15. Peter

15

PETER

O n the afternoon of the last day of 1942, I sat alone in the office. Diana had gone home for a few days to visit with her family, but they’d needed me here. My wife would return tomorrow, but our apartment felt too cold and still without her, so I’d stayed after everyone else went home to enjoy whatever kind of New Year’s celebration could be wrangled.

The blackout curtains behind me blocked out what little evening light London had to offer, leaving the room bathed in the stark glow of desk lamps. I picked up the next file in my stack, its edges crisp from being freshly typed. The heading caught my eye immediately: Incident Report: Convoy Engagement, North Atlantic, December 10, 1942.

Another convoy report. I sighed, bracing myself for more bad news. Every day seemed to bring another story of horrendous loss. It was nearly impossible for me to distance myself from it. These were men just like me. Their deaths would break hearts.

I skimmed the first few paragraphs:

At approximately 0300 hours on December 10, 1942, Convoy HX-198 encountered a coordinated attack from enemy U-boats. The attack resulted in the loss of multiple vessels, including the USS Valor. Casualty reports are pending verification.

My eyes drifted to the details, a sense of dread building in my chest. Then, a name stopped me cold, took my breath away.

Lieutenant George Winchester

George. I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep reading.

Incident Report: Convoy Engagement, HX-198

Date: December 10, 1942

Location: North Atlantic

Subject: USS Valor and the Actions of Lieutenant George Winchester

Classification: Top Secret

Summary of Events:

Incident Summary:

At 0300 hours, Convoy HX-198 came under heavy attack from a German U-boat wolf pack approximately 200 nautical miles off the coast of Iceland. The USS Valor was struck by a torpedo on its port side, causing significant structural damage and igniting an onboard fire. Despite the chaos, Lieutenant George Winchester, serving as the convoy’s logistics officer, demonstrated exemplary courage under fire.

Actions of Lieutenant Winchester:

Coordinated evacuation efforts, ensuring all wounded crew members were moved to lifeboats despite worsening conditions.

Personally retrieved navigational charts and classified documents from the ship’s bridge, safeguarding critical intelligence.

Assisted in manning a lifeboat, prioritizing the injured over his own safety.

Circumstances of Death:

At approximately 0315 hours, a second torpedo detonated near the stern of the USS Valor, causing a catastrophic explosion that rendered the vessel unsalvageable. Lieutenant Winchester was seen on the main deck, assisting an injured sailor into a lifeboat.

Multiple eyewitnesses, including Ensign Thomas Hall and Petty Officer Charles Greene, reported that Lieutenant Winchester remained on deck until the final moments, ensuring others had made it to safety. The explosion threw him into the freezing waters. Survivors in nearby lifeboats reported seeing Lieutenant Winchester struggling to keep another sailor afloat despite the cold and debris from the sinking vessel engulfing the area around him.

Due to the extreme conditions, including subzero water temperatures and the lack of additional rescue resources, Lieutenant Winchester’s survival was deemed impossible. Based on these accounts, his status has been confirmed as Killed in Action.

Recommendation for Recognition:

Based on witness accounts and his unwavering dedication to duty, Lieutenant Winchester is recommended posthumously for the Navy Cross for acts of valor and selflessness.

End of Report

I set the paper down carefully as if handling it too roughly might break it. My breath came in shallow gasps, and I had to force myself to inhale fully. George, my best friend and my brother, had perished in a final moment of bravery.

We would have nobody to bury.

Leaning back in my chair, I stared blankly at the wall as the words of the report replayed in my mind. Brave. Selfless. He’d been clever to think of the classified reports, saving them from the enemy. How had he been able to think of it in the moment? He’d always been cool under pressure. I could remember in college how I would be a wreck before tests, whereas he always shrugged a shoulder and said he’d do his best and I should too.

If he’d been killed on the 10th, it was likely Mireille and my family had received a telegram sometime in the last few days. It took the military some time to process paperwork and schedule the telegrams. Yet I felt sure they knew already. The idea of it nearly brought me to my knees. Mireille’s grief would have no bounds. My family, too, who had helped to make George into the extraordinary man he was, would feel the loss as keenly as that of their own son.

I longed to speak with them, to provide comfort and have it returned to me. But it was impossible. I would have to write to them, expressing my grief and offering what little solace I could find in the details I had learned.

