On Desperate Ground Read Online Free PDF

was only logical to put him back together in body and mind as efficiently as possible and return him to their common fight. Mack felt differently, ever since arriving at St. Alban’s with a severe concussion, shrapnel wounds in his back, a nervous twitch, night tremors, “Priority Personnel” stamped on his file, and a wise-acre mouth. The latter he’d had all his life. The rest was courtesy of the war.  
    “I see we’re still having those nightmares, Captain,” said Cuthbert-Hewes as he tapped his pencil against the clipboard he always carried. “Perhaps we need to increase our sessions to three a day. Do you think you could stand that much of me?”
    Cuthbert-Hewes smiled and Mack wondered how his mouth could move like that while his mustache stayed in a straight line. He stared at the doctor, trying to figure it out, tilting his head slightly in either direction so he could see the upward turn on each side of Cuthbert-Hewes’ grinning face. Misunderstanding Mack’s demeanor, the doctor turned solicitous and spoke as if to a small child.
    “Now don’t worry, Mackenzie. You’ll pull through. Every man has his breaking point. Once he reaches that, it’s simply a matter of building him up again. One of my patients, quite similar to you, has just gone back on active duty with the Royal Commandoes. What do you think of that?”
    The smile went up further as Cuthbert-Hewes recounted his success. The mustache remained exactly straight, parallel to the floor. Mack could not figure out how he did it.
    “I think it shows a lot of control. Stiff upper lip,” said Mack.
    “Why yes, exactly my point—” Cuthbert-Hewes said.
    He was about to continue, but halted as Mack started laughing loudly and hysterically. Too hysterically, Mack knew, even for a guy who liked a good gag.
    “I’ll see you later, Captain, when you’ve calmed yourself down,” Cuthbert-Hewes said as he departed.
    Through the open door, Mack saw Doctor Chester Fielding, know as “Doc” by his patients at St. Alban’s, ambling down the hall, concentrating on chewing the unlit cigar jutting from the side of his mouth.
    Mack laughed some more, listening to his own strange cackle as he wiped his eyes and studied the rumpled, tie-less American uniform and disheveled appearance of Doc Fielding, a direct contrast to the efficient and well-tailored Cuthbert-Hewes. As a medical doctor, Fielding focused on healing the physical wounds of his patients, but his kindly and humane nature allowed him to reach out to them in ways that the psychiatrist could not. Mack got along with Doc, even though Doc was charged with the same mission as Cuthbert-Hewes; healing the wounded so they could once again try to cheat death within the hidden world of secret missions, spies, and assassinations.  
    “Well, Mack, you must be feeling better today,” Doc said, chewing on his cigar. “I’ve never seen Reginald in such a high snit.”
    “Must be the Irish in me, I can’t let an opportunity go by to get under his skin,” said Mack. He smiled deliberately and calmly, as he relaxed back into his pillow and linked his hands behind his head. The shock of waking had worn off, but he still felt jumpy. He tried to appear more relaxed than he really felt. The recent memories of blood and snow were still playing across his mind’s eye, receding but not yet fully loosening their grip. A shudder ran through his body and he fought to not let it show. Keeping the smile on his face, he prayed Doc wouldn’t see through it. He wanted to get out of St. Alban’s as soon as possible, assuming, hoping, that now, finally, he could go home.
    “So Doc, tell me. When can I get out of here?”
    “Well, young man,” said Doc Fielding as he flipped through Mack’s medical chart, “Your shrapnel wounds were minor and are healing fine. The concussion was serious, and I wouldn’t want you to get another like it anytime soon, but you’re coming along well. It’s your nerves we’re