Maternity

Maternity

Wrinkled tiny fingers from a fist the size of an acorn grip almost all the way around my thumb.

Eyes of deep blue inquiry stare up at me from within the incubator.

Welcome to a broken world little one.

Glancing over at the incubator’s display, I see the power levels right where they need to be, the temperature a little low, and humidity high.

As my right hand moves to adjust these levels the ground violently throws my feet into the air a fraction of a second before the sound of shattering glass breaks the rhythmic pulse of the heart monitors.

Pure black darkness envelopes everything as my body crashes down on the hard linoleum floor of the pre-natal intensive care unit.

What just happened?

The sounds of shattering glass are replaced by screams from every direction. Women’s screams. Children’s screams. Men’s screams.

Everyone is screaming!

I feel around my prone body gingerly, hoping to touch something for orientation.

My left front is on the ground, so my back must be up.

As my right hand sweeps the hard surface before me, I remember my left hand had just been connected to the premature baby in the incubator, Julia.

Where is this dear child now?

How can I make sure she’s safe?

I stop sweeping with my right hand so the left can search for Julia.

Where are you sweetheart?

Where could she be?

I can’t see a thing in this pitch blackness.

“SOMEONE, BRING A LIGHT!” I yell, hoping to be heard above the all the other screaming.

I know Lara was just out in the hall, maybe she’ll hear me.

Raising myself to my knees, I’m able to sweep with both hands. As they glide across the cold floor I touch thrown instruments, tissue boxes, and other detritus, until I contact a downed cart.

There were three in the room, only one was occupied.

Please be Julia’s!

Rubbing up the leg of the cart, I can feel the cold metal of its solid construction give way to the plastic, which encases the not-yet-ready for the real world baby.

Please be in this one Julia!

The left access hole had been opened allowing me to reach in to interact with her, so I feel for the hole.

As my hand brushes for the access hole, I come across a large crack in the casing, scratching myself on its jagged edge.

This can’t be good, this poor child. If it’s cracked, she could have been thrown out.

Just then more screaming in the hall interrupts my thoughts of the child.

I don’t want to think about what’s happening out there.

All that matters right now is what’s in here!

Luckily, the crack is small, coming to an end quickly as my hand continues across the surface in search of the access hole.

I find it, tenderly reaching in to feel for Julia.

As I reach further into the tiny, enclosed chamber, I come across soft tissue.

Could this be you sweetheart?

Please be you!

Before I have the chance to see, a bright light shines in from the right of me.

“We have to get out of here!” a stern female voice declares.

Who is that?

Where is Lara?

Is this the child?

Blinded by the light, I keep feeling for the child.

Is there movement?

Is there warmth?

THERE IS!

WARMTH!

IT IS JULIA!

As my eyes adjust, I see before me in a beam of light, the premature baby, encased in the upright cart, staring up at me with those deep blue eyes of her own.

“You are a lucky dear!” I softly murmur.

“What was that?” the person holding the light asks.

“I found the child, help me bring the incubator out of this room” I demand.

I can’t see the holder of the light.

Who is holding the light?

The beam begins changing angles from up to down, left to right, as its holder makes her way toward me.

As she approaches, I can see her face.

Do I know you?

She is close enough now the light beam illuminates our shared space with Julia.

I see her face, and she mine.

Why are you looking at me like you see a ghost?

Could this be Lara?

The woman’s face, shoulders, and torso are covered in blood. Her neck seems off somehow.

She looks down at the child, “Let’s get her out of here.” She offers.

“Yes, please lead the way” I respond, still touching the child’s warm flesh.

I look down one more time, Julia’s eyes are shifting back and forth between me and the woman with the light.

You’ll be ok dear.

We just need to follow the woman with the light.

“We will all be alright.” The woman says sternly.

“Yes, we will all be alright.” I respond, while pushing the incubator cart forward toward the light.

On Wednesday, March 9, 2022 the Russian Air Force bombed Maternity Hospital #3 in Mariupol, Ukraine during an agreed cease-fire meant to allow civilians safe-passage out of the besieged city. The three buildings of the complex: a Maternity Hospital, a Children’s Hospital, and a Children’s Therapy building, were all destroyed in the blast, killing four, injuring 16 and leading to one still-birth. A massive bomb had blasted out all of the windows, shattered walls, and left a crater in the central courtyard deeper than two full-grown men. Russia claimed the hospital was a legitimate target because they thought military forces were using it as a shelter. An investigation conducted by the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE)in April of that year concluded the hospital was clearly identifiable and operational, and that the Russian forces therefore perpetrated a war crime. The investigative team’s statement declared:

"The Mission therefore concludes that the hospital was destroyed by a Russian attack. Based upon Russian    explanations, the attack must have been deliberate. No effective warning was given and no time-limit set. This attack therefore constitutes a clear violation of IHL (International Humanitarian Law) and those responsible for it have committed a war crime."

