CHAPTER 3
I possible declaration of war had overnight grossly transformed into a finite reality of full scale warfare on all fronts. Bloodshed, bombs and bombardments all included, and it seemed that no one could escape, whether they were on the battle front or the home front. Working in a factory, in a pie shop, or clearing up dead bodies from No Man's Land, the war was everywhere, and everyone felt it. Like a post-apocalyptic scene, towns, villages and cities stood, or lay, in absolute devastation. What was once a prestigious Town Hall was now a smouldering pile of rubble. The bowling green and swing park down the road was now cordoned off, as men in white suits worked day and night in a desperate attempt to diffuse a live, yet unexploded bomb, dropped by the German's in their most recent blitz.
However, this was only the scene in most of Britain, mainly Clydesdale, Scotland and London, England, being the worst hit. Where better to destroy than the largest ship-building yard in the United Kingdom, and the home of the British monarchy itself? At night, the metal birds took flight and flew overseas, invading the air space of innocent civilians, killing them blindly from high above as the trap doors opened and the deadly capsules poured down in blanket formations. Row upon row of bombs... 3...2...1... An eruption of light, a shuddering of the Earth, crumbling, screams... and then silence.
The horror of the War had travelled across to the sympathetic eyes and ears of the U.S.A, with the helpful aid of radio and newspaper of course. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the US president at the time, also shared the chorus of sympathy for their overseas allies, but for the present moment, stayed a safe distance away and watched the evil unfold from their beds, tucked up tightly, kissed goodnight, their house still standing the sky a deep blue, rather than a burning blood red. However, as sympathetic as the Americans were, they still generously sold ammunitions, bomb casing, shells, guns, bullets, to BOTH sides. Germany AND Britain. No favouritism, but then again, no REAL sympathy. Not really. War was a man's game, and showing emotion was seen as weakness. Money, land and power was all that mattered. It was a 6 year long game of chess, and the soldiers of all countries merely pawns, protecting their Fuhrer, Kings, and Queens alike.
One man however, who couldn't just sit back and do nothing was a 44 year old man, with tanned, weather beaten skin, a slight, ever so slight belly, yet toned and well built, fairly tall with trimmed dirty blonde hair, shaven at the sides and combed neatly along the top, parting to the side. Laughter lines prominent, a flawless complexion now sketched upon with lines of life and experience, good and bad. His blue eyes scanned the poster of Uncle Sam. Apparently his country needed him, and he wasn't going to say no. All his life he had been a fighter. Why stop now? He used to love travelling the world. What better way to see the world once more? He was tired of his dead end 9 to 5 job, and even then it could be 9 to 9. It was Hell, and surely life in the trenches couldn't be much worse... could it? There was only one way to find out.
"Name please?" The tired looking man at the desk within the recruitment Office asked.
"Dawson, Jack Dawson." The man replied, itching his bearded face.
"Age, date of birth, occupation and any medical conditions or previous medical conditions we should know of?" The man spoke like a drone, quick and precise; expertly reciting the script he had learned so many recruits ago. He never looked Jack in the eyes however, always writing down what Jack said as he said it.
"I'm 44, not too old yet I hope."
"Appropriate age..." The man looked up and down his nose through