Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands by Peter von Bleichert Page A

dry and cracking.  He awakened with a groan and lifted his throbbing head.  He looked to his broken helicopter.
    Grey smoke rose from the Apache’s engine pod.  It feathered on the wind and painted a trail in the sky that led right back to the crash site.  Albert felt a sudden urgency to get away from the area.  He saw that Donnan was still slumped in his harness.  Albert knew his co-pilot/gunner—his friend—had died.  Albert rolled onto his side and sat up.  The world turned fast.  He propped himself on the one arm that was not sore, and stood.  He wobbled and leaned against the Apache’s bent fuselage and felt his way to Donnan’s side.
    The blood from Donnan’s head wound formed a black pool of coagulated ooze.  Albert reached for his friend’s jugular and searched for evidence of life.  The skin was cold and rubbery, and there was no telltale pulse.  Donnan was free; had no more guilt or worries.  Albert unclipped Donnan’s harness.  He would lift the body out when he could muster the strength.  For now, though, he just reached for the radio that still had power despite evidence of shorting.  He tuned the radio’s dial over to an emergency frequency and clicked transmit.
    “Any British forces, any British forces, this is an army attack helicopter.  We are down, and require rescue, over.”  Careful not to give his call sign or location, Albert waited a moment before repeating the transmission.  There was nothing.  Not even static.  Albert turned his attention to Donnan.
    “Okay, mate,” he said to his lifeless friend, and with a heave, pulled the body from the cockpit.  Donnan’s foggy eyes seemed to look right into Albert’s own eyes.  Their dull glaze frightened him.  Donnan’s eyes had always displayed the glint of happiness and intelligence in them; had always shown his good soul in the black pits of his pupils.  Although the brightness had faded a bit after Jugroom, his gaze always comforted Albert, and was full of life.  Now, Albert could see, Donnan was truly gone, someplace far off, or, perhaps, nowhere at all.  Albert had a sudden renewed love of being alive, and he felt very selfish for his long courting of dark thoughts.  The certainty filled him that a man like Donnan could not be in Hell, that God could not judge a brave and upright person for one mistaken night on the battlefield.  Calm settled over Albert.
    In that calm, a voice told him there was a purpose for everything.  Even the worst days of life were precious, that they made us who we were, taught us lessons when we needed them, and reminded us of what was important.  Albert even felt it possible that the nameless little girl who had perished at their hand had forgiven. That she, too, was free of the bounds of earth, of the hard mud floor she had slept on, the scant food and filthy water she had swallowed, and the dirty, torn clothes she had worn.  Most of all, she was free of the men who had not cared for her, who had loved killing more than they did their little girl, and who had caressed the cold gun-metal of a Kalashnikov instead of her smooth, warm face.
    Sudden anger swamped such thoughts—anger at any father who could put ideology and death above the greatest gift God—any supposed God—could give: a precious child.  Albert realized he must forgive himself.  Even as a bird in a gilded cage, and handed the life-sentence of being a royal, there were those who were worse off and lived their own private hell.  That moment, Albert realized, he needed to grow up.
    “Sorry,” Albert whispered into Donnan’s ear.  Albert lifted and folded Donnan over his shoulder.  He took a few steps before he had to lower the big man to the ground.  He dragged Donnan close to the cliff edge from where his friend could look over Falkland Sound.  It would be a good place for his friend to rest until British forces could repatriate the body, or, perhaps, should his parents wish it, have him laid to rest within