A Fallen Hero

by Sharon Kimbra Walsh

  Maggie continued slowly down the stairs. “No you won’t, dear—not dressed like that. You’ll embarrass us all.”

  “Huh?” Jack looked at his wife. “Dressed like what, honey?” he asked.

  “Jack, dear, you have different colored shoes on the wrong feet. Please, dress yourself properly.”

  Maggie reached the foot of the stairs and walked toward Katie, “So, dear?”

  Glancing at her mother-in-law, Katie explained, “Joe thinks that the birth is imminent—that I am about to deliver the baby on the floor.”

  As she finished speaking, she felt the onrush of another contraction. Turning around, she grabbed for the edge of the table, leaning over it. This time the pain was slightly more intense and longer in duration and she groaned slightly, her mind dwindling down to a narrow point of concentration. She felt Maggie’s hand come to rest on the small of her back and begin to rub there in slow, circular motions.

  Through a fog of pain, she heard Maggie say, “You should be doing this, Joe. It’s your place.”

  “I should?” Joe asked. “It is?”

  “Oh, come here, you big ape,” Maggie ordered.

  Katie felt Maggie remove her hand from her back and a larger palm came to rest between her shoulder blades. It began to pat lightly but vigorously.

  The pain beginning to abate, Katie moaned in agitation, “Joe! I am not a baby so I don’t need to be burped.”

  Joe hastily took his hand away from his wife’s back. “This is worse than being out in Afghanistan,” she heard him mutter.

  Katie finally straightened up and sighed.

  “Right, everyone. Let us all go and sit in the lounge for a while so we can relax a bit,” Maggie suggested calmly. “There’s plenty of time yet.”

  Joe glanced at his father and mouthed “What?” his question causing his father to shrug in confusion.

  Putting her arm through Maggie’s, Katie and her mother-in-law walked through to the lounge. Once in the room, Maggie sat down in an armchair while Joe and Jack hovered about Katie.

  “I need to walk,” Katie announced and began to slowly pace the length of the lounge.

  Joe hesitated then, deciding he should be close by in case she needed him, followed behind her. Jack, showing himself to be at a loss as to what to do next, followed his son.

  “Feel free, dear.” Maggie’s voice sounded calm in response to Katie’s announcement. She picked up a magazine from the neat pile on the rack beneath the coffee table and began to flick through it.

  Katie continued her walk up the lounge, her mind totally focused on trying to get her body to relax. As she passed the open French doors and reached the end of the room, she turned and promptly bumped into Joe. Swerving to avoid him, she almost careened into Jack and her irritation quickly began to turn to anger. Biting her lip to stop herself from snapping out a protest, she continued to walk back down the room toward its opposite end. Again—turning—she found her husband teetering in her path with his arms raised slightly as though he was waiting to catch her.

  “Joe!” she exclaimed. “I am not incapacitated. I don’t need you hovering behind me all the time. If I need you, I’ll scream.”

  “But…” Joe began.

  “I think—” stated Jack.

  Maggie looked up from her magazine. “Jack! Sofa! Sit!” she commanded firmly.

  Jack made his way toward the sofa, the expression on his face like that of a reprimanded puppy dog.

  “I should—” Joe started to say again.

  “Sit. Down,” Katie spat, pointing at the sofa.

  His mouth shutting with a snap, Joe silently followed his father to the sofa, both reaching it at the same time and sitting down on the soft cushions, folded their arms.

  Jack turned to his son and patted his arm. “We can keep each other company, son. You just stay here with me. Are you feeling okay?”

  Joe nodded. “I’m fine thanks, Dad. I’m doing okay.”

  On hearing the low conversation, Katie glared at both men. She saw both of them cringe and their mouths shut with almost audible snaps.

  Silence reigned in the room for a few minutes except for the shuffle of Katie’s bare feet on the carpet and the muted crackle of pages as Maggie perused her magazine.

  “Hell hath no fury like a woman in labor,” Maggie suddenly announced into the quiet and closed the magazine with a flutter of paper. Putting it back in its place, she suddenly stood up. “I think a cup of tea is in order.”

