A New Georgy-Girl Ch. 02 - Georgy and Me

*****

Days went by, then more days, then even more, and it still didn't get better. I kissed daddy and mummy and forgave them for letting go of Will, but it didn't make it better, he still wasn't there and it still hurt so much. There was so much bubbling around inside me over this; loss of my best friend and biggest cheerleader, a big, empty, echoing space in my life where Willie should have been, a feeling of dislocation and something deeply wrong, like the universe had taken a sidestep, and fear way down deep inside because Willie wasn't gone because he was at university; I could have lived with that.

No, my fears were circling around where he was, and what he was training for; he was going to be a soldier, an officer in the army, and he was getting ready to go to war far away, our soldiers were dying in that war because it wasn't a game, it was a real place, a death-place, and he was going there...

He'd always wanted to serve in both his and my daddy's regiment, The Blues and Royals and be a tank commander in the armoured regiment like his daddy. Willie was never going to wear that shiny breastplate and carry a sword and escort the queen on a black horse through London looking all romantic and historic like daddy had; no, he was going to drive a tin can in a killing-zone and wait to be attacked, or lead formations of tin cans and hope the Taliban didn't have sufficient firepower to knock them out. He was training to be a target, and my heart ached and shuddered at the thought of him fighting alone, so far from home, knowing he was the trophy scalp those crazy lunatics were looking for.

All of this bubbled around in me for days, keeping mummy a safe distance away from me because I was explosively outspoken, and mad as hell, and she didn't want to deal with my moods and my mouth while worrying about daddy. Daddy did the best he could, for a soldier he was a remarkably soft-spoken, gentle man, and he gave me some of what I needed, but there was so much I didn't understand going on with me, quite apart from the loss and anger, and anyway, he wasn't Will; only my big bear could make it better, I was sure of it.

On top of that, whenever I tried to visualise Will's face, his smile, his naughty grin when he was trying to put one over on me, the look on his face when one of my school friends (a boy, let's be honest) tried to hold my hand or put their arm around me, or even just touch me, that icy, narrow-eyed look that said "get your grubby mitts off my sister or you will die..." my heart literally lurched and thundered and I dissolved in tears. I didn't know his leaving would do this to me, how long and how much it would keep hurting, if I'd known I would have thrown myself in front of the car just to keep him with me...

The truth was I couldn't stand even a day without him, this enormous pain inside me because I needed him so much was eating me up and I couldn't stop it...

Talking to mummy was pointless; she loved me but she wouldn't understand what I was feeling, daddy was even less help, he just wanted to baby me, so that left Aunt Kay, and I ended-up unburdening on her, telling her everything I was feeling, because she was the only "No-Judgement" zone I had.

She heard me out, all my angst and woe, and then she asked the real question, the one I wanted the answer to most of all.

"Georgy, what's this really all about? Why does Willie going to military college hurt so much? You knew he had to grow up and leave one day, but he'll be back, he has breaks and holidays, he can come back at any time, so tell me truthfully, what's this really all about?"

She knew! She knew and she wanted me to say it, so I did, because I had nowhere left to go.

"I love him, Aunt Kay, and I want him back..."

Aunt Kay smiled sadly at me.

"I know baby, we all love him, and..." but I cut her short.

"No, I mean I LOVE him, really love him; I need him, I can't be without him, and it's burning me up inside!"

Aunt Kay pulled me closer, blotting my tears and crooning at me, calming me down, before hugging me close, the way she did when I was tiny.

"Georgy-Girl, I know you think you're in love with Willie, it's natural, he's been part of you since you were a baby, he's always been there for you, he's your handsome big brother, your guardian angel and first call when you need help or a hug, and I know you think that means you love him, you should, but not in that way. Willie is your hero, he should be, but you'll find other boys as you get older, boys you'll start to like in... in that way, and you'll eventually find a boy that you really do fall in love with, one who'll make you feel like the way you do about Will right now, and you'll both be happy. Give it time, baby, and give yourself a chance, you're only young, you have plenty of time, believe me."

So I let her wipe my tears away and hold me, and rock me, and soothe me, but I knew she was wrong; Willie was mine, and one day I was going to show her how wrong she was!

