THE GREAT WAR
Chapter Two
Rose had just returned from
running a few errands when a knock sounded on the door. A young man stood in
the doorway and coughed a little before he spoke.
"Letter for Mrs.
Dawson." He croaked a little.
Rose smiled a little, but then
reminded herself that this man was probably only a young teenager.
"Yes. I am she," Rose
spoke. She actually wondered who was mailing her. Jack hadn’t sent her any mail
as she had not yet returned his letter.
Although she did feel she should.
In his last letter, he had seemed scared and almost not like Jack at all.
The young man offered Rose the
envelope and cleared his throat a little. Rose stared at the letter, almost
confused. The young man cleared his throat once again and Rose broke her
attention and saw that the young man was still standing there. He obviously
expected a tip.
Rose dug into her pocket, pulled
out a few coins, and handed them to him. He was obviously a very rude young
man.
"Thank you, ma’am. Have a
good day."
Once inside, Rose watched as the
young man disappeared down the path. Setting her hat down on the counter, Rose
flipped her fingers underneath the seal and broke it. She removed the letter
slowly from the envelope and saw that it was folded perfectly across.
She shakily unfolded the letter
and began to read.
Mrs. Dawson,
We regret to inform you that
your husband, Mr. Jack Robert Dawson, has been injured in action due to a
mustard gas attack on the morning of April 30, 1918.
He is being treated in a hospital
in France.
You and your family are in our
thoughts at this difficult time.
Rose’s calm instantly vanished as
she dropped the letter with a horrified cry. No! Not Jack. He was supposed to
come home safely to watch his child come into the world. He was supposed to be
a survivor and now he could die. The letter didn’t even say how bad his
injuries were. Rose let out another horrified cry and felt her lungs would
collapse and her stomach would turn inside out. She had never felt this sort of
pain before.
Suddenly, Rose felt the baby move
within her and this instantly brought her attention back to the present and
calmed her profusely. The baby had never kicked before. It must have sensed her
distress.
Rose pulled herself from the
ground and wiped away her falling tears. Jack would return. He had promised so
many times and he would come home. She knew she had to remain positive now, not
just for herself, but for the baby she and Jack were to have together.
How many more? How many more
Goddamned soldiers have to die or be injured for the war to stop? How much more
loss of lives? How can the people of the world see this as a holy war? As
something which has to carry on no matter what happens and however many lives
are lost? Rose thought.
She knew she had to continue to
believe Jack would come home. She knew she would. Even if it meant bringing
their child into the world alone. Rose knew she would continue to have faith in
her Jack. He never broke his promises, ever.
*****
The young man could feel the pain
like no other he had ever felt before. It seemed the world surrounding him was
black and like hell.
Maybe I died, he thought for a few seconds.
The moans that surrounded him
were like laying in the middle of a death zone. They were horrendous.
The young man mustered all of the
strength he could and lifted his right arm slowly at first and then he caught
sight through his bleary blue eyes. His arm was plastered and bandaged. Then he
felt the pain. Shit. The indescribable pain which shot up and down his arm. But
he was determined to be able to lift his painful and bloody arm to his head.
He felt something slimy and wet
on his head. He touched the edge of his forehead gently with his fingertips
before bringing them down so he could see what it was.
In the dim light of the room, he
could just make out the color. Red. Blood.
"Oh, my God!" He
panicked loudly and his voice seemed to echo around the room. He was bleeding.
He knew he didn’t like blood. He never had since he was a child.
The moans seem to grow louder and
then more painful. The young man heard footsteps audibly coming towards him. He
tried to raise his head a little to see where they were coming from, but his
head felt weak and heavy. The room was quite dark and the only light was
through a half-opened door in the corner of the room.
The steps seemed to stop beside
him and a hand reached out and flicked on his bedside lamp.
The young man carefully turned
his head, trying not to cause himself much pain from his head. There he saw a young
woman, obviously very young, no more than twenty.
She had blonde hair, which was
tucked under a nurse’s hat, and a nurse’s dress on. In her hand she held a
clipboard, and then she placed it on the cabinet beside his bed and took out
some pills from her pocket. She seemed to smile infectiously and as the young
man looked at her pretty face, he thought maybe she was an angel.
"It’s time for your pills,
sir," the young woman whispered. She proceeded to pick up her clipboard as
to see how many pills the young man was prescribed.
The man frowned and then
repeated, "Pills?"
"Yes. Pills." The young
woman handed the young man two pills and a small glass of water. "For the
pain, sir. You must take them. They will reduce the pain in your wounds."
"Wounds?" the man
repeated once again.
"Yes, sir."
The man sighed and proceeded to
attempt to sit up with the help of the young nurse. He felt pain, but he didn’t
know why. Once he sat up, the man seemed dumbfounded as to where he was. His
surroundings felt strange and unfamiliar.
"Where am I?" the man
asked, his eyes still scanning the room.
"You’re in a hospital,
sir."
"Hospital? Why am I
here?"
The young nurse took a seat
beside the bed of the man. She took his hand and began to gently rub her thumb
over it. Many of the soldiers had asked this question.
The mustard gas attack had seemed
to affect their memories. Most of the men she had also comforted this way, but
most of those men had died and like those men, the young nurse suspected that
this handsome young man would die, too.
"You were involved in a
mustard gas attack the day before yesterday while in battle. You were brought
here for medical attention."
"Medical?"
"Yes. You have multiple
wounds, sir."
That must explain the pain.
Things seem to be gently settling in now. The moans seemed to have died down a
little and the presence of this young woman had certainly calmed him.
