Chapter two:
Contains war scenes some may find a little disturbing.
1917
He could smell the death. Had smelt it for months. The scent of blood was what he knew like nothing else, but it still never replaced the smell of fear.
Should a man be fearful? A man fighting for his country. For his men. For a war he had enlisted into upon his own accord. He would have done anything to be away from his own tormented life. Five years were too long to be alone and tortured by one's own memories and so he replaced one misery with another. He became a soldier. At twenty-five years old, he had shot a gun for the first time in his life. He had ended lives. Pointlessly. Mercilessly. The men he had killed were no doubt fathers, brothers, sons and husbands. They would have been a friend. A lover. An employer. Someone would have written them letters and carried their pictures. But he had no one. Not a soul. He was an orphan. Never married. No children. No one. Nothing.
The war had raged on but it still never plagued his dreams like she did. That one vision that was instilled inside his mind. Loneliness had wounded him, daily and dragging out his life like one endless torture after the next.
Just end me...
Kill me.
Take me away from this world.
Then he had taken a bullet to the leg, that had been removed easily and he was sent back to the front line. He had killed more men. Laid with their bodies. Drank with the enemy. Played cards with them. Laughed with them like they were brothers. Come daylight, the war would rage on. It was already too late. The front line was ablaze with torture, death and the scent of it all. He stood in the trench he was laid in most nights. The bottom was muddy and he almost sank into it as he attempted to walk through it. The rain filled up the trench and water seeped in through the sides, leaving the troops up to their knees in thick, stinking mud that made any movement difficult. There was no sanitation and rats were a problem. Diseases were rife, such as dysentery and trench foot.
He had stopped praying a long time ago. He asked for this hell, but he never wished for himself to be spared but for the others. It was useless...millions had died. More would. It would never end this great war. In time, he had thawed. Troops became his friends. The nights sky although filled with the souls of the beautiful, was lovely to see once more. The stars would shine for them, the moon sometimes guided light. The soldiers, they sang sometimes after a drink or two. The songs would lull him to sleep. For the first time, he didn't feel lonely—almost. Sleep was where they were together...him and her. Red. She always wore red, like her hair and those lips and like—blood. She never bled for him. She had died though...
No name on the list. He had slipped out of consciousness clinging to her hand and then, she was gone. To where? That was the gut-wrenching problem. He never knew. Perhaps she drowned. Perhaps she had left to find help but could never return. Absolution was never offered. Absolution had driven him to drink. To hatred. To anger. No other woman would touch him and nor he them. She was all that mattered. He never spoke her name for it was painful, agony, excruciating and that was when the war had been his only saviour.
Time went on, he would feel lucky. Even happy. Fighting was a distraction from his own misery and if God wasn't ready to take him just yet, then at least he was fighting for his country. He was doing good. He was—existing. It was enough for him. Time was ticking but barely much time to think of her, aside from when night time fell. The stench of death became the norm. The bodies and blood became the norm. Hell because normal. It was all just, well, normal.
It was nine months later when things went horribly wrong. The day had started out as usual for him, two days after his twenty sixth birthday. The loud, heavy sounds of explosions and gunfire blasted across the land. The battle still raged heavily on this, the last day of April. He had gone about the day as usual. It was at mid-morning that things suddenly changed. There had been a lull in the sounds of fighting from the trenches, followed by a series of explosions. The day was clear and still, allowing the sounds to carry for miles, right up into town.
It was a mustard gas attack.
The still and clear day had given the perfect opportunity for the Germans to launch the attack. The lack of wind meant the gas would not be blown back to those who had launched it. The hospital in town was small and filled with injured men. The effects of mustard gas had been seen a few times before in men brought to the hospital on the train, but this was the first time it had been used in the area. The results were horrifying.
Some men stumbled around, blinded by the gas. Others lay on stretchers in agony, choking and moaning from the blisters which covered their body and the effects of the gas on their lungs. Doctors and nurses rushed to tend to the patients. Most had already died, but some still lived and struggled to breathe. The gas masks had been little use to the soldiers. The doctors and nurses knew, as they tended to the patients, that they would not survive. They were too gravely ill and the effects of the gas were too powerful.
Nurses did their best to help the men, tried to comfort them the best they could, but they knew that soon their time would come.
His time would come.
Mustard gas caused internal and external bleeding and attacked the bronchial tubes, stripping off the mucous membrane. It was extremely painful and most soldiers had to be strapped to their beds. It usually took a person four or five weeks to die of mustard gas poisoning.
He would die soon.
Shrapnel had become lodged in his body at various parts.
He would die soon.
The agonising moans haunted him, joining in a symphony of those who had been left to die in below freezing waters within the Atlantic Ocean. They surrounded him, always.
They wailed and writhed in a torturous way.
He never moaned. Groaned. Uttered a word.
His eyes remained closed.
He remained silent. Still.
He would die soon.
God had decided it was now his time. He had even become filled with some sort of peace.
It had to be...
It had.
''Dawson,'' the voice had taken him from his journey to heaven, ripping him back to a small hospital in a French town within seconds. ''D-Dawson.''
