HEATHER

The weeks passed.  Our little baby grew.  I slowly seemed to find my place, to come to understand the rhythm of life here on La Maddalena.  Despite the constant threat to his life, Lach was happier than I'd ever seen him.  In his element.  He understood this World and his place in it.  He loved flying, loved having a real purpose again.  A job that made a difference.  A job that made him feel like a man.

It was harder for me to adjust.  This wasn't my time... but as the weeks slowly passed, I became more adept at navigating the intricacies of life in this new place.  Our place.  Our home.  It seems silly.  We had a home before back in our other World- but we had always had to share it, and our lives, with others.  Now, despite our meager existence, at least it was solely ours.  Of course, we missed the others terribly and were worried sick about Uma and Terry, but there was a strange measure of peace that we found in our solitude. 

Even our little home seemed to reflect the changes.  Lach had wired for a bit of the money he'd put away and when it came, he bought me a blue shawl to ward away the evening chill and a few other small mementos to make our place a home.  Our room seemed to slowly take on a character of its own as we settled in.  A scrap of tattered cloth became a little runner for our table.  I found an old chipped bottle and it now sat on the windowsill, filled with wildflowers picked by a Selkie.  We bought some things for the baby and spent an evening celebrating when, once again, a little bassinette filled the corner next to our bed.   

With the help of a few of the local women (the military wives still wanted nothing to do with me) I began to be able to identify some of the herbs and edible plants that grew wild in the area surrounding the base.  Our meals became more flavorful as I learned how to season them - and how to master cooking without the aid of all the modern appliances I'd once depended upon.  I learned how to find and prepare dandelion greens and how to gather lavender to make my own scented oil.  I am sure Lach got a few odd comments for that one... but he never complained about smelling of lavender on the occasions a pot of scented water I'd prepared for bathing got shared by an amorous pilot.

I learned how to wash clothes without my beloved Maytag and I collected rainwater in a tub behind our barracks in order to have enough water to take in laundry.  It was hardly a pleasant task and nobody had money to pay me for the work- but it was easy labor and the men would pay me in cigarette papers and matches.  Real cigarettes were damn near worth their weight in gold- but the local women showed me which leaves to dry to make a fairly decent substitute.  Walnut leaves were tasteless... grape leaves had too much 'flavor' but the leaves of potato plants were highly prized and it gave me something to do to keep busy during the long hours Lach was away flying.  And it helped keep my mind off the fact that he might not come back.

He was a part of Red Flight.  They flew sorties mostly at night or in poor weather (or both).  It terrified me, but it was our lives now.  And we got used to it- as much as we could, anyway.  We kept odd hours- sleeping the day away only to get up in the early evening.  I would get up first and start dinner, letting him get the extra sleep he always seemed to be in such desperate need of.  Just before dinner, I would wake him... sometimes with a soft kiss- sometimes with my most intimate kiss.  I loved for him to wake that way, shuddering into my mouth with a soft moan.  Other times, I would wake him with a simple touch.  He would smile that Selkie smile and I would be under his spell.  We made love often once we were assured the crossing hadn't endangered our little baby. 

After we loved, we would share a simple meal and then I would help him dress.  I knew his uniform inside and out now.  Could fasten all the buttons and zips and buckles in the dark.  And frequently did when our meager supply of candles ran out- and they did, often.  He could dress himself, of course, but I liked to do it.  It was intimate and special, a part of the new rituals we'd begun to make in this place.  And I think it was also a part of how we managed with the fact that every single time he left, he risked his life. 

It was our way to say goodbye.  

He would let me care for him in the most intimate manner and then, after I'd buttoned the last button and smoothed the last wrinkle and tucked away a cigarette in his pocket for later, he'd put his hands on our little baby, kiss us both and then slip on that cap of his with a wink and a smile... and serious eyes that belied his teasing.  He knew as well as I did that every moment we had in this world was on loan from the Piper. 

