Chapter 2

The medical officer on board the Chinook had radioed ahead to the trauma unit at base hospital, outlining the injuries, blood groups and triage, prioritising who needed attention first. Robert had been immediately hooked up to IVs for blood and fluids and his flight suit cut away.

Major John Newman’s trauma team was prepared by the time the Chinook landed and swiftly fell into the all-too familiar-routine. The nursing staff gently removed his shattered flight helmet. Peering at the x-ray of Robert’s head he announced, “Stabilise the leg wounds for now. His skull is fractured and it’s pressing against the brain; if we don’t relieve the pressure the leg won’t matter. Prep him for surgery, stat.”

Four hours later Robert was wheeled out of the theatre with his head swathed in gauze bandages. Back on the ward he was connected to various tubes and electronic sensors to continuously monitor his brain wave patterns and vital signs.

Newman arrived on the ward shortly thereafter having divested his theatre clothes and changed back into his military uniform. “He’s going to need constant monitoring,” addressing the senior nurse. “The next forty-eight hours will decide if we have a live hero on our hands or not.”

For three days Robert hung on at the brink of death then slowly the sensors began to stabilise.

On the fifth day Sir Royston Smith arrived at Camp Bastion, and was shown to the modular cabin that doubled as Major Newman’s office and bedroom. The cabin had air conditioning but was losing the fight against the hot, late-September Afghan sun. After introductions, seated opposite Newman at his desk, he produced a letter which he handed over to the Major.

Newman’s eyebrows lifted when he saw the signature at the bottom of the letter. “Well Sir Royston, it seems I am to assist you in any way I can whilst you are here at Camp Bastion; is there a particular case you are interested in?”

“The RAF pilot that was brought in recently,” Sir Royston replied.

“Would you like to see his case file?”

“If that’s possible.”

“Of course.” With that, Newman tapped a few numbers on his telephone. Once the connection was made, he asked that Flight Lieutenant Barlow’s case file and x-rays be sent to his office immediately.

While they waited, Newman studied Sir Royston. His reputation preceded him as one of the top three orthopaedic surgeons in Europe, if not the world. Yet there was nothing about him physically that really stood out. He was of average height, slim with perhaps a slight paunch, mid-fifties, with greying hair swept back and receding at the temples. But then he noticed his hands: long slim fingers, Newman’s mother would have called them pianist’s hands. Those hands had carried out operations that Newman knew he would have baulked at. If, physically, there was nothing unremarkable about him, there was no denying that the man had a sort of aura that let you know you were in presence of a master. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.