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Confíteor Deo omnipoténti

(I confess to almighty God)

et vobis, fratres, (and to you, my brothers and sisters,)

quia peccávi nimis (that I have greatly sinned,)

cogitatióne, verbo, (in my thoughts and in my words,)

ópere et omissióne: (in what I have done and in what I have failed to do,)

mea culpa, mea culpa, (through my fault, through my fault),

mea máxima culpa. (through my most grievous fault;)

Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper vírginem, (therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,)

omnes angelos et sanctos, (all the Angels and Saints,)

et vos, fratres, (and you, my brothers and sisters,)

oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum (to pray for me to the Lord our God.)

Confiteor (Source: Wikipedia)

Chapter One – The Call

The call came in the middle of the night, as it usually did in any of the nightmares I'd ever had that featured this scenario.

I was in Keogh Barracks Aldershot, in a single room because the Mews House we bought in Bath wasn't home anymore since he stopped coming home. There was a rap on the door from the Duty Officer to say I had a call. I knew, from the way the Lieutenant couldn't meet my eyes, it wasn't good news. She'd never had a problem looking me in the face when bollocking me on the Parade Ground. No issues at all.

Standing in bare feet, M&S PJ bottoms, and one of his army issue T-shirts in front of my Captain, I know the worst has happened, but still couldn't find the words to ask what, because that would make it real.

Then Captain Andrews speaks and the words wash over and around me like water flowing passed a rock in a stream.

"Brigadier McPhail's Adjutant is on the phone with news from Belize…there's been an accident… I need to stay calm…Do I want anyone to be with me…"

Calm, collect tones.

Simple phrases.

Gentle platitudes.

A warm hand on my shoulder.

My face remains neutral. Inside I'm screaming.

My nervous habit is the same as his, twisting my wedding ring on my left hand in times in distraction. The solid warmth of the circle of platinum is comforting, remembering the words he chose to be inscribed inside. His words, our secret.

From the first minute to our last, I was always yours.

When I reach for the familiar comfort and find it missing, the screaming inside my head gets louder. I'd given it to him after our last non-fight. It couldn't be called a fight if only one person was fighting. It took two and the shell that was left of my husband didn't have any emotion left to give his wife, even anger.

He'd returned to the spare room, which had become his, and I returned to our former bedroom. When I got up in the morning he'd left earlier than he'd said for Brize Norton, and my ring was nowhere to be found.

That moment was perhaps the last of my many mistakes in trying to get him to care enough to try to save himself, if not us. The thought of it cut me to my core.

I swallow passed the lump in my throat and realise, absently, my face is wet.

More calm collect tones, simple phrases, a repeated question: do I want anyone with me?

I can't meet Captain Andrews' eyes, donn't want to see his pity or compassion, so instead focus on a place on his office wall behind his shoulder, on a picture on the wall of one his kids in school uniform standing outside a house. A boy, maybe, a little older than Sammie.

Sam, shit…

"Jacs,"–the sound of my own voice startled me–"Corporal Jackie Nesbit."

The Sergeant, who I hadn't notice join our little party is dispatched with a nod from the Captain.

My feet are moving and I'm sitting in a leather office chair. A phone is pressed into my hand. The room empties.

"Hello?"

"Corporal James?"

I recognise the voice, he's known me as Private Dawes, Mrs James and even Molly at one particularly drunken Christmas regimental dinner, but never Corporal James. That was a new version of me. I'm not sure if it's a version of me that I like very much.

"Colonel Beck."

"Has Captain Andrews explained the situation–"

I don't want the polite words or careful sentiments, I only want the truth.

"Is he alive? Is Charles alive, that's all I need to know."

"Molly."

He breathes my name like the word is painful. Perhaps it is. I always thought he had a particular fondness for Charles that went beyond CO and subordinate.

Somewhere inside me I feel sympathy for him. I know what phone calls like this cost Charles each and every one of the too many times he'd had to make them. Knew and lived the resulting remains of the Officer and husband Charles had become because of the effects of those costs.

Deeper inside of me I feel my anger, because they–the Army– took too much and left him with too little to protect himself and didn't equip me with the ability to reach him before he become too lost inside himself to be found. All that training, and I wasn't good enough when it really mattered. What was the point of it all? Medals and honour, duty and sacrifice, if you couldn't save the ones you loved in the end.

"Tell me!" My voice is sharper but ends with a pathetic plea. "Please, Sir?"

"Yes, as far as we know."

I breathe for what feels like the first time since the knock on my room door. A warm hand touches my knee. Jacs, crouched down on her knees sitting by my feet.

"He was on a training exercise in the jungle and sustaining an injury to his leg. Two Section's Medic stayed behind with him to wait for a Medivac while the rest of the Section returned to raise the alarm."

"His injuries?"

"He stepped on some sort of animal trap, this resulted in a puncture wounds to his upper thigh though the bone. The spear had to be left in situ."

I flinch. Jacs' hand tightens on my knee.

Catastrophic bleed, infection. He must be in agony. There's worse, I can hear it in Beck's voice.

