“There is one chance,” the little clerk glowered, “You are to go see Major Drummond, the medical officer aboard the ship. If he agrees, you might depart as the orders specify,” as he scribbled directions on a piece of paper, gave it to my husband and turned back to shuffling papers around his important work.
What a tangle. This sort of thing happens all of the time to military families. Off to see the doctor.
After Major Drummond perused my medical records, did a cursory examination, he grinned and remarked, “Well! We’ve not had a baby born aboard ship in years. I think this is just fine.” He didn’t really expect one to be born on this crossing, either, it seemed to me.
And the gangplank was let down for us and our luggage, part of which had disappeared long ago, with our car, on some other ship.
We both innocently smiled. This was working out just fine. That smile lasted about two hours, when my sergeant husband learned the ship was overloaded. HE was to join all the troops below decks, from previous experience, a grievous place, a dictionary describing it as: causing grief, sorrow, anguish, pain and physical suffering. All true. However, before long I would have gladly traded places with him.