David Flin
Not so much a mystery, but I've had several things happen in my life that could easily form the basis of a book. For example, how I met Alison, my late wife.
It was 1982, and I was a Royal Marine. April came and Argentina invaded the Falklands. As a consequence, I went Down South, along with my troop and a whole bunch of other people.
Things happened, which are not germane to the story. However, on the night of 11/12 June, 42 Commando (of which I was a part, commanding No 2 Troop of K Company) had to attack Mt Harriet. So far, so normal. We attacked and took the position. It was at this point that we recognised that, having taken the position, the Argentine forces would soon be shelling it, and would have the position down to the inch. Consequently, I rushed about making sure all my boys were well in cover before the shelling started.
It so happened that the Argentine forces started shelling while I was still checking on my boys, and a shell landed and exploded rather too close for comfort. I was badly injured and, as a result, got a nice helicopter ride back to the Casualty Clearing Station back in San Carlos, while I held the bits of me that should be inside and stopped them from falling on the floor. I'm no medical expert, but I thought this wouldn't be good for me.
When I arrived at San Carlos, a nurse patched me up, stitched the major wounds shut to stop bits falling on the floor. Then she got detailed off to accompany me on another helicopter ride to the hospital ship Uganda, where there were proper medical facilities. "Keep that bugger alive" was the instructions she was given. By now, I was so doped up on morphine as a painkiller that I wasn't making much sense, but apparently I kept telling everyone that I had dry socks for my boys in my pack and they had to make sure they got these socks. One focuses on the most trivial of details in such situations. Mind you, dry socks were a vital feature of this little war. I digress.
She flew with me to the Uganda, and stayed with me until I went under the knife. As you can tell by the fact that I'm around to write this, the operation was a success.
Uganda sailed back to Britain with me on it. The nurse was also on the ship.
By the time the ship arrived at Britain, Alison (the nurse, my grubby-faced angel of the aid station) and I were engaged.
Which is, by anyone's reckoning, one hell of a first date. I'm not sure anyone else can claim a two-month long first date on a luxury liner with an engagement before the end.
I proposed the plot as the basis of a story to Mills & Boon, who rejected the idea as being "too implausible". My real-life meeting with the lady who became my wife was too implausible for M&B. Never mind.
I still say it could be used as the plot for a book. I just need to work out a suitable publisher for it.
It was 1982, and I was a Royal Marine. April came and Argentina invaded the Falklands. As a consequence, I went Down South, along with my troop and a whole bunch of other people.
Things happened, which are not germane to the story. However, on the night of 11/12 June, 42 Commando (of which I was a part, commanding No 2 Troop of K Company) had to attack Mt Harriet. So far, so normal. We attacked and took the position. It was at this point that we recognised that, having taken the position, the Argentine forces would soon be shelling it, and would have the position down to the inch. Consequently, I rushed about making sure all my boys were well in cover before the shelling started.
It so happened that the Argentine forces started shelling while I was still checking on my boys, and a shell landed and exploded rather too close for comfort. I was badly injured and, as a result, got a nice helicopter ride back to the Casualty Clearing Station back in San Carlos, while I held the bits of me that should be inside and stopped them from falling on the floor. I'm no medical expert, but I thought this wouldn't be good for me.
When I arrived at San Carlos, a nurse patched me up, stitched the major wounds shut to stop bits falling on the floor. Then she got detailed off to accompany me on another helicopter ride to the hospital ship Uganda, where there were proper medical facilities. "Keep that bugger alive" was the instructions she was given. By now, I was so doped up on morphine as a painkiller that I wasn't making much sense, but apparently I kept telling everyone that I had dry socks for my boys in my pack and they had to make sure they got these socks. One focuses on the most trivial of details in such situations. Mind you, dry socks were a vital feature of this little war. I digress.
She flew with me to the Uganda, and stayed with me until I went under the knife. As you can tell by the fact that I'm around to write this, the operation was a success.
Uganda sailed back to Britain with me on it. The nurse was also on the ship.
By the time the ship arrived at Britain, Alison (the nurse, my grubby-faced angel of the aid station) and I were engaged.
Which is, by anyone's reckoning, one hell of a first date. I'm not sure anyone else can claim a two-month long first date on a luxury liner with an engagement before the end.
I proposed the plot as the basis of a story to Mills & Boon, who rejected the idea as being "too implausible". My real-life meeting with the lady who became my wife was too implausible for M&B. Never mind.
I still say it could be used as the plot for a book. I just need to work out a suitable publisher for it.
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