"This is a tricky part of the country, near the Guatemala border. Drugs gangs operate to the North of the area of the training exercise. They've never been found that far South, as I understand it.

"When they went to retrieve them, they weren't at the original collection point. We assume they had to move. Two Section came under fire while they were searching the area."

"But you have him…I mean them, now?"

"No."

Catastrophic bleed, infection. He must be in agony… My earlier thoughts swirl nauseatingly around in my head. He was alive, but for how long? I put my hand over my mouth, retching.

A bucket appears under my face. I shove it away. A glass of water held out by a masculine hand appears. I push that away as well.

"Molly?" There it is again in Beck's quiet, cultured voice, pity.

My eyes flash around the room. They all have the same expression: Jacs at my feet, Captain Andrews hovering by his desk, the Lieutenant standing like a spare part in the doorway who still can't look me in the eyes. They're waiting for the wife to crumble. That's not going to happen, not yet.

"Tell me."

"We believe they've taken shelter in a village, Charles had tracker which is sending a signal. We can't extract them until daylight. It's a very politically sensitive area, and difficult terrain. The Brigadier is sending in Special Forces."

"Okay."

One, two three, four–breathe in…

"I understand."

Five, six, seven, eight–breathe out.

Steady rhythm. Hold focus. Keep it together.

My mask is in place; professional, detached, collected. I'm a Medic, was Beck's Medic. I received a Military Cross when in his chain of command. He owes me this. The Army owes me this. My husband is the regimental Golden Child, the one to watch, Beck told me once. They owe me this because they owe him so much more.

"I want to be out there when they find him. I won't make a fuss, won't cause a problem. You know me, Sir."

"I know, Corporal. I know. The Brigadier has already cleared it. I'm travelling from Bulford to Brize after this call. Get your kit together, Captain Andrews will arrange a regimental car to transport you to Brize."

"Thank you."

I return the phone to it's holder. More words are spoken. A hand is on my shoulder again and I'm walking from the room escorted by Jacs and the Lieutenant. I shower and put on my uniform while Jacs dresses herself, packs for me and finds my passport and paperwork.

I find my engagement ring on my dresser. I never gave that back to him and couldn't bare to leave our house without it when I returned to barracks. It sits on my finger looking odd without my wedding ring which is part of a paired set he picked for me. I take it off, adding it to a chain around my neck where it sits on my chest, close to my heart, hidden by my dog-tags.

We don't talk in the car. Jacs hold my hand and leaves me alone to my thoughts. I'm grateful she's there and grateful she knows what I need with her silent support.

Beck does talk on the plane as we sit side by side on a Hercules filled with other soldiers and supplies heading to some shit-hole in South America.

He talks about his wife, Emily, this last posting, the Brigadier and regimental news. I make the right noises, I guess. Nod when required, perhaps even smile with my mask in place. Professional, detached, controlled, as my training requires me to be.

Inside I'm burning.

It's a game we're playing here. Beck and I. He's playing empathetic duty of care to my respectful subordinate. He knows I have the specialist training to understand with terrifying detail what is happening inside my husband's body right now, while they've left him vulnerable out in an effective war zone. Nice phrases like 'politically sensitive' don't cover the truth of infection, Sepsis and ultimately multi-organ failure if they're not found in time. Assuming some drug runner hasn't managed a lucky shot.

He passes me food. I decline.

He passes me a bottle of water, with more emphasis than the food. I take it and drink.

I break roles once, when I realise we've been talking senseless nonsense for hours and have not once mentioned his name. It happens in a brief lull in conversation while Beck pauses to collect his thoughts.

"Charles told me in Afghanistan, that I was the last thing he wanted to see."

Tactless and blunt, I break the silence with the words that were the originating truth in my relationship with my husband, our beginning and our promised end. The roots and branches of how and why I love him and not something I should be sharing with his Command Officer.

The Afghanistan part hadn't been relevant more than defiant on my part. I'm airing my anger towards the Army, just a little, using Beck as target. I know, on some level, I'm being unfair.

Beck knows Charles, the man and the Officer. Has been at our wedding, and I suspect protected us from the fall out of our forbidden, to the Army, relationship. He's invested in this situation and I need him to hear all that I could lose if this goes wrong, before the anxiety bubbling inside me boils me alive.

He turns towards me, sheltering me from the eyes on the rest of the plane behind the breadth of his shoulders. There is kindness in his blues eyes, instead of pity. I am grateful for that. Instead of more words, he roots around in his pack and pulls out a hip-flask which he passes to me. I take a slug, feeling the burn of whisky hit the back of my throat.

It won't come to that for either of you."

His voice is quiet and confident, with all the assurance of his uniform behind it.

I hand the flask back and he tucks it back into his pack.

He starts with the small talk again, as though the moment earlier never happened, and we return to our parts. Careful words. Roles to act. Games to play.

I go back to counting my breathes as Corporal Molly James holds it together. Inwardly, Molly James the wife cries and pleads and prays as the hours pass with the miles.

Note

Songs for this one, if you want them, are Storm by Lifehouse and Carry You by Ruelle. Both are findable on YouTube.