*****

Watching Will at his passing-out parade was the hardest thing I'd ever done; I didn't think how dashing and martial he looked, I didn't think for one second how smart his cadet uniform was; all I could think was 'this is it; now he's a soldier, and he's going to that place and I may never see him again.' What had I ever done to be punished like this? I was going to lose daddy, and sometime soon, I was going to watch the news as they unloaded the coffins at RAF Lyneham and heard Willie's name listed among the dead, I just knew it, and all my dreams and hopes and plans for my life would be for nothing, just a life alone and another coffin in the family vault, and the final end of the Wilmot name after nearly nine hundred years.

*****

Part 2: Dreaming Of the Someone You Could Be

Will:

Leaving home, and leaving my baby sister Georgy behind, was the hardest, most heartbreaking thing I have ever done in my life; the look of loss and deep betrayal on her sweet little face literally ripped my heart in two; I actually came within a hairsbreadth of telling dad to 'stop! I'm not doing this, I can't!' but I didn't, and the last I saw of Georgy was her stricken face as she cried for me to come back.

The drive down to Camberley in Surrey was mostly in silence; mum and dad were excited at the thought I was going into the Royal Military Academy, but they weren't exactly jumping with joy at the thought of me leaving home, and I was missing Georgy with a sick intensity I'd never felt before. Part of me was missing, and I really didn't feel like filling the gap with trivial conversation, so any questions they asked me usually got a morose, monosyllabic reply. I didn't feel like chit-chatting, I was missing Georgy sitting in the back of the car with me playing 'Bug-Slug', where she punched me every time she saw a VW Beetle.

*****

Settling-in was a lot easier than I thought it would be; the 44-week officer's commissioning curriculum we studied ensured we received a well-rounded military education, with solid military training, and the option to continue with more academic pursuits post-commissioning existed. I wasn't going to do that; I was looking to complete pre-commissioning, go to regular army units for more specialised training, pass-out as a commissioned officer, and accept further academic training if my circumstances warranted it.

There was a lot (a lot...) of P.E., and obviously our curriculum was heavily biased toward military pursuits, so lots of martial history, from the Punic Wars to Korea, basic military skills and physical fitness, and leadership and academic training in various subjects and disciplines. This was also when I was able to definitively make my selection for my future regiment, the Household Armoured Cavalry, like my father before me.

In between terms we were sent on adventurous training exercises both in the UK and overseas; my enduring memory is visiting and training with the British Army Gurkha Selection Unit in Kathmandu, but there was also desert training in Bahrain with elements of the 7th Armoured ('The Desert Rats'), and jungle warfare training in Belize.

Drill sergeants yelled at us a lot, made us practice formations and parade-ground manoeuvres until our legs were ready to drop off, then make us do it all over again the next day; they treated us like the sons they'd never wanted, so no hints of favouritism could ever reasonably be levelled their way. Lots of death-threats were levelled at us, and, bearing in mind we were all technically officers in Her Majesty's armed forces, screamed statements along the lines of "You worthless fucking maggot, you drop that one more time and I will shove my boot up your arse, why are you here, do you like pissing me off, or do your parents just fucking hate you...sir?"

It could get kind of surreal at times...

*****

Whenever I did get home, Georgy would literally pounce on me and bowl me over, laughing and gabbling and crying all at once and I'd hug her tightly because it felt so good to have my best bud back again, and she'd drag me off to go see her newest thing, usually another horse, and we'd groom her horse together and chat about Sandhurst, home, any and everything.

Dad seemed to not be doing too well, even though he swore up and down that he was fine, just old-age catching up with him which set my alarm bells ringing 'dead-slow'; dad was only 52, but he looked much older, thinner, and what was with the walking stick? Of course he laughed it off when I questioned him, so did mum, and Aunt Kay, even Georgy, so I had to leave it be, but I still couldn't figure out why everyone felt they had to lie to me every time I went home, and why dad looked older and more haggard and just beaten down...

