brook:

"What d'you think of her, Doc? And after all I'd done for the old girl! Talk about ingratitude! Nursing her along all this way—clear from the Hempstead grounds; and then, when I had to land her, doing it as though I were putting her to sleep in a feather-bed—cranky old thing! I hopped out to see what was wrong with the propeller, and what does she do to me? Slapped me! That's what she did. Slapped me—and I never did a thing to her——"

His shaking, querulous voice trailed off into indistinct mutterings.The two nurses looked curiously at the face of the man on the stretcher while the surgeon was opening the door and the wheeled conveyance was rolled into the spotless operating room.

The nurses were not usually curious regarding the cases brought in by the ambulances.There were so many each day that Belinda Melnotte, with all her interest in the work, thought of them only in numbers.There is little variety in city accident cases.

But the babbling of this young man, whose strained, flushed face appeared at one end of the ambulance sheet, caught her attention.It suggested something out of the ordinary; the victim might be an extraordinary person.

"Oh, Belinda!"whispered Sue Blaine, suddenly seizing Belinda's arm."I know who he is.Sandy Sanderson!"

Belinda repeated the name questioningly."You know him?"she asked.

"From his pictures in the papers.Don't you remember?The flying man—Sandy Sanderson they call him.He won one of the flying events at the Sheepshead Bay maneuvers only last month.Surely you remember?"

Belinda shook her head negatively; but her eyes remained fixed upon the face of the victim of the accident."He is feverish," she murmured, following the stretcher into the operating room.This was indeed no ordinary case.She half understood already the meaning of the young man's muttered phrases.He might be seriously injured.An aviator!

"This way," said the surgeon gutturally, speaking to the men who lifted the patient.The latter screamed weakly as he was moved; then he fell silent and into a syncope.

"Much fever here.Hum!"muttered Doctor Herschall, straightening the limbs of the young man on the high table.The attendants departed.The nurse had been arranging the stand of instruments, and now wheeled it to the doctor's hand.The cone, sponge, and can of ether were ready.The surgeon continued to examine deftly the body before him.

"The left shoulder blade. Hum! Much laceration—scraped to the bone. Hum! Fine physique. An athlete, this fellow, though he won't weigh a hundred and twenty pounds. Hum! We must save this torn cuticle if we can. If we must graft—hum! —well, we must."

He had removed the ambulance surgeon's bandages.Those over the left shoulder and the bandage about the victim's head seemed to indicate all the injuries the young man had suffered.Yet Doctor Herschall was thorough in his examination.His attention to detail in even the least important case was characteristic of the man.He possessed the exact German mind, as well as the Prussian bearing and look.

"Fever—fever," he repeated."Much fever.And not entirely induced by these wounds.He has only just now been brought in from Van Cortlandt Park and, the interne tells me, could not have been long injured when he was found beside his fallen machine."

Doctor Herschall had this habit of talking while at work—even after adjusting his mask.At first, when Belinda chanced to assist him, he had addressed his remarks directly to her.She never replied if she could help it; therefore of late he merely carried on a monologue of comment as though he were addressing a class in the operating auditorium.His final words on this occasion startled the nurse into speaking.

"A flying machine, Doctor?Did he fall?"

"He came down, at least," growled Doctor Herschall."Ach, these American airmen are mere amateurs! No training. Everything is haphazard in this country. Anybody reckless and bold enough is allowed to ascend in an aeroplane. Not like European methods—especially our own army methods. In Germany a man must be trained for his work ere he is allowed to pilot even a taube."

The deft-handed nurse made no further comment, feeling that she had already been unwise in opening the way for his direct address.Doctor Herschall went skilfully about his work; nor did the nurse fail in the least of her duties.A murmured word—even a gesture—brought the required instrument, or whatever was needed.She watched the doctor closely, rather than looked at the raw wound he was at work upon.She had never got over that first feeling of creeping horror that clutched her when she beheld a gory wound.Yet she possessed such splendid control that few suspected Belinda Melnotte even owned nerves.She approached almost every operation with reluctance and aversion.Abundant physical health and perfect mental poise enabled her to hide her real feelings.

The shoulder was dressed.The cut upon the head just at the roots of the hair, where the scar might easily be hidden, was superficial.The head bandage being removed, the nurse gained a better view of the airman's countenance.

There was a roach of reddish, sandy hair over the broad brow; but the eyebrows and lashes were dark enough to lend to his features a certain dignity.These features were sharp rather than noble of outline; yet he possessed a good mouth and a firm chin.The twenty-four hours' growth of beard gave unmistakable reason for his being dubbed "Sandy" by his friends and admirers.

Belinda thought him a particularly interesting-looking young man.It was seldom that she so quickly felt concern in the personality of a patient.

"This fever, superinduced by the wounds, has a deeper foundation, however," muttered Doctor Herschall."Watch his temperature, Miss Belinda.Speak to Doctor Potter—although I shall make a note of the case myself."

The attendants were summoned and the Herr Doktor went away to wash his hands and remove the spotted rubber apron.The superintendent of nurses—by courtesy "matron"—bustled in as the still unconscious patient was lifted to the stretcher.

"Let Miss Blaine clean up here and boil the instruments," said the brisk little woman."I want you to take this patient, Miss Melnotte.Room A-a.He's just been telephoned in about.Why, he's quite a public character!"

"I understand," Belinda said, "that he is a flying-man."

"Yes.Mr. Frank Sanderson.Quite famous, in a way.He fell with his plane over Van Cortlandt Park in the night.There must be something behind it—more than a mere practice flight, it would seem to me.They do not usually go up at night, do they?"

"I really do not know, Mrs. Blythe."

"Well, he is to have the best of everything.And so young a man!"sighed the matron, gazing down upon the face of the aviator."Give him your best attention, Miss Melnotte.I really feel safe when I put a patient in your care.I wish you were not going to leave us so soon."

"I wish, too, that there might be an opening here," the girl said wistfully.

"Do you, really? It is always the way," sighed the matron. "We graduate so many more nurses than we can possibly use. But you will have small trouble in getting placed, my dear. So many are going into Red Cross work just now."

"I had thought of that," murmured Belinda dreamily.

"Not you!"the matron cried."You have too much sense, I hope, my dear.Those who go to France for service on the battlefields take their lives in their hands."

"But so we do if we go into some of those East Side tenements to nurse contagious cases," the girl said quietly."And the Red Cross nurses do such a noble work—don't you think so?"

"Sentimentalism!"snapped Mrs. Blythe."I hope all my girls have too much sense."

Belinda shook her head, but made no rejoinder, although she could not subscribe to the matron's tenets.

At the moment, too, her mind was given to thoughts of the young man out of the air.She followed to the private room engaged for his comfort, and helped the attendant put him to bed.