My hands were so cold I could barely hold the pen. I rubbed them together and then began to write, tears traveling down my cheeks and into the collar of my shirt.

December 31, 1942

Naval Intelligence Office

London, England

Dearest Family,

It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. By now, you have received the devastating news about George. While the loss feels unbearable, I hope we can find some measure of solace in the knowledge that he remained the man we knew him to be until the very end—courageous, selfless, and steadfast in his duty.

Through my work here in London, I have come across accounts that speak to his bravery in those final moments. Though I cannot share all the details, I can tell you that George faced an impossible situation with extraordinary resolve, putting the safety of others above his own. His actions saved lives, and those who served with him spoke of his heroism with great reverence.

Though his body could not be recovered, I hope we can hold on to the pride of knowing how much he meant to those around him, both in life and in his final moments. The Navy has recognized his actions as exceptional and will honor his memory in a way befitting his bravery.

Mireille, I cannot express how sorry I am. George loved you with his whole heart—his giant heart. To him, you were the moon and the stars and everything in between. He told me on the day before your wedding that he couldn’t believe it was him you chose and that he would spend his life being the man you deserved. I think we can agree that he did indeed keep his promise. I wish there was more I could say to ease your grief, but because of my own, I know it’s impossible. We will have to accept that he’s gone and figure out a way to continue on without him. I can’t imagine how.

Although I can almost hear his voice in my ear as I write this. Telling me life is short and to enjoy every moment we have with those we love. And not to weep too bitterly, for he lived a life he could be proud of and that his biggest dream had come true. You, Mireille. You.

Mother and Father, you helped shape George into the man he became. You treated him as a son, and he felt that love every day from the moment he came to live with us. You changed his life the day you welcomed him into our home, granted him a family when his own was lost.

Betsy, as you know, he adored his “Boo” like a beloved sister. No one made him laugh as hard as you. Or challenged him quite as much, either, which he loved.

I hope we can all smile—not yet—but someday when we think of George’s grin and his laughter and antics, the way he filled our home with everything good and precious.

And strangely enough, as we mourn George, Diana and I have learned that she is to have a baby sometime this summer, if our calculations are correct. It seems impossible to be happy now, but perhaps later, new life will comfort us.

You’re all on my mind today and always.

With all my love,

Peter

I set aside my pen, folded my letter, and slipped it into an envelope. If I sent it tomorrow, it would be a good three weeks before it arrived back home. Thinking of Mireille’s suffering nearly made me weep, but there was nothing to be done.

I tried to finish a few other tasks before leaving the office to return to the apartment I now shared with my wife, but I couldn’t focus. My thoughts were of George. Being so far away from him made it hard to fathom the loss. Or perhaps it would have been the same no matter where we were. George had always been larger than life. It seemed impossible he’d left us.

I wished Diana were here. I longed to talk to her, to tell her more about George and what a hole his loss had left in my heart. Still, I longed for my family more. To sit with Betsy and reminisce. To comfort Mireille as best I could. To hug my mother and father.

Diana was to return tomorrow afternoon. I’d promised to treat us to a New Year’s lunch at our favorite pub. The pub where we’d had our first date. How long ago that day seemed to me, and yet it hadn’t even been a year that I’d known the woman who now bore my name.

By the time I left the building for home, the streets of London were shrouded in darkness. Blackout curtains allowed no light to escape from the rows of terraced houses. Tonight, even the glow of the moon and stars were dimmed by the haze of smoke and fog that hung in the winter air.

I kept my hands in my coat pockets, the chill seeping into my skin despite the layers. Occasionally, I passed another figure—shadowy and indistinct—hurriedly crossing the street or turning a corner. No one lingered, and no one spoke. We were like moles, rummaging around in the dark.

The blackout lamps, dim and hooded, cast weak pools of light at street corners, barely illuminating the ground beneath them. I stepped carefully, my eyes adjusting to the near-total darkness as I navigated around an overturned trash bin and deep cracks in the uneven pavement.

The air smelled of coal smoke and damp stone, mingled with a metallic tang of war—a scent I’d come to associate with the city under siege. The occasional distant rumble, whether from the trains or the faint echoes of activity at the docks, added to the uneasy quiet. It didn’t matter how many months I’d lived here; the nights depressed me. I’d have thought I’d grow accustomed to them, but I hadn’t.

