Chapter Eleven
Southampton docks were a hive of activity. Trucks carrying huge wooden crates of supplies backed up to the quayside, while bundles of long metal poles dangled from a crane as they were lifted onto the forward deck of the Canberra.
The majestic cruise liner rose over the busy quay like a benevolent queen, tolerating the attention of her minions as workmen in hard hats rushed around her decks, preparing the ship for her change of use. It was difficult to imagine how a luxury cruise liner could be transformed into a hospital ship in a few days.
Civilian dock workers and sailors hurried to and fro. The clank of metal, the roar of engines, and the shouting created a deafening cacophony.
George joined the stream of Royal Marine commandos and paratroopers walking up the gangway onto the ship. As he didn't know where to go, he wandered along the deck to take a look at the modifications being done.
"Hey, George."
He turned to find an army doctor who'd been a year ahead of him at Oxford. They shook hands with a sense of camaraderie. "What are you doing here, Chris?"
"I'm the medical officer attached to Two Para. What about you?"
"I'm not quite sure yet. All I know is I'll be assisting Surgeon Commander Graham."
"I gather he's the boss's right-hand man." Chris was obviously impressed.
George put down his suitcase and they leaned against the ship's rail, watching workmen climbing over the metal skeleton filling the Canberra's empty swimming pool.
"This is going to be the helicopter landing pad," Chris said. "They calculated that the metal structure and helicopter weigh about the same as the water the pool holds. Amazing, isn't it?"
"Shows how heavy water is." George watched for a few minutes, marveling that this would be finished in time to sail in the morning.
"Come on. I'll take you down to the CO's office. They'll tell you which room you're in."
Thirty minutes later, George had dropped off his suitcase and backpack in a nice port room with a balcony, and was heading along the corridor to Alex Graham's room. He knocked on the door.
Alex opened it and shook his hand. "Welcome aboard. Come and meet the rest of the medical team."
The group of doctors filled the room, sitting on chairs and the bed, some leaning against the wall. Alex introduced them one by one. George nodded in greeting and shook the hands of those nearest.
One man he recognized from school, and another had been at Sandhurst with him. Most were navy doctors, with a few from the Royal Army Medical Corp. A glass of whiskey was pressed into his hand, and he took a fortifying sip as he leaned a shoulder against the wall.
Tension thrummed through the room, a mixture of excitement and trepidation that momentarily eclipsed the clench of disappointment in George's gut over missing his wedding. He'd called Sandra from a pay phone before he boarded, and she was very upset. He felt terrible for letting her down.
"Well, we're all here now, gentlemen." Alex glanced around. The boss will be talking to us tomorrow once we're at sea. He's busy negotiating with the other senior officers this evening. We're having a little trouble with the commandos and the paras. They seem to think the medical staff is getting in their way."
A wry laugh ran through the room. "They won't think that when they end up in the field hospital," someone said.
"Quite. And it doesn't hurt to politely point that out if you have any trouble."
After the meeting, George went straight to bed, shattered by his sudden change of plans and dash to Southampton. A dream of Sandra standing at the altar in the church all alone, crying out his name, woke him in the middle of the night. He stared into the darkness, his heart pounding with distress. The faint hiss of the ocean, along with the hammering and drilling of the contractors who were working through the night, reminded him where he was.
He imagined Sandra curled up on her bed, disappointed and hurting. And he was the cause. He loved her and wanted to make her happy. So far he'd done a poor job of it. He thumped his pillow with frustration.
Early the next morning, the Canberra sailed out of Southampton. Even though the ship's purpose was supposed to be a secret, a large crowd had gathered on the docks to see them off. The military bands of the Royal Marines and the paratroopers played them out with "Sailing" and "Land of Hope and Glory."
At two p.m., on the privacy of his room's balcony, George gripped the cold safety rail and stared at the choppy gray Atlantic Ocean. Right now he should be standing at Sandra's side in the pretty country church, pledging to love, honor, and protect her for the rest of his life. He remembered her joyful anticipation as they had stood before the altar on the day she showed him Saint Cuthbert's, and tears filled his eyes.
He folded his arms on the rail and rested his forehead on them. Now the frantic activity of the last twenty-four hours was over and the ship had sailed, he had time to think. The reality of his situation sank in. Not only had he let her down, her parents had paid for the wedding and would be out of pocket. He should have offered to reimburse them, but it hadn't occurred to him before he left.
When the wedding was reorganized, he'd pay. If the wedding took place at all. The Canberra was heading to war. Not everyone on board would return home alive. The thought of Sandra left to cope without him as a single unwed mother was too awful to imagine.
The next few weeks were busy as the doctors all pitched in to convert the ship's nightclub into a ward, hanging camouflage netting to divide it into rooms, and setting up beds and medical equipment. He attended training lectures by the senior navy medics, and watched videos of the battlefield medical treatments pioneered by the Americans in the Vietnam War.
The doctors diplomatically kept out of the way during the commandos' and paras' endless training sessions. Every day they ran the quarter-mile route around the deck numerous times, carrying antitank guns and backpacks full of ammunition.
