The nearness of you.
“Aye, ’tis a wee island. That’s where the Innis comes from. ’Tis one of the Gaelic words for island and braw is Scotssag for fine, even beautiful, in a rugged sort of way.”
“And what’s the word for ‘fine and beautiful,’ in a more refined way?”
“Bonnie.” Her shy whisper and downturned eyes brought a frisson of hope. Did she long for someone too?
The lilting Scots rolled effortlessly from his tongue. “Then, ’tis bonnie you are, Maggie, lass.”
The music crescendoed, faded, and died.
She looked up at him, those blue eyes with their violet depths calling him to dive in.
Could he muster the courage to seek her out later? Perhaps—if he survived the mission. He squeezed her hand before leading her back to her table. One last touch to treasure.
The nearness of you.
“Thank you, bonnie Maggie, for the dance. I hope to see you again. Soon.”
CHAPTER 2
Maggie McGrath rushed to the ambulance as the doors were thrown open. Medics unloaded the stretcher and thrust a plasma bottle at her. Holding it high, she ran beside the stretcher. “Operating room one,” she shouted. “They’re standing by.”
Nurses and orderlies hugged the walls of the corridor as they rushed the stretcher into the OR.
Major Larson, the flight surgeon, stood at the foot of the operating table, already masked and gowned. “Hop to it! This is our base commander. We need to be on our toes.”
Maggie swallowed a gasp. She looked down as she supported the patient’s head during the transfer from the stretcher to the operating table. It was Rob Savage! Time froze as she recalled the warmth of his huge hand clasping hers, the brush of his chin on her forehead when he leaned closer to inhale the fragrance of heather on her hair, and how her heart melted when he spoke the lilting dialect like a native Scotsman. She’d even dreamed that he might be the one she’d been waiting for, the one she’d take home to her wee green island.
“What’s he doing in here so early?” the scrub nurse asked. “The group woke me taking off at 0600. They shouldn’t be back for another two hours at least.”
“He must have aborted and got caught alone by the Luftwaffe,” the anaesthesiologist said, hooking up the gas and oxygen tanks.
“From what I’ve heard, the colonel wouldn’t abort unless his plane was shot out from under—”
“Major Hirsh called me from the flight tower,” Major Larson interrupted the assistant surgeon’s comment. “The colonel came in on one engine and crash-landed after a single-plane bombing mission over Metz. No more chatter, people. Get busy.”
The bright lights and noise of the operating room brought Maggie out of her shock. She willed her hands to stop shaking and quickly took a blood pressure reading. It was so low, she took it again, heart hammering in her chest.
Major Larson studied her over his mask. “You’re pale, McGrath. I know you’ve worked a double. Do you need a replacement?”
She cleared her tear-clogged throat. “No, Doctor. I’m fine.”
“What’s his pressure?”
“Fifty over twenty-five.”
“Let’s get his flight suit off and find out where all this blood is coming from. I expected bruises or broken bones from that crash landing but he might have picked up a bullet or flak. We’ll need some pictures—and open that saline drip to full.”
As they cut off Savage’s heavy flight suit, Maggie drew upon her extensive OR experience. She could not help the colonel if she allowed her emotions to run wild.
Ten minutes later, the team finished stripping Savage and turned him over onto his belly while Major Larson studied the X-rays. “He’s taken several pieces of shrapnel in his lower back.” He inserted a probe into the largest wound. “Don’t like the looks of this one. Too close to the spine. Put him all the way under, Phelps. Jenkins, start a whole blood. And pray we don’t need much. We’re low on AB Positive.”
As the operation began, Maggie’s hands worked automatically. She slapped each instrument into the doctor’s waiting palm. Incisions were made and widened, wounds probed and jagged pieces of shrapnel removed.
After two hours, Major Larson looked up. “That’s it.”
Stunned, Maggie said, “But that large wound …”
Larson glared at her. “They couldn’t pay me enough to touch that one. It’s pressing against the spinal cord. I’m sure he’s already paralyzed.” He snapped off his rubber gloves. “Put a drain in, Captain Clark, and close. There’s no more we can do here.” He left the OR.