My nights were long and empty.  Red Flight flew almost every evening.  First there was roll call and then the briefing and the preflight..... it took hours and hours.  Usually they returned well after dawn and then there was debriefing... to say nothing of those who came back requiring medical attention or those who didn't come back at all. 

The nights were the hardest for me.  Alone in our little room, surrounded by the bits and pieces of our intimate lives; our washing strung up on a line in the corner, my one pair of little modern panties hanging next to his old fashioned undershorts.  Lach's shaving mug and razor on the edge of the sink.  The toothbrush we shared.  The mismatched cups we had our tea out of in the mornings after he returned from debriefing... 

One night, it just got too hard sitting there surrounded by all our precious memories in a room that still smelled of our recent lovemaking.  I had to get out of there- if only for a little while.  It was hardly dangerous to take a short walk around base- it was active around the clock, planes always coming in for refueling or repairs and taking off again in twos or threes, roaring away into the night sky. 

That night, wrapped up warm in my new blue shawl, I sat on a little grassy rise above the airfield and watched the planes and the ground crews as they worked tirelessly to get the 'birds' back in the air.  It sort of hit me then.  I was a real military 'wife'.  I'd been there long enough to recognize the scirocco and to tell which nights it was blowing in a way that would make takeoff and landing difficult.  I could recognize the different planes.  I was beginning to speak a smattering of very poor Italian. 

I still had no friends.  But I suppose that was partly of my own doing.  The few military wives who lived here (twenty-six in all, including myself) all volunteered in the hospital, rolling bandages, reading to the men, washing out soiled linens, etc.  And to be honest, it terrified me.  Not the people... but the germs.  If it was just me, I'd have been in there too.  You all know how I feel about lost soldiers.  But I had a little baby to think about and I was becoming increasingly aware that I had absolutely no immunity to sort of bug from this time.  Sure, I'd had shots when I was younger so I wasn't going to get Polio or the Measles or Rubella or anything.... but I could only imagine what I might be exposed to washing linens soiled with medical waste. 

My reluctance to join in didn't help my standing with the women.  Most of them were British and I didn't belong in their social set.  Hell, I hadn't even grown up with notion that there were different classes.  In my first days here, I'd made the mistake of speaking with one of them, unaware she was the wife of one of the ranking officers.  It seemed there was a rank here among the wives as well and what I'd done was the equivalent of a lowly private marching straight up to a Major and tapping him on the shoulder for a chat.  It simply wasn't done.

And then there were the comments, always whispered loud enough so I would overhear.  "I hear them at it all the time.... In her condition, as well!  It's disgusting....."  and "Well, I heard Curry took up with a little whore in training, too... you know how men are....can't really blame them for taking a bit if it's being given out for free....."  and "I think someone's bedsprings need oiling!" and once to my face, "Is it true your baby has a flat head?"  

I never told Lach, of course.  But I know he knew what was going on.  On the rare occasions he'd find me crying, I would simply give him the same excuse he gave me... "Take no notice of me.... the bloody plane bit me again, Lach...." He would try to tease me out of my sad mood with fresh picked wildflowers and silly comments about man-eating planes.  It wasn't easy, but somehow, with bruised hearts and the occasional bruised knuckles, we managed. 

Still, the nights were so hard.  Especially when the scirocco was blowing wildly, as it was tonight.  I took a meandering walk, aware Lach wouldn't have approved of me being out at night, but I felt if I didn't begrudge him his freedom, he shouldn't begrudge me mine.  Sometimes, I just needed to get out.  I was on my way back to our little room that night when I made a detour by the hospital to avoid having to pass by the small knot of women that often gathered outside the Base Exchange to talk.  That last time they'd seen me walking after dark, someone had called out, "What's the matter, lovie?  Can't find any paying customers tonight?" 

I wanted no repeats of that experience. 

