Chapter Twelve
"Attack developing from the north. Take cover. Take cover." At the sound of the message on the public address system, everyone dropped to the deck. George followed suit, pressing his nose against the cold metal walkway of the Royal Navy frigate where he was collecting a casualty. He threw his arms over his head as the ship's antiaircraft guns thundered, the noise reverberating through the floor beneath him.
Once the all clear was sounded, he jumped up and grabbed the end of the stretcher he'd been carrying.
"Come on. Let's get the casualty in the helicopter before any more Argie fighter jets decide to join the party." Alex Graham led the way out of the door and onto the deck where the Wessex helicopter assigned to them for collecting the wounded was waiting.
They ducked to avoid the downdraft of the rotor blades and slid the injured man inside. The young sailor looked as though he was barely out of his teens. During one of the air raids, he'd slipped down some stairs, broken his leg, and banged his head.
The helicopter pilot and copilot glanced over their shoulders as Alex and George secured the stretcher and strapped themselves in. They plugged in their helmet radios so they could communicate, as the distinctive whine of the Wessex increased and it lifted from the ship's deck.
Alex leaned over the young patient, talking to him, even though he wouldn't be able to hear over the engine noise, trying to hold his attention to reassure him.
"Hostiles approaching from the west." The pilot's voice made George jerk his head up, but he couldn't see out from where he was. He listened to the frantic exchange between the pilots as they decided to set down on the nearest bit of land to get out of the air before they were shot down. A few moments later they landed. One of the pilots manned the machine gun in case they came under attack.
The side door was opened and George crouched in the chilly air, watching as three Argentine Mirages and a couple of Skyhawks fired on the frigate they'd just left. The ship returned fire, each flash followed by a boom a couple of seconds later, while glowing streamers of tracer fire peppered the air.
Two Exocet missiles streaked above the surface of the water and slammed into the ship's gray hull, bursting it open like overripe fruit. George gripped the doorsill, his breath shallow with shock. If this had happened ten minutes earlier, he'd still have been on that ship. The vessel listed like a drunk, a pall of oily black smoke rising into the air as its broken back twisted in the water.
Four British Sea Harriers raced across the sky, firing on the hostiles. A Skyhawk exploded and crashed into the water, trailing fire and smoke. The rest of the attackers hightailed it away.
"There could be survivors in the water. We need to get airborne," George said into his comms unit.
"Roger that." The pilot glanced over his shoulder.
George hung on as the Wessex rose into the air in a whirlwind of dirt and snow. The pilot angled the nose down and headed towards the foundering ship at top speed.
Men in Day-Glo emergency survival suits were dashing towards the frigate's bow as the stern sank. The ship had been ripped open as if a giant had punched a hole in the side, leaving the innards mangled and broken.
The helicopter swept low over the ocean to search for men who'd been thrown overboard. Two bright survival suits bobbed in the water.
The copilot came back and deployed the winch. "Two to bring up."
"I'll go." George grabbed the winch strop and put it around his body, then sat on the step as the helicopter hovered over the choppy ocean.
"Are you sure?" Alex shouted into his comms.
"Yes." Alex couldn't go. He was their only neurosurgeon, and they couldn't afford to risk a pilot.
"When you touch the water, you're going to get one hell of a kick from the static built up by the helicopter rotor blades. So be prepared." The copilot winched him out and he hung suspended in the air outside the door for a moment before he started dropping. The warm blast of the helicopter's exhaust hit him, then the chilly wind bit into his exposed skin.
"Hell," George muttered as the winch lowered him towards the churning surface of the water. Winchmen usually wore immersion clothing to protect them from the cold and he didn't have that. So he was going to get shocked and frozen.
The electrical discharge jolted through him a second before the freezing water smacked him in the face. For a moment he couldn't breathe, the cold stealing his strength and his breath. Squinting and hyperventilating, he fought the rough waves to reach the drowning man. George grabbed him in a bear hug, hanging on with all his strength as the winch lifted them both back to the helicopter.
Alex took charge of the casualty and gave George a thumbs-up, indicating the man appeared to be unhurt.
Trembling with cold, George was lowered towards the freezing water again. The second man lay in the swell, blood streaming into the water from a head wound. As George tried to grasp him, the man struggled and thrashed around.
"It's okay. Hold still."
Numb and weak, George fumbled and grabbed the back of the sailor's life jacket. He had no strength to hold this man like he had the first, and they hadn't been prepared with the usual rescue equipment so he had to improvise. For a moment he couldn't think; then he had an idea. As the swell rose, the winch wire went slack enough that George managed to snag the winch hook through a nylon strap on the man's life jacket.
He gave a thumbs-up, and they were lifted safely to the Wessex.
"Well done, Doc." The Royal Marine copilot slapped him on the back.
Alex took over care of the second rescued man while George crouched in front of a heater, teeth chattering, as feeling returned to his fingers.
Fifteen minutes later, George stood beneath a hot shower in his room on the Canberra, his wet clothes hanging out to dry on the cupboard doors. He had never been so relieved to get into the warmth in his life.
