The White Vixen (61 page)

EPILOGUE

Portreath, Cornwall, England

Friday, May 14th, 1982

Jo Ann thrashed in the bed, sweat drenching the sheets, and forced herself to wake up. “No!” She sat upright, the sheet falling away from her chest. The silk pajama top was soaked. Shaking her head to drive away the last vestiges of the nightmare, she slid her bare feet to the floor and got up.

She quickly removed the sodden pajama top, covering herself with a cotton robe, and padded to the window. The second-story view would have been charming under other circumstances. Dawn was breaking, and the Cornish coast sparkled in a new springtime morning. Fishermen were preparing to cast off their boats. Trucks—they were called lorries here, she remembered—were moving through the narrow streets of the town, delivering their goods to the stores. A few passenger cars were about.

Jo drew the robe more tightly around her and shivered. The nightmare had been so vivid, and why not? It was a virtual replay of the last hours of the mission. The desperate retreat to the beach, the firefight, her confrontation with the German-Argentine, the shots from Ian’s gun that saved her life. The high-speed boat ride out to sea, holding Ian’s hand as the SBS scanned the skies for pursuing enemy aircraft. The ghostly bulk of the submarine sliding up out of the ocean. The cumbersome transfer of the unconscious Ian from the Zodiac into the sub, Jo following the shouting men carrying him down the ladder, through the narrow passageway to the mess hall where the ship’s surgeon had set up a crude field hospital. The last image, as she held his hand.

She gulped back a sob and looked back at the empty bed. Her foot ached where the bullet had creased it through her boot during that last fight. She hadn’t wept that morning, so exhausted she was, and hadn’t allowed herself to weep since then, but now she did, sliding to the floor as the tears came.

It was a beautiful service. The small country Anglican church was filled to capacity. Many in attendance were in uniform, including a well-known individual in Royal Navy dress blues, sitting in the second pew on the right side. The vicar spoke passionately about the love of Christ and the certainty of salvation. He looked at the flag-draped casket, then at the gray-faced elderly couple in the front pew. “In our grief, we must remember the words of our Lord, who said, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’”

At the cemetery outside, the Royal Navy chaplain read from Scripture, and a Navy choir sang “Eternal Father, Strong to Save”, the sailors’ hymn. The special guest then rose from his chair next to his pretty young wife and walked solemnly to the grave. “Our nation owes a great debt to Ian Masters,” Prince Charles said. “It is a debt, indeed, owed to him by the entire civilized world.” Jo realized that he knew the real truth of what had happened so far away. The prince spoke a few more words, then was handed a small leather case. “On behalf of Her Majesty the Queen and a grateful nation, we posthumously bestow, upon Lieutenant Colonel Ian Masters of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, the Victoria Cross.” He walked over to the elderly man sitting at the graveside, wearing an old World War II Army uniform, and handed him the case. The old veteran opened it up with trembling hands, rose and saluted the prince, then shook his hand. The honor guard folded the Union Jack and handed it to Mrs. Masters, who kissed it before setting it gently in her lap.

Watching from the rows of mourners, wearing a dark civilian suit, Jo wished she could be in uniform along with Ian’s SBS troopers in their dress blues. The men who’d been on the mission all sported fresh new medals; Bickerstaff and Garrett had been awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. Next to Jo, Sir David Blandford provided a kind and supportive presence. His had been the difficult task of telling Jo that, for security reasons, she could not attend the service in her Air Force uniform, and could not stand with the SBS troopers. There were photographers about, and it would not do to have a U.S. Air Force officer seen in the midst of Ian’s command. Too many questions would be asked. What was unsaid was that MI6 might want to utilize Jo’s services again sometime, so relative anonymity had to be preserved.

A line of seven Royal Marine riflemen fired three volleys, and a trumpeter played taps. Ian’s parents approached the casket one last time. Was the father’s lip trembling? The mother rested a hand on the casket, then turned away as tears flowed down her face, and her husband took her by the elbow. At her other side was a young woman whom Jo knew to be Ian’s sister, Yvonne.

The mourners filed back to the church and the fleet of cars waiting to take them a few miles to the Masters’ home, which would host the reception. Blandford and Jo were walking silently toward his car when a young Royal Marine came up behind them. “Excuse me, Major Geary?”

“Yes?”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but could you accompany me back to the church for a moment?”

Sir David gave her a caring smile. “I’ll be waiting at the car.”

The marine led Jo back to the sacristy. “Please go inside, ma’am.” She opened the door to see Prince Charles waiting, his white Navy cap under one arm. Next to him was his wife Diana, dignified but still glamorous in a navy blue jacket and skirt. Charles turned to Jo with a smile, but his eyes were sad.

“Major Geary, a pleasure.” He offered a hand, and his grip was firm and warm.

“Your Highness, I—I’m not even sure if that’s what I should call you,” Jo said, flustered. She felt her face get hot.

“That will do,” the prince said. He reached over to a table and picked up a small leather case. “I wanted to take a moment to express my personal thanks, and that of our Queen and our entire nation, for your service in this affair. Unfortunately, for diplomatic reasons, we cannot acknowledge your efforts publicly, but I would like to present you with this.” He handed her the case, opening it up. A glistening medal rested inside on purple velvet. “The George Cross,” he said. “It is the highest award we may present to a civilian for service.”