As I was skirting the hospital, I heard the low sound of crying from within.  That ugly sobbing that men do because they simply have no idea how to cry gracefully.  It tugged at my heartstrings.  I stopped, listened a moment and then walked on- but the pitiful sound drew me up short again.  I knew from base gossip that I was outside the 'wing' where they put the terminal patients.  The men on base called it the Death Ward.  Whoever set it up had been thinking clearly, however.  It had a separate exit so that the bodies that were removed wouldn't have to be paraded past the other injured men.  Cold, but effective.  It was hardly a boost to morale. 

Unable to keep away, I wrapped my shawl tighter around me and slipped in the back entrance.  That unpleasant medicinal disinfectant smell was stronger here and for a moment, my stomach rolled.  I nearly turned around and left but the sound of that man's tears overrode my discomfort. 

It was quiet inside and the lights were low; each bed was shrouded with a web of diaphanous netting.  There were no nurses or doctors present so I ventured further, hoping the crying would be coming from one of the last beds on the end, closest to me- but no luck.  It was coming from a cot near the middle. 

I counted them.  Eighteen beds in all.  Fifteen were occupied.  I felt the sharp prick of tears but blinked them back as I scooted the low stool beside the bed and lowered my awkward bulk down upon it, settling myself before I gingerly brushed back the netting.  Dear God in Heaven, he was just a boy.  Sixteen or seventeen.  Not even old enough to shave yet, his cheeks still smooth and soft like a girl's.  He was on his back, his uninjured arm flung over his eyes, sobbing. 

I don't want to die.       

He sniffed and halted for a brief moment when he saw me sitting there, but at the soft touch of my hand on his cheek, he broke.  He was just a boy.  He turned into my hand and grabbed hold weakly, a grimace of pain twisting his features as his weight shifted in the bed.  He was under a sheet but I could easily see he was missing almost all of his right leg and his right arm was lightly bandaged.  Blood spotted the sheet at his groin. 

I hushed him, petting his face and hair.  He wept, crying for his lost leg and mangled genitals.  He rambled, morphine talk, out of his head.  He hadn't even had a sweetheart.  He was going to die a virgin.  My willie's gone.  He sobbed brokenly.  Such a beautiful boy reduced to this.  I don't know why the tears wouldn't come.  I just stroked his hand and pet him as his breathing and heartbeat slowed.  His last fight.  Crisis.  Catharsis.  I knew it was taking all his energy to cry.  The end would come very soon once he settled.  Such powerful opiates block the pain but also dangerously slow both breathing and heart rate.  He was sweating with the effort it took to fight this last fight. 

I bent low to whisper in his ear that it was OK to rest.  That he was brave and strong and that he didn't need to be afraid anymore.  That it was OK to let go.  No more pain... just peace.  It wasn't dramatic like it always is in the movies.  He called out softly for his Mum and then he was gone.  Just like that.  An empty shell.  No life.  I wiped the tears from his face and smoothed back his hair, putting his arm back at his side and pulled the sheet up to his chest.  He looked so young, like he should have been home at school, not dying alone in some strange hospital bed. 

I came again the next night.  And the next.  And the next.  Every night Lach flew, I came to sit with those poor broken boys.  Having nursed a loved one through terminal cancer, I was aware that one of the most precious gifts you can give to anyone is a death with dignity.  I sat with them.  Talked to them.  Snuck in wildflowers and Lach's flask and even a few smokes.  The nurses ignored me.  The doctors turned a blind eye after they ordered a woman 'in my condition' out and I kept coming anyway.  They were far too short handed to bother with one woman breaking the rules.  Like I could really do any harm?  All of them belonged to the Piper anyway.   

I know God the Father doesn't make deals, but part of me felt like my being there kept Lach safe... and even though I knew it really didn't, I just kept thinking if he was hurt somewhere, I'd want someone to sit with him so he wouldn't pass alone and afraid from this world into the next. 

I was still scared of getting sick so I was always careful.  I stayed away from the ones who were sick with something I could catch.  Not very noble of me, I know, but I refused to risk our baby.  I also stole some disinfectant and a bar of lye soap and would wash my hands carefully when I got home.

