*****
***
The mystery of George’s January Easter basket remained a puzzle for a long time – mainly because Lucky and the other patients avoided gloomy subjects as much as possible.
Of course, Lucky had a special reason for avoiding
the topic – he had taken George’s Easter present. He didn’t know who had given
George the egg, but whoever it was had certainly gone to a great deal of
trouble. The boy fretted for a long time. The generous someone had to have
found the proper dye for the egg and also the proper crayon to write the name.
Then there was the basket. It had looked like a genuine Easter basket: cheap
woven straw, bits of colored paper for a nest. Who had done it, he wondered. But
more importantly – why had he done it? Easter was still ages away.
Whatever had happened, the basket and egg had
obviously been given to George for a very important reason. It would have meant
a great deal to the sick man. And Lucky had stolen his gift. Claimed that
special egg – hand colored and decorated - as his own. What an unfeeling person
he must be not to see that the egg hadn’t belonged to him. It was so stupid.
Selfishly stupid. Like the Gypsy kids saying, "Yes, yes, yes," and he
never realized that it was the only word they knew in the English language. So
Lucky had seen the name, George, his middle name – how stupid can you get? -
and had immediately made the selfish assumption that the Easter egg had been
for him.
Lucky was haunted by that late night scene – that
night of pain - when the people were gathered around George trying to keep him
alive. He remembered George moaning - so low it was barely an admission of
pain. Lucky knew very well that George hadn’t wanted to give in to the pain – because
if you did, it was hard to make it let go of you. Oh, yes, Lucky was sure that
George knew quite a bit about pain. Maybe even more than Lucky did. But George
had said something during that crisis. Lucky remembered that, clearly. But what
had he been trying to say? The words were so faint… so faint.
Then it came to Lucky – what George had said.
He’d said, "Let me go!"
How many times had Lucky felt like that? Of course,
since he was presently pain free, eating bullion and drinking tea and spooning
up creamy Jell-O, he wasn’t so anxious to go. But he certainly understood
George’s plea… "Let me go."
Let me go.
But now Lucky was on the ward and didn’t want to let
go at all, or be let go of, for that matter. The ward full of interesting men
and nice nurses and busy doctors. Not that the nurses weren’t busy, but they
were especially kind to him. They helped him in his recovery and didn’t make
him feel embarrassed when they did personal things – very personal things –
that sometimes had unexpected occurrences.
Once when a pretty red-headed Irish nurse had been
washing him – washing him all over – he’d gotten a sudden erection. Lucky
thought he would die from embarrassment, but he could no more make it go away
than he’d been able to keep it from making itself known while she washed him…
down there.
The nurse looked at his erect penis, smiled, and then
gave it a gentle tap. "So, he’s come up to say hello to me, has he?"
she said, laughing. Then she looked Lucky straight in the face with a smile and
the kindest eyes and she said, "Well, we can’t blame him for being
friendly when I’m having my way with you, can we?"
Then she quickly – but not too hastily as to seem
offended – dried him and pulled up his pajama bottoms. And then she gave Lucky
a smile that was so sweet that it was like a kiss. "Save it for your
girlfriend," she said. "You’ll make her very happy."
Lucky gulped and said, "Her name is
Athena."
The nurse reacted, pulled back in some amazement.
Then she laughed. "So you really do have a girlfriend, do you?" she
said. She gave him such a fabulous smile that Lucky would remember it for years
to come. "Why is it that I’m not so very surprised?" She put on a
mock mournful look. "I might have known you were like the rest - an unfaithful
man."
Still heavily drugged, Lucky didn’t know what to say
to this. There was a swirl of confusing thoughts and emotions. Somehow he’d
been disloyal. Somehow he’d failed this woman.
The nurse leaned down and said, "Sush, sush,
we’re only talking here, now, you and me." She patted his cheek with a
sweet, soap-smelling hand. And, marvel of all marvels, she leaned down and
kissed him on the cheek. Lucky thought he would die and go to heaven. Then she
rose up and patted his cheek again, saying, "My lucky old sun."
Lucky was enthralled. "You know the song?"
The nurse shrugged, getting back to business and
collecting her things. "Sure, I do," she said.
She gestured, indicating the entire ward. "And
don’t we all know by now that we have a Yank amongst us, whose name is Lucky
Cole. And he’s like the song – our Lucky old sun. We all know the story by now,
don’t we."
*****
Lucky’s stay
at the British hospital was the result of several miracles, according to
his mother. His father said it had more to do with CIA arm-twisting than
heavenly intervention.
To begin with, only British military personnel were
permitted in the hospital. Complicating things further, the ward he was on –
populated entirely by officers – was restricted to men injured while doing top
secret work. In short, they were casualties of the Cold War, which from Lucky’s
hospital bed viewpoint, wasn’t so very cold – but hot and bloody.
