LUCKY IN CYPRUS: A Soldier Named George

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British Military Hospital - Cyprus, Circa 1950's

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After the needle sting, Lucky felt like he had been disconnected from the earth. He seemed to float above whatever scene he found himself in, without ever being plugged in, either emotionally, or physiclly.

Somehow he knew he had been delivered to a British military hospital. The knowledge came through an odd sort of narcotic osmosis. Perhaps he was told, perhaps he surmised it, or more possibly it was pieced together over the succeeding days of bliss. Lucky experienced a sensation of swift, painless movement and gentle hands and genteel British voices telling him what a brave lad he was. He was transported here and there – sometimes on wheeled-gurneys, sometimes physically lifted from one place to another. And always there was someone there to tuck the blanket in to keep away the cold, or to feed him crushed ice to soothe his terrible thirst without awakening the demon in his belly.

There were more stings in his arms and his buttocks - he didn’t mind because they were nothing compared to real pain. He knew what real pain was now. And real pain wasn’t needle stings, or fights with boys, or even his father’s broken razor strap. None of those things were real pain. Real pain was the unrelenting knife in the belly, that stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and when the stabbing stopped your body kept reacting in awful ways that accentuated the pain.

He realized that he had tubes hooked up to him, with bags of fluid hanging from odd devices hovering over him. And he had something in his penis that somehow he knew was called a catheter, but he couldn’t remember who told him what it was, only that he didn’t have to worry about finding a toilet for awhile – if he ever had to pee again, that is.

Lucky had the impression that he was being whisked through many rooms, with white walls and big machines, that whirred and hiccupped and people told him he shouldn’t be afraid of the machines and he laughed, because what the hell would he ever be afraid of again? Certainly not a stupid machine.

Finally he was put in a bed in a long, dorm-like room. He might have been in this room before – in between being whisked from machine to machine – but he wasn’t sure. He only knew that the room seemed familiar. Long rows of white iron hospital beds were lined up on either side of what turned out to be a barrack's ward with a high curved roof, set with ceiling fans that slowly whirled, stirring the etherous air. Beds were placed every few feet and they had curtained windows on either side. Some curtains were drawn, others were open to let the sunlight in.

Next to each bed was a stand with a single drawer for the patient’s belongings. On top of the stand was a lamp with a short chain switch, a white porcelain bowl for washing, a glass of ice water with a curved glass straw. Beneath the single drawer of the stand, Lucky noted with revived interest, was a large space for books and magazines and as he looked about the room it seemed that many of the patients were well stocked with reading material. If he should ever get better – and he was actually thinking he might not die after all – there’d be things to read.

He heard music and noticed there were also small radios on each stand. Maybe, if it were ever Friday night again, he could listen to the "Inner Sanctum" once more. The music came from his right and he closed his eyes to listen, but then there came to sudden shrill of Russian jammers. The radio was clicked off. Then he heard the music resume, but it was a different kind of music. Not a full orchestra, but a single instrument. A guitar, he thought. Someone was singing, but the voice seemed close and very clear – devoid of the buzz of speakers.

He flopped his head over – he was too weak to just turn it - and far down the room he saw a man in a hospital robe sitting in a pool of light. He was strumming a guitar and he was singing so softly that Lucky couldn’t make out the words. Other men were gathered around – also in hospital robes. Wreathes of cigarette and pipe smoke curled over their heads, floating in the lamplight and it was all very serene and comforting.

Someone spoke to Lucky – a man’s voice, coming from his left. With difficulty, he flopped his head over to that side. In the next bed, oddly lit in the dim lamplight, was a man with dark hair and dark eyes set in a pale face so elongated that it looked like a Halloween ghost mask. He wore a white hospital gown and he was lying full length on the bed, his hands resting on either side of his body. Lucky realized that the man’s head was craned over like his own – weak and flat against the pillow. The man was looking at him, smiling and when he spoke Lucky couldn’t quite hear what he said, but he thought the man was asking his name.

"Lucky," he replied.

"Sure you are, old son," the man said – more clearly, this time.

Lucky misunderstood. He thought the man was making a joke about his name and the Vaughn Monroe song – not realizing the man couldn’t have known enough about the boy to make that joke.

"That’s me," the boy replied. "Lucky old sun." The man looked at him blankly. "Like the song," Lucky said. "The Lucky Old Sun," song.

"Oh," the man said, and now Lucky wasn’t sure if the guy was really with him on the humor and the song references but he was too tired to sort it out. The man spoke again, but Lucky couldn’t hear what he said. He started to ask, but suddenly all the pain was back – in full force.

