When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  ***

  Over the days that followed there was a constant stream of good news, with German troops surrendering to the Allies, and the liberation of concentration camps, cities and countries right across Europe. It gave the patients plenty to talk about, for which Arty was glad, because Jean had only been in to see him once since his outburst, and it was brief and awkward. He needed to say sorry, but it was still too raw for both of them. Charlie also came to visit a couple of times, the second of those interrupted by Jim’s arrival, cutting Charlie’s usual twenty minutes in half.

  On the evening of the seventh of May, after a day of hopeful whispers, Thomas Cadett, a correspondent of the British Broadcasting Corporation, reported that he had seen ‘…the formal acknowledgement by Germany’s present leaders of their country’s complete and utter defeat by land, in the air and at sea.’ The deafening cheers could have razed the hospital to the ground, and nurses and patients hugged each other, laughing and crying in celebration. Through it all, Arty could do nothing but keep telling himself, don’t get worked up, stay calm.

  Bright and early next morning—Victory over Europe Day—Jim bounced into the ward with a wheelchair.

  “Good morning, darlin’,” he called loudly, attracting the glares of the other patients. Arty looked up at him in disbelief. “What?” Jim said with a grin.

  “It’s bad enough that you’re stuck with an invalid. Don’t be getting us sent to prison and all.”

  “No one’s gonna be worrying about a couple of—”

  “There’s no need for that sort of thing today,” one of the men across the way complained.

  “What’s it to you, gramps?” Jim said, gesturing to Arty, who was trying his hardest to hide behind the leg cage. “This man here is a hero.”

  “He’s not the only one,” someone else pointed out.

  “Absolutely,” Jim agreed. “You’re all heroes in my book. Every last one of you. Soon y’all gonna be demobbed, go back to your wives and kids, and I’m real happy for ya.” Jim glanced back at Arty, who shook his head, silently beseeching Jim to shut his mouth. He just smiled and said, “I’m not ashamed of my love for you, Arty. Why should I hide it, today of all days?”

  “Sergeant Johnson,” Matron interjected. “If you’re intending to take Sergeant Clarke on a jaunt, I recommend you hop to it.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Jim said.

  She gave him a stern nod and continued to watch him for a moment before a smile almost broke. She fought it and sighed in exasperation. “Here. Let me give you a hand.”

  “Very kind of you,” Jim acknowledged. The matron stepped to the other side of the bed, and Arty saw a look pass between the two of them that he couldn’t interpret. He let it go unchallenged, for the time being, and did his best to assist them in dressing him. Once he was fully clothed, he shuffled to the edge of the mattress, where Matron helped him to sit up while Jim carefully swung Arty’s legs over the side of the bed in which he had lain for a month. Jim put his arms under Arty’s.

  “Hold on to me,” he instructed.

  “I could try to stand—” Arty began.

  “No, you most certainly could not!” Matron scolded.

  Arty grumbled under his breath, which made Jim chuckle.

  “Grab on, pardner,” he said.

  With no other choice, Arty compliantly looped his arms around Jim’s neck and became weightless as he was lifted from bed to chair.

  Matron nodded, satisfied, and handed Arty a urine bottle. He stared at it in horror.

  “I’ll take you to the men’s room if need be,” Jim offered.

  “No. It’s all right.”

  Jim took the bottle from him and handed it back to Matron. She clicked her teeth, disgruntled, and shrugged at Arty.

  “Thank you, Matron,” he said.

  She offered him another of her stern nods and added, “I’ll walk you out, make sure Sergeant Johnson doesn’t get you into any more mischief.” Her nostrils flared and the corners of her mouth twitched. Jim laughed and scratched his head, doing a fairly convincing job of acting bashful. Arty rolled his eyes, not convinced at all.

  Taking control of Arty’s wheelchair, Jim set off, with Matron walking at his side or going ahead to open the ward doors and any others along the way. Not a word was spoken until they were out in the grounds, where the delighted shrieks of children at play carried on the warm May breeze, and the air around them exuded a joyful peace.

  Jim stopped alongside a jeep he had borrowed to take Arty back to the base for the VE Day party. He lifted Arty out of the wheelchair and up onto the seat, helped him to get comfortable and covered his lap with a blanket. Matron collapsed the wheelchair, and Jim put it in the back of the jeep.

  “Be careful, Jim,” Matron warned.

  “Don’t worry, I will,” Jim assured her.

  “I’m not talking about your driving.”

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  Arty watched in astonishment as Jim and the hard-nosed matron embraced.

  “And don’t bring him back too late,” she called, moving towards the hospital entrance.

  “I won’t,” Jim promised. He climbed in beside Arty, started the engine, and slowly moved off.