OSCE, April 13, 2022, pp. 46–47.  

During the Syrian Civil War, Russian and Syrian government forces used the same tactic in their campaign against anti-government forces, focusing on the destruction of hospitals, medical facilities, and other civilian infrastructure in areas not under the control of the Syrian government. Human Rights Watch,October 15, 2020; Aljazeera, June 7, 2022; The New York Times, October 13, 2019; Time, March 3, 2021.

Thanks Mom

Thanks Mom

A sly smile upon her face, my mom leads me into the crowded recruiting station.

How lucky am I?

Just yesterday we were debating this, and today she’s going through with it.

Surrounded by men in smart uniforms, I look around at all the hustle and bustle.

“Why do you want to join the flying corps Grace?” she had asked me yesterday.

“I like the uniforms.”

“Oh, you ought to have a better excuse than that!”

Yet, here we are!

She looks around before tugging the crisp brown uniform of a man hurrying by.

“Where is the women’s flying corps recruiter?” she demands from this clearly rushed cute soldier with polished buttons, a sharp collar, and pressed tunic.

He stops in his tracks, looks at her, then at me, and shrugs his shoulders before blurting out, “I’ve no idea Ma’am, I am lost here myself.”

“Well dear, let’s find out where we’re going together.”

The hurried fresh-faced soldier in smart attire pauses, looks around, then nervously runs off in the original direction he was heading.

Poor chap, going off to war but unable to face a woman.

Turning to mom, I smile and giggle.

She squeezes my hand, “That won’t help dear.”

I resolve my face before turning left where I’m delighted to spot a sign reading WOMEN VOLUNTEERS at the end of the hall.

“This way mom!” I exclaim while dragging her hand behind me as I head toward the sign.

This is it, we’ve found it!

We enter a small, practically empty room where another uniformed man sits behind a desk strewn with a small stack of forms. He looks up from a book as we disturb his peace.

“Which of you is volunteering today?” he says in a kind voice.

“I am,” I call out in reply as his eyes divert from mom toward me, taking their time as they work up my skirt-covered legs.

Like what you see?

“How old are you, Miss?”

“I’m 17, Sir,” I reply, knowing full well that is the minimum age to volunteer with parental consent.

Do you believe me?

His eye-based assessment of me continues, pausing at my chest before rising to my face.

He turns to mom. “Are you this girl’s mother?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir,” she offers back in her most graceful voice.

“Ma’am, can you vouch for this girl’s age?”

“Indeed Sir, she is 17, has been for about one month now.”

He turns away from mom to look me over again. His eyes halt at my face, then my chest again, before finally returning to my face.

I know I’m not large, but I’m mature.

“Alright,” he says with a sigh. “Please fill this out and bring it back to me.”

I look down at the form he hands me. It’s for the Women’s Land Army.

I don’t want to work the land; I want to fly!

“Sir, is there a form for the Women’s Royal Air Force? That is my preference.”

Looking down through his pile, he pulls a form out from the bottom.

“Last one, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll take it!” I blurt out, potentially exposing my over eagerness to volunteer.

Form in hand, he holds it back as his eyes give me another once over, again stopping at my chest.

“When did you say your birthday was?” he asks.

Is he on to me?

A bead of sweat slowly makes it way down my right temple.

“A little less than one month ago, Sir,” I reply, attempting to hide my nerves.

Another moment’s pause, then he hands me the form. “Please fill it out in the hall and hand it back to me.”

Yes! It worked!

Mom pulls me into the hall as I look over the form. She drags me away from the door so that we are against the far wall.

“Grace, the right date will be 1901.”

“Yes, mom, thank you.”

I’m going to get to wear the uniform!

*****

British Women Volunteers

http://www.treasurebunker.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=1788

Grace Hallen’s mother accompanied her to the recruiting station on May 10, 1918 so Grace could join the Women’s Royal Air Force (WRAF). The minimum age for volunteers with parents’ permission was 17. Grace, a mature 15-year-old, was enthusiastic about being around aircraft and loved the uniforms. Since birth certificates were not used for recruiting, and her mother was willing to lie for her, Grace was allowed into the WRAF.