Maggie watched while the assistant surgeon flushed the gaping wound with saline and anchored the drain in place with two small sutures.
“Poor devil,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Wonder how he’ll feel when he wakes up and finds he can’t move his legs—if he lives that long.” He stitched the other four incisions and dusted everything liberally with sulfa powder. “Light dressings, McGrath,” Clark said. “He’ll have to lie on that drain, but he’s better off on his back.”
She applied the dressings.
The captain helped ease the colonel over and removed the tube from his throat. “Start another saline, and take him into critical care. He’ll need round-the-clock from here on.”
Maggie nodded, unable to speak.
“Keep an eye on that pressure,” Clark added. “If he gets shocky, he may need more blood. And keep a sharp eye out for sepsis. We’re lucky to have a few ampoules of penicillin if it’s needed. But go easy on the morphine. Give him two-point-five milligrams and only when it looks like he can’t tolerate any more pain. It’s not much, but more could kill him.”
“Yes, Doctor.” The captain was right. Morphine would depress the colonel’s already dangerously low blood pressure and accelerate his heart rate. But what about the pain he would suffer when the anaesthetic wore off? She should have accepted that replacement. She had never been acquainted with a patient before.
Some of the nurses actually dated pilots. How could they do it, knowing the men they danced with and embraced and kissed could be wounded—or even killed?
They transferred him to a bed and she walked beside him into an empty critical care room. It was only when the orderlies left that her frayed emotions betrayed her and tears pooled in her eyes.
’Tis bonnie you are, Maggie lass. I hope to see you again, soon. The memory of his last words was so vivid she looked down to see if he had spoken.
She studied his ashen face, the half-moons his lashes made on his pale cheeks, his full lips, now so still, and remembered the extremely tall, strong man who had danced with her and gently teased her less than twenty-four hours before. She couldn’t leave him now.
She checked to make sure the blood pressure cuff was properly placed around his upper arm, and hung a new bag of saline and set the drip rate, praying she wouldn’t have a need to use the penicillin. “You’ll have to fight, you will,” she whispered, leaning over him. “But something tells me you’re a fighter. And I swear I’ll do everything I can to help you through this.” She checked his pulse and respirations before sitting beside him, taking his limp hand in hers.
She had heard countless rumors of the commander’s icy demeanor, his demand for perfection, and his constant battles with the American 8th Army Air Forces Wing Command.
Yet, she had nursed many of the wounded men who were under his command and they seemed devoted to the “old man.” They told her proudly that no other group commander insisted upon leading their “A” Squadron on only the most dangerous bombing runs. They also said that it wasn’t exactly true that he never loosened up with anyone other than fellow officers. He had been seen many times during off-duty hours at one of Edenoak’s pubs with two of his own crewmen on the Liberty Belle, Sergeants Rich Florey and “Gunny” Hastings, enjoying a game of darts or quietly talking over bottles of the local ale.
She had seen him at the hospital of course, when he came to visit his wounded men, which
he did every day even if he had led a mission. But she had been too distracted by her duties to notice how young he looked. His deep voice was distinctive and easily overheard as he tried to bolster their spirits, and he never left without offering to do anything he could to help them, whether it was seeing that a nurse wrote a letter to a loved one or hand-delivering something special to eat from a nearby pub.
It was his demeanor after spending time with the most critically injured men that puzzled her. Instead of sorrow or even concern, the moment the door of the critical care rooms closed behind his stiff back, his face became a mask of cold, hard indifference. The other nurses referred to him as “that gorgeous cold fish.”
He moaned.
She squeezed his hand. “’Tis all right. You’re no’ alone.”
His eyelids fluttered.
***
Rob Savage tried to open his eyes. That voice. So familiar. His back ached. Hard to breathe. So much noise. Bail out, bail out. Oh, Lord, it hurts. Not going to make it.
The sweet smell of heather swept over him.
Know that smell. Sweet. Like her. Maggie, help me. It hurts, it hurts. Please, please talk to me, Maggie. Hurts so bad ...
