The calf was now on its feet, blundering unsteadily around. The speed with which newly born animals get onto their legs has always fascinated me, but at this moment it was an unmitigated nuisance.
The calf, looking for the udder with that instinct which nobody can explain, kept pushing his nose at the cow’s flank and at times toppling headfirst into the gaping hole in her side.
“Reckon ’e wants back in again,” Mr. Bushell said with a grin. “By ’eck, he is a wick ’un.”
“Wick” is Yorkshire for lively, and the word was never more aptly applied. As I worked, eyes half-closed, jaws rigid, I had to keep nudging the wet muzzle away with my elbow, but as fast as I pushed him back the calf charged in again, and with sick resignation I saw that every time he nosed his way into the cavity, he brought particles of straw and dirt from the floor and spread them over the abdominal contents.
“Look at that,” I moaned. “As if there wasn’t enough muck in there.”
Norman didn’t reply. His mouth was hanging open and the sweat ran down his blood-streaked face as he grappled with that unseen wound. And in his fixed stare I seemed to read a growing doubt as to his wisdom in deciding to be a veterinary surgeon.
I would rather not go into any more details. The memory is too painful. Sufficient to say that, after an eternity, I got as far down the uterine tear as I could, then we cleared away a lot of rubbish from the cow’s abdomen and covered everything with antiseptic dusting powder. I stitched up the muscle and skin layers, with the calf trying all the time to get in on the act, and at last the thing was finished.
Norman and I got to our feet very slowly, like two old, old men. It took me a long time to straighten my back, and I saw the young man rubbing tenderly at his lumbar region. Then, since we were both plastered with caked blood and filth, we began the slow process of scrubbing and scraping ourselves clean.
Mr. Bushell left his position by the head and looked at the row of skin stitches. “Nice neat job,” he said. “And a grand calf, too.”
Yes, that was something. The little creature had dried off now, and he was a beauty, his body swaying on unsteady legs, his wide-set eyes filled with gentle curiosity. But that “neat job” hid things I didn’t dare think about.
Antibiotics were still not in general use, but, in any case, I knew there was no hope for the cow. More as a gesture than anything else, I left the farmer some sulpha powders to give her three times a day. Then I got off the farm as quickly as I could.
We drove away in silence. I rounded a couple of corners, then stopped the car under a tree and sank my head against the steering wheel.
“Oh hell,” I groaned. “What a bloody balls-up.”
Norman replied only with a long sigh and I continued, “Did you ever see such a performance? All that straw and dirt and rumenal muck in among that poor cow’s bowels. Do you know what I was thinking about towards the end? I was remembering the story of that human surgeon of olden times who left his hat inside his patient. It was as bad as that.”
“I know.” The student spoke in a strangled undertone. “And it was all my fault.”
“Oh no, it wasn’t,” I replied. “I made a right bollocks of the whole thing all by myself, and I tried to blame you because I got in a panic. I shouted and nagged at you and I owe you an apology.”
“Oh no, no …”
“Yes, I do. I am supposed to be a qualified veterinary surgeon, and I did nearly everything wrong.” I groaned again. “And on top of it all, I behaved like an absolute swine towards you, and I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t really, you didn’t … I …”
“Anyway, Norman,” I broke in. “I’m going to thank you now. You were a tremendous help to me. You worked like a Trojan and I’d have got nowhere at all without you. Let’s go and have a pint.”
With the early-evening sunshine filtering into the bar parlour of the village inn, we dropped into a quiet corner and pulled deeply at our beer glasses. We were both hot and weary and there didn’t seem to be anything more to say.
It was Norman who broke the silence. “Do you think that cow has any chance?”
I examined the cuts and punctures on my fingers for a moment. “No, Norman. Peritonitis is inevitable, and I’m pretty sure I’ve left a good-sized hole in her uterus.” I shuddered and slapped my brow at the memory.