He closed his eyes and turned his face into the hot spray, Sandra filling his mind. He hadn't considered her when he'd gambled with his safety, but the consequences of a mistake now hit home.
It would be so easy to die out here. If something had gone wrong with the rescue and he'd been left in the freezing South Atlantic Ocean for ten or fifteen minutes, he might not be here now.
His brush with danger reminded him of his own mortality, and what was really important to him. He made a silent pledge that he would return to the woman he loved.
• • •
Sandra sat in her hospital bed with her newborn girl in her arms. She only weighed about one and a half pounds but she looked like a perfect little doll, with tiny hands and feet, a smattering of dark hair, and a small button nose.
The color of her eyes would remain a mystery. Her baby girl hadn't opened them and never would. She'd been alive when she was born and lived for a few minutes, but at twenty-four weeks' gestation, her lungs were too immature to breathe. She'd never stood a chance.
A numb, empty sense of grief wiped away everything except the burning pain that filled Sandra's chest. Her mother sat mutely on the bedside chair, tears in her eyes, a hanky pressed to her nose. She didn't try to console Sandra and it was a good thing. There were no words that would help.
The door to the delivery room opened and a midwife came in, followed by a young female doctor. "Shall I take the baby now?" The kindly, middle-aged midwife spoke softly and held out her hands.
Sandra wanted to cling onto her baby girl, her little Victoria, for a few minutes longer. Once they took her baby from this room, she would have to face the reality that her dreams were over. Her baby was dead, her happy future gone.
Her breath trembled out as she examined her baby once more, trying to imprint every detail of her tiny face and body on her mind.
"In these circumstances, some mums like a photo." The young doctor held up a Polaroid camera.
"Yes," Sandra mumbled.
The doctor snapped a picture and they all waited in silence while the camera processed the print and pushed it out. The doctor waved t
he photograph to dry it, then held it up for Sandra to see the image of the precious little girl in her arms.
For the first time, tears filled her eyes. Somehow seeing the picture made it more real. She pressed her lips in a tight line, holding back her tears, and passed her baby girl to the midwife. The woman wrapped her in a pink blanket and quickly left the room.
"Do you know why she came early?" Sandra asked.
"It looks like the placenta was infected. We've sent a sample off for analysis, but my guess is Strep B. We don't see this very often. You were unlucky. I'm so sorry. It's probable that the baby contracted the infection as well. You might be affected, so we'll start you on antibiotics to be on the safe side." The doctor turned away to make a note on the clipboard hanging on the end of the bed.
Sandra slid down under the covers and curled on her side, pulling up her knees and closing her eyes. Questions raced through her mind. How had the placenta become infected? Why had it happened to her? She tried to think of anything she'd done to cause this and came up with nothing.
All the analyzing in the world was pointless, anyway. Nothing could bring her tiny Victoria back.
Right now she couldn't imagine ever going through this again. She would forget about having a family and dedicate herself to her career.
She didn't want a baby or a husband. She didn't want to love anybody. It hurt too much.
• • •
George stood on deck, his hands on the railing, and gazed at the welcome banners and Union Jacks waved by the cheering crowd as the Canberra entered Southampton water. The tooting car horns and shouted greetings were almost drowned out by the engines of the helicopters circling overhead.
Small watercraft carrying well-wishers crowded around the ship. The cruise liner had to be escorted through the throng by the Harbor Police. Six army Lynx helicopters did a flyby, trailing red smoke, and the Canberra's horn honked in salute. Finally the pier where they were to dock came into view.
The ropes were dropped and secured to the dock while the military bands played and a flock of red, white, and blue balloons rose into the air. George scanned the upturned faces below, eager for a glimpse of Sandra. The Canberra's arrival time must have been well publicized. There were so many relatives and friends on the quayside waiting to greet their menfolk.
One of the commandos nearby whooped and pumped his fist in the air. "Look down there," he shouted. "That's my wife with our baby in her arms. I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl yet."
"Congratulations, mate." His comrades slapped him on the back and joked.
George returned to scanning the crowd, even more eager to identify Sandra. He did a quick mental calculation. She'd be twenty-seven weeks pregnant now. He couldn't imagine his slender Sandra with a baby bump. He rather liked the idea that she was carrying his child.
Alex came up beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "If you ever want to leave the army, we'll be more than happy to have you in the Royal Navy Medical Service, George." He gripped George's hand and shook it firmly. "It was a pleasure working with you."
"I learned a lot, sir. Thank you for giving me the chance to widen my experience." During the conflict, he'd treated medical emergencies that might have taken him years to encounter. He had no doubt that being part of the task force would boost his career.
After everything that had happened to him in the last thirteen weeks, the missed wedding seemed like a long time ago. He and Sandra could now reschedule the marriage, but they had the birth of their baby to look forward to first.
Before he left, he'd inquired about army married quarters so they'd have somewhere ready to move in to once they were wed. He was looking forward to sharing a home with his wife and baby.
