by Rosie Harris
‘Excellent,’ Carlile said quickly. ‘I’ve got the perfect horse, a mare that is as docile as a lamb, so how about trying her out?’
‘Well … I am not really sure …’ Desperately, Lucy tried to think of an adequate reason for not doing so. ‘I … I haven’t any suitable clothes,’ she said lamely.
‘Jeans and a pair of wellingtons will do for a start,’ Carlile told her. ‘I can provide you with a hard riding hat. Do you want me to bring the horse here or will you come over to my stables?’
‘Might be better if you went over to Carlile’s place,’ the Colonel said thoughtfully. ‘The horse will feel more comfortable on home ground.’
Miserably, Lucy took up the challenge. She hated the idea of riding. Horses were all right as long as there was someone else on their back, or a fence between her and the animal, otherwise they scared her stiff. For a moment she wished she had stayed in London after all. Even the thought of one day being able to ride alongside Russell didn’t make her enthusiastic.
Eleven o’clock the next morning she drove to Carlile Randell’s home. It was a clean refreshing morning when her heart should have been singing with the birds but instead was lodged deep down inside her green wellingtons as she thought of the trauma that lay ahead. She had always hated being in close contact with animals. She remembered the countless rows with her brother, Mark, because he was always grumbling that she never pulled her weight. He could never understand that she was scared stiff of the cows and anything else to do with the farm. Even the chickens, with their pecking and clucking, alarmed her. She had never been able to summon up the courage to push a sitting hen to one side and fumble underneath it for the eggs, like Ruth could. Even now, young Anna had more nerve than she did when it came to helping around the farm.
Carlile was waiting with the horse already saddled. He led it out to the mounting block in the courtyard in front of the stables, and held it steady until she was on its back. Then, holding the leading rem, he began to walk it slowly round the yard with Lucy balancing nervously in the saddle.
After a few minutes, when she seemed slightly more confident, he led the horse into the adjoining paddock and walked it around the edge of the field. As they moved he instructed Lucy on how to sit, and how to hold the reins. By the end of half an hour she felt less nervous but still not completely confident.
‘Is that it?’ she asked in surprise when he led the horse back to the stables and helped her dismount.
‘That is all for today. I don’t want you feeling so stiff you won’t want to ride again,’ Carlile told her. ‘Now that you have got the feel of things we can really start training you. Same time tomorrow?’
Lucy began to look forward to her daily lessons although she still felt nervous of the animal when she was on the ground. She hated it when the horse pushed its face into her shoulder, or tried to nuzzle at her pocket for the lump of sugar provided by Carlile so that she could reward it after each riding session.
At the end of the second week, Carlile insisted she attempt to saddle the horse herself. With his help she managed to do so, although reaching under its belly to adjust the girth terrified her even more than slipping the bit into its mouth.
‘You will soon get used to it,’ Carlile assured her, at the end of the day’s ride as he encouraged her to unsaddle before stabling the horse.
Perhaps it was because she was feeling tired after her ride, but she found this procedure even more unnerving and her uncertain handling made the horse jumpy. When she went to slip the harness over its head it jerked sideways, sending her spinning against the wall, momentarily stunning her. Carlile was at her side almost before she touched the ground.
‘Keep quite still,’ he breathed, ‘otherwise you will frighten the horse even more.’
He spoke to the startled animal in soothing tones as he opened the stall door and guided it inside. Then he turned back to comfort Lucy.
She was still trembling and so obviously shocked that he gathered her into his arms. Removing her riding hat, he began stroking her hair to try and calm her. As she looked up into his face, her blue eyes wide with terror, he involuntarily held her tighter and before Lucy realised what was happening his mouth was covering hers in a long, lingering kiss that left her breathless.
As she struggled to pull free, Carlile only increased his hold. His dark eyes were fever bright.
Before Lucy knew what was happening Carlile had kicked shut the outer door and pushed her backwards onto a pile of sweet-smelling hay. She struggled to break free but he had fallen across her, pinioning her arms to her side so that she found it impossible to move.
