Renaldo

by James McCreath

  So great an importance did the High Command place on this operation,

  that they requested the very best men available be used by the SBS. That meant

  the popular Captain Russell would be unshackled from his desk.

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  What seemed like just another assignment had a special, ominous meaning

  to the young captain, however. It was on this same part of the Belgium coast

  that his grandfather had been slain in 1918, and that fact did not escape his

  attention. For the first time since joining the military, Reggie Russell was sick

  to his stomach before entering the frigid waters of the North Sea.

  Under the cover of darkness, the SBS commandos secured their initial

  objectives after an uneventful landing and began transmitting information

  back to Naval intelligence. But something felt strangely out of sorts to the

  commanding officer of the detachment. Captain Russell couldn’t put his finger

  on it exactly, but there was a feeling in his gut that he had never experienced

  on any previous operation. He tried to put the uneasiness out of his mind and

  carry on, but it dogged him throughout the damp, foggy night.

  Just after dawn, a routine German patrol discovered one of the commandos

  who had slipped and broken his ankle some three hundred yards from the

  main Marine command post. Not wanting to alert the enemy of his presence,

  the commando had simply waited for daylight in hope that his mates would

  discover his predicament. As luck would have it, a German shepherd tracking

  dog picked up the poor fellow’s scent first. The two Nazi handlers were shocked

  to discover the injured commando, but their shock turned to rage when the

  Englishman skewered their animal with his assault knife. A firefight ensued in

  which the commando and one German were killed, the second Nazi fleeing to

  alert his superiors of the unwelcome discovery.

  The noise of the exchange tipped off Captain Russell to the fact that the

  jig was up, and he radioed intelligence that they had been discovered. The

  commander then took his Marines forward to assess the situation. They had

  advanced some two hundred yards when mortar rounds started dropping in

  their midst, one of the initial rounds exploding just to Reggie Russell’s left. He

  had barely uttered the words “take cover,” when he was propelled to the ground

  and knocked unconscious.

  The commanding officer lingered in a haze-like state for what seemed

  an eternity. As he slowly regained his senses, he became aware of a sharp pain

  in his left temple. Voices were coming from somewhere close by, but Captain

  Russell was unable to discern what they were saying. He wanted to right

  himself, to assess the situation, but for some reason he could not move. The

  voices were closer now, but they were not English voices. These people were

  speaking German.

  The mortars had ceased along with all small arms fire, and for the first

  time in his life, Reggie Russell felt terribly alone and scared to death. Where

  was his command? Had they surrendered? Were they all dead? He tried to

  keep his wits about him, but his mind would not function to its usual military

  standard. Intermittent rifle fire could be heard nearby, and suddenly the

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  horrible truth dawned on the mission commander. The Nazis were shooting

  the wounded!

  It was an outrage to be sure, but one that he was powerless to stop. He

  heard footsteps approaching, then felt a piercing blow to his rib cage as he

  lay face down on the muddy bog. The enemy was at his side now, poking and

  prodding. The Royal Marine clenched his teeth and stifled an urge to scream.

  Another blow to the ribs, but again he managed to keep silent. The only word

  that registered in his pain-racked mind was ‘kaput,’ meaning that the German

  soldiers had mistaken him for dead. His would-be killers moved on, leaving

  him where he lay, and it seemed a lifetime before he dared to open his eyes and

  attempt to assess the situation.

  The pain in the left side of his head was excruciating now, pounding like

  a sledge hammer to the brain. Reggie tried to focus his eyes on something,

  anything, but his usually reliable vision just wasn’t functioning. He touched

  the soreness with his hand, for his head felt wet and somehow different. Even

  with his failing eyesight he could discern the blood that covered his fingers. He

  felt the wound again, and was aghast to find that his scull had been split open

  down the middle of his cranium, similar to one of the coconuts that his father

  had often chopped in half back on the wharf many years ago.

  Captain Russell still could not move his legs or lower torso, and as he

  lay there in the Belgian muck, he was forced to come to grips with his own

  mortal being. The commando had seen many a man die in battle, but he had

  developed a fatalistic attitude about the quick and the dead. It wasn’t that he

  didn’t care for those fallen patriots, it was just that he believed that death was

  their ordained fate. Reginald Russell’s fate was to endure, to lead, to live a full

  and rewarding life! His fate was to be different than the poor departed souls

  that lay around him, or so he had thought until that very moment. The brave

  Marine captain was forced to accept the realization that he could do nothing

  except wait to meet either ‘His Maker,’ or the Royal Marines.

  Fortunately, his ‘maker’ happened to be a medic in 41 Commando Brigade.

