BEYOND THE SPRING

by Mike S Martin

  “It’s ok Wyre the area is reasonably safe now!”

  Wyre nodded and concentrated on what he was doing as Andy signalled to the rest of his security team that were protecting the medical staff that it was now safe for the team to enter the scene and do their stuff. The sound of vehicles approaching with more rebels and makeshift ambulances meant they all could relax ever so slightly but still be cautious because they were still in a hostile part of the city and it would be nothing for a stray rocket to land right amongst them. Both Wyre and Andy helped lift the woman onto the back of a pickup where she would be taken the few hundred yards back to the hospital. Other casualties were being carried and dragged to safety. Wyre and Andy approached what looked like a Gaddafi loyalist who had been shot in the chest and was attempting to crawl away to safety. Wyre grabbed him and rolled him over then proceeded to treat the soldier as Andy kept guard. The soldier seemed slightly confused but let Wyre work on him until a makeshift ambulance arrived. The fact the soldier had been firing on the rebels and the medical team meant nothing to Wyre as to him this was somebody who needed medical attention and it was a life that needed saving, regardless of political belief. Most of the rebels respected Wyre’s and the organisation he worked for attitude but offered no help. There was no urgency to help Wyre and

  Andy or load him on the pick- up truck and Wyre also understood and respected this way of thinking. At the end of the day the soldier might have just killed their friends so great restraint had to be shown by both parties, hence why Andy kept guard in case the rebels decided to kill the man and accidently injured or killed Wyre because he was inadvertently in the way.

  “I need to give you a weapon” said Andy as he patted Wyre on the back as the soldier disappeared on the truck.

  “You know how I feel about that Andy”

  “But if I go down you need to protect yourself and maybe me”

  Wyre always refused to carry a weapon even though he had been trained to use one to a very proficient standard. His concern was that if he did fall into the wrong hands, being an unarmed medic stood him in better stead than being an armed man even though Andy had frequently told him stories of medics being captured unarmed and being treated no different to a rebel soldier, meaning torture, beatings and even rape. Wyre also felt unsure of making the choice of taking someone else’s life to save his own. He always considered himself a life saver, not a life taker. As soon as the casualties were all being seen to, both Andy and Wyre looked at each other and made their way to where they had left the child in the doorway. Andy picked up the child as Wyre double checked the pulse to make sure he was dead. As Wyre stared at the dead boy the thoughts of his own five year old Oliver crept into his head meaning he quickly had to shut them out as this was no place for dreaming of home. Wyre watched as his trusted friend slung his weapon on his shoulder and wrapped the boy in his shemagh Arab headdress. Andy’s size and mannerism defied his toughness with him being only a guy of small stature and overwhelming politeness. Wyre had no doubts that the friendly looking guy he had got to know well over the past few years would not hesitate to protect him until the last if it was necessary. His neck length black wavy hair was matted in dust, sweat and blood but his piercing blue eyes were filled with 42 years of life and he was not ready to give it up easily. Andy had seen it all and fought almost everywhere in the world and he would often praise Wyre for his bravery but also remind him that the longer he stayed alive the better it would be for the people who needed him in various war torn countries. They both walked back down the street towards the hospital checking that the team were all ok as the sound of distant sporadic gunfire could be heard once again as the Libyan NTC pushed back the Gaddafi loyalists to the outskirts of Misrata. Maybe now Wyre could think about being home in England with his wife and son in two days- time having been here three weeks already. He would be going home and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks unless things took a turn for the worse. It was pretty bad as it was, with Misrata witnessing some of the most ferocious fighting since the uprising. Since arriving here Wyre had asked for UN representatives to be allowed in to the area to assess the deteriorating situation. They too agreed that more medical staff would be required to cope with the number of casualties. Andy watched Wyre as they made it back to the relative safety of the hospital that had rebels watching and guarding it. The other members of the team once inside were ushered into a room and given refreshments, but not Wyre. He stood with his bullet proof vest on with the words MEDIC printed on it and chatted to the rebels stationed by the entrance in English and Arabic. Wyre pointed and discussed with them how safe he wanted the hospital to be. Andy understood the need to be at one with the locals and use the “hearts and minds” technique. Even though religion and belief separated the white man and the Arab they were all in this together. The rebels seemed

  appreciative that Wyre took great interest and concern for their welfare and acknowledged their bravery and determination.

  “Why doesn’t he carry one of these?” said one rebel dressed in jeans and a leather jacket that had seen many a battle. In his hand was an AK47 rifle.

  Andy smiled and told them in Arabic that he was on nobody’s side and was here to help and save lives not take them, and he preferred to leave the job of killing to those who were very good at it. Wyre nodded and smiled which in turn had the rebels smiling with big grins accepting the praise. Numerous gold teeth glistened in the desert sunshine as Wyre grabbed a litre bottle of water, opened it and took a few gulps. With no hesitation he then passed it to one of the rebel fighters who gratefully took a few gulps and then passed it amongst the rest of them. It eventually made its way back to Wyre who again took a few gulps of it. Andy noticed how the Libyan rebels liked small gestures such as these and appreciated that a western man would not only share his water with them but also share the same bottle. It went a long way and was rarely forgotten.