The voice was soft. Uncertain. Pure.
''Bad way.'' Another female nurse joined the other. ''Mustard gas attack last Wednesday. Most didn't make it.''
''Lucky.''
He fell asleep. Or perhaps died again.
His body was heavy. As though he carried the weight of the bodies with him. Perhaps he did.
A cool hand brought him back. It tended to a wound upon his stomach. Upon his leg. Wrapping and wrapping and then it stopped. The tenderness was gone.
The whispering started but it was too far away to make out. He never opened his eyes. Knowing they were never to open again. Why try?
''A new day of Spring.'' The voice was there again. ''It is a miracle.''
The tenderness was unbearable of her touch. She cared. The nurse was wonderfully-
He went out again.
The walls shattered around him; brightness came beaming in through the walls of the hospital and it blinded him. He could see. His hands were black. His body beaten. She was there. That angel. Rain came down then, it washed away the blood, the blackness and it cleared the tears which had been cried by her and him for all of these years. A new day had come. A new day. A new dawn.
Shh now. I can see a light in your eyes.
You're an angel.
No, sir I am just doing my job.
The voices sounded like hers and his. Theirs together, for the first time in so long. He ached to hear that wonderful sound once more.
A new day has come.
He was in pain. The writhing had stopped. The bandages were looser. He felt rested. Achy. Agony. Torture.
One eye opened, then the other. It was dark. Dim. A hospital bed. Multiple beds. Soldiers rested. He couldn't smell death. He could smell the clean sterility of the hospital.
It was cleaner.
He wasn't black anymore.
Making out each small object and then the larger was hard as only shadows were cast. Night time had fallen. Just how many moons had he been laid here for?
Water trickled.
At the foot of the bed, his feet were been washed tenderly. A nurse. An angel. The light so dim that her face was not visible beneath her white cap which held her hair out of sight.
He felt the warmth of the water. The touch of her fingers across his ankle.
''They say that all the time.'' Her voice was hushed, whispered to not wake the other soldiers. ''They say to never have a favourite. To never give out your name. To never allow the state of a man to make you hurl. It is just a job, they say. Never tell them your name-''
Suddenly, he was straightening.
''Tell me.'' He demanded, loudly, out of the darkness and clutching the blanket to him as harshly as he could. Suddenly, he was trying to sit up. The nurse screamed into her washcloth, startled and as she stood, she sent water flying about the foot of the bed.
I have not died.
''I-I.''
''Tell me. Your name.'' It came out in breathy, shaky whispers. He needed a drink. When was the last time he had water?
Beneath her cap, he could make out two watery rings which were her eyes. She had not anticipated he was awake, listening to her mindless drawling, but he was. That voice which was so wonderfully familiar, he was sure he heard it someplace in his dreams.
''Mr-''
''I will find out, lady. I have to know.''
A soft laugh came. It woke him more. Familiar. Beautiful. Feminine.
''You have made a miraculous recovery in just over a week. Just the other day, I was watching you sleep throughout the day and night.''
The morphine had caused him to doze. The outburst exhausted him. A soft hand was upon his shoulder, relaxing him to lay and his eyes lulled closed once more.
''Tell me,'' he whispered, pleaded...
''Call me, R.'' She was hesitant.
''What is R?''
''Just R.'' She sighed. ''For that is all I can ever be to you.''
He asked no further questions. A washcloth was upon his face, soothing away the sweat and dirt which had lingered there for days on end.
''I like you, Jack. If that is your name, according to the records found on you, that is all we have to call you. No surname. Just—Jack.''
There was hesitance in how she said his name. As though she had said it before. As though she was meant to say it. He listened to her voice; she was beautiful. An angel. His angel. It was her voice, as though it had grown in huskiness and a tenderness, too. There was a twang of something else in there.
Perhaps he had died and gone to some twisted Hell in which memories of her would continue to torture him in endless ways. Perhaps he had lived and God's punishment would be hearing her voice every day for the rest of his days, even inhabiting a perfectly lovely nurse who was doing her duty.
Perhaps...
''They said its over soon. How much more can we take? We are stretched thin, Jack. I see death every day, I am sure you have seen more than me. Of course, how foolish of me.'' She went on. ''I wonder of your wife, and your children. How pleased they will be to see you return. Your mother and father, they will be happy as well?''
There is no one. Not one soul.
''Will you weep when your wife takes you in her arms for the first time in so long? Will your children jump into your arms, dear Jack? Oh, I hope so.'' She sniffed. Her voice cracking. He wanted to comfort her. Take her into his arms and hold her until she gave out. Who comforted her through all of this? A man lucky to call her a wife. No doubt she was a loving mother.
Blindly reaching out his hand, he found it clasped her own right there. His other came up and in ignoring the extreme pain, she gasped as he grasped both of her hands right there in his own. His eyes were too weak to open. His mouth too weak to speak.
''I shouldn't. I shouldn't-'' but she offered no resistance. Tender lips kissed his knuckles and it shattered his heart more than the mustard attack ever could. He wanted to love her. R-
An angel.
