Chapter VII
THE LAD WHO OUTSANG THE STARS
In the American Military Hospital No. 10 one could always count on Ward 7-A beginning the day with a genuine fanfare of good spirits—that is to say, ever since that ward had acquired a distinction and personality of its own. On this particular morning the doors of the wards were open, for orderlies were scrubbing floors, and Sheila O’Leary in the operating-room above could catch the words of the third chorus that had rung through the hospital since the ban of silence had been raised.
“Gra-ma-cree ma-cruiskeen, Slainte-geal ma-vour-neen,
Gra-ma-cree a-coolin bawn, bawn, bawn,
Oh!”
As usual, Larry’s crescendo boomed in the lead. How those lads could sing!
In the regular order of things it was time for dressings; but the regular order of things was so often broken at No. 10 that it had nearly become a myth. The operating staff had been steadily at it since eleven the night before. If nothing more came in, they might be through by eleven now and the dressings come only two hours late. That would be rare good luck. Under the spell of the singing the tired backs of surgeons and nurses straightened unconsciously; cramped muscles seemed to lose some of their kinks; everybody smiled without knowing it—down to the last of the boys who were waiting their turn in the corridor outside. The boys had not been in the hospital long enough to know anything about Ward 7-A, but the challenge to courage and good spirits in that chorus of voices was too dominant to be denied, even among the sorest wounded of them. One after another rallied to it like veterans.
“Gra-ma-cree ma-cruiskeen bawn,” boomed Larry’s voice to the finish.
The chief of the Surgical Staff looked at Sheila as she handed him the sutures he was reaching for. “They’re the best we’ve had yet, eh? Not one with half a fighting chance, and just listen to the ones who are pulling through.”