  When Wyre and his team were satisfied that things had calmed down slightly they were transported back to the rebel held part of the town and their accommodation. They would be preparing their belongings to leave as soon as the replacement team arrived and then it would be precious family time once again.

  *

  13th May 2011. Syria.

  Bashar al-Assad stood looking out of the palace window. His deputy Mohammed Saeed Bekheitan also stood reading the fax that had just been handed to him. Assad had just read the contents but to study him you would think he had just been handed a weather report. Assad’s advisor on all political situations, Mustafa Sousa watched the president confident he could persuade him to do the right thing.

  “So you are sure the uprising is gathering momentum” Mohammed asked Mustafa, glaring at him hoping he could change his mind.

  As Mustafa answered the question he directed it at the president rather than Mohammed, his second in command. They rarely met eye to eye and Assad regularly had to intervene and step between them during heated discussions.

  “Sir when we spoke two months ago we hoped that the people would grow tired and we could end it quickly with threats, the kidnappings and discreet raids. We have showed our hand but they are refusing to lie down. I have to warn you sir that your acts of strength against our own people have drawn attention from the outside world. Maybe it is time we talk to them, if not to the Syrian rebels then maybe the UN and the Americans”

  Mohammed was having none of it.

  “The People have to know that we will not tolerate terrorists and so called uprisings. We have to show them a firm hand if not this situation will get out of hand. They are obviously taking heart from other countries succeeding and leaders of those countries being weak”

  Mohammed’s voice was much more threatening than Mustafa’s as he perceived Assad’s advisor as a weakling. Assad never reacted as Mohammed screwed up the fax and threw it onto the floor with contempt.

  “We must crush them sir” said Mohammed walking away.

  The president returned to his huge oak desk
that was adorned in marble and mosaic art. Smiling at Mustafa and waving him away, Assad proceeded to study the tabloid papers on his desk, some in Arabic and some in English. Much to the frustration of Mohammed, Mustafa was friends of the president from years back and was highly respected by Bashar Assad. Like the president he had studied as a doctor and had they worked in the army together. They both travelled to London to study at the western eye hospital and Mustafa had been alongside his friend during and after his father’s death in 2000. Such was the trust between them both Bashar Assad had made Mustafa his advisor after his progression into office. As for Mohammed he had impressed Bashar during their time spent in the military academy and they became friends, Bashir admiring Mohammed’s passion for his country and his hard- nosed attitude towards people who dare defy their patriotism. In Mohammed, Bashar realised he had a great ally if required in the future and kept him close. Both friends were now proving their worth in this troublesome time for the country. Even though Bashar was being advised form two different angles the man was no pushover. He was a man of strong personality and under the mild mannered looking exterior was a clever, ruthless man who took no messing. At the moment though Mustafa was the one who seemed to be winning him over and spoke the wiser words. Under relentless pressure maybe talking to the west was the right thing to do. It would be on Bashar al Assad’s terms though and he would be determined the Russians be there also.

  Chapter 3

  “How many library books are you allowed Oliver?” said Wyre peering through the bookshelf in the children’s section of the city library.

  “I think it’s ten” he replied as he sat on the floor flicking through a picture book on trains.

  Wyre shook his head and smiled at his son, then quietly walked around to where he was and watched him, studying him affectionately. Even though he had only been back home a week, his stomach turned knowing in six days- time he would be boarding a flight to go back to Libya. Spending as much time as possible with his son was still never enough for Wyre and it was obvious Oliver missed his father as much as Wyre missed his him. Wyre smiled as he noticed that Oliver’s hair was getting darker just like his, meaning with the same dark brown eyes as his mother and father the five year old would soon look very much like him them both.

  “Come on then Oliver shall we go and get something to drink?”

  “Yes please daddy, can I have a piece of cake and some chocolate as well?”

  Wyre raised his eyebrows with a reluctant look on his face but if only Oliver knew at that moment he could have asked for anything and his father would have said yes. As it was they headed for the barcode scanning machine near the exit of the library with Wyre still unsure whether the taking out of ten books was allowed but scanned them anyway. As he reached for the sixth and placed it under the red laser scanner the message appeared on the screen telling him they had reached their maximum withdrawal number. Wyre placed his hand on his sons head as he gave him the bad news.

  “Well Oliver it looks like these are it for today so we will put these others back and come and get them next time we come ok!”

  Oliver nodded with a cheeky snigger on his face as though he knew damn well ten books would be too much. Wyre also sniggered to himself and admired his son for at least trying. Placing the books into Oliver’s rucksack on his back they headed for the coffee shop that was situated on the first floor near the entrance to the museum part of the building. Wyre found an empty table and guided Oliver to where he wanted him to sit.

  “Right Oliver it’s an apple juice for you and……let’s see….. a sandwich, what sandwich would you like?”

