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.

Chapter Three
Stories