That was how we existed there.  Lachlan and I lived in those few precious hours we had together, and when he was away, I sat with the others, writing letters to their sweethearts and families for them, sometimes reading to them from Lach's Bible if they wished, sometimes just being there and saying nothing at all.  Some of them wanted nothing to do with me.  Those I left alone.  Some never woke at all.  I still held their hands.  Nobody should have to cross alone.  Some cried for their mothers.  Some for their wives.  Some had nobody.  Some didn't cry at all, just slipped away silently.  Some just wanted to touch my belly and speak of their own little ones at home.  Others seemed to confuse me with their own mothers.  I just pretended to be whoever they wanted and needed in their last moments.  Surely that's a forgivable sin?

Sometimes I think it sounds more noble than it really was.  It was hardly a selfless gesture.  It gave them ease but it eased me too, gave me purpose.  And I know it sounds bad, but I'd seen death.  It wasn't seeing those poor broken men die that was the hardest part for me, it was imagining Lachlan reduced to what I saw around me each night... men with missing limbs, burned, paralyzed, blind....  It was horrifying and yet I couldn't keep away.  Like my being there took Lach's place or something.  I really can't explain it.

I do know Lach was furious when he found out.  He forbade me to go.  I went anyway.  We had a flaming row about it that half the base probably heard.  He didn't like it but in the end, he relented.  I think he knew I couldn't sit idly by, waiting at home to receive a message like his family had once. 

Mr. and Mrs. Curry, we regret to inform you that your son, Flight Sergeant Angus Curry, was killed in the line of duty on June 15th, 1941.

After the night we fought, I noticed I always seemed to have an escort when I went somewhere while Lach was gone.  One of the men from Blue Flight or Green Flight would always be loitering around outside our barracks or outside the hospital to make sure I made it safely back and forth.  I wasn't ever sure if Lachlan has asked them or if they did it on their own, hoping I'd return the favor and watch over them if they ever had sorry enough luck to wind up in the Death Ward.    

I was 26 weeks when we crossed.  Somehow, 26 weeks became 30... And then 30 became 35.... The next big hurdle for us came not long after.  The scirocco had been wild, grounding everyone for two days, even Red Flight, who was notorious for flying in poor conditions.  During that time, the decision was made by the 'Powers That Be' that as soon as there was a break in the weather, that I (along with one of the other heavily pregnant wives) would be evacued out to the larger Allied hospital on Sardinia. 

I was absolutely frantic.  Far more terrified of being alone in this strange world without Lach than I was about giving birth on La Maddalena.  I hadn't given up everything and everyone I'd ever known and loved to follow Lach only to be ripped from him when I needed him the most.  I pointed out local women gave birth here all the time.  And quite frankly, after seeing what I had of the sanitary conditions of the hospital, I preferred the village midwife over anything I might be subjected to in a place like that, even if they'd had a competent OB/GYN on staff- which, of course, they didn't.  This was a war zone. 

I just kept thinking of my modern notions of bacteria and germs and sanitation and simply couldn't fathom giving birth in that hospital.  And to be honest, I also couldn't get this story my grandmother had once told me out of my mind.  She was a nurse in WWII, strangely enough, and she'd also given birth in a military hospital that was better suited to sawing off men's legs than to gently helping a new life into the world.  She'd been given an epidural that had traveled the wrong way, leaving her upper body paralyzed and motionless.  She'd endured hours of agony, unable to speak to even tell them what had happened and she'd had an excruciating painful birth.  I wanted no part of that. 

Lach paled when I recounted that tale and he supported my decision not to leave the island- though to be honest, I doubt he'd have given his consent anyway.  Both of us had paid too dear a price to be separated now.  We were in this together.  And that's all there was to it. 

So, what to do?  We made plans.  Lachlan had to sign papers absolving the RAF of any liability should anything happen to me.  Funny that I didn't have to sign anything, but hey, that's the 40's for you.  I didn't even care.  I just wanted to be with Lach and I would do anything I had to do to stay at his side. 

