TITANIC ROSE
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Switzerland
January, 1918
The man awoke, not knowing where
he was or what had happened. He was lying on a narrow cot, covered by a white
sheet and white blanket. The room was brightly lit, so he could see the forms
of several veiled women moving amongst the beds. The room had a strong medicinal
smell.
Where am I? he wondered. He tried to remember how he
had gotten there, but nothing came to mind. He knew that the women in the room
were nuns, probably working as nurses, and that he was in some sort of hospital
or infirmary, but where he was or how he had gotten there was a mystery.
Looking to either side, he saw
other men lying in the beds, some asleep, most bandaged or with their arms in
slings or their legs in traction. Slowly, he tried to sit up, but couldn’t
quite make it.
"Monsieur!" One of the
nuns hurried over when she saw him attempting to sit up. When he stared at her
blankly, she realized that he didn’t understand French, and tried another
language. "Mein Herr…" Still no response. "Signor…" When he
didn’t respond to French, German, or Italian—the languages that she spoke—she
glanced through the brief chart of information about him and realized that he
was an American and most likely spoke English. Turning, she waved over a young
nun who had been helping a patient with two broken arms drink a cup of water.
"Soeur Nora!"
The nun hurried over.
"Oui?"
They spoke rapidly in French, and
then the young nun turned to the man, smiling as the older nun moved to take
over the task she had abandoned. "Sir? I’m Sister Nora. Do you speak
English?"
She had a heavy Irish brogue,
which confused him for a moment, but soon he nodded his head. The questions
came pouring out. "Where am I? What happened? How did I get here?"
The nun listened patiently, then
answered his questions. "You’re in Switzerland, sir, just across the
border from France. It’s a neutral country. We’re not involved in the war, but
we do have hospital facilities. As to what happened, we think you were caught
in an air raid just on the other side of the border, which happened a little over
a week ago. Two children and their dog found you lying just inside the Swiss
border and told the police, who brought you here."
"How long have I been
here?"
"A week. You’d suffered a
blow to the head and might have been wandering around. Your left leg was badly
injured, too…"
He lifted his head a little,
looking toward where his legs were covered with the blanket. The left side
didn’t look quite right…it appeared shorter than the right side.
"I want to see."
"Sir…" Sister Nora
glanced around uneasily. "Perhaps you should wait for the doctor…"
"No. I want to see it
now."
Reluctantly, she pulled back the
blanket and sheet, revealing a healthy right leg—and a left leg that ended in a
bandaged stump just below the knee.
The man paled, staring at his
leg. "What happened?"
"As I said, you were badly
injured…gangrene set in and the doctors had to amputate to save your
life."
"But…I don’t understand…how
can half of my leg be gone? I can still feel it…"
"Phantom pains, sir. They
often occur after an amputation. They will go away in time, I can assure
you."
He shook his head. "I can
feel my toes…they hurt."
"But it isn’t real. Your
toes aren’t there anymore."
"I can see that." He
put his head down as she covered him again. "You said I was caught in an
air raid?"
"That’s what the police
thought when they brought you here. The timing was right, and your injuries are
consistent—"
"How did I get caught in an
air raid? And why was I in France? Am I French?" He could imagine France,
but not why he had been there.
She frowned. "You’re an
American, sir. You were wearing an American uniform when you were brought here,
showing that you’re a part of the American army."
He stared at her, not
understanding. American? France? The Army? Why couldn’t he remember any of it?
"Do you not remember,
sir?"
He shook his head.
"No."
As he thought harder, some faint
images began to return to him…the sound of explosions…men shouting and
screaming…the buzz of airplanes overhead…and then the memory of a weeping
redheaded woman clinging to him, three children at her side. He didn’t know who
she was, or who the children were, though, nor could he remember the details of
the air raid, or where he had been at the time, or what he had been doing.
Sister Nora looked at him
cautiously. "Sir? Do you know your name?"
He thought for a moment, trying
to recall, then slowly shook his head, only now feeling the dull ache.
"No."
She picked up his chart,
consulting it. "We don’t know your full name. Your identification had been
lost, and all that we found to tell who you are was a water-damaged letter in
your pocket. It was addressed to a Thomas, but the rest of the letter was so
badly damaged that we couldn’t read it. Is that your name, sir? Are you
Thomas?"
He frowned, trying to think. He
wasn’t sure if that was his name or not, but why would he have been carrying a
letter addressed to someone else?
Finally, he nodded. "I think
so."
"All right, Thomas. Do you
know your last name?"
Thomas closed his eyes, trying to
think, but no name came to mind. What did come to mind was the red-haired
woman, begging him not to go. He couldn’t quite place her, but something about
her seemed familiar…was she his wife, perhaps? If she was his wife, then she
must share his name, but what name was that?
Finally, a glimmer of an idea
came to him. It made no sense why the name appeared as though it were in movie
credits, but then, nothing made sense now…phantom pains…no memory of who he was
or how he had gotten here…why shouldn’t the woman’s name appear as a moving
picture credit. Her name was Rose Dawson, and if she was his wife, then that
meant that his name was…
"Dawson," he told
Sister Nora. "My name is Thomas Dawson."