And he was in the grip of the Gods of Agony once more.

Lucky didn’t think he cried out, but suddenly someone was beside him, then others appeared. He vaguely heard the man in the next bed speaking, but the words made no sense. He made no attempt to sort them out – he had to concentrate on not allowing the pain to overwhelm him. Curtains on ceiling runners were whisked around Lucky’s bed and everything was cut off except the pain and the faces peering down at him. And those gentle hand and voices with British accents were soothing him, telling him everything would be okay soon enough.

There came the sting of a needle and this time there was nothing like the strange in and out of consciousness he’d experienced before. The pain drained away like someone had pulled the plug in a sink full of water and he went with it, swirling down the deep, dark drain into a peaceful, painless world.

And the last thing he thought, was: how was it that he had come to dislike the British? Why, these were wonderful people.

Eventually he returned to a vague awareness. The room was in partial darkness, but there was daylight peeping beneath and through the curtains. There were a few lamps switched on and very far away a radio was playing a Frankie Lane song. He didn’t know which song, but he recognized Lane’s distinctive voice. He thought it might be "Water," but then realized that it might be wishful thinking because he was so thirsty. Lucky leaned gingerly to his left and saw a glass of water there – and something else. Something very peculiar.

He wasn’t sure exactly what it was – the thought of water was too firmly fixed to investigate just now. The problem being, if he drank water the old pain would come back. Of that he was sure. He wanted some crushed ice the like nurses had been feeding him.

Lucky looked over to his right, there was another bedside stand there and this had a glass of crushed ice on it. The bed was empty and made up, so Lucky thought the occupant was probably off being stuck into machines and poked with needles. He wondered if he’d miss the ice. Well, he thought, when the guy comes back I’ll tell him I’m sorry and get the nurse to bring him more. He reached out and snagged the glass, which had a long-handled spoon, as well as a curved glass straw sticking out of it. Lucky spooned up some ice and blissfully crunched it into small bits, swirled the coolness around in his mouth and swallowed. He sipped a little water, but carefully. He didn’t want to bring the pain back again.

"There’s my Lucky old sun," came a slurred voice from his left.

Lucky flopped his head back over and found the long-faced guy looking at him, weak as ever, but with a friendly smile.

"I was sick," Lucky said.

The man grinned. "Really, now?" he said… His voice was hoarse, as if he had to force the words. But force them he did. "Thought all those pretty nurses were just fighting over the new lad."

Lucky frowned, then realized it was a joke. "Sure," he said, trying to grin. "That’s what it was."

"New face," the man said. "Always gets them."

Lucky didn’t know quite how to reply. This was well over his head. But now he noticed the strange object again – the one sitting next to the water glass. It was a little basket with ripped up bits of colored paper inside and a large egg, dyed Easter egg blue. Then it came to him – it was a tiny Easter basket.

Lucky was puzzled and even a little bit alarmed. "I didn’t know it was Easter," he said. "When I got sick it was January."

"Easter comes early in Cyprus," the man said soothingly. "It’s still not February yet."

"Really?" Lucky asked. He was still very woozy, but not so woozy that he didn’t quite believe what he was being told.

"You have my word," the man said.

Lucky grinned weakly, then leaned over and picked up the blue Easter egg. The name "George" was written on it in white crayon.

The grin spread wider – now he was really pleased. "How did you know my name was ‘George’?" Lucky asked.

The man frowned a moment, confused. Then the confusion suddenly cleared and he smiled. "We know things, here." He motioned weakly with his hand. "Officers’ barracks, you know," he said.

"But George is my middle name," Lucky said. "Allan George Cole. How could they know that?"

His new friend hesitated, then coughed a little. "Wise fellows, some of these lads," he said. "A few might even be spies, you know. Everybody’s life’s an open book to them."

Lucky didn’t need convincing about this. Although he did wonder how they knew he’d be coming here. He thought about this a minute, then brightened. "Do you know the Colonel?" he asked.

The man chuckled. "Know lots of colonels," he said. "I’m one myself."

This went right over the boy’s head. He was still too doped up and too busy trying to figure out the mysteries of the prescient Easter egg – along with the early Easter – and people knowing that he’d get sick and be sent here.

"The one I mean," Lucky said, "is the colonel with a banana in his pocket with a feather stuck in it."

He looked straight into his dorm mate’s face when he asked the question, trying to see if he could catch him in a lie. What he got was a wild light in the man’s eyes and a strangled gasp.