The man gazed at his bandaged and
bloody arm. He gently raised his hand to his head and the pain grew unbearable.
He let another soft moan of pain escape his lips and the young woman shushed
him and offered him the pills.
"Here." She placed them
in his palm, along with the water. He took them and could taste the bitterness
of the pills. "There. Now, you should get more sleep, sir."
"I should?" the young
man asked. He certainly didn’t feel tired. He felt as though he had slept for
days.
The young nurse was slightly
confused. This patient certainly was different. He didn’t seem to remember
anything or even know why he was there.
"Sir? Do you remember
anything much from the attack?"
The young man began to think. He
tried as hard as he could to rack his brains and think of anything he could
beyond waking up just minutes ago.
He remembered blood. A lot of
blood. Screams, shrieks, and smoke. He remembered coughing a lot. He remembered
that his friend Matthew was covered in ugly-looking blisters and how he could
barely breathe as he lay next to him on the cold, hard ground.
That was pretty much it.
"I remember some things.
Blood, blisters, smoke. Matthew--my friend."
The nurse bowed her head and
squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds. She knew of Matthew and his wounds.
He had died yesterday from them. Blisters had covered what seemed like every
inch of his body. They wept and when they were bathed with the hypochlorite
bleach solution, he cried out in desperate pain, and all the nurse could do was
block out his suffering as she tried her best to decontaminate him. But her
best was not enough. Just like it wasn’t for many other of the sufferers here.
Most of them would die. She knew that. It was just a matter of time before they
would, and then the next set of victims of this cruel war would be hurried in.
It was the same old cycle and it seemed endless. Would the war ever end?
"Can you remember your
name?" the nurse asked.
"Yeah. I’m Jack. Jack
Dawson." His voice was smooth and sure and he even had a slight charming
and boyish smile on his face as he said this. The nurse couldn’t help but
smile, too.
"I’m Dawn Armstrong. I’m one
of the nurses here."
"I know. How long will I be
here, Dawn?"
"For as long as your wounds
will take to heal, Mr. Dawson. Some take days, other weeks and months.
Others…well…they don’t even heal at all."
Jack lowered his head, knowing
what this would mean. Death. He knew himself how many people had become victims
of the war. He’d seen death so close to himself that he thought he wouldn’t
make it through each day. Each day it seemed he lost a friend. He lost someone
close to him. Poor Thierry. He had a family of his own.
"Are you married, Mr.
Dawson?" Dawn asked, eyeing his wedding band. It was a rhetorical
question, but no harm in asking. She wanted to lighten the mood a little. Death
seemed to surround her every day.
"Married?"
"Yes. Do you have a
wife?" Dawn smiled.
Jack looked down at his left hand
and saw his wedding band sparkling in the dim light. It was then that he
remembered Rose. God, his Rose. Did she even know where he was? Did she think
him dead? Was she all right? And the baby?
Shit. Jack hadn’t thought of Rose
the whole time. He even surprised himself. She had always seemed to be the
first thought in the morning as he awoke and the last thought at night before
he slept. It was she who had encouraged him to go on and fight in this war.
Thoughts of her and the child they would have together had carried him through.
"My wife will be wondering
where I am," Jack spoke, almost just to himself.
"The authorities will have
sent a telegram informing her of your whereabouts and about the attack. She
will know you are here in the hospital."
"Shit. No." Jack began
to rub his very sore head. That wasn’t what he wanted. He could feel his legs
and they seemed to burn a lot. He didn’t want Rose to know. The shock could
harm the baby. He hadn’t written in weeks. He had to see her. "I have to
see my wife. I have to."
Jack tried to spin his legs
around to move himself from the bed sideways, but it seemed his legs stung
badly. He tried so hard, and Dawn could do nothing but watch this poor man
attempt to get out of bed alone. She herself felt like bursting out crying from
what this war had done to the poor man.
"Jack, please. Stay. Don’t
move."
"I have to see my
wife." Jack tried persistently to stand, even though he felt pain like he
never had before. The burning. God, he thought he would collapse to the floor.
But once again, the picture of Rose’s smiling face was in his head and it
wouldn’t go away.
"Jack, please stop and lay
down. I have to tend to you."
"Tend to what? You already
gave me pills."
Hesitantly, Jack lay back down
and almost screamed from the pain. Tears escaped his eyes as he wept like he
never had before.
"What’s wrong with me, Dawn?
I’m not a man. I can’t even stand. How can I be a father? How can I support my
wife?"
Jack’s pain became more intense
as he the nurse begin to peel back his bedcovers and unwrapped what seemed like
a bandage on his leg.
In the dim light, Jack raised his
head to see what was causing him so much pain.
Blisters. Large white blisters
had formed on top of his right leg. The looked like eggs.
"Now, Jack, shush. I need to
apply some solution. This may sting."
Dawn dipped a small cloth into
the hypochlorite bleach solution before applying it to Jack’s sore leg.
Immediately, Jack felt nauseous
and dipped his head over the side of the bed. He heaved heavily just from the
pain and seeing what the war had done to his leg.
The image of Rose drifted farther
and farther away and he lost consciousness.
Dawn hurried to tend to Jack and
lifted up his head. She saw blood around his mouth. He had coughed up blood.
"Doctor!" Dawn screamed
as she went running and found the most experienced doctor on the ward. From
that moment, she was skeptical as to whether Mr. Dawson would indeed survive.
She cried tears of pain for his wife, and he had also mentioned that she was
with child.
God, please stop this damned
war. Please. Make peace. God, please. Don’t let innocent men die. Dawn prayed harder than she had ever done
in her entire life.