  The commencement of the main thrust of the operation coincided with the

  discovery of the SBS commandos by the enemy. Tracked amphibious vehicles

  as well as paratroopers were landing on Walcheren almost immediately after

  the sighting of the first injured commando by the unlucky canine. The mortar

  attack had been unleashed against what the Germans thought was the main

  assault force. Their short-lived reconnaissance expedition to collect trophies

  and the odd prisoner from the fallen SBS men ended quickly when the sky

  reverberated with the sound of the Lancasters above them.

  The pounding that the German defenders took was horrible, but it also

  caused severe trauma to Captain Russell, who had to deal with the earth shaking

  furiously beneath his prone body. It seemed never-ending, one continuous roar

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  of deadly ordinance from the heavens. As he lay in the midst of the apocalypse,

  Reginald Russell sang his favorite Canaries fight songs over and over to try to

  keep from going ‘starkers.’

  “Upward, onward, Canaries, soaring to new heights, thousands shout your

  praises, thousands fight your fights . . .” Over and over again Reggie kept the

  tunes coming. “Rule Canaries, Canaries rule the waves, yellow birds never,

  never, never will be slaves.” Even the little ditty that had been a favorite on the

  terraces, but much too graphic for the gentle folk in the main grandstand. “I

  wish I were a Canary, ’cause I’d fly up in the sky, and find me- self a Hammer,

  and shit right in his eye.”

  It was this particular melody that attracted medic Archie Monteith of 41

  Commando to the blood-covered form that lay in front of him. He was i
n the

  advance assault unit and preceded the amphibious landing craft ashore at the

  same location that the SBS had disembarked the night before.

  Corporal Monteith was shocked to see the carnage that spread out before

  him as he and his fellow commandos made their way inland. At least ten Marine

  corpses littered the immediate area, and there seemed to be no evidence of

  survivors. The roar of the Lancasters and their deadly cargo had passed further

  inland by the time medic Monteith began inspecting his fallen brothers for any

  signs of life.

  As luck would have it, Archie Monteith was a Cockney who had grown

  up on the Isle of Dogs, his father being a foreman on the West India docks.

  Archie had been an ardent Canary supporter through thick and thin, and when

  he knelt beside the badly wounded officer, he could scarcely believe his ears at

  what he was hearing. The captain’s head seemed split in two, and there was

  blood everywhere, but here he was, alive and singing ‘Rule Canaries.’

  Corporal Monteith joined his injured compatriot in a hearty chorus of that

  particular tune to reassure the man that he was in friendly, knowing hands.

  Stretcher bearers were called up immediately, and Captain Reginald Russell

  was evacuated to a hospital ship lying off the coast. He was barely alive and still

  unable to move his lower extremities, but he was in friendly hands, and the war,

  at least as a combat commando, was over for him.

  What the surgeons discovered aboard the Royal Navy hospital ship was

  not encouraging. The exploding mortar’s shrapnel had not only fractured

  Captain Reginald Russell’s skull, it had also lodged fragments close to his

  spine. Reggie was seven hours on the operating table, and the prognosis for a

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  full recovery was very slim. He had lost a considerable amount of blood, and he

  lay perilously close to death for several days.

  The captain clung to life long enough to be transferred to the Dreadnought

  Seaman’s Hospital in Greenwich, where his family assembled by his side in an

  around-the-clock death watch. Fortunately, his condition stabilized, allowing

  two further operations to be performed to remove additional metal fragments

  from his back and skull.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to gain back his vision and some of the

  feeling in his lower legs. Intensive physiotherapy was commenced as soon as

  the head wound had healed sufficiently, and the young Marine captain showed

  amazing courage and fortitude in making slow but steady progress.

  Emotionally, the most difficult thing for Reggie to deal with was the

  horrible scar on his shaved head. The surgeons had informed him outright that

  he should consider wearing a toupee from now on, for his hair would not grow

  in sufficiently to cover the wound. He was not a vain man, but he did not relish

  the fact that he would be disfigured the rest of his life. His sisters were most

  helpful in this regard, bringing to his bedside the latest in hairpiece fashions.

  They all had great fun trying out various styles and colors, sometimes with

  hilarious results.

  Reginald Russell became quite a celebrity on his hospital ward, for his

  continuously changing ‘rugs’ were a diversionary source of amusement in

  those normally serious surroundings. Even women’s shoulder length wigs were

  procured to entertain and uplift the other patients and staff. Reggie never lost

  his sense of humor throughout his painful ordeal.

  Learning how to walk again was the worst part. Torturous hours were

  spent on the parallel bars trying to perform the most rudimentary leg functions.

  Stretching, bending, and weight training were also included in the tedious

  routine. But Captain Russell had two things for which to be thankful. Firstly,

  he was alive and making tangible progress, and secondly, his personal therapist

  was a doe-eyed beauty that had stolen his heart.