"A banana with a feather?" his friend half choked.

"A green feather," Lucky said. "It’s always green."

A long period of gasping followed and Lucky was about to shout for a nurse.

Then the man said, "What kind of feather?"

"A parrot’s, I think," was Lucky’s answer. "Now, do you know who I mean?"

Another period of muffled gasping. The man had his face buried into his pillow. Finally, when Lucky was starting to worry the face reappeared. And the man said in a strangled voice, "Can’t say as I know the chap."

Lucky nodded. "You must be new in Cyprus," he said.

The only reply was a hissed, "Yesssss."

Satisfied, Lucky snuggled back on his pillow. He clutched the Easter egg in one hand and put that hand across his chest so he wouldn’t crush it if he turned over in his sleep. For the first time in a long while, he was supremely happy. It was good to make such nice friends. And the guy was English, too – could you beat that?

"Thanks for the Easter present," Lucky said.

"My pleasure entirely, George," said the man.

Lucky fell back to sleep.

Later that night – at least he thought it was night – the boy was awakened by a flurry of activity near his bed. He opened his eyes and saw all the doctors and nurses and thought they’d come for him. But he didn’t hurt, so he mumbled for them to leave him alone, please. He wanted to sleep. A nurse leaned down and kissed his forehead and said he was a good boy and just to go back to sleep. There was a great deal of light next to him and he looked over to see his new friend lying there, groaning and thrashing about weakly in the bed. Was he in pain? That made Lucky feel terrible; he knew all too well what it was like when the pain really got you in its clutches.

"Give him a shot," Lucky mumbled, but no one paid him any attention.

More lights on rollers were being wheeled in around the man’s bed and switched on, casting an eerie glow across the room, like the glaring lights that had greeted him when he’d stepped onto the snowy tarmac at Newfoundland airport in the dead of night many months before, when his journey to Cyprus had begun.

A half-dozen nurses and doctors crowded about the bed, speaking in urgent whispers. Then they whisked the curtain around his friend’s bed and now all Lucky could see was a great glow of light from floor to ceiling and shadows were rushing around in a small desperate circle. The whispers were frantic now, and he thought he heard his new friend moan something. He thought the man was trying to speak and it was suddenly important that Lucky know what was being said.

"What’s wrong?" he gasped weakly. "What’s he trying to say?"

A nurse appeared at his side and she shushed him and said he must sleep. He said he was thirsty and she gave him crushed ice. Then there came the familiar prick of a needle and he slept and all the sounds around him became muffled, then more distant, until they disappeared entirely.

A vague, gnawing feeling of disquiet followed him into his dreams. He had a sense of a lot of things happening – some might have been just dream activity, others might have been hospital activity. He had flying dreams, injection dreams, running dreams, oxygen mask dreams, drowning dreams and dreams of both kinds where people were standing over him – alternately trying to help him breathe or drown him in bathtubs of water.

When he finally came around, he found himself propped up on a pillow and a young nurse with a large white hat that seemed to have wings was feeding him beef broth. He didn’t know how he had gone from being asleep flat on his back to sitting up and eating and was too woozy to ask.

Lucky noticed that it was morning and the barracks’ curtains were open and bright sunlight was streaming into the room. The warm sun on his face made him feel happy and he slurped down several spoonfuls of broth. Then, before he could stop himself, he burped.

"I’m sorry," he said, embarrassed.

The nurse laughed and said that’s a good sign. She had pale skin, with very pink cheeks. Her eyes were huge and brown and the hair peeping from under her nurse’s hat was auburn. Her perfume – something lemony and light – enthralled him. He asked her name and he blushed after he asked and looked down and saw that she had nice hands with long white fingers and short, nicely shaped fingernails that were so clean they practically gleamed. She answered him, but his mind was too thick to hold onto her answer.

Too embarrassed to ask again, he tried to change the subject. He asked, "Do you play the piano." The nurse giggled and said she did and how did he know that? Lucky pointed at her hands. "Your fingers," he said. They look like pianist’s fingers."

This brought a bright smile to the nurse’s face and made Lucky glad that he’d thought to mention it. Then the boy was suddenly worried. "Won’t the broth make me hurt?" he asked.

"No, no," the nurse said, "the doctor said you should start getting better now. But we’ll be very careful, okay?"

Lucky nodded. "Please," he said. "I don’t want that to happen again." He hesitated, then asked, "Did they find out what’s wrong with me?"