The gangways were let down and troops started filing off, lugging suitcases and kitbags. The crowd on the quay jostled as relatives of the returning heroes rushed to welcome them home. Tough commandos with soppy smiles on their faces were photographed holding their babies, while children squealed with excitement as they greeted their daddies.
George joined the throng of people disembarking, still searching the crowd. Surely someone had come to meet him. Then he spied his mother in a pink dress, his father at her side. Was Sandra with them? He couldn't see her.
When his feet touched British soil, he was so relieved he could have kneeled and kissed the ground.
"George, darling. Over here." His mother waved, jewels sparkling on her fingers.
"Hello, Mum." He raised a hand, then threaded his way between the celebrating people. His mother rushed forward and threw her arms around him.
"Welcome home, darling." She stood back and examined him as if looking for damage. "We're so pleased to have you back safe and sound."
"Well done, George." His father shook his hand vigorously. "Good show."
"Thank you, sir."
George glanced around, his happiness fading. "Didn't Sandra come?"
"She wasn't able to." His mother's smile dropped, and she pursed her lips in a way that signaled trouble.
A flash of foreboding shot through George. "Is she ill?" He didn't believe she was at work. She'd have taken the time off.
His mother averted her gaze and turned away. "Come on. We'll talk in the car."
George's apprehension hardened to fear. "If there's something wrong with Sandra, please tell me."
"Come on, son." His father rested a hand on his shoulder and ushered him forward.
He picked up his suitcase and pushed through the crowd to the private officers' parking area near the dock. He tossed his case on the backseat of the Bentley and climbed in, surprised when his mother followed him into the back instead of sitting in the front.
"What's this all about?" He was really freaked now.
"There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just tell you. Sandra has lost the baby." His mother rested a hand on his arm and squeezed. "I'm so sorry, darling."
Shock wiped George's mind. For a moment he sat like a statue, as if the world had stopped. Then everything crashed back on him—a jumble of thoughts and emotions that filled his skull to bursting point.
He gripped the side of the seat as if he were falling. Gradually the swirling confusion focused down to a sharp pain that pierced his chest and radiated through his body. His baby was gone. And Sandra, poor Sandra, she'd had to deal with this on her own.
He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat and pressed the side of his fist to his mouth. After a few minutes where he struggled against tears, he managed to speak. "When?" If it had happened early in the pregnancy, it wouldn't have been so traumatic for her.
"Three weeks ago."
"Lord, no." George closed his eyes. A few more weeks and the baby would have been viable and maybe survived, but at twenty-four weeks it wouldn't have stood a chance.
"We buried her last week," his mother said softly.
"Her?" He blinked against his watering eyes as he looked at his mum.
"Victoria."
George rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. Victoria Knight. He couldn't even imagine having a daughter. Whenever he thought of the children he'd have, they were always boys.
"I'm so sorry, darling. So sorry." His mother handed him a crumpled white envelope. He ripped it open and the diamond engagement ring he'd given Sandra fell out into his palm. He closed his fist around it, unable to process this as well.
"The baby's buried at the church where you were going to get married. Sandra took off her ring during the funeral and gave it to me."
"Why? What did she say?" George asked.
His mother shook her head, her lips pressed tight, tears in her eyes. "Nothing. I don't think she knew what she was doing. She was overwhelmed."
Sandra didn't want to marry him anymore? George stared at the gold band and its twinkling diamond, trying to get his head around this. But on top of his grief it was too much. He mentally stepped back and shut out the pain, a coping mechanism he'd developed when he had
to deal with the terrible injuries he'd treated in the last few months.
"I want to see the grave." A sudden determination filled him. He had to see where his little girl was buried.
"We'll take you."
"No. I want to go alone. Can I borrow the car?"
His mother glanced at his father, who nodded. "Of course. We'll take the train back to London."
They drove for a short while and his father pulled up outside the railway station. After his parents climbed out, they told him to drive carefully. He barely heard them as he took the driver's seat and accelerated out into the flow of traffic.
The moment he reached a clear section of road he floored the gas, the powerful car leaping forward like a tiger let out of its cage. His heart pounded as he raced towards the New Forest, his emotions twirling inside him like a whirlwind, leaving him angry one moment and sad the next.
He slowed when he reached the narrow forest roads, his breath coming fast and shallow as he pulled up outside the church and locked the Bentley. He unlatched the thatched kissing gate that he'd thought so quaint, and headed around the church to the newest plots on the far side of the graveyard.
In the dappled shade of a gently swaying ash tree was a child-sized plot. The newly turned soil lay covered in withered wreaths of flowers. A polished granite headstone stood at one end, the inscription picked out in gold.
Victoria Knight.
Died June 18, 1982
With us for only a short while but always in our hearts.
George fell to his knees in the damp grass and rested a hand on top of the headstone. His daughter had come into this world and left it without him even knowing. He'd missed those few precious moments she was here, his only chance to ever see her and hold her. Hot, uncontrollable grief burst through him. He dropped his head in his hands and wept.