  Emily Ladbrooke was the young woman’s name, and she came from a

  titled family of merchants that had served the Royal Family for hundreds of

  years. Her father and two older brothers had served in His Majesty’s Armed

  Forces during the present conflict, and it was the loss of her eldest brother’s leg

  at Dunkirk in 1940 that had precipitated Emily’s joining the Royal Nursing

  Corps as a rehabilitation therapist.

  Her aristocratic background was in no way evident during the trying

  duties that she now performed for His Majesty’s maritime warriors. While

  she was gentle and sympathetic to the physical limitations of her patients, she

  could also be a stern taskmistress. She was bluntly capable of shaming the

  injured men to push themselves harder and farther than they thought possible.

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  Foul language often filled the therapy hall, but Emily Ladbrooke would swear

  right back at them as if she had grown up in a bowery instead of swanky

  Knightsbridge.

  The therapist pushed Reginald Russell particularly hard, and he, in turn,

  looked forward to their daily sessions of torture and profanity. It was really

  Emily Ladbrooke that brought out the baser side of Reggie’s humor. They

  engaged in a small wager to see if the captain, before each session commenced,

  could recite to her a joke or story that would make her blush. If Miss Ladbrooke

  failed to take his bait and turn crimson, she would have the right to extend

  the therapy session an extra quarter hour. During this time, he would be forced

  to perform his least favorite therapy routine again. The primary reason for

  Captain Russell’s remarkable progress, as he was later to admit himself, was

  that his beautiful therapist never once lost their wager. Within six months of

  his arrival, Reggie was able to walk with the assistance of a cane, a feat that

  astonished his surgeons.

  The war in Europe was drawing to a close, and thoughts of the future were

  brimming in the Marine commando’s mind. Reggie loved the order of military

  life, the spit and polish, the camaraderie, and the opportunity to educate

  himself in a well-defined environment. He had asked his father if there might

  be a position with the Marine High Command at Whitehall. As it turned out,

  the elder Russell was owed a few favors by Her Majesty’s warlords. With their

  great killing machine being dismantled, there were thousands of young men

  in a similar position to that of Reginald Russell. But his family’s long-standing

  service to the Royal Marines, not to mention the timely prewar tendering of the

  Canary Wharf lands to the Ministry by his father, were the salient points that

  made a difference. Elliott Russell managed to secure a posting as an intelligence

  liaison officer to the Ministry of Defense for his almost totally recovered son.

  Reggie would have preferred a more active field commission where he

  might have been in charge of an actual team of commandos, but he had no

  delusions concerning his physical limitations. He resigned himself to the fact

  that he would likely be desk-bound for the rest of his tenure with Her Majesty’s

  Royal Marines. If the truth be known, he did consider himself fortunate to be

  alive and able to work at all.r />
  One astonished visitor near the end of Captain Russell’s convalescence

  was Corporal Archibald Monteith, the medic who had saved Reggie’s life. The

  young man had never forgotten the fallen commando who sang football fight

  songs to keep himself alive. Canary Wharf fight songs at that!

  Monteith had made a point of keeping track of the captain’s medical

  progress, and swore an oath that if he were spared during the conflict, he

  would look up this astonishing bloke when he was back safe ‘over ome.’ The

  reunion of the aristocratic officer and gentleman from the upper strata of

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  London society, and the Cockney corporal from Cubitt Town, Isle of Dogs,

  was emotional and poignant. When asked his plans for the future, Monteith

  simply shrugged. Instantly he was offered a position as the captain’s adjutant to

  help him out in his new assignment. Reggie Russell never forgot a good deed,

  especially if that deed had been responsible for saving his life. After thankfully

  accepting the captain’s offer, Monteith related that he could not believe his new

  employer’s progress, particularly his ability to walk unassisted. At that point,

  Miss Ladbrooke entered the room, and after introductions had been made,

  the captain expressed that he held Emily Ladbrooke personally responsible for

  making him whole again. It was the first time he had ever seen her blush.

  Their relationship had always been platonic, one of patient-therapist. But

  after Reggie had said his farewells and taken his leave of the Seaman’s Hospital

  and Emily Ladbrooke, he realized that he longed for her company, for her

  forceful encouragement, and especially her ribald sense of humor. He had never

  met a woman like Emily Ladbrooke. In fact, he had never met any woman that

  induced the confusing mix of emotions that she inflicted upon him. The former

  patient found himself thinking of his therapist constantly and finally decided

  to take the bull by the horns.

  Captain Russell subsequently moved into a small flat on Burney Street

  in Greenwich, only a few blocks from the Dreadnought Seaman’s Hospital.

  He began to watch his obsession from afar at first, on her tea breaks in the

  garden, and as she entered and left the hospital. Always hidden, always from a

  distance.

  Reggie was mortally afraid of unrequited love, afraid that she would find