“Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
WINSTON CHURCHILL
Margaret opened her eyes. Fires blazed, while the deafening sounds of falling bombs echoed around her. From where she’d been thrown, she could see her lorry in flames. She called out for the injured man inside, knowing full well the futility of her cries. A moment later she prayed he’d been tossed from it as well.
Her mind dulled to everything around her except her tormented body. She felt as though every bone had been broken, but a fierce determination to survive compelled her to move. Every muscle and nerve screamed out in protest, and blood trickled into her eyes. Fighting the pounding in her head, Margaret tried to lift her right arm to find the source of the blood, but excruciating pain hindered any movement. Her head dropped back onto a rock.
I have to see the rest of my body. Oh, dear Lord, I’m scared.
She tried to suck in air, but the smoke caused her to choke and sputter. After several long minutes, she slowly raised her head and studied her body sprawled out on a mass of rubble. The lights from the fires showed what she suspected. Her left leg curled in an awkward position away from her torso. She had to lie there until one of the fires tasted her body and devoured her.
Listening to the crackling and crashing going on around her, Margaret prayed for strength to endure whatever happened. Although she tried to stay alert, she drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometime during the night, she awoke and her thoughts turned to Andrew.
Dear, sweet Andrew, who only wanted a chance to love her. She’d been so cruel to make light of his feelings.
I can’t ever tell him how sorry I am for that afternoon in the country. Never tell him how I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and be the mother of his children. He’ll never know how much I truly love him.
Her past harsh words spilled across her mind like ink blots. In the recesses of her heart, she knew he’d been right. She was a coward—afraid of getting hurt and being left alone. She was paralyzed by the memories of her brother, Beryl loosing Patrick, and the countless faces of pilots who never returned. Other women in her barracks grieved the family members who gave their lives in the war effort. Margaret didn’t want to think about being in the same situation. She didn’t have the courage to love a man no matter how hopeless the future.
But with God all things were possible.
She well knew this Scripture. Why hadn’t she remembered it before? Guilt for her inability to be bold and courageous assailed her heart and mind.
Precious Lord, forgive me for not seeking Your will about Andrew. I know I’m going to die, and all of this time my fears were for him. The irony of death, Lord. I’ve been such a fool.
A wave of blackness drew her back into its web.
Later she woke again to the sound of German bombers still releasing their fury on London. Opening her eyes, she strained to see a hint of daylight, but a thick film coated her eyes. With the searing pain invading her body, she prayed for death’s release.
Andrew wearily opened his eyes. Throughout the previous night he’d flown repeated missions until at last the Germans ceased their attack that morning. Glancing at the clock, he noted six hours had gone by, and he felt like sleeping another six.
“I see you’re awake,” James said from his cot.
“Trying to be,” Andrew said. “How long have you been up?”
“About an hour.”
Andrew swallowed hard. “So what’s the word?”
“Gloomy, at best.”
He stared at his friend. “How bad?”
“I heard nearly seven hundred acres of London burned.” James stared at the ceiling. “This is the first time I’ve really felt low about the war—asked myself why go on.”
“I’ve felt the same way from time to time, more so when a chap parachuted beside me and still didn’t make it.” Andrew hesitated. “Tell me more about the bombings.”
James expelled a heavy breath. “A number of places were hit: Scotland Yard, Westminister Abbey, most of the City, and all the bridges across the Thames. None of the telephones are working, and I’m sure there’s more, but I heard enough to know the Germans must have dropped every bomb they had on us.”
“What about casualties?”
James’s gaze appeared to bore through Andrew. “I’d hate to speculate. Fires raged for miles.”
Andrew prayed for all those innocent people and for England. “We only lost one fighter plane and shot down fourteen of theirs. At least that was the count this morning.”
James nodded. “Our radar has helped tremendously, and I know we did well last night, but the devastation is horrible.”
“Are you praying?” Andrew said.
His friend gave him a faint smile. “I have to. Without God, we are nothing.”
Their conversation ceased when a pilot stood before their cots.
“Lieutenant, a woman is waiting outside to speak to you.”
Andrew reluctantly rose to his feet. Suddenly the possibility of Margaret seeking him out brought a new surge of energy.
Outside his door, he recognized Jenny, one of Margaret’s friends. Although disappointed, he would not reveal it.
“You wanted to speak with me?” he said. He saw the tension in her face, and it alarmed him.
“Yes, sir.” Jenny glanced nervously about and back to Andrew. “Margaret has been seriously injured. She was caught in the bombing last night.”
Andrew felt the color drain from his face. “Is she here at the hospital?”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way now. I thought you might … well, might want to join me.”
“Not my Margaret,” he said, his stomach threatening to retch.
He rushed back inside for his jacket and to ask James to pray. A moment later, Andrew and Jenny rushed to the hospital. If only he knew the extent of Margaret’s injuries. The thought of losing her had a strangling hold around his neck. He hadn’t been able to apologize, and now she lay injured in the hospital. His pride, his stubborn, foolish pride.
Dear Lord, hold her in the palm of Your hand. Heal her body.
Inside the busy hospital, Andrew located a nurse and asked for assistance in finding Margaret. She directed him to a women’s ward at the far end of the building. Another nurse met him outside the room.
“I’m Lieutenant Stuart. We’re looking for Corporal Margaret Walker,” he said. “I understand she’s in this ward.”
The nurse nodded. She wiped a loose strand of hair from her face with her arm. Blood had splattered her apron. “She drifts in and out, Lieutenant. You can visit, but she needs her rest.”
“Thank you. We won’t stay long,” he said, peering anxiously into the room.
The nurse hurried down the hall, then spun around. “Lieutenant, is your first name Andrew?”