Georgy was growing with a vengeance; every time I went home she was different, older, more poised, turning into a young woman, not the kid who chased up and down the back-stairs with me, and was convinced she'd find Narnia if she looked long enough. There weren't that many times if I'm honest, though, what with training then time with my regiment prior to passing-out and deployment, so getting home to mum and dad for Georgy's special birthday, just a few months before I passed out is the one that sticks in my memory, because she was going to be eighteen, not such a little girl anymore. Mum and dad had bought her a horse, and she and I spent my weekend at home grooming and mucking-out the thing, along with her other horse and the pony that had started this horsey obsession of hers, but it was time with my very best friend in the world, so it was time well spent.

When I arrived back at barracks I had a stack of pictures of Georgy: Georgy and me, Georgy on her horse, Georgy eating the ice-cream cake I gave her for her birthday, Georgy sitting on my lap and laughing happily. As soon as I put her pictures out my squad-room mates homed in on the pretty girl with the mop of black hair and big grey eyes, and I had to deal with the barrage of questions about who she was, how long had we been going together, did she have any sisters, the usual guy stuff. It felt weird admitting the only girl I actually knew was my baby sister, so I kept my mouth shut and let them believe what they liked.

*****

Passing-out Parade was when it all finally came crashing down around me. Seeing dad huddled in his wheelchair, unable to even stand, finally drove home all the worries and suspicions that had been bubbling away deep inside me; he'd been so different last time I'd been home, and now all I could see was that my dad was seriously ill, he looked terrible, shrunken and huddled in on himself, his posture not that of the upright cavalryman I'd known all my life. My mind blanked, I was so shocked I could barely keep step as we wheeled and marched.

Getting him home afterwards had been my priority, making the long journey home as easy on him as we could, and trying not to let the huge fear inside me take me over. Once we'd arrived back home, Georgy and I tried to make him rest, but dad had other things on his mind, things he felt he needed to tell me. It started with him telling me what was happening to him.

"It's Pancreatic Cancer, Will, we've been holding it off as long as we could, but it was never going to go away. It's at what they call 'Stage 4' now; no respite. I'm sorry, Will, I wanted to be here for you but it's not going to happen, so please listen to me. Georgy is going to need you, she and your mother are both going to need you to be there for them, and I don't mean here, in this house; you're supposed to be a soldier, son, you go and be what you're supposed to be, just remember one thing: this is your home, and your mother and sister will need you to be what I can't be for them."

He grinned, his old 'dad grin, and ruffled my hair.

"When I first met you, you were just a few days old; your father was here with your mother and you, he had to report back to Bulford Camp, so I came to pick him up, and that's when I got to hold you for the first time and tell you what a good soldier your father was. He was so proud of you, Will, and so was I."

"When your father was killed I brought him home to your mother. He was my best friend and you were all I had left of him, and you and your mother became my family too. I became what you needed for Jamie's sake, it's what he would have wanted; you know how that developed and what happened after that. I just wanted you to know that I'm as proud of raising you as my son as I am of you for being Jamie's son, there's so much of him in you, and he would have been so proud of how you turned out, always remember that."

He stopped, obviously almost at the end of his strength.

"Thank you for coming home with me, Will, it means so much to me that you're here now. Now go and find Georgy, I think she wants to talk to you, and ask your mother to please join me; I need to see her... "

I left him reluctantly; he was ready to go, even I could see that, and I really wanted to eke out however many precious minutes of time I had with him, but he and mum needed that time too. She and Georgy were waiting just outside dad's study; all I could do was nod, because I couldn't trust myself to speak as Georgy took my hand and led me into the parlour while mum joined dad in his study.

Georgy and I sat silently side by side on the couch, just as we'd done for years. I took her hand because I needed to feel physical contact with her, to try and recapture the carefree days of long ago when we didn't have this huge impending loss hanging over our heads. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that it took a while to realise she was crying silently, tears running down her cheeks and dripping heedlessly from her chin.

"How long have you known?" I asked her, and saw the guilty little start from the corner of my eye.

"Wh... what Will, I mean... it's not... I didn't... oh Will!" she wailed, and I couldn't be mad at her, she was my Georgy-Girl, and she needed me.

I leaned over and wrapped my arm around her shoulders, pulling her to me as I blotted her tears the way I'd been doing since she was a toddler, and she grabbed my hand and held it to her cheek.

"What am I going to do, Willie? Daddy's going soon, what do I do next?"