His angel.
It was her. But it wasn't, either. Her voice was so familiar, her touch so wonderful like it had been before-
His stomach lurched as though he was falling. Falling and flying down from a great height with nothing to catch him below.
''I shouldn't care how I do.''
But you do.
''I shouldn't tend to you more than the others, Jack. I shouldn't have favourites.''
But you do.
''The others bet just how handsome you will be once we can clear you up. Once the cuts have healed.'' A soft laugh. ''I bet you are beyond beautiful.''
He squeezed her hand. She gasped again.
''You can hear me?''
Parting his lips to speak, he realised he couldn't. They were dry. ''Y-yes.''
''Shh, do not speak. Just hold onto my hand while we can.'' A wetness tapped his knuckles, trailing down his hand and then again. Her tears. He squeezed her hand again.
''You will be out of here soon; you will see your wife.'' She moved his hand, touching his ring finger. ''Oh, no ring?''
''N-no.''
''No children?''
''No-nothing.''
She exhaled. ''I have no one either, perhaps we are kindred spirits in some way.''
It was painful to think. To speak. She shushed him when a sudden wail of pain come from his own mouth but it wasn't physical. It was from the torment. Torment of loving a woman who died years ago and yet, still haunted him from wherever she was.
She was an angel. He was in Hell. How could this ever be?
He was combusting. Writhing. Shouting. Screaming. Hands held him down, rough. Not hers. He needed her touch. Where was she?
He was bending backwards. Breaking. Shattering. Liquid was shot down his throat, he didn't cough as it burnt. He was out. Asleep. Dead...
In between.
Limbo.
He stopped hearing her voice for a long time. Just saw her vision. Her beauty. She danced before him, kissed his face and laughed for him. He saw red. He always did. There was no blood though. Just her. Auburn curls dashing about her face. Red lips. Red nails. Her hair transformed there before his eyes, or within his dream. It turned brassy blonde, shimmering long down her back and yet the rest of her remained the same. She bowed for him. As though he was her audience. She was performing for him.
Belonged to him.
Over a length of time which he could not determine, his body grew less achy. The pain was less. The shivers ceased. Behind his closed eyes, it was light. Gorgeous light. He wanted to see the light of the day but he feared what it would bring. Another endless war? Pain. Fatality. Blood.
He heard the wireless. It echoed in the background all of the time. A voice boomed in the room, crackling through the speakers at all times. Daily updates on the battle field. Death toll. Propaganda. It all fades away into the same chatter.
He was no longer in the same bed.
No longer wrapped in bandages.
He conversed with a nod or head shake.
He was aware of everything about him.
He accepted food, or drink.
He knew his weight had plummeted.
He never opened his eyes.
Time passed. Days...weeks or even months.
Then he heard it. The wireless announced that it was the end.
At eleven o'clock AM, on November 11, 1918, the eleventh hour of the eleventh month of the eleventh day, the war ended. Approximately thirty-seven million, four hundred thousand soldiers had died. The total number of men who were wounded from all countries was over twenty-one million. The Germans evacuated their positions, returned to Germany, and admitted defeat. Although Britain had won the war, it still didn't fill any holes that were left open by the Great War.
His eyes opened. Wide and gawping. Seeing the day light for the first time in months. He was dressed. He was no longer bruised. He was—healed. Somehow.
''Good morning, Mr. Dawson.'' A white coated male approached him, cheerily. He was the doctor assigned to him. His voice was familiar. There every morning to speak of sport, of the weather, anything which wasn't brutal. ''Good to see you awake.''
''W-where is she?'' He stammered. His throat was dry.
''Who?''
''R?''
''I'm sorry?'' From above his clipboard, deep brown eyes narrowed.
''R?''
''I am afraid I don't know who you refer to.''
His stomach filled with something. Passion. Love. Determination. Upon the bed was a duffel bag, filled with the only belongings he owned.
''I have to leave.''
''W-wait.'' He was called after. "You need to be discharged."
He was a free man. He was alive. God have given him another reason to live or so it appeared and there was a level of appreciation.
"You may not know how to walk properly-"
Within five seconds he was on his feet. The duffel bag draped over his shoulder.
"I have to find her."
"Who?"
The truth was he didn't know.
''Thank you for everything, doc.''
But he left the hospital that day with a salute. Left France. Left his life.
On June 28, 1919, Germany signed the Treaty of Versailles, which stated that the Germans should take full responsibility for the whole war.
Germany was commanded to pay eleven billion, three hundred million pounds back to the other countries, which was the estimated cost of the war.
Germany was stripped of its land and the German economy became weak, although justice was never really to be done.
Men still died in tragic circumstances, leaving widowed women and fatherless children.
Land was destroyed, ships were sunk, and bombs were dropped.
And the world was never the same again.
Jack Dawson was never the same again.
A.N -
This chapter was meant to be erratic, jittery jibberish and not make much sense, just to get inside his head to allow yourself to know how much nothing was clear to him either. Even at the end of the chapter.
So, no apologies for the confusion 😉
Just bear with it.