She served through the remainder of the war, alongside over 32,000 other women in the British military air arm of World War I. This force was dissolved in 1920, and reconstituted in 1939 as the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force for World War II. It was renamed the WRAF again in 1949 and fully integrated with the Royal Air Force in 1994.

Discovery

Featuring the amazing Órla Mc Govern.

Discovery

A brisk wind pulls at my great coat, pushing up through the open bottom to chill my panted legs. Residue of last night’s storm cannot deter me from thrashing out near the rocks.

What nerve, to ask for my hand!

I weave my way between the jutting rocks of the shoreline. Soft sand sinks beneath my quick-paced feet.

There is a war on. I cannot marry a man who will soon be sent away.

Dark moss-covered rocks, wet with the ocean mist and crashing waves, feel cool to my hands as I climb up a small slope from the shoreline.

If Braden had not volunteered to go, then maybe. But how can I give my heart to a man who will fight in this mistake of humanity?

Rising atop the mass of broken rocks I look down the shoreline where the fog meets the ground and sea in a single point of outward triangles.

Air, land, and sea stab all at once against my heart. Which direction do I go from here?

A dark object with a twisted limb juts out from behind one of the rocks just visible before the morning mist swallows everything. It floats and bumps, coming above the rock in rhythm with the tidal waves before disappearing behind the rock again as the tide goes out.

What could that be?

Slowly descending the damp rocks, I make my way toward the object. I keep my eyes fixed on the rocks at my feet so as not to slip on the wet moss. A gale blows across the upper rocks, a last gasp of last night’s tumult. Howls and screams of powerful wind rushing past jagged wet rocks remind me of the tales of witches and monsters.

Can’t he stay out of the war? Nothing good can come of it.

Making my way toward the object, I can’t quite make out what it is. As I approach, I start to see what looks like a bloated dark bobbing thing the size of a large seal.

It must be dead since it’s only moving with the current of the waves.

The twisted limb comes into view above the rock. Clenched fingers in the shape of a fist appear at the end of the limb.

It’s a man!

Rushing over, I slip on a small rock, falling to the soft sand so my knees, coat, and hands get covered. I look back at the rock upon which I slipped, but it’s no rock. Tufts of hair stick out from an almost completely buried man’s head.

Two dead men!

Without thinking, my hands quickly start digging around the head, exposing a soft, gentle, still, bloated, and rotting face.

He must have been here for a while.

I keep digging. A whole head comes into view.

Who are these men?

What are they doing here?

A scream tears at my ears.

This war takes men I don’t even know, kills them, and brings them to me!

I pause; bringing my sand-covered hands toward my face. Staring at them, my body collapses under its own weight.

I cannot marry any man in THIS world.

A hand touches my right shoulder. Screaming out, I turn to see Braden standing, in shock, behind me. My arms drape around his broad shoulders as he squeezes me tight against his warm body.

His warm body. God, his warm body feels good. Please keep him warm!

My tears fall on his shoulder as he pulls me away from the bloated cold bodies on the beach. I don’t look back.

*****

HMS Viknor

http://dawlishchronicles.com/the-loss-of-hms-viknor-13th-january-1915/

From late January 1915 through mid-year, bodies began washing up along the shores of Donegal, North Antrim, Raghery (Northern Ireland) and the Scottish Islands. For a long time, they could not be identified. People from coastal towns simply kept finding more bodies every few days until one was discovered who still had ID tags. His name was Private J. Griffin. Research revealed Private Griffin was from the HMS Viknor, an armed merchant cruiser that disappeared January 13, off the coast of Ireland.

No one knows for sure what happened to the Viknor, but it is supposed that after capturing the German spy, Baron H A Wedell, the ship struck a German mine in a storm. All 291 men aboard, including the German spy, disappeared until many of them washed ashore over the ensuing months. Their remains are now scattered in cemeteries across Northern Ireland and Scotland.

Private Griffin, whose ID tags led to the realization of the ship’s loss, is buried with four unidentified companions at Bonamargie Friary, in a small corner of North Antrim Northern Ireland. Bally castle erected a Celtic cross memorial with an anchor, harp, and shamrock on it. The Viknor’s wreck was found by the Irish survey vessel Celtic Explorer in 2006 but the reason for her loss could still not be identified with absolute certainty. A small flag was placed upon the wreck to commemorate the loss of life.