As she struggled ineffectually to free herself from Carlile’s embrace she tried to quell the panic inside her that threatened to sap her strength and leave her powerless.
His breathing was heavy and laboured so she knew it was useless to plead with him to release her, yet she couldn’t bring herself to submit. She managed to free her arms. As her nails raked down his face he grabbed her, twisting her wrist savagely. Her struggles were short-lived, she was no match for his strength as he began tearing off her clothes in a frenzy of desire.
She tried to remain impassive, ashamed of her mounting sensations of pleasures as he made love to her. Tears of despair dampening her cheeks, she lay there inert, paralysed by what had happened.
Chapter 28
At dawn, as Russell looked out at the white cottages tucked into rolling green pastures, and the sheep grazing contentedly, everything looked so peaceful that he wondered why it had been thought necessary for them to come all these thousand of miles.
An hour later, when the air attack started, he had his answer. The raids went on all day. At first it was small Pucara bombers in a ground attack and almost instantaneously the defending ships out in San Carlos Bay filled the sky with missiles. Wave after wave of air attacks followed.
Russell watched as Mirages dodged Harriers, and heard the bombs exploding on the hilltops as they dropped their load before disappearing out over the channel with a roar of engine power. Almost immediately came the resounding explosion of guns and missiles from the defending ships.
As the day advanced, Skyhawk fighter-bombers dived down on the ships that lay at anchor, producing a barrage of fire from the ships as well as from the anti-aircraft batteries that were being hastily constructed on the shore to secure the beachhead.
From his vantage point, a rise in the ground overlooking San Carlos Bay, Russell saw the frigate Antelope come limping in, shrouded in smoke, the main mast buckled where it had been hit by an Argentinian plane. And on each side of her hull was a gaping hole where a bomb had gone in. Even as he watched, the helicopters flew in to make an orderly rescue, searching low over the water for survivors, despite the risk of explosions from the damaged Antelope.
A week later, he was at Goose Green, and experienced a different aspect of the war. For almost a month the 114 inhabitants had been imprisoned in their own Community Hall by the Argentinians. Now free, they returned to their desecrated houses and his heart bled for them as he witnessed the bleakness m their eyes as they found their few possessions were ruined.
Even so, they were eager to offer hospitality to their liberators, and not wishing to offend, Russell accepted the tea and cakes they managed to provide.
The place was alive with reporters. Patrick Bishop of the Observer, John Witherow of The Times, Brian Hanrahan and Robert Fox from the BBC, were no longer anonymous names but men like himself doing a job in an unusual situation.
Colonel ‘H’ Jones, Commanding Officer of No. 2 Paras who had liberated the settlement, had been killed. As they brought his body down from the hillside where he had fallen, Russell felt even more despondent. A soldier walked in front, his weapon pointed to the ground. A tribute to ‘H’ stated that he had carried out the liberation of Goose Green with dash and heroism, a verve not seen since World War II.
Afterwards came the grim clean up. Russell’s gorge rose as he directed his company of m
en to bury those British soldiers who had died in the assault.
‘What about the Argies, sir?’ a young Lieutenant asked, his face green as the last of the dead were lowered into the ground.
‘Bury the whole damn lot of them,’ a voice muttered thickly.
‘Arrange for any who are injured to be moved to one of the field hospitals,’ Russell ordered, ‘and see that the helmets and packs of any Argentinians who have surrendered are laid out in neat lines on the recreation ground.’
By the time the clearing up was completed, the centre of the square was a huge mound of ammunition, everything from hand-grenades, anti-tank rockets and mortar bombs to several thousand rounds of rifle bullets.
‘And what are we supposed to do with all the prisoners, sir?’ Gary Collins asked as tired and dirty he stood alongside Russell at the end of an arduous day. ‘There must be hundreds of them housed in the sheep-shearing sheds at the end of the village.’