Jo felt her eyes blink. “Thank you, Your Highness. I am honored.”

“I read the transcript of your debriefing,” Charles said. “A most impressive account. I commend you on your heroism. The prime minister has communicated our great regards to your president.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“We are aware of your special relationship with Colonel Masters,” Diana said in her soft voice. Her eyes were glistening. “Please accept our most sincere condolences.” She stepped forward, reaching out, and Jo allowed the royal embrace, welcomed it, returned it, and as she felt the pain of her loss, she felt the love of a nation.

***

Heathrow was crowded, as usual. Jo Ann stood in the VIP departure lounge, her flight having just been called, and gathered her carryon and jacket. Sir David stood by, having insisted on waiting with her.

“Well, it was a lovely service yesterday,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” Jo said. “Ian’s parents were most gracious.”

“He wrote of you frequently,” the SIS man said. “In his last letter, he told them he intended to marry you after the war.”

Jo managed a smile. “That would have been…it would’ve been just fine,” she said.

Sir David extended a hand. “Major Geary…Jo Ann…it has been an honor to work with you. Your service to our country has been beyond exemplary. Without you, I daresay we would have lost this war.” Word had come during the reception that the Argentines had surrendered the Falklands; the SBS troopers invited Jo to celebrate at a downtown pub, but she declined with thanks.

“Thank you, Sir David.” She had to blink back a tear. “It was…a privilege for me to serve.”

He placed another hand on top of hers. “I hope that someday, should the need arise again, we may call on you?” He raised an eyebrow hopefully.

She looked away, then back at him, and through her grief she managed a smile. “You know where to find me.” She picked up her bag and walked to the waiting gate.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are many people who contributed to this book, starting with my parents, who encouraged me to read and bought us a set of encyclopedia for Chris
tmas; my teachers in elementary, middle and high school, most especially English teachers like Mrs. Millman and Mrs. Leonard in Potosi; and my instructors at the University of Wisconsin-Platteville. In recent years I have benefited greatly from the advice and tutelage of the ladies in my writers group. Donna, Marla, Marjorie and Helen, although this work was not one we reviewed together, what I have learned in our meetings has, I believe, made this book a lot better.

Most importantly, this book would never have been written without the support of my wife, Sue. There might be other husbands out there with wives as great as mine, but I doubt it.

As a youngster growing up in Wisconsin, I would sometimes go down to the basement and open my father’s Army footlocker, take out his old uniforms and try them on. Dad was a bit too young for Korea but served in Germany in the mid-fifties, and spent much of his time playing baseball, he told me years later. But he and all his fellow soldiers knew that at any
moment, they might go on alert and very soon thereafter they would have rifles in their hands, moving to the sound of guns.

I often wondered if I might have that courage, should my name ever be called. A high school basketball injury ended any thoughts of a military career,
but as time went by I wondered about the reasons men and women have put on the uniform, in our country and others, over the decades and centuries. Some have selfish reasons, some are quite practical, but for most, I believe, there is an underlying sense that they need to prove themselves, to give something to a greater cause. In his book
The Warrior Ethos
, which I consider to be one of the finest works I’ve read on the subject, author Steven Pressfield says this:

             
   “We all fight wars—in our work, within our families and abroad in the wider world. Each of us struggles every day to define and defend our sense of purpose and integrity, to justify our existence on the planet and to understand, if only within our own hearts, who we are and what we believe in.”

The White Vixen
is a work of fiction, but the struggles of Jo Ann Geary, Ian Masters and their compatriots to define their own sense of purpose and integrity harken back to those of ancient times, and to the work of warriors today and into the future. It is, at its core, a struggle we engage in not for wealth or power, but to define who we are and what we stand for, as individuals and as nations. Many times men and women have chosen to define themselves solely as seekers of wealth and power, determined to achieve their goals no matter the cost to their neighbors or even their own people. When that happens, warriors like Jo Ann and Ian, like my father and my Civil War veteran great-great-grandfather, have stood against them, and prevailed. In 1982, the United Kingdom chose to take a stand against aggression, a stand that exacted a high cost in blood and treasure but which, in the judgment of the British people and their leaders, had to be done. The strategic implications of Britain’s decision to fight for the Falklands, and whether it was truly worth the cost, are debated to this day. But what cannot be denied is this: the British decided that at the very least, national honor demanded a response, and it was successful. A lesson, I think, that we Americans took to heart nearly twenty years later, when our own national honor was tested even more severely.

I
n addition to Pressfield, I am indebted to the following authors and historians for their excellent work, which provided invaluable source material and inspiration:

             
Max Hastings & Simon Jenkins,
The Battle for the Falklands

             
Charles Whiting,
The Hunt for Martin Bormann

             
William Stevenson,
The Bormann Brotherhood

             
Richard Deacon,
A History of the British Secret Service

             
Wayne Bernhardson,
Argentina, Uruguay and
Paraguay

             
Duncan Falconer,
First Into Action

             
W.E.B. Griffin, the
Honor Bound
series

             
Richard C. Thornton,
The Falklands Sting

             
Donna Barr Tabor, historian, XVIII Airborne Corps and Fort Bragg

             
Chuck Anesi, words and music for “Horst Wessel”

             
Jason Pipes,
www.feldgrau.com
, for details on WWII German military

              The Air Force Association

             
John Pike,
www.fas.org/irp
for details on world intelligence organizations