I was sure I would never see Bella alive again, but first thing next morning a morbid curiosity made me lift the phone to find out if she had survived so far.
The “buzz-buzz” at the other end seemed to last a long time before Mr. Bushell answered.
“Oh, it’s Mr. Herriot. Cow’s up and eatin’.” He didn’t sound surprised.
It was several seconds before I was able to absorb his words.
“Doesn’t she look a bit dull or uncomfortable?” I asked huskily.
“Nay, nay, she’s bright as a cricket. Finished off a rackful of hay, and I got a couple o’ gallons of milk from ’er.”
As in a dream I heard his next question. “When’ll you take them stitches out?”
“Stitches … Oh yes.” I gave myself a shake. “In a fortnight, Mr. Bushell, in a fortnight.”
After the horrors of the first visit, I was glad Norman was with me when I removed the sutures. There was no swelling round the wound, and Bella chewed her cud happily as I snipped away. In a pen nearby the calf gambolled and kicked his feet in the air.
I couldn’t help asking, “Has she shown any symptoms at all, Mr. Bushell?”
“Nay.” The farmer shook his head slowly. “She’s been neither up nor down. You wouldn’t know owt had happened to ’er.”
That was the way it was at my first Caesarian. Over the years Bella went on to have eight more calves normally and unaided, a miracle which I can still hardly believe.
But Norman and I were not to know that. All we felt then was an elation all the sweeter for being unexpected.
As we drove away I looked at the young man’s smiling face. “Well, Norman,” I said. “That’s veterinary practice for you. You get a lot of nasty shocks, but some lovely surprises, too. I’ve often heard of the wonderful resistance of the bovine peritoneum, and thank heavens it’s true.”
“The whole thing’s marvellous, isn’t it?” he murmured dreamily. “I can’t describe the way I feel. My head seems to be full of quotations like ‘Where there is life there’s hope.’ ”
“Yes, indeed,” I said. “John Gay, isn’t it—The Sick Man and the Angel.”
Norman clapped his hands. “Oh, well done.”
“Let’s see.” I thought for a moment. “How about ‘But t’was a famous victory.’ ”
“Excellent,” replied the young man. “Southey, The Battle of Blenheim.”
I nodded. “Quite correct.”
“Here’s a good one,” the student said. “ ‘Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.’ ”
“Splendid, splendid,” I replied. “Shakespeare, Henry Fifth.”
“No, Henry Fourth.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Norman held up a confident hand. “It’s no good, I’m right. And this time I do know what I’m talking about.”
Chapter
9
October 30, 1961
AT 6:30 A.M. THIS morning we reached the Kiel Canal. There is a little town at the western end and a big lock gate. We had to wait for about half an hour to get through the lock, and during this time we took aboard a German policeman and a Dutch pilot. The policeman’s job was to see that we did not pollute the canal by throwing out the manure and soiled bedding from the ship. He was very smart in a black leather coat with gold buttons and a neat blue uniform with two pips on the shoulder, and we spent a pleasant time chatting. He shamed me, as so many foreigners do, by speaking quite good English.
After passing through the lock gate it was a delight to be gliding along in still water for a change, and I stood out on the strip of deck, watching the many types of vessels that use the canal. There were seve
ral German warships, and the young sailors with their little caps on the side of their heads waved cheerily to me as they passed.
The countryside was flat with much farmland and woods, looking very pretty with their autumn tints. We passed many villages with attractive houses, most of which had long, steeply sloping roofs and dormer windows.
After about six hours we arrived at the eastern end of the canal. Here a German immigration official came aboard and stamped my passport. He also put a stamp on my name in the ship’s articles, since this morning I was officially signed on as a member of the ship’s company. It was odd to see the list of Danish names and then “James Herriot, Supercargo.” I felt strangely uplifted. Me, a supercargo!