***
Maggie took his blood pressure and noted it on his vitals chart before sitting beside him again. His hand was so cold she placed it between her warm palms. “Go back to sleep,” she said. “A nice long sleep is just what you need.”
Pray God he would wake up.
CHAPTER 3
The colonel suddenly coughed and cried out.
She held him down when he coughed again.
“Hurts,” he moaned. The inevitable pain had come full blown.
He thrashed and she held him harder. “Don’t move, Rob, it only makes it worse.” She instantly regretted calling him Rob. “Colonel Savage, you must lie still. That is an order!”
His body quieted, but his moans did not. The pain from the other wounds would be bad enough; but the remaining shrapnel could be causing excruciating pain. She inflated the blood pressure cuff. Still dangerously low, but how much agony could he endure? She reached for a syringe and withdrew a small dose from the vial of morphine.
He started thrashing again the moment her arms were no longer restraining him.
She administered the injection and put her arms around him until he stopped moving.
“Hurts,” he moaned again.
“Shush, go to sleep. I’ve given you some morphine. Give it time to work.”
She stayed with him through the long night, dismissing her replacement with a curt command, alternating between holding him down when the pain was at its peak and crooning soft Scots lullabies when he quieted.
By dawn, she had been on duty for twenty-four hours and was physically and emotionally exhausted.
Major Larson came in two hours later to check on Savage. “I’m surprised to find you still on duty. Get some rest, Leftenant, and that’s an order. I don’t want to see you back here—” he checked his watch “— before 1800 hours. Lieutenant Hawn is quite capable of taking over here.”
Reluctantly, Maggie dragged herself back to her quarters. Lieutenant Hawn was the senior nurse and very efficient, but would she take the time to calm Rob when he was in the throes of such terrible suffering? She drew a shallow bath and almost fell asleep in the water before rousing herself, hastily drying off, and collapsing onto her cot.
***
Major Den Anderson eyed the charge nurse, who adjusted her bottle-bottom glasses, and leafed through a stack of charts. Rob’s aide, Hank Hirsch, had watched the crash from the flight tower and told Den what he’d seen: only one prop spooling, the landing gear clipping the security fence, the Fort slamming into the ground and sluing off the runway, scattering a wide swath of shattered metal, torn rubber, and strips of aluminum underbelly. He had to see Rob.
The nurse slapped a chart on the counter and began reading. She looked up, myopic gaze finally zeroing in on the tip of his nose, frowning like she’d found a spot of dirt on her perfect white shoes. “No visitors, Major. Doctor’s orders.”
He straightened his crush cap. “I’m the colonel’s second-in-command, Lieutenant. I demand to see him.
She tapped her pencil on the chart and glared at him through thick glasses. “Demands won’t get you into that room. No visitors. None.”
Not a spot of dirt—a stinking cow pie. What rock had she crawled out from under?
A long game of “stare-down.” She didn’t blink. Even once.
He grabbed her pencil, broke it in two, and threw the pieces on the counter. But even slamming the hospital door behind him did nothing to stem his anger. “Doctor’s orders,” he mimicked in a whining falsetto.
He’d show that fish-eyed, starched warden. They couldn’t watch Rob’s room 24/7. He’d see his best friend if he had to break down the door.
***
Maggie slept for eight hours, but awoke with a start, staring at the ceiling, trying to recall what had awakened her. When the memory of the day before came, she leaped off her cot and threw on her robe before racing for the phone in the hall.
Her thoughts in a jumble, she could hardly remember the number when the base switchboard operator asked for it. Her hands shook as she waited for the various connections to be made and the reverse charges accepted.
“Doctor McGrath speaking.”
“Faither, I’m so relieved you’re in your office.”
“Maggie, lass, how are you? Is something wrong?”
“No, I’m fine.” She bit back tears. “’Tis just ... I have a favor to ask of you.” She paused, composing herself. “I need you to look at some X-rays of a patient at the hospital. I want you to tell me if you can help him.”
“Maggie, have you got the smit?”
