* * *
Imogen stood stiff in the corner of General Swanson’s office, dressed in her tight fitting grey-blue medic’s uniform. General Swanson was sat at the only table in the room, rifling through a thick file. Imogen couldn’t make out the pages, but he turned to one, ran his finger down the page, grumbled beneath his breath and sipped at a plastic mug of coffee.
Swanson was a real colossus of a man. His head looked like a great stone, with thick rubbery skin. He was old. Heavy lines cracked through his face and his grey hair was thin and wiry. He had an entire catalogue of medals pinned to his jacket, all of different colours. He looked like a toy soldier with a million big bright buttons on his chest. Imogen would love to be able to press them, if for no other reason than to see his reaction. He laid the folder down and turned to her.
His sharp, grey-blue eyes focussed on her like an eagle. ‘Cormun,’ he nodded. ‘I would like to personally thank you for volunteering for this assignment. You are a true soldier.’ A smile cracked like a chasm across his face. ‘I understand you have a son and a husband at home. Rest assured, we will strive to give you a safe return as soon as this mission is complete. This contribution to our great country shall not be overlooked. You’ve a medal headed your way, Cormun.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Imogen acknowledged, bowing to her superior.
‘As you know, one of our Panavia Tornado ERCs was hit and brought down just south of the target, ten kilometres due north-west of the stream. We’ll be sending you in on a Lynx Mk 7 at o-four hundred hours tomorrow morning. I will introduce you to your convoy at o-two hundred hours, that’s—’ he snapped his wrist up to his face and eyed his watch ‘—eight hours from now. I suggest you get some food and then take a rest. The plan is to get you in and out over the next forty-eight hours; you’ll be back at home for church on Sunday.’ He slapped the file shut and sipped at his coffee. ‘You know, I have always had the utmost confidence in you, Cormun,’ he mumbled lowly, sounding like a car engine ticking-over. ‘If more of our soldiers were of your mould, well—’
‘Don’t,’ Imogen insisted, holding her hand out to stop him. She didn’t want emotion; she wanted to be a machine until the job was done. Get in, get out and go home, that was her plan. Swanson nodded his understanding.
‘I’ll see you at o-two hundred hours. Dismissed.’ He saluted. Imogen stood to attention and returned the salute. She marched out the office.
That night, Imogen lay alone in her private room. There was nothing to take her mind off of Guy and the risk she was taking. The room was bare, just a wooden table, a wooden bed and four plain white walls. A TV sat on the table but there was nothing worth watching. She had taken her notebook and a fountain pen out and scrawled letter after letter after letter, trying to find the right words to write to Guy. She was certain the return wouldn’t be as swift as General Swanson had suggested. She probably wouldn’t see Guy for months. Then again, there was a very slim chance that she might not return home at all. Though, in truth, there was little reason to think so drastically, she always preferred to have every base covered. So it was that she had written a letter to Guy just in case the unthinkable happened.
‘To my little Guy,’ it began. She floated the pen over the paper. How was she supposed to know how to write a letter just in case—well, never mind; she rubbed at her forehead. What could she write? She tapped the pen on the table in irritation. Finally she shrugged and decided to just be completely honest.
‘To my little Guy; I don’t know what to say, how about that!’ She looked up the page. She had already written the section for Jerry. ‘Jerry, I am due to leave on a rescue mission this morning. Now I’m thinking I should have refused. Ha! You’re always right and I never see it! Guess I’m just too stubborn. They say I should be back by Sunday. That seems extremely unlikely, but I’m sure it won’t be too long so please don’t worry. Just in case the worst happens... well, you know; it’s not the first time I’ve written a note for Guy. Please read it to him when he is old enough to understand.’ She hurried to write the sentences. The odds on Jerry actually having to ever read the note to Guy were so slim there was little sense wrestling over the words. The words to Guy were different, though; they were as much for Imogen herself as for him; they helped her to realise why she did what she did, helped her to find the motivation and focus to perform her duty. She returned to the section for Guy.
‘I want you to understand, when you grow up, why I’ve decided to risk myself for this mission. I love you, you know that. You are the most precious thing I have ever known. All I ever wanted was for you to be brought up with hope, love, and more hope... and a little more love.’ She sighed. ‘When you grow up, I don’t want there to be any wars or hate. Sometimes we must give up what we—’ she crossed the line out. It wasn’t right. She continued, ‘You know, the chief reason for failure and unhappiness is sacrificing what we want most for what we want in the moment. At this moment I want to be there with you. I’m sacrificing that for the hope that you grow up to know what love is, to know what duty is, to know how to act for more than yourself; for your family and for everything you love. That is what I want most. I want you to have respect and love for every man. How can you have that if I am prepared to let this soldier die?’ She looked over the letter. It was right. It felt right. She finished, ‘Love, Mum.’