After a refueling stop in Sierra Leone, they arrived at Ascension Island, a huge pile of volcanic rock sticking up out of the blue waters of the South Atlantic. The ships of the British task force gathered there to exchange stores and men before heading to the total exclusion zone around the Falkland Islands.
Every day, George wrote a diary of his experiences, something to show Sandra when he returned home—if he returned home. He tried not to dwell on the danger he would face, but he was a realist. If the Argentine planes chose to attack the Canberra, the ship, nicknamed the Great White Whale, was going to be difficult to miss.
• • •
Sandra strode along the corridor of the pediatric department at Southampton General Hospital, heading for the consulting room just outside the ward where she was due to take a clinic in five minutes.
Her pace slowed as she neared the open door of the patients' lounge. Instead of the usual happy music and chatter of cartoon characters, the now-familiar booms and gunfire emanated from the room.
She stepped into the doorway to find a group of parents huddled around the television screen, watching the latest report from the Falklands War, while their children played with toys on the floor.
Like a drug addict desperate for a fix, Sandra's gaze glued to the screen, scanning every shot of a ship's deck or the desolate, windswept land for a glimpse of George. She hadn't heard from him since he left ten weeks ago. The last time they'd spoken was when he called her just before he boarded the Canberra.
So far the Canberra was safe, but she had no way of knowing if he was still on board. Some of the medics had set up a field hospital in Ajax Bay on the Falklands. At any time a missile could hit the old meat-packing warehouse the British soldiers had converted into a field hospital.
As she watched wobbly video footage of a missile blasting into the side of a British frigate and men being thrown off into the ocean, dread swelled like nausea in her chest until she could barely breathe.
Fear rode her day and night like a physical weight. She couldn't sleep for the terrible dreams of George floating facedown and lifeless
in the freezing water, or trapped inside the wreckage of a sinking ship.
She tried to stay busy and keep her mind on work, but the traitorous thoughts plagued every spare moment. She could hardly think straight for worry. Her normal concentration had deserted her. Every prescription she wrote, she checked and double-checked to ensure she hadn't made a mistake with the dosage.
As the television reporter interviewed the commanding officer of the field hospital, Sandra stepped farther into the lounge and pressed a hand over her swelling abdomen, silently praying for a glimpse of her baby's daddy, safe and sound, but her prayers went unanswered.
The tiny flutters of her baby's movements brought a sad smile to her lips. George should be here to share these precious milestones, not halfway around the globe fighting a pointless war that should have been resolved through diplomacy.
Later Sandra trudged out of the hospital to the bus stop. Worry and the pregnancy were grinding her down.
At twenty-four weeks along, she was not large yet, but being pregnant made her so tired she fought to stay awake on the journey home. The bus headed out of Southampton and wound its way through the small towns and quaint villages of the New Forest until she reached her stop.
She climbed off and pressed a hand to the small of her back, stretching out the kinks. For some reason she was extra tired today, weary and listless. She felt hot as well, almost as if she had a temperature. She hadn't felt well for a few days, but blamed it on lack of sleep. Perhaps it was something more?
Her legs ached as she walked the mile along the edge of the road and up the track to Pine Cone Cottage. As she reached the front door, a sickening ache made her bend over and clutch her belly. A burst of warm fluid ran down her legs. For a moment she thought she'd wet herself, but she was certain she hadn't. The only other thing it could be was amniotic fluid. Had her water broken?
Fear sliced through her like a scalpel. She couldn't go into labor now. It was far too early. The baby wasn't viable until twenty-seven weeks. Bent double, clutching her baby bump, Sandra hammered on the door. The moment her mother pulled it open, she pushed past and dashed in to lie on the sofa with her legs propped up on the arm.
"Call the hospital, Mum. I'm leaking amniotic fluid."
Her mother's eyes widened in concern. "Are you sure that's what it is?"
"I think so."
Sandra laid her hand on her rounded belly and closed her eyes against the tears that threatened. Her baby would be fine. If she was admitted to the hospital on bed rest, they could maintain the pregnancy to twenty-seven weeks, and give her steroid injections to help the baby's lungs mature. Then he'd stand a good chance, even if he was premature.
Thoughts swirled in Sandra's mind and she closed her eyes, struggling to remain calm.
"I spoke to a midwife. We need to go straight to the hospital, love."
"Are they sending an ambulance?"
"It'll be quicker if I drive you. I'll run upstairs and grab your bag."
Sandra had already packed in preparation for her sudden dash to the hospital when she went into labor, but she hadn't expected that to be so soon.
A few minutes later, her mum returned and helped her stand. Another dribble of liquid ran down Sandra's legs and she swayed, hot and light-headed. "I don't feel well, Mum."
"Come on, love. Let's get you in the car. I've flattened the seat so you can lie down."
When Sandra was settled in the vehicle, her mother covered her with a blanket and they set off. Sandra's head pounded harder as the minutes passed, and she was sure she was still leaking amniotic fluid.
A terrible sense of foreboding filled her. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the dark thoughts of loss that circled inside her head.
She wanted George. She needed him so much right then that the ache was almost too painful to bear. "George," she moaned as cramping pain gripped her belly, and she twisted in agony.
The Army Doctor's Forever Baby (Army Doctor's Baby Series Prequel) Page 11