Russell sighed wearily. He felt so utterly exhausted that it was difficult to think clearly. He longed for a hot bath, clean clothes and, above all, a stiff drink. It had been one of the most gruelling days of his life.
‘I suppose we will have to fly them back to San Carlos as soon as there are any helicopters available.’
‘We could put them on board one of the landing ships that are still lying at anchor in the Bay.’
‘Possibly. Do something about these supplies first, though,’ Russell told him.
And that was when the accident happened. One minute Russell was directing Gary on where he wanted the ammunition stored and the next minute he heard a shout as Gary Collins gave him a violent push that sent him stumbling backwards before a massive explosion shook the ground.
Apart from being momentarily stunned and covered in debris, Russell was all right, but Gary Collins was lying a few hundred yards away, covered in blood and groaning.
Russell feared the worst. He gave orders for him to be taken to the field hospital that had been set up in an abandoned refrigeration plant and waited with growing anxiety for a report on his condition.
As he paced up and down he kept remembering the horrifying stories that were circulating about men who had been injured. Flesh wounds from high-velocity missiles quickly became gangrenous. In the past ten days, most of the 200 men who had been treated at the hospital had needed limbs amputating.
When he heard that Gary was not to be treated there but was being sent back to England on the hospital ship Uganda, he wondered if he dared ask him to take a message to Lucy. It would be breaking all the rules of protocol but he was sure he could rely on Gary to be discreet. She was always uppermost in his mind. He worried about her being on her own in London far more than he did about his own predicament and discomfort. If he could be sure that she would stay with his parents at Walford Grange he would stop feeling so anxious.
He had only a few minutes with Gary before he was taken away. As he looked down at the crumpled figure covered by a blanket, he knew it was pointless asking him to convey any message to Lucy. Heavily bandaged and sedated, Gary was barely conscious.
Almost immediately, Russell was ordered to Bluff Cove to join a Guards battalion which had left England on the QE2. Their arrival was heralded as one of the turning points of the war. It would give the British command a chance to regroup and, for the first time, outnumber the Argentinians. His instructions were to ‘Advance forward, over the troops already holding the ground there.’
He felt keyed up by the magnitude of the operation, yet in some ways glad to be plunged into a major assault since it helped to keep him from worrying about Lucy. It was hard going. So many troops and supplies had come ashore that the beach, and the tracks from it, were a morass of mud.
By Sunday, 6th June, tired out but triumphant, his men had captured the tiny settlement and gained control of what was a vital bottleneck on the road to Port Stanley, without a shot being fired.
But, the 3000 men who made up the bulk of the Fifth Infantry Brigade, were still behind the mountain in San Carlos Bay, together with their stores and ammunition.
‘Surely, the best way to move them across the island is to put them on ships and sail them round the coast,’ Russell suggested. ‘That way we will save days of cross-country marching as well as the need for airlifts. There will not only be a saving on time but the men will be less tired.’
It should have been a four-hour trip but because of high seas, driving wind and heavy rain it took much longer. Six hours later they were still being buffeted off the coast and Russell wondered about the wisdom of his suggestion.
The following night, when another battalion made the same crossing, they had to contend with an additional hazard. The Argentinians had been alerted and attacked the landing craft with a tremendous air offensive, by far the heaviest of the campaign.
Later that day at the Fitzroy settlement, while the two landing support ships, Sir Galahad and Sir Tristram, were being unloaded, Skyhawks struck.
There were only seconds’ warning before bombs hit the accommodation quarters. One landed on the main cargo deck of Sir Galahad. Confusion reigned. Their flat bottoms made them roll like an elephant on wet grass. Within a matter of minutes, smoke and flames choked the corridors, making it impossible to see what was happening or what damage had been done. The dense smoke also impeded the helicopters and boats as they swarmed alongside, trying to take off the injured and survivors and get them ashore.