We spoke to the local midwife.  Well, Lach did mostly.  His smattering of Italian is much better than mine.  Signora Gallatti looked to be in her early 50's.  She had graying hair and a few missing teeth, but her face was kind and her eyes were sharp and intelligent.  She was fair... and shrewd.  She would help us... but she also knew we were between a rock and a hard place. 

Her price was steep.

She looked from Lach to me and then tilted her head as she fingered the charms on my bracelet.  They were precious to me, but not because they were made of gold.  She haggled... but Lach is shrewd too.  She'd wanted two and left with one, but only after biting it in her teeth to make sure it was real.  I was sad to see it go, but I suppose it couldn't be helped.  The little gold seal my Selkie Man had given me was gone forever.... but you know, I had the real Selkie in my arms at night and his baby growing inside me- and that was all that had ever really mattered to me.             

Though she'd wrangled a high price from us, I felt safe with her and was confident of her abilities.  She'd been delivering babies a long time and she had spoken (brokenly) with me once or twice in the last few weeks when we'd crossed paths in the village.  Her gnarled hands were surprisingly sure and strong when she touched my stomach.  The first time she'd done it, she'd smiled widely and had patted me gently before nodding her head- all of which was followed by a rush of Italian that I mostly didn't grasp.  I think I caught "good" and "strong" but who could tell?  She seemed pleased, though.  It was the same the other times I'd seen her, too. 

I don't think Lach cared for her much, however.  This time when she felt my belly, she gave him a stern look and tutted at him.  She wagged her finger and a barrage of Italian followed.  His face remained impassive but a hint of color appeared on his cheeks.  She turned to me and shook her head, her hands on her thick hips.  She clearly said the word 'No' and then she made a crude approximation of kissing noises.  I felt a blush rise.  And then she said, in surprisingly unbroken English, "No nookie."  Her dark eyes sparkled but her face was serious.  She touched my belly again and spoke to Lach.  He listened carefully, asked her to repeat something and then nodded.  She left not long after with my little gold seal tucked carefully away in her pocket. 

I closed the door after her and turned to Lach.  "What did she say?"  I had gotten gist, but I wanted to know what else she'd said to him. 

He threw himself down in the chair and poured himself some more tea with a snort.  "She told me to keep my hands to myself."

I couldn't help but tease him.  "Just your hands, wingnut?"

His color rose but he grinned.  "Well....all the good appendages, anyway."  We laughed and he reached over to refill my teacup too.  His expression grew more serious.  "She said you were carrying the baby too low for me to pleasure you now."  From behind the teacup, his eyes twinkled.  "Well, either that or your arse was too low.... I might have mistranslated-"

I swatted him and he giggled.  "You are shameless, Lachlan Curry!"

His face softened as he pulled me onto his knee.  "And you are very pregnant, Heather Curry."  And I knew he'd only been teasing about my 'arse'.  Though the baby seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds, I'd been growing thinner.  Life here was good... but so hard; the lack of food and sleep, the constant worry...  It had taken a toll on both of us.  Sometimes I think they only comfort we found was in each other.  Lach left his hand on the rounded swell of my belly and I turned in his arms to kiss him deeply.

He made a noise low in his throat and pulled away reluctantly.  "Have mercy on me, girl....."  Adjusting his growing erection with a grimace, he sighed dramatically for effect.  "That just figures, hey?  The scirocco blows hard enough to ground us all and I have my first night free in weeks and weeks... and that old crone goes and buggers up all my amorous plans...."  He waggled his eyebrows at me and then groaned pathetically.   

I giggled and blew a raspberry on his neck.  I adore his smart mouth but he wasn't trying to get a bit.  He'd never ever do anything to harm the baby, or me.... but he wasn't above complaining about it for show.  He is so much fun. 

He gave me a look.  "So... what'll it be tonight?  Chaste walk around the compound?  Charades?  Cold pan bath?"  He gave his wayward groin a look and pulled at his lip thoughtfully as he addressed his penis.  "Will that even work on you, mate?" 