  Joe glanced at his father, who arched an eyebrow then shook his head. “The whims of women are far beyond my ken,” he announced.

  At that moment, there came a faint groan from Katie and all eyes turned to see her bending over with hands on knees, eyes closed, panting gently.

  Both Jack and Joe half-rose from the sofa, intent on going to Katie’s aid when one word whip cracked across the room, causing their heads to turn swiftly. They saw Maggie standing with a raised finger pointing at them both.

  “Sit!” she ordered.

  Both men froze in their half-risen positions, eyeing the woman with something akin to child-like terror on their faces. Seeing the glint in her eyes, they sat back down again and fidgeted awkwardly. Maggie waited until Katie straightened up from the contraction and watched intently as her daughter-in-law turned a pale face toward her, wiping a wrist across her forehead.

  “Who wants tea?” Maggie asked and almost laughed aloud as out of the corner of her eye she saw both of her men raise limp hands as though they were two pupils in a classroom. She turned her full attention back to Katie and asked gently, “Tea, honey?”

  Katie nodded and offered the woman a smile. “Just half a cup, strong, thanks. Do you need any help?”

  Shaking her head, Maggie turned. “No, Katie. You just keep pacing.” She left the room and after a few moments of silence, they all heard the clink of cutlery from the kitchen.

  Katie continued her slow, methodical pacing and some minutes later, Maggie returned to the lounge carrying a tray of mugs with a cup for Katie. She set the tray on the coffee table and selecting two mugs, took them across to her husband and son.

  Katie was beginning to feel slightly sick and tired. Her back was hurting her and all she wanted to do was to go to Joe and have him comfort her. Her stomach suddenly tightened with another contraction only this time, the pain hit her with the force of a sledgehammer. It ripped across her abdomen and she doubled over, a small cry of pain escaping her as the intensity of it caught her by surprise. She glanced at Joe and as the pain reached its peak she pleaded, “Joe.”

  Joe’s mug of tea went tumbling onto the thick carpet and he was on his feet, moving quickly to his wife and taking her in his arms.

  As he held her tightly he murmured, “Good girl. That’s it, honey. Ride it out. You’re doing good.” He felt her body begin to relax against his and glanced at his mother.

  “Mom?” he questioned as he saw that she was looking at her watch.

  Maggie nodded. “Ten minutes apart, time to go.” She glanced at Jack. “Go and get Josie—her bag is beside her cot—and take her to the Jamesons’. Joe, get Katie’s bag from beneath the stairs. I’ll drive.”

  “And what’s wrong with my driving, my love?” Jack asked frowning.

  “You’ll probably drive us into a tree,” Maggie answered promptly. “Remember the wrong shoes on the wrong feet, Jack? No arguments.”

  Hanging on to Joe, Katie let him lead her out to the hallway where she slipped her feet into flip-flops then waited as Jack brought down Josie and Joe collected her hospital bag. Maggie retrieved the keys to the car and they went into the garage. Joe helped Katie into the back of the vehicle while Jack took Josie to their next-door neighbors. Eventually, they were all ensconced in the vehicle and leaving the confines of the garage.

  Katie snuggled against Joe—his arm around her—resting her head on his shoulder. She felt protected in his arms, even though she was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  Joe nuzzled
her damp hair and when she raised her face to his, he kissed her gently on the forehead.

  “You’re doing good, Katie,” he whispered, “and I love you.”

  Katie managed a small smile. “I love you too, very much,” she returned then her pretty face grimaced. “Another one,” she gasped.

  Bowing her head, she pressed her face into Joe’s combat jacket and her right hand took a fistful of material and almost shredded it with a crushing grip.

  She whimpered. Then, as the pain reached its peak, Joe’s arm tightened around her and his warm hand gently stroked the bare skin of her arm in soothing, circular motions. As the pain began to subside, leaving her wrung out and exhausted, she felt her body begin to relax and she raised her face once again.

  “Ouch,” she managed to joke quietly.

  “Ouch is right,” agreed Joe, brushing her hair away from her forehead.