The sheep looked quite happy this morning, though there is still that nagging cough among the Lincolns. The one with the eye irritation is almost normal now, but the lame sheep has not improved; in fact, it has deteriorated slightly and is running a high temperature, so I have got it in a pen on its own and have given it a shot of penicillin as well as the antibiotic spray. Obviously the infection was deeper than I thought.
The sailor who is my constant helper is the same one who spoke to me on the first evening. His name is Raun and he is a flaxen-haired young husky with great shoulders and a flattened-nosed boxer’s face, but when he smiles he radiates charm. He is warm-natured and an animal lover. When we had installed the lame sheep in its pen he knelt down, put his arms round the woolly neck and gave it a long hug. I have noticed him doing this with the other sheep, particularly the massive Romney Marsh rams. As I have said, they are like huge teddy bears, and Raun seems to find them irresistible. Anyway, I am delighted they have chosen such a man to be my assistant.
At the east end the canal widened out into the Baltic. I could see the town of Kiel just round the corner, and there was a tremendous amount of shipping. We passed an imposing memorial to the Germans killed in the First World War, and there were a few deserted sandy beaches with summer houses around them.
As we headed out into the sea I found a hidden corner of the deck and did a bit of hopping about and running on the spot. I must try to make a habit of this because the only exercise I get is clambering up and down the ladders to the hold, and I will have to work off Nielsen’s abundant fare somehow.
I have decided that I will make a final inspection of the animals each night at ten o’clock and go round them with Raun to hold any I want to examine more closely. Tonight I was told that Raun was steering but that if I went up on the bridge he would soon be relieved.
The ship was pitching wildly as I staggered out onto the upper deck. This, I thought, was the real thing as I felt my way along in the inky blackness, drenched with sea spray, the boards heaving and slippery under my feet, my hands grabbing at anything to hold me upright.
I stumbled onto the bridge and found myself in a decidedly eerie atmosphere. The bridge is an entirely different place at night —absolutely dark—and I had to stand there for a long time before I could pick out the lonely figure at the wheel. That is a quiet job if ever there was one.
When Raun came down with me, I gave the ewe with the eye trouble what ought to be its final application of ointment and injected the lame sheep again. The animals that tried to stand were swaying and tumbling around, but they didn’t seem any the worse. However, I wondered what they would be like in the morning because Raun told me he had heard the captain say there was a real storm blowing up.
“No matter,” the big sailor said cheerfully. “You come and have a beer with me.”
“Okay, thanks,” I replied, and we went together to the crew’s mess room. We sat down, he gave me a “Camels” cigarette and as we talked I looked around at the other members of the crew. Strangely, though the officers were dark, these were all of a type; thick yellow hair, fine physiques, tremendous men. All of them were cheerful and polite.
Raun told me about himself in his limited English. He is twenty-eight, has been at sea for fourteen years and is married, with two young children. He never stopped smiling, except at the end when he leaned across the table and tapped me on the chest.
“Doctor, on my last voyage we take two hundred cattles from Dublin to Lübeck. When we get to Lübeck, five cattles dead.”
I whistled. “That’s nasty. Didn’t they have a vet with them?”
“No, no.” His battered face was very serious. “No doctor for the cattles. Is good that you are here for the sheeps.”
It made me think. Maybe I really was going to earn my keep.
I thanked him, said goodnight to everybody and made my way back to my quarters. Just outside my cabin is a door that opens onto a small platform on the stern of the ship. I like to go out there for a lungful of the good air before going to bed. Tonight, in the roaring wind, I could see only the creamy wash from the ship’s propellors disappearing into the surrounding blackness. Above, there were a million stars, and I could pick out the plough and the pole star plainly. I didn’t have to be an expert navigator to find our course. We are heading dead east.
I am finding it difficult to write my log tonight because the cabin keeps tilting steeply. I feel the captain is going to be right about the storm.
Chapter
10
TO ANY CONSCIENTIOUS VETERINARY surgeon, killing a patient is a terrible thought. I am not talking about euthanasia, which is so often merciful, but of inadvertently killing when attempting to cure.