  Wyre placed his black leather jacket onto the back of his chair whilst glancing at the menu that was spread out on the table on thin paper. Oliver pointed to his normal ham sandwich on the list then smiled at his father as he attracted the attention of the girl behind the counter to let her see they were ready to order. She scribbled the order down on her pad then disappeared behind the counter into the small kitchen area.

  “Why do you have to go away to work again so soon daddy?” asked a confused looking Oliver as they both opened one of the library books he had borrowed.

  Wyre took a deep breath as his heart skipped a beat at Oliver’s question. The pain travelled down from his chest and into his stomach at the thought of his son already getting upset at his future departure. Although Wyre worked away their friendship and bonding as father and son never faltered thanks to Wyre being honest with his son and putting one hundred and ten per cent of effort in to make sure he missed as little as possible. On some occasions he would take a six or maybe an eight hour flight back home for a birthday party or other family function, put Oliver to bed when it had finished then go straight back to the airport to catch a flight back to wherever he was working. Closing the door on Oliver’s bedroom and whispering goodnight became the hardest thing to do for Wyre. His wife Susan, with a strained look on her face knew she would be the person doing the same thing in a few weeks- time for her job as soon as Wyre returned.

  “I have to go away so soon Oliver because I have to look after people. You know that don’t you?”

  Oliver nodded but as a young boy he had no idea how to hide his emotions. No matter how many times his father explained his job and what he did was good, it still didn’t change the fact that Oliver missed him and perhaps wanted a daddy who didn’t have to help other people in faraway places but could stay and be with him instead. For Wyre it was hard but he also knew that being a doctor here in the UK would probably take up as much time, if not more, than being a doctor and medical advisor for doctors without borders in war torn countries. At least it meant he could spend whole weeks at home even if it did mean he would be gone for long periods of time. The food came and as Oliver tucked into his ham sandwich his father ran his fingers lovingly through his son’s hair. His masculine, sunburned hand dwarfed Oliver’s head as with the other hand he sipped his coffee and watched intently as Oliver smiled with contentment at finishing his snack. For the moment the joy at eating and waiting in anticipation for what might come for dessert was all that was occupying Oliver’s mind and attention.

  “Right I think we’re ready to go” said Wyre trying to keep a straight face.

  As good as gold, Oliver stood up to leave and gave a forced smile, placing his book back into his bag.

  “Then again I fancy a bit of carrot cake. What about you Oliver?”

  Oliver looked at him grinning from ear to ear.

  “Yes please daddy”

  They sat and chatted and made plans for the rest of the week. These would include a trip to the cinema and a visit to the large adventure playground that was situated on the outskirts of the city. Wyre would watch with pride as Oliver out- climbed kids much older than him, sometimes hanging off apparatus twenty feet high, a slip most likely to cause some serious damage. The knowledge of his father’s skills probably giving him extra confidence other children his age perhaps didn’t have. Wyre never went into too many details about his job whenever Oliver asked but would also refrain from telling lies to his son. Oliver knew he was a doctor and had saved many lives but it was the locations of where this usually happened that was kept a secret. It wasn’t hard because a child that age got used to the idea that the nearest city, that was perhaps forty miles away might as well be in a different country. It all took a long time to get to, so the fact that a different language was spoken didn’t matter to Oliver. His father was not with him and that’s all that mattered. The conflict in Libya was where Wyre was required this time and the sight of his son gorging on carrot cake was a breath of fresh air from the horrors of what he had to deal with on the ground in this war torn Arab country. His sun blemished and rugged but still youthful complexion meant he fitted in with the locals. This was important when trying to treat a casualty whose religious beliefs sometimes dictated to them how they were treated and who by. One glance in Wyre’s direction by someone needing urgent medical help and they would be forgiven
for thinking he was a local Arabic doctor. Then there were the issues with a male treating and examining a female local which was sometimes never allowed. Wyre had witnessed for himself women dying in the street and refusing his and other male local doctors help. At 42 he was also the right age to be an experienced doctor if he was indeed a local and would make older or younger patients comfortable in his presence. Sat here in the cafe Wyre smiled to himself as a group of mums with children sat and chatted, occasionally glancing up in his direction and smiling almost flirtatiously.

  Wyre paid the bill and thanked the young girl as he took Oliver’s hand and they both headed for the two stone pillars that indicated the entrance to the modest museum. It comprised of six expansive rooms that were large enough to house display cabinets and various exhibits and were separated by large stone archways. Arrows indicated to the visitors which way to go and Oliver released the grip on his father’s hand as they entered what was a children’s learning area with desks and pots of crayons and pieces of plain paper dotted around the room for kids to draw on .Oliver had seen the exhibits many times before with his father and his mother so for him the stimulant was to draw and colour in ready prepared pictures of some of the contents in the displays. A large male lion’s head that had been killed during the 1800’s and displayed as a trophy was a reasonable test for Oliver’s artistic attributes. Wyre had been in this room many times but never really paid any attention and wondered around looking at things he had never noticed before. The occasional visitor wondered through and disappeared into the next room as people chatting in another part of the museum could be heard, or at least the echoes of a conversation were just audible.