"Doubtful."  It would take more than a pan of cold water to kill Lach's ardor.    

He sniggered.  "Maybe games of the non amorous sort, then?  I think I have a pack of cards round here somewhere....." 

I snorted.  "Now you're just ruining it!  Here I was with this dramatic, heroic image of you- and what's the real truth?  You spend your nights playing 'Go Fish' and 'Old Maid'....." 

Our words were silly but the truth was he lived his life very, very close to the edge and he needed to touch and be touched.  Needed that intimacy to blunt the pain of losing his mates night after night.  To soothe the wounds on his soul.  He wasn't a killer... and yet he killed.  He needed the solace we found in each other, as I needed the reassurance I found in his touch.  And that he would try to pretend he didn't... God, how that just stabbed at my heart.   

I opened the zipper on his flight suit and reached inside.  His eyes widened.  

"Blue!"  A warning.  I ignored it.

"Shhh... Lach... she didn't say anything about me keeping my 'appendages' to myself."  And if she did, I damn well intended to discount it.  Touching him couldn't bring anything but peace and well being both to me and to our little baby.  And the simple truth was he needed to be looked after, just like I did.  He protested, but only briefly.  We were living on borrowed time and both of us were too real with each other to pretend otherwise.   

For all its simplicity, it was a very erotic and intensely masculine image to see him sitting there in that little chair, his flight suit unzipped and pushed down, left to hang from his waist.  His chest was bare and his erection rose proudly from between his legs, but he was still wearing his heavy flying boots and the bottom half of his flight suit.  I shifted on his knee and reached between us to stroke him, pressing little kisses to his mouth and later to his throat when his head dropped back and he groaned softly, voicing his pleasure.

His sure hand covered mine and we stroked together, sharing this intimacy in one of the few ways left to us.  I wanted to take him into my mouth but he was too close.  His arm tightened around me and he buried his face in my hair, grunting softly as a wet heat scalded my palm.  He slumped back in the chair, panting and boneless, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes as I brought his hand to my mouth and licked his essence from his fingertips. 

I was about to do the same to my palm when he stopped me and guided my hand up under my blouse instead, whispering to me that he wanted to see me rub his come into my skin.  That he wanted to pass the night knowing his scent was on my body.  It was erotic and intimate but strangely, instead of being arousing, it was reassuring.  Comforting.  I didn't want him to make me come, I just wanted to feel him hold me close.  Feel the warm, solid protection of his arms around me.  Feel his chest rise and fall.  Listen to his breathing with his taste on my lips. 

We lay in bed that night and cuddled and talked between catnaps.  It was November 8th.  From as near as we could figure, our baby was due around December 12th.  Which was actually pretty amusing, considering it was conceived in October.  A pregnancy calculator for the portal is what we needed.  Lach said he could make a bomb off it, he just had to figure out how to make one.  We laughed and teased.  Tossed baby names back and forth.  Hanna... Madeline....Emma.... 

We had two nights and three days of utter peace- where the scirocco blew so wildly even the island birds refused to fly.  The wind smelled different and it brought with it the red gritty dust of North Africa.  It got into everything, our food and clothes... but it was a small price to pay for three days of peace with the man I loved.

Red Flight returned to active duty a full day before the others, buffeted by the scirocco but the pack of them, Lach included, are a bunch of cowboys.  Lach just gave me a wink, blew me and our little baby one last kiss and said, "What's a little wind, hey?  You know me.... I get bored when the odds aren't stacked against me, gorgeous...."  And then he was gone.  I wonder now if it was those last words of his that tempted Dea.

November 10th.  I spent my usual night in the hospital... and it turned out to be anything but usual.  There was a new man on Death Ward that night; blood poisoning from a surgery they'd thought had gone well.  That wasn't the unusual part, however.  That happened all too frequently, to tell the truth.  No, the unusual part was his name. 

O'Leary.

Thomas O'Leary.  Thomas was Dino's middle name.  His grandfather's name, he'd once told me.  Chills went up my spine when I recalled the rest of the story he'd shared with me that night in his haven by the sea. 