She nodded solemnly. "It’s your appendix," she said. "You had an attack of appendicitis."

Lucky frowned. "I thought it was yellow jaundice," he said.

The nurse laughed. "Well, you certainly were yellow enough for someone to think that," she said. "But, no, it was your appendix. You’re quite fortunate it didn’t rupture. But, we’ve got it under control now."

Lucky thought about what little he knew of the appendix. "That’s one of those things no one knows what they are good for, right?" he said. "Like tonsils?" The nurse said he was absolutely right. No one knew, even though they were in the middle of the Twentieth Century. "Won’t they have to take it out?" he asked, suddenly alarmed. "Like my tonsils when I was a kid?"

The nurse said a decision about that hadn’t been made yet and he should be patient. And, besides, they had to build him up, didn’t they, before they could even consider such a thing as an operation? While Lucky thought this over, the nurse asked if he wanted some tea and pushed a little metal pot in front of him. He nodded and she poured, thick steam rising up and tickling his nose. It smelled delicious. She didn’t ask him how it took it, but made the tea creamy with milk from a pot and stirred in several sugar cubes. Then she uncovered a little metal dish, revealing a quivering bowl of orange Jell-O.

"Can you manage this yourself?" she asked, pouring a little cream over it. Lucky said he could, wishing he had heard her name so he could have used it in his answer. Then he noticed a small nameplate pinned to her blouse, but before he could look to see what it said she rose and was moving through the rest of the ward. She went from bed to bed, leaning over to tend each man, motioning behind her for a phalanx of lesser nurses and orderlies who followed in her wake and acted on her immediate instructions.

"So you’re our new American friend," came a voice from his right.

Automatically, however, he looked left – for his old friend of the Easter basket. But that bed was empty, made up fresh, with the pillow plumped and the turned down blanket and sheet squared away military neat. Surprised, and a little confused, he looked to his right, where an empty bed had been before. But now it was occupied by a young man with hair that was deceptively white, a brush mustache and a look a sardonic amusement in his blue eyes. But the most outstanding feature was his right leg, which was swathed from hip to toe in plaster and hoisted up above the bed by a strange metal contraption with a complicated system of pulleys and ropes.

Lucky tried not to stare at the contraption. "Yes sir," he said. "I’m the American."

The man nodded, then said, "It’s rumored among the chaps here that you are blessed with a most unusual name – Lucky, I believe it is."

Lucky nodded. "Yes sir," he said. "That’s quite true. My name is Lucky. That’s my nickname, anyway. The name my friends call me."

The man smiled. "Well, I hope you won’t mind if I call you Lucky, then." He put stretched out his right hand and pantomimed a hand shake. "My name’s not so fancy as yours," he said. "It’s plain old Harry."

Laughing, Lucky did an air shake with him. "How do you do, Plain Old Harry?" he said. Then he stopped as a sudden thought hit him. Frowning, he asked, "Did the colonel tell you my nickname?"

Harry puzzled a moment. "The colonel? What colonel?" Then his brow cleared. He glanced at the empty bed on Lucky’s left and his eyes suddenly grew sad. "Oh," Harry said, "You must mean George." He sighed. "George was a colonel. And a bloody good one, as well."

Lucky felt a small shock run through him. He thought of the Easter basket with the blue egg with the white crayon writing on it and tendrils of guilt started to squirm in his belly.

"You mean his name is George?" he asked, indicating the bed. Then the strange scene of the night before started to come back to him and he became alarmed. "Where is he?" he asked, voice trembling. "Where’d George go?"

Harry looked worried. He reached for the buzzer clipped to his pillow. "Maybe I’d better give the nurse a buzz," he said.

That’s when Lucky got it. It felt like somebody had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart in a steely grip. "He’s dead, isn’t he?" Lucky mumbled. "George is dead."

"I’m afraid so, Lucky," Harry said gently. "He was very ill for a deal of time, you know. I don’t think he was sorry to go. But I do know he was happy to meet you - he told me so."

Lucky’s throat constricted and his eyes blurred. He pushed the tray aside and rolled away so Harry couldn’t see.

"Shall I send for a nurse?" Harry asked.

Lucky’s fingers touched something small and hard. He looked down and found the blue Easter egg. He turned it over until the name "George" was staring up at him.

"Lucky?" Harry called.

"I’m okay," Lucky said.

But he wasn’t.

NEXT: THE LUCKY OLD SUN AND THE SPIES

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THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:

A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan

After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.

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LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!

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"Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
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BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.

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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

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