Witness his new friend Harry – a major in the ski
troops as it turned out – who supposedly injured himself while on a skiing holiday
in the Italian Alps. Harry said he’d taken a bit of a tumble while doing
something altogether foolish and had suffered a broken ski rammed through his
thigh. As it turned out, the accident was no accident, but an injury incurred
during a secret mission in the mountains of an East Bloc country. Harry was the
sole survivor of his six-man team and was plagued with bouts of depression and
terrible nightmares because he’d lived while his men had not.
But Harry was only one of many interesting men on the
ward. During Lucky’s long convalescence, he gained dozens of new uncles and big
brothers. Most of the men recovered and moved on, never to be heard from again.
A few, like George, died and Lucky spent more nights than he liked to remember,
listening to the tell-tale sounds of a medical team frantically trying to save
a man’s life, while the big lights on rollers made a ghastly shadow show on the
ceiling and walls.
But all that was later and there were more good
things than bad.
First, some nit-picking details, starting with
Lucky’s ailment. Just as the nurse had said, he’d suffered an attack of
appendicitis. His mother told him the British doctors said it was a miracle
that he had survived the attack. Actually, he’d been the beneficiary of several
miracles. Right off the bat, he was fortunate the organ hadn’t burst, spreading
deadly poisons through his system. This was a double miracle, because the first
doctor’s remedy for his alleged jaundice – constant purging – was the worst
thing one could do for a diseased appendix. But even though the appendix hadn’t
burst, his condition had deteriorated so quickly from the purging that he very
nearly died from dehydration. The British doctors said he was just starting to
form fluid in his lungs, so they’d been worried about his respiratory system
failing as well.
The other miracle was no miracle at all, but the
result of a good deal of string pulling by a CIA brass under a great deal of
pressure. In the past year one American child – a CIA dependent – had already
died in Cyprus as a result of drinking milk that wasn’t pasteurized. Another
had very nearly died from, well, yellow jaundice. A disease that was apparently
the universal malady of the Levant. Although the CIA had declared Cyprus a
"hazardous duty" zone, it had also been approved it for dependents.
But no one had fully investigated the medical care on the island, which was
primitive at best. In those days Cypriot doctors only needed two years of
university training (usually in Athens) to qualify for a license to practice.
Also, there were no American doctors available for either the CIA or the
diplomatic corps. This was the gap that Lucky had fallen into.
In the end, through his parent’s insistence,
government officials and diplomats had been both beseeched and threatened, and
a place had been found for Lucky at a British military hospital where some of
the very best doctors and nurses in the world were stationed. But Lucky didn’t
know all of that at the beginning. He just knew somehow the doctors had stopped
the pain; that the illness had been diagnosed as appendicitis; and that the
dangerous flare-up had subsided, thanks to the supreme medical skills of the
British. They couldn’t operate to remove the offending organ because he was too
weak. In fact, he was so weak that he would have to convalesce at the hospital
for a very long time.
That hospital ward became Lucky’s home for many weeks
to come. He got to know it well. There were twenty beds on the ward, ten on
each side and except for a brief period of time when one of the men was
discharged, or died, the beds were always occupied.
By and by, Lucky learned that he was among spies
again – but these were spies of derring-do, not spies who sat in hotel bars and
rolled their eyes at the Colonel with the banana in his pocket with a feather
in it. These were young, extremely active men. Fighting men who were members of
one or another of the elite British forces.
There was Harry, for example, the ski-troop commando.
Most of the officers were like Harry, men with injuries suffered in combat of
one sort or another. All were received in hot-spots across the world. As far as
Lucky could make out, not a single one had been stationed in Cyprus when their
life-threatening wound had been incurred. The island of Cyprus was at the
crossroads of three continents – Europe, Africa and Asia. So all the men had
been serving in one or another of those areas. Naturally, they were under
orders not to reveal the circumstances of their injuries and certainly not the
country of origin.
But it is difficult at best, to completely hide such
things on a hospital ward – and impossible when that hospital ward is dedicated
to what would later be called, "intensive care." In other words,
every man there was perilously close to death when he was admitted. And this
became the strongest bond of all that Lucky formed with these men. Although he
was only thirteen, he was as acquainted with that condition as the others.
Gunshot wounds were common on the ward, some quite
spectacular – one man Lucky befriended had most of his right bicep blown away
and a good portion of the muscles of his right side. His name was Kenneth – not
Ken – and he was a captain. A few men had been blinded by shell fire of one
sort of another, including a man who had been shot in the abdomen with a flare
gun. It was a wound that he didn’t survive. He had a hyphenated name that Lucky
was embarrassed to admit that he could never remember, even though he’d spent
an entire afternoon talking to the man. A naval officer, the fellow had
confirmed that Lucky’s father was indeed a hero for surviving the submarine
ordeal in Tokyo harbor.