In next to no time, flames from the Sir Galahad had spread to the Sir Tristram. With both ships ablaze, rescue operations became even more perilous. Helicopters returned again and again swooping low down and hovering precariously before coming in as close as possible to try and pick up the injured. And all the time, black smoke poured out as the ammunition on board both vessels ignited with a horrendous cacophony of noise.
Doctors and medical assistants worked feverishly at the first-aid posts, without thought for their own safety, struggling to free those trapped and render temporary assistance to the injured until they could receive full-scale treatment.
On the cliff tops, doctors and nurses watched the blazing inferno as they waited for the helicopters to arrive with the casualties. The vast majority of the injuries were burns, some so horrific that it seemed unlikely the victims would ever recover. And throughout the whole rescue operation, everyone was conscious of the constant crack of ammunition, the sudden spurts of flames that rose above the pall of smoke and the sounds of even bigger explosions coming from the Sir Galahad.
Russell was one of those badly hurt. He was taken away strapped to an armoured car. As it climbed up the hillside, he was able to look back and, through a haze of pain, he saw that there was a huge pall of black smoke hanging over the Bay as if from a funeral pyre.
He shuddered as another Skyhawk swept in for attack. It was met with a hail of small-arms fire and missiles. Tracer bullets curled towards it but it passed through the curtain of lead and then peeled away, pursued by missiles.
Tensely waiting for the next attack, the noise of battle drumming in his ears, was the last thing Russell remembered about the Falklands. Overcome by pain he drifted into a state of unconsciousness. War was forgotten. Instead it was Lucy’s voice he could hear. It was as if she was there, right beside him.
Russell remembered nothing at all about the journey back to England. Deeply unconscious, and kept that way by painkilling drugs, he would occasionally drift to the edge of understanding.
His only thoughts when he did manage to open his eyes were of Lucy. He wanted her so much and he couldn’t understand why she didn’t come.
Weakly, hoarsely, he would call her name over and over, until his mind became blank again and he would drift back into limbo.
Now, he was in a bed. He lay for a long time trying to fathom out just where he was. The walls of the room were pale blue, the paintwork was white and it was a narrow, unfamiliar bed with white and blue curtains around it. Gradually he realised he was in a hospital.
&nb
sp; His first thoughts were of Lucy. He closed his eyes, dreaming that she was there beside him, her golden hair fanned out around her shoulders, tickling against his face as she bent over him, her lips hovering invitingly just above his. The smell of her perfume, a rich exotic scent, filled his nostrils. He tried to stretch out and touch her but as he did so she moved … tantalisingly out of reach.
He opened his eyes again and as he raised his hand he found it was swathed in bandages. As if from a past life he began to dredge up memories of what had happened. He found he didn’t want to remember but the thoughts came pounding in like waves, refusing to be ignored, shattering against his brain, making his head ache.
It wasn’t until later, after the operation, that he discovered he was unable to move his lower limbs. The enormity of his injuries overpowered him. He lay exhausted, tears of anger and frustration rolling unchecked down his cheeks. The future seemed so bleak that he wished he had died out in the Falklands. Anything would have been better than the humiliation now engulfing him. How could he ever face Lucy like this. What sort of husband was he when he was not even sure he could still function as a man!
Chapter 29
The strong smell of antiseptic made Lucy heave as she walked down the hospital corridor. By the time she reached Gary’s bedside, her stomach was churning and her legs trembling.
‘You look worse than I feel,’ Gary joked as she bent over to kiss him on the cheek.
‘It’s this place. I felt sick the moment I walked through the door.’
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ His gaze raked over her, taking in the cream silk trouser suit that shimmered seductively, outlining her figure. Her blonde hair was caught back by an enormous jewelled silver slide that matched the dangling earrings that tinkled and sparkled with the slightest movement. ‘I would have thought this place was “Out of Bounds” for an officer’s lady,’ he chuckled.
His vivid blue eyes narrowed as he looked at her speculatively. ‘Have you something to tell me that I didn’t ought to know?’ he asked with a puzzled frown.