I sure wish I could have met him, honey.  He was killed in the war... somewhere in Italy, I think.  He was in the Navy.  Story is that he bought one saving some Air Force puke whose plane crashed.  Official word is that he died from complications after surgery... which could mean anything, really.  Guess I'm pretty lucky he fell in love with some island girl, married her and sent her stateside first.... or I wouldn't be here, sharing my very fine scotch with your lovely self.   

You know, even my dad never got to meet him.  Nana says she didn't even know she was pregnant until she tossed her cookies on some official at Ellis Island.  You'd have liked my Nana, honey.  Funnily enough... my dad went back when he was in his twenties.... God, he loved to tell that story...  How he was on this island in the middle of nowhere, finding his roots, when this sweet honey of an Italian girl just knocked him right on his ass.  He proposed within a week and married her as soon as he could wrangle enough leave for them to have a decent honeymoon....

My heart was beating so fast inside my chest as I sat down next to Petty Officer O'Leary and took his hand in mine.  He was young... early twenties.  His hair was more blond than red, but when he opened his eyes, Dino's unusual smoky blue gaze stared back at me.  I knew in my heart that it was Dino's grandfather before he even said one word.  I just knew it. 

And I was right. 

His eyebrow went up.  "Aren't you a bit... pregnant... to be a nurse, sweetheart?"  His skin was pale and clammy, a sure sign of the onset of septic shock, but it seemed not much could dim the smartmouth O'Leary genes.  I laughed in spite of myself, thinking back to when I first met Dino.  How he'd strolled right up to me, cocky as you please, and had given me what had to be one of the cheesiest pick up lines ever.   

I smiled.  "I'm not a nurse.  They have better drugs than I do... all I have is this little flask here..."  His eyes lit up.  I gave him a nip.  He took three.  He coughed hard as it went down but grinned as he handed it back to me.  Said he'd have preferred his last drink to be good old Irish whiskey, but that the Scottish shite would have to do him.  His tongue was sharp and his Irish brogue thick, but his smile was warm, even through the incredible pain. 

I felt tears prickle and sniffed them back as he told me about his new wife and asked me if I'd write a letter to her for him.  I already knew what it was going to say.  Dino had recounted to me the letter his Nana had gotten from a 'nurse' at the hospital where his grandfather had died.  I just never realized I'd be the one to write it.  Both of us had tears in our eyes as I finished writing it for him and promised to mail it. 

It was still and quiet.  Dawn was just beginning to break.  My back ached from sitting for so long, but just the feeling of that moment.... the stillness, I couldn't not tell him.  He would be gone in minutes.  I knew the signs well by now.  Rapid breathing.  Low blood pressure.  He was beginning to drift in and out of consciousness.  I bent low, put my lips by his ear, and whispered to him a fantastic tale of portals and timetravel. 

I told him I knew his grandson, Dean Thomas O'Leary... that he was one of the finest men I've ever met.  A Marine (he snorted at that, predictably) and that he was brave and strong and good... that he'd been lucky enough to know real love.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise when Thomas breathed, "Gen...."  Oh, God!  How did he know her name?  "She's here with me.... I see her...."  I shivered and felt gooseflesh rise.  He closed his eyes.  "If you ever see Dean again, sweetheart.... tell him Gen says not to take any wooden nickels."  Tears streamed down my cheeks and I didn't even bother to brush them away.  I felt something give way inside me.   

His breath rattled in his chest and then he was silent.  I thought he was gone but then he spoke into the quiet.  "I hear them...."

"The angels?" I whispered.

He gave this coughing little laugh.  "No, girl... the Jerries....."  His grip went slack.  

A few seconds later, I heard the ominous rumble of incoming aircraft and ran for the shelter of the doorway, ignoring the shooting pain in my back as I braced myself with one and curled the other protectively around my baby.  A moment later, the entire base was rocked by explosions.  Claxons sounded off.  People shouted in fear and confusion... and then the world went dark.