Most of the officers were young - in their early
twenties to mid-thirties - and they had kid brothers back in England, or even
very young sons. Far from home, suffering from life-threatening wounds and
injuries - they eagerly adopted Lucky as their mascot to fill that void. He was
the universal little brother, young, intelligent, full of curiosity, and he
hero-worshipped each and every one of them. He met scores of these men and
became acquainted with, and even befriended, dozens. He learned that grown men
could weep – without benefit of alcohol – but usually not for the most apparent
reason.
One man, Brian – a lieutenant injured in an explosion
in India – blubbered awfully when Lucky read him a letter from his girlfriend
in Manchester who was "seeing another chap." Brian’s head was
entirely enclosed in bandages, except for holes for his mouth and his nose and
he cried so hard bubbles were leaking from the nose area. Lucky thought he was
upset because of the girlfriend abandoning a disfigured soldier, but as Brian
later confessed, he was desolate because his wife – a woman who would have
stood by him through thick and thin – had found out about the girlfriend. As it
turned out, when they peeled the cotton off Brian’s face, he was as handsome as
ever – perhaps even a little craggy handsome, now that he had been wounded –
and he had so many girlfriends he used to lend some to the other chaps. Brian
was the man Lucky had seen playing the Frankie Lane song on the guitar,
plucking blindly on the strings and singing in his harsh, but somehow
melodious, voice.
Three of the officers became particularly close
friends of Lucky’s. There was Harry, of course, he of the ski-speared thigh. He
almost lost that leg, but rallied through infections and multiple operations to
become – in his words – "a champion limper." Tall and lanky, with a
ruddy complexion, Harry was the ultimate outdoorsman, who had tested himself
against rocks and snow and any number of other dangerous environments until his
near-fatal encounter on a classified mountain. Harry looked forward to limping
over even greater obstacles in the future. He was an ardent reader of
exploration books – his personal hero was Sir Richard Burton, the almost
discoverer of the source of the Nile and the translator of "The Arabian
Nights." He was also a fan of T.E. Lawrence, and while Lucky was
convalescing, Harry read a portion from Lawrence’s "Seven Pillars Of
Wisdom" each day. He later made the boy a present of the book.
Then there was Brian, the intriguingly scarred lover.
Brian was of medium height, very slender with fair hair. He was an explosives
expert who, like Harry, had made a near-fatal error. "At least I kept me
fingers," he said. Apparently this was one of the most common penalties
for bomb squad survivors. How he’d retained his face – much less survived the
blast – was a mystery that Brian frequently contemplated. He tried to convince
Lucky that Buddhism was the answer to it all, but admitted by and by that he
"knew damned all about that Kipling business." It was just that in
the instant of the explosion, he thought he had some sort of religious – or
theological – awakening. Except, when pressed, Brian said that was impossible.
The laws of physics denied such an awakening and he must have dreamed the whole
thing later while floating on a fog of pain-killers.
Brian was a devotee of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He not
only introduced Lucky to Sherlock Holmes, but reserved all of the books for him
in the hospital library. If anyone wanted to borrow one of the Holmes
adventures, they had to first check with Brian to see that it wasn’t the next
volume on Lucky’s reading list. No one ever defied him, regardless of their
rank. It seemed that in "this man’s army" Brian’s lieutenant bars
outranked most generals. Lucky would learn the reason for this later and it
would not be just a great surprise, but would confound his friends and enemies
alike.
The third in the triumvirate of Lucky’s new friends
was Kenneth, the young captain whose right bicep had been blown away in an
incident variously described as "a royal bollixing," or, more darkly,
"a bloody conspiracy." The only thing else he said – usually when
secretively nipping at a battered pewter flask he kept hidden under his
mattress, was that if he ever got back "to you know where," a certain
"Fuzzy Wuzzy chap" was going to "lose more than a bit of arm
meat." Lucky was an ardent fan of Kipling so he guessed that Kenneth was
referring to the Sudan, because that’s where the poem, "Fuzzy Wuzzy"
was set. The hospital library’s encyclopedia informed him that the British
colony of Sudan – which bordered Libya and Egypt – had a long history of
turmoil and conflict. Which went a long way in confirming his guess.
As usual, he kept it to himself. The men would clam
up around him – start being extra careful in what they said – if he gloated
over the little nuggets he’d dug up. They’d think he was taking advantage of
their friendship and he’d no longer be as welcome in their company. Not as an
almost equal, at any rate. He’d be demoted to the rank of "just a
boy," and his presence would be tolerated, rather than not only welcome,
but sought after. In short, he was living a dream straight out of a "boy’s
own" novel: he was surrounded by heroes perfectly suitable for a boy to
worship and he would do nothing to endanger that rare gift.