Startled, he stared at her a moment before replying. “Yes, it is.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Corporal Walker has repeated your name several times.”
Tears welled in his eyes, and he hastily blinked them back. “I’ve got to see her.” He stepped aside for Jenny to enter, although it took all of his might to uphold his proper upbringing.
Margaret’s bed sat midway down the ward in a room filled with injured women. His pace couldn’t get him to her side fast enough. At the sight of her, Andrew again swallowed his emotion. In his worst expectations, he didn’t think she would look so battered. A bandage wrapped around her head, and her swollen face revealed a mass of bruises, making her barely recognizable. A cast encased her right arm and another wrapped around her left leg. He prayed there were no internal injuries. She appeared to sleep, but Andrew wondered if she lay unconscious.
“Margaret,” he whispered. When she didn’t respond, he spoke her name again.
“Do you think she hears us?” Jenny said, reaching out to stroke Margaret’s arm. Instantly she drew back her hand. “Poor lamb. I’m afraid I’ll hurt her.”
“If she’s asleep, then she’s not in pain,” he said. Andrew could only stare into Margaret’s face. “Jenny, do you know any of the details of what happened?”
“Not much more than what I already told you. She had to deliver something into London and got caught in the bombing. Lieutenant, I’m not surprised Margaret called out your name.”
He raised a brow.
“She’s been miserable since you two stopped seeing each other.” Jenny sighed. “Oh, yes. I don’t know why you two decided to go your separate ways … Guess it’s none of my business.”
Andrew chose not to reply. So many things needed to be said to Margaret, and even then he wouldn’t want to discuss their relationship, or rather the lack of it, with anyone else.
“Andrew,” Margaret uttered though her eyes were still closed. “Is it really you?”
He bent to her face. “Yes, it is.” He wanted to hold her, kiss away the bruises and cuts. “Don’t try to talk, just rest.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He held his finger a hair span above her bruised lips. “Hush. You just concentrate on getting better. I’ll visit you tomorrow and every day until you’re well. Jenny’s with me. She needs to say a word with you.”
He stepped back for the woman. “Hello, love. Please do what Andrew says and listen to the doctor. All of us will be praying for you.”
Margaret wet her lips and her face relaxed.
For the next three days, he visited Margaret at every opportunity. On occasion Jenny and a few of the other women from the barracks accompanied him, and sometimes he went alone. The doctors kept Margaret sedated, and he knew she rarely comprehended his presence. While he sat and waited by her bedside, he watched her lovely face and longed for the day when she would be well. He couldn’t help but allow his thoughts to drift toward dreams of Margaret by his side forever.
Margaret stirred. Had she been in another world, or had Andrew actually been there? She glanced about and realized she lay in a hospital. With her uninjured hand, she felt the bandage on her head and noted the casts on her arm and leg. Instantly her mind reverted to the night of the bombing: the wounded man, the fires, and the explosion throwing her from the lorry.
Thank You, Lord, for sparing my life. I pray the injured man fared as well.
Glancing about her, she saw the crowded beds and the women occupying them. Margaret could only imagine the stories they had to tell—tales of tragedy and heroism. When she felt better, she’d talk to those patients and make sure they had a relationship with Jesus.
Something drew her attention to the door. She must be hallucinating, for she believed Andrew stood there, looking more handsome than she could ever remember. As he approached her bed, tears sprang to her eyes.
“Andrew, for a moment I thought I might be dreaming.” She reached out her left hand, and he took it firmly into his.
“How are you feeling today?” he said in the same quiet tone she remembered. And those incredible brown eyes were only a few feet from her.
“Much better, I think. I know where I am and the pain has subsided.”
“Good, then my prayers are answered.”
“Thank you for coming to see me.”
He smiled. “I’ve been here every day since the accident.”
“You have? I had no idea.” She took a deep breath. “Andrew, I’m sorry for the things I said to you in the country. You were right. I’m a coward, and I did make excuses to not commit myself.”
He shook his head. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. I lost my temper and demanded things you weren’t ready to give.”
She allowed her stinging eyes to close for a moment and asked the Father for the courage she desperately needed. Forcing them open, she continued. “I love you, Andrew. I don’t want to ever lose you again—I mean, if you’ll still have me. It took the accident and believing I was going to die in my foolishness to make me realize how much I love you.”
He bent over her, his arms on each side of the bed. “Oh, my sweet Margaret, I never stopped loving you. My pride got in the way.”
Gazing up into his beloved face, she wept.
“Don’t cry, darling. We’ll work this out. The war can’t last forever,” Andrew said, brushing away a tear with his finger.
“It’s not the war,” she said. “I’m happy, Andrew. When I get these casts off, would you? I mean, if you still want to. Would you marry me?”
In August of 1941, beside a moss-covered, stone cottage outside the city of Northamptonshire, Lieutenant Andrew Stuart and Corporal Margaret Walker held hands on a pebble-laden path lined with white lilies and pink phlox. In the midst of vibrant pink and red roses, the flowers’ sweet scent mingling with the fragrant honeysuckle, Andrew lifted her hand to his lips. Margaret smiled and blinked back a joyous tear that threatened to glisten her cheek. She dared not gaze anywhere but into the eyes of her Andrew for fear this wedding blessed by heaven might disappear.
They both wore their blue-gray dress uniforms, and she carried a bouquet of the garden’s pink and red roses. Never had she known such happiness.
The moment came when the minister raised his hand and pronounced them man and wife. She realized they were so much more than a wedded couple—foremost children of God, loyal subjects of England, and fighting members of the Royal Air Force dedicated to preserving the freedom of their country.