This has probably happened to many of us, and I think it happened to me. I can never be sure, but the memory still haunts me.
It all started when a young representative from a pharmaceutical company called at the surgery and started to talk about a wonderful new treatment for foul of the foot in cattle.
This condition was a headache in those early days. Judging by its name, it had been going on for centuries, and it happened when the interdigital space between the cleats of the cloven-footed bovine was invaded by the organism Fusiformis necrophorus, usually through some small wound or abrasion.
This resulted in the actual death of an area of tissue in the region along with swelling of the foot and extreme lameness. A good cow could lose condition at an alarming rate due simply to the pain. The medieval-sounding name came from the fact that the dead tissue gave off a particularly offensive smell.
The treatment we used to employ ranged from the tedious to the heroic. Cows’ hind feet were never meant to be lifted up, and I was always relieved when it was a forefoot that was affected. With hind feet, even applying antiseptics was a chore. If that didn’t work, we bandaged on pads of cotton wool impregnated with caustics like copper sulphate, and a very popular treatment among the farmers was dressing the area with Stockholm tar and salt—a messy and unpleasant business with the feet whistling round the head of the operator.
So I couldn’t believe it when the representative told me that an injection of M & B 693 into the vein would rapidly clear up the condition.
I actually laughed at the young man. “I know you chaps have to make a living, but this sounds like one of your tallest stories.”
“It works, I tell you,” he said. “It has been well tested, and I promise you it really does the trick.”
“And you don’t have to touch the foot at all?”
“No, only for diagnosis. Then you can forget about it”
“How long does it take to have an effect?”
“Just a few days. And I give you my word, the cow is sometimes much better within twenty-four hours.”
It sounded like a beautiful dream. “Okay,” I said. “Send some on. We’ll give it a try.”
He made a note on his pad, then looked up. “There’s just one thing. This drug is very irritant. You must be sure you don’t get it subcutaneous, or it could cause an abscess.”
As he walked out of the door, I wondered if this really meant the end of one of our most disagreeable tasks. I had already had occasion to be thankful for the beneficent M & B tablets. They had wrought some minor miracles in our practic
e. But I found it hard to believe that an intravenous injection could cure a necrotic condition of the foot.
When the stuff arrived, I had the same trouble convincing the farmers. “What are you doin’, injectin’ the neck? You should be puttin’ it into t’bloody foot.” Or, “Is that all you’re goin’ to do? Aren’t you goin’ to give me summat to put on t’foot?” These were typical remarks, and my answers were halting because I had the same reservations as the stock owners.
But oh, how magically everybody’s attitude changed because it was just as the young man said. Very often within a single day the beast was walking sound, the swelling had gone down, the pain had vanished. It was like witchcraft.
It was a giant step forward and I was at the height of my euphoria when I saw Robert Maxwell’s cow. The reddened swollen foot, the agonised hopping, the stinking discharge—it was all there.
The fact is that it was so bad that I was delighted; I had found that the worst cases, with the acute lameness and the interdigital tissues pouting from toe or heel, were the ones that recovered quickest.
“We’ll have some work on with this ’un,” the farmer grunted. He was in his late forties, a dynamic little man and one of the bright farmers of the district. He was always to the fore in farmers’ discussion groups, always eager to learn and teach.
“Not a bit of it, Mr. Maxwell,” I said airily. “There’s a new injection for this now. No foot dressing—that’s gone for good.”
“Well, that would be a blessin’, anyway. It’s savage amusement, hangin’ onto cows’ feet.” He bent over the leg and looked down. “Where exactly do ye inject this new stuff, then?”
“In the neck.”
“In the neck!”
I grinned. I never seemed to get tired of the reaction. “That’s right. Into the jugular vein.”
“Well, there’s summat new every day now.” Robert Maxwell shrugged and smiled, but he accepted it. The intelligent farmers like him were the ones who didn’t argue. It was always the thickheads who knew everything.