  “Nearly there,” Maggie announced, a note of triumph in her voice.

  Within a few minutes, the car had pulled into the car park of a military hospital and Katie experienced a sense of relief that shortly—probably within the next few hours—hers and Joe’s baby would be born.

  * * * *

  Five hours later, Katie—exhausted but happy—watched her man hold their newborn son in his arms. She smiled with amusement at the sight of her big, tough, combat-clad husband clutching the small bundle as though it was made of glass, a stunned and awed expression on his face.

  Joe looked down at his red-faced son then at his wife. “He’s a big one,” he announced, and Katie heard a note of pride in his voice.

  Resting her head back against the pile of pillows behind her, Katie grimaced. “Nine pounds, one ounce. Tell me about it. It was like giving birth to a bowling ball.”

  Joe looked back down at the tiny, wide-awake boy and, lifting a finger, touched the baby’s hand. The child immediately clasped his father’s finger and hung on.

  A soft smile spread across Joe’s face and Katie wondered how she could feel so perfectly happy and content.

  “So, what’s his name going to be?” she asked softly. “You should name him. I named Josie.”

  Joe studied his son’s face. “Luke,” he replied and glanced at Katie for her agreement.

  “That’s a lovely name,” Katie agreed. “Luke it is.”

  Joe moved closer to her side and leaning down, said to the newborn, “Go back to your mom, son.”

  Katie took the warm bundle and let the infant rest against her breast. Joe suddenly bent over her and cupped the side of her face. Looking into her clear, green eyes, he said tenderly, “You gave me my life back, made the struggles all worthwhile. I owe you my life, Katie. I will never let you or our children go again. I love you so very much.” His mouth touched hers and Katie realized that she, her husband and their young family were finally together for good.

  They had come through war and trauma, both powerful enough to have split them apart. Their love for each other, however, had endured, proving to be the strongest element of their existence together. There was nothing left that could part them except death.

  Also from Totally Bound Publishing:

  For the Love of a Marine

  Sharon Kimbra Walsh

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  A blood-soaked combat boot, reclining on its side, lay tossed carelessly in a corner of the operating theater among torn and shredded webbing. Bandages and gauze soaked with crimson coiled in clumps on the floor, mixed in with remnants of charred and torn camouflage uniform. Personal effects, pitiful, tragic reminders of those who had been medevacked to the combat trauma hospital—CTH—lay scattered on a metal trolley, waiting to be identified and returned to those who had survived—or returned home with those who hadn’t.

  Although the CTH was temperature controlled throughout, within Theater One it was hot and humid, the air thick with the coppery smell of blood and an all pervading stench of feces and urine. Dark blood had trickled then dripped from each operating table to pool in splatters on a dark green, rubberized floor, with smudged crimson footprints leading to and from the accumulating puddles where surgical teams and medical technicians had unknowingly trodden through them. Stainless steel instruments clinked mutedly against each other while in the background was the continuous whirr of an air conditioner, the periodic hissing of recycled air flowing in and out of the theater and the soft repetitive clunk from a clock on the wall.

  CTH personnel clad in full-face plastic visors used to prevent blood spatter, white mesh face masks underneath, smears of blood adorning green surgical gowns or scrubs and gloves, crowded around the two occupied operating tables. Despite the blood-soaked surroundings and an atmosphere filled with palpable tension, there was no evidence of panic and no anxious overtones overriding smooth, professional voices as the two surgical teams bent all their efforts to saving the lives of the two unconscious young soldiers. Intense expressions of concentration were etched on many faces and requests for assistance and instruments were uttered in quiet, clear monotones. Both the blood and gore was ignored as though it did not exist.

  Anyone looking into the busy room would have wondered at the almost emotionless and dispassionate air of the people working there, as though each one possessed an invisible mental shield that prevented them from becoming emotionally involved with their patients, something that each had subconsciously cultivated over the months of their deployment to protect themselves from the daily scenes of carnage and death, harsh realities of a combat zone. The shield was a necessity, a psychological barrier subconsciously erected to prevent burnout and breakdowns caused by unrelenting exposure to the cruel and unavoidable pressures of working in a combat hospital.