“Och, Faither, I’m no’ in love. ’Tis just that this lad—” she swallowed “—was wounded so badly, and the flight surgeon says there’s nothing more they can do for him.”
“Perhaps he’s right.”
“But we don’t know that. If I send you his X-rays, will you at least look at them? You may be able to help him. You’re always coming up with new surgical techniques.”
“And how are you going to acquire these X-rays to send me?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I’ll steal them if I have to.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You could jeopardize your career with a daft stunt like that.”
“What’s a career worth when a man’s life is at stake?”
He sighed. “Well, I have a better idea. You give me the patient’s name and doctor’s name and telephone numbers and I’ll see how far a wee bit of professional courtesy can go with a fellow doctor—an American, aye—but we’ve quite a few of their lads being treated here at our infirmary.”
She gave him the necessary information as she paced up and down the hallway, hampered by a telephone cord that was much too short.
“So, give me a few hours. I’ll see what I can do. But, Maggie, if this Major Larson proves uncooperative, promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
He slipped back into the familiar Scots vernacular. “Be verra, verra careful nipping those films. I dinna want to be visiting my only daughter in an English jile.”
“I promise.”
“Guid, lass. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve any news. Guid-bye, Maggie, luve.”
She returned to her room. It was barely gone 1600 hours. Almost two hours to go. How could she bear wondering if—no, she would not think that. God was in this with her, and she needed to allow Him time to act. She knelt beside her bed and prayed.
***
At exactly 1800 hours, she padded down the polished, dark gray concrete floors of the hospital corridor toward critical care. Hushed voices bounced off the stark white walls, which were marred only by scrapes from gurney rails. Her heart pounded in her throat. Please, please, Heavenly Faither, let him be better, or at the verra least, no worse.
The
colonel thrashed wildly in bed while Lieutenant Hawn attempted to administer an injection.
This time, her prayer appeared to be answered with a resounding No.
“McGrath, sit on him, will you? I can’t get him to hold still long enough to give him his morphine.”
Maggie leaned over and held his arms down. “Hush, ’tis all right, Colonel. Lie still, ’tis all right.” To her amazement, he instantly quieted.
“Hurts,” he groaned.
She tightened her grip. “Give it a wee bit of time and you’ll feel better.”
The injection administered, Lieutenant Hawn threw the syringe on the tray and heaved a sigh. “Well, lotsa luck, McGrath, you’ll need it. He’s a wild man every time the morphine wears off.”
Maggie wanted to shout recriminations at Lieutenant Hawn’s retreating back, but all she could do was look at Rob’s waxen face and vow to do everything she could for him. “We’ll get along fine.” She choked the words out.
***
The soft Scots burr penetrated Savage’s stream of consciousness. His Maggie was here. Her sweet scent soothed him, easing the sharp pain. Why didn’t she talk or sing to keep his mind focused on her instead of how much he hurt? Her palm rested on his forehead. Soft. Warm. Like her voice. Talk to me, Maggie. Please talk to me.
***
That night passed much the same as the first. Maggie changed his dressings, held, cajoled, crooned, and did everything she could to keep the colonel alive and in the least pain possible. Around midnight, she gave him another injection of morphine and held him tightly until the medication took effect. Her repertoire of lullabies exhausted, she began to tell the tale of the Selkie, a magical seal that turned into a beautiful woman the moment she touched shore. She told of the Selkie’s fair, pale skin, her silken, black hair which fell to below her waist, her slim legs and tiny feet, only afterwards realizing she could have been describing herself.
He calmed immediately and, though his eyes were closed and his breathing steady, she was certain a part of his mind absorbed her words.
She held his hand in one of hers as she gently stroked his cheek, taking care to avoid the livid bruise on his cheekbone. “Chased by fishermen who feared she was an evil Selkie, no’ a good one, and sought to kill her, the Selkie took refuge in a crofter’s cottage. When the young crofter returned from tending his sheep, he clothed her in garments that had belonged to his dead sister. Together, they fled the cottage and took refuge in a cave at the edge of the shore.”