I turned onto my street and headed up the stairs to the door of my apartment building. I fumbled briefly with the key in the lock, then slipped inside to weep in the privacy of my own home.

I picked Diana up from the train station the next afternoon. She knew the moment she saw me that something was wrong.

“What’s happened?”

“George.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me close. “What can I do?”

“You’re here. That helps tremendously.”

Bundled up against the cold, the two of us departed the station and walked toward our neighborhood, where we were to have our lunch. I asked her about her family, but she brushed the question aside. “They’re fine. Thrilled about the baby, of course. We don’t need to talk about any of that. Tell me what happened to George.”

By the time we reached the pub, I’d told her the story of George’s courage and clear head under the most terrifying of circumstances.

“I hope that will give Mireille some comfort,” Diana said. “Her husband died a hero.”

“I think she’d rather have him alive and cowardly.”

“No, that’s wrong. He wouldn’t have been George then. He went out as he lived.”

I held the door open for her and then followed her into the pub. To my surprise, it was bustling, almost festive. Low hums of conversation mingled with the occasional burst of laughter. Smoke from pipes and cigarettes created a hazy canopy above the tables.

We found a table near the window and shrugged out of our coats. Despite my grief, I couldn’t help but admire my gorgeous wife. Her cheeks glowed from the cold and good health. Her bright eyes gazed across the small table, full of sympathy. “Would you rather go home? We don’t have to be here.”

“No, I promised you a lunch out before we have to hole up in the dark, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

She squeezed my hand, leaning across the table to kiss me on the mouth. “I love you. So much it almost hurts.”

“And I love you.”

The door swung open, bringing with it a rush of cold air and a few more patrons. Diana turned her head briefly, her smile softening as she caught sight of a young couple huddled together. The man held a small baby, possibly born only weeks before. Most likely, his wife and baby had come in to the city to visit. Perhaps it was the first time he’d seen his child? It was strange to see a baby in London, and it gave me a small lift to my spirit, thinking about our own son or daughter.

Diana must have noticed my attention on the young family because she told me she’d seen her doctor while home. “All is well. The baby should come in late June or early July. He gave me permission to continue working for a few more months but advised that I should return home to live with my parents by spring.” She made a face.

“You’ll be safer there.”

“My mother made it quite clear that they expected me to come home soon, where she and Charlotte can properly look after me.”

“And where the threat of bombs isn’t a constant worry.”

“That’s right. I hate to leave you and my work, but I suppose it’s what must happen.”

“There’ll be time later, after this is all over, for you to find some kind of work you find satisfying.”

“When this is all over. How many times have we said that?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but the words were swallowed by a deafening crack that tore through the air like thunder. The walls shuddered violently.

“What was that?” Diana’s eyes widened in fear.

“A bomb. Close to us.”

The lights flickered and died, plunging us into darkness. A moment later, a second explosion ripped through the pub with a force that knocked us both off our chairs. Screams came from all directions. One of them might have been mine, calling for my wife. Then, the ceiling caved in, sending timber, glass, and metal raining down. Diana reached for me, her face frozen in shock. Her hand stretched out, fingers trembling in the flickering light of the fire that had roared to life behind her. Her lips parted as if she was about to call my name, but the sound never came. Time stretched into something slow and elastic. The glow of the fire threw jagged shadows across Diana’s terrified face. I rose to my feet, legs shaking and unsteady, and lumbered toward her.

The world exploded again, the roar of the blast deafening. The force knocked me backward, and I hit the ground hard. The breath ripped from my lungs. Smoke and dust made it impossible to see my hand in front of my face.

“Diana!” The shout tore from my throat, hoarse and panicked. The only answer was the thunder of falling beams and the screams of others. I crawled an inch or two, searching the darkness, shouting her name over and over.

Until something heavy crashed onto my leg, pinning me in place as pain shot through me. The stench of burning wood filled my nose, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. I tried to move, but the weight on my leg held me fast. Debris continued to rain down. Somewhere in the distance, voices shouted—urgent, frightened—but I couldn’t make sense of them.

“Diana!” I called out, my voice hoarse and ragged. There was no reply, only the crackle of flames, the screams of those around me, and the distant wail of sirens. “Diana!”