Weak from his long illness, his normal youthful
exuberance sapped, he delighted in the long, lazy days and quiet nights at the
hospital. He had no responsibilities except to rest and get well. He never had
to hear a harsh word, or fear a hand being raised against him. All the nurses
and doctors and officers went out of their way to cheer him up, to please him.
Therefore he did his best to please them – to be worthy of such kind attention.
Lucky quickly settled into the daily routine. Morning
came early – oh six hundred, was the military term for six a.m., or "six
bells," in naval jargon. First he washed up – in the early days the nurses
did the washing because he was so weak – then he had breakfast. The ward was
usually quiet during breakfast as Lucky and the men pored over copies of the
"Cyprus Lion," a mimeographed British military newspaper, and the
English-language local newspaper, the "Cyprus Mail."
Then he’d go to the library – a small, stand-alone
Quonset hut tucked between the officers’ and enlisted men’s wards. Despite the
curved metal walls and roof – painted British Army green – the library was a
cozy place crammed floor to ceiling with books. The furnishings consisted of
two old, overstuffed chairs and a small wooden table with a single, straight-back
chair. Most of the volumes had been donated by British military charities, or
left behind by patients. The library offered an eclectic collection of fiction
and non-fiction. It was here that Lucky was not only introduced to Sherlock
Holmes, but to Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham and Eric Ambler – the men who
invented the spy stories that would later take the reading world by cloak,
dagger, Ian Fleming and Sean Connery.
He was an insatiable reader, but with no single
interest to guide him. At the same time that he was reading Sabatini’s
thrilling stories – "Scaramouche" and "Captain Blood" – he
was digging into Dickens’ "Our Mutual Friends" and "Great
Expectations." Or he might find his pulse quickened by more modern
authors, like Hemingway’s "Nick Adams," stories, and the first two
books of C.S. Forester’s fantastic "Hornblower" series, as well as,
R.M. Ballantyne’s "The Coral Island," which was a boy’s own adventure
tale with little to recommend it except that boys like Lucky loved it. On the
non-fiction side he thrilled to the adventures of Thor Hyerdahl, in "Kon
Tiki: Across The Pacific By Raft;" and was challenged, but delightfully so
by Gibbon's, "The History Of The Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire."
From the library, he’d adjourn to the patio with
Brian, Kenneth and Harry. There he’d curl up in a chair in his pajamas and
robe, slippers dangling from his feet, and listen to them debate the day’s
news, or gossip about the other men. The morning was usually brightened by
visits from the nurses to give Lucky and the men their medication. That’s when
a lot of shameless flirting ensued - apparently the nurses felt freer away from
the confines of the ward. After they left, Brian said it was his well-known
charm that brought out the nurses’ better nature. But Harry and Kenneth said it
was because of Lucky.
"They all want to see the famous American
lad," Harry said. "He brings out the mother and the big sister in
them."
Lucky perked up at this. "Famous?" he
asked. "Why am I famous?"
Harry’s thick eyebrows rose. "Never been a boy
in this hospital before, has there?" he said. "Much less an American
one."
Lunch would come soon enough and afterwards he’d
return to the patio to bask in the warm Cypriot sun, senses soothed by the
scent of the sprawling eucalyptus tree that shaded the patio. There he and the
others would read, or play cards and board games, waiting for the traditional
British afternoon tea, followed by more reading and games.
In the evening, after tea, they’d listen to British
Armed Forces radio – which usually broadcast BBC dramas and comedies. Just
before bedtime, Harry would get out his guitar and play requests: he knew most
of the popular songs – especially Frankie Lane tunes – and quite a number of
stirring old folk ballads, like "Brennan On The Moor" and "Henry
Martin." On Saturday nights there was a special music program, broadcast
right from the base, with a fast-talking young corporal playing requests for
the men. Harry, Brian and Kenneth usually got on the phone and put in a plug
for one of Lucky’s favorites – like "Lucky Old Sun," or "Far
Away Places," or "Mona Lisa."
Then it was time for sleep – helped on by an
injection or a pill during the early days, but then naturally, reading by
lamplight until sleep overtook him. A nurse would shut the light off when she
saw his eyes close and if a nightmare about his father should startle him awake
- which was not infrequent - why he’d turn the light back on and pick up the
tale where he’d left off and chase the shadows away.
****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
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.
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
*****
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.
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Audiobook Version Coming Soon!
 |
Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
|
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
*****
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four episodes. Here are the links:
REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!
No comments:
Post a Comment