  Corporal Katie Walker, twenty-six years of age, was a senior combat trauma medic—CTM—attached to the CTH. She was in her seventh year with the British Royal Army Medical Corp—RAMC—and on her first deployment to Afghanistan, assigned to Surgical Team One alongside another CTM. She had been in-country since March 2014 and had completed four months of a six-month tour.

  During the early weeks of her deployment, Katie had experienced her own personal battles with trauma and stress. There had been many times when she had wondered if she would ever find the strength to complete her tour. Nightmares of explosions and maimed bodies had awakened her from sleep night after night, and on one occasion after a particularly lengthy duty, she had taken flight in tears to hide in the female locker room, saddened by the sight of so many brutally wounded and mentally shattered men and women being brought into the CTH. There had been other occasions when she had been on the brink of making a formal request for redeployment back to the United Kingdom, despite the adverse ramifications to her career that this might have brought about. The unpleasant experiences that she had been exposed to had caused her to reconsider how the human species treated one another.

  As the long months had passed, however, like everyone deployed to Afghanistan, she had learned how to emotionally protect herself, had unknowingly developed the self-same protective shield as her colleagues—an ability to distance herself from adverse emotions and feelings. It wasn’t that she was emotionally cold or numb to the brutal daily truths of the combat world she inhabited. She was a human being with a great deal of compassion and sympathy for those she treated and tried to save, but her detachment was for her own protection, an emotionless armor that helped to harden her mind against the overwhelming pressures that she had to face.

  That particular day had been an emotional one for them all. Three British soldiers out on foot patrol in a remote area of the Afghanistan desert had been injured in an improvised explosive device—IED—incident. One of the soldiers had stepped on a hidden mine lying undetected by a mine detector. The explosives, covered by a pile of razor-sharp stones and rocks, blending in with the surrounding terrain, had detonated, the resultant blast throwing shrapnel-like debris through the air, catching the soldier who had trodden on the mine and two others at ground zero. All three had s
ustained severe injuries and a combat trauma team—CTT—flown out by a Chinook combat trauma flight—CTF—had stabilized the casualties in the field before extracting and medevacking them back to the CTH at Camp Churchill, located in the British sector of Base Independence.

  Three trauma teams, waiting outside the CTH, had immediately assessed the casualties then, while surgeons from three surgical teams scrubbed for the surgeries, the gravely injured soldiers had been swiftly taken to the trauma rooms, where the trauma teams standing by had immediately brought heavy bleeding under control, given full body assessments and checked vital signs then, following X-rays, all three were connected up to IV solutions and blood products to replace blood loss and stave off the onset of shock. A decision was made to prep the casualties for immediate surgery and rush them through to the operating theaters.

  Three operating tables within Theaters One and Two were now in use. Each surgical team carrying out the surgeries consisted of surgeons who were specialists in their various fields, anesthetists, two surgical nurses and two CTMs. All the medical personnel excelled at what they did, each selected for deployment to the Afghanistan war theater specifically for their specialist skills and for their ability to be able to work under intense levels of pressure.

  The surgeries that had been going on for most of the day were almost over, the casualties having come through their ordeals safely. If they remained stable and there were no complications over the next forty-eight hours, they would continue their recovery and rehabilitation back in the UK.

  The tension in Theater One slowly began to dissipate and each surgical team began to relax. Conversation around the operating tables lightened in tone and there were a few subdued chuckles as someone made an obscure joke about a subject totally unrelated to the present situation.

  Katie checked the IV line attached to her own patient again, tracing the fragile tubing leading from the triple branched cannula in the back of the young soldier’s hand up toward a collection of bags containing blood, plasma and saline fluid, ensuring that the life-sustaining products dripping downward were doing so at the correct speed and as freely as they should. She then placed two steady but sensitive fingertips on the casualty’s carotid artery and, with a sense of satisfaction, felt the strong throb of a pulse, confirming that the young British soldier continued to remain stable.