I held her close, because I was damned if I knew; I didn't know how to deal with what was coming, this was all a first for me, I had no map, no manual, all I had was Georgy's grief and my own fear.

We were sitting in the gloom when mother came in and found us huddled together, Georgy all cried-out and me unable to process what was going on, the suddenness of it, the absolute hammer-blow that had fallen on me.

"Daddy has started taking the pain medications, darlings," she murmured, and, when I looked at her enquiringly she explained that he had been holding off on the palliative care medications so he'd have a clear head when he finally got to tell me what he needed me to know.

Georgy and I looked in on him one last time, but he was asleep and hopefully having some respite from the pain.

Dad passed away three days later with his family at his bedside, and four days after he was interred in the family vault in the estate cemetery. Georgy, mother, and Aunt Kay were managing as well as could be expected, dad's loss wasn't exactly unexpected, and I had to get back to my troop at Bulford Camp, Wiltshire. The British Army deployment of Operation Herrick was in full-swing in Afghanistan, and our troop, and several others, were finishing final shakedown training on Salisbury Plain prior to deployment. I, and the others of my graduating class, would be commanding FV107 Scimitar Armoured Reconnaissance Vehicles in support of the ground troops in Afghanistan.

*****

The Wanderer Returns:

Eventually, even the most exciting adventures pall, and so it was for me. I'd believed we were going out to that place to fight a war that we would win because we were in the right, and we were better, but after four years I'd had enough, as had nearly everyone; it was sapping me, my men, even command echelon; we were getting nowhere, and losing men for what seemed no reason. My C.O. used to chide me for not riding the promotion trail, but frankly, the thought of bumping up to captain and another six years of this endless non-success we were relentlessly churning through filled me with a burning lack of enthusiasm and a strong desire to be somewhere else entirely.

I requested an accelerated honourable discharge based on four extended operational front-line deployments in-theatre, and, after a series of 'what a waste of your training, we'll soon buck up your ideas, laddie-boy, go home on leave and come back a captain, you've earned the bump-up blah blah blah' lectures, they relented and handed me my papers.

After having three Scimitars shot out from under my crew and me, and having to fight our way on foot back to the lines, then being offered what was left of our rapidly depleting mobile armour, a 1990's-issue refurbished and up-gunned Scorpion that made funny noises even standing stock still we'd all had enough, my men, our entire troop, and me; we kept on keeping-on, and it made no difference, it was just more of the same, forever.

Spending my days dodging snipers as a matter of course, being endlessly locked in Osprey body armour and being so bored we were using the ceramic trauma plates as impromptu barbecues so we could try and make our rations a smidgeon more edible, and having no home leave, just Kuwait, which was even more depressing than Helmand, just added to the general air of fun and merriment.

When we weren't sitting around tooled-up and waiting for movement orders, wondering what the real world was doing, and trying to remember what a pub felt like, smelt like, sounded like on a Saturday night out, telling lies about girls we hardly knew who'd mostly 'Dear John'd' us long ago, we were knee-deep in nightmarish hand-to-hand dust-ups with bands of screaming Jihadists and religious fucking loonies with grenade belts and great big swords and LAW rockets they'd fire like bazookas because they were mental.

This war was not at all like the heroic stands in 'Beau Geste' I'd read about as a boy, battling nobly and heroically against the alien hordes in defence of my Queen, no, it was kill, and kill, and kill some more. We were battling insane, pain-indifferent religious zealots who'd blindly charge our lines in fanatical, 'banzai' charges, or we'd end up in protracted, all night-long fire-fights that invariably descended into hand-to-hand 'stab, gouge, choke, and kick' fights with the ones who got through our lines and went kill-crazy.

After four years I finally saw the writing on the wall and jacked it in; I was done. The place was a gigantic toilet plunger, sucking the life and will out of everyone there, it drained our spirits and made us careless, and careless soldiers are dead soldiers, apart from the one we didn't talk about, the ones who actually liked it and had turned into body-count obsessed, kill-crazy psychopaths, none of which any sane soldier wanted anywhere near them because they got men killed for nothing. They finally relented and rotated me out, Cyprus, Gibraltar, and Brize Norton, the long way round just to piss me off.