My vision dimmed as the searing pain in my leg threatened to pull me under. “Diana, please answer me.” A whisper, or had I only thought the words instead of speaking them? Then, mercifully, the darkness took me.

I woke to the smell of antiseptic. Not far from me, the sounds of muted voices and clicking heels on a hard floor blended with the occasional groan or muttered word. My eyelids fluttered open, heavy as lead, to see a peeling white ceiling above me. My thoughts were clouded, as though a deep fog enveloped me. A deep, throbbing pain thrummed in my left leg.

I glanced around me, wildly, panicked. Where was I?

The sheets were crisp but scratchy; a thick woolen blanket covered me. A small wooden table stood beside the bed, cluttered with a chipped enamel water pitcher, a half-full glass, and a towel folded with military precision. To my right, a curtain had been drawn back just enough to reveal rows of identical beds, each occupied by a man.

It all came rushing back at once. The bomb. Diana. My trapped leg.

I was in the hospital. I’d lived. But what about my wife? I called out, but my voice was too hoarse to make much sound.

I tried to move. The effort sent a sharp bolt of pain through my leg. My mouth was dry, my throat raw, and when I turned my head, I caught sight of a nurse walking briskly past my bed. She glanced at me, offering a small, quick smile, and hurried to my side.

“Easy, Lieutenant,” she said gently. “You’ll be in less pain if you remain still.”

“Diana,” I croaked, my throat dry and raw. “Where’s my wife?”

The nurse hesitated, her expression carefully neutral. Before she could answer, Captain Langley stepped around the curtain and approached, his face drawn.

“Captain, Diana. Where is she?” I whispered. Please, God, don’t let him say it.

Langley sat in the chair next to the bed. In his late forties, his face bore the weathered lines of someone who had spent years navigating both the seas and the complex terrain of wartime intelligence. His dark brown hair, now liberally streaked with silver, was always neatly combed. Not today. Today, he looked like death, his hair disheveled, a stubble along his jawline, and bags under his eyes.

“Peter, there’s no easy way to say this. Diana didn’t make it. They found her body under the rubble.”

His words stole the breath from my lungs. I stared at him, the meaning sinking in slowly, painfully. Diana was gone—our unborn child with her.

“She was pregnant,” I said, as hot tears fell from the corners of my eyes.

Captain Langley flinched. “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t know. I’m terribly sorry.”

My chest tightened, and I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. The nurse returned, checking the IV at my bedside, her movements quick and efficient.

“Dr. Jones is on his way now,” the nurse said.

No sooner than she’d said that, he appeared.

The doctor approached my bed, his white coat rumpled and a clipboard tucked under one arm. He stood at the foot of the bed, glancing at the chart before addressing me directly.

“Lieutenant Westbrook, you’ve sustained a significant injury to your leg. The large piece of debris that fell on you caused severe trauma to the muscle and blood vessels.”

I nodded slightly, though my throat felt too tight to speak. Maybe I didn’t care. Maybe it should have been me, not Diana. Not my beautiful wife and unborn child. Everything snatched away in a second.

“There is good news. The damage is localized, and the bone, while fractured, is repairable. However, there’s substantial swelling and compromised circulation in the affected area. If we don’t address this surgically, the tissue could continue to deteriorate, leading to infection or even gangrene.”

“Yeah. So what does that mean?” I hardly recognized my own voice.

“The surgery is straightforward. We’ll stabilize the fracture, remove any damaged tissue, and ensure proper blood flow to the area. Recovery will take time, and even with the best outcome, you may not regain full use of the leg.”

“What?” A wave of pain overwhelmed me, and I groaned.

“Give him more pain meds,” Dr. Jones said, presumably to his nurse.

She hustled around, adjusting this or that or whatever. I had no idea what was happening. However, seconds later, I felt some relief.

“We’ll do it today,” Dr. Jones said. “With your permission.”

“Sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

“We’ll prepare the operating room. Rest for now.” The doctor gave me a small nod before disappearing behind the curtain.

I stared up at the ceiling as Captain Langley returned to my side. “Son, they’re going to send you home as soon as you can travel. The recovery’s going to take a while, and you won’t be of much use…or, rather, you’ll need to focus solely on getting better. At home.”

Sending me home? How could I return like this? Without Diana and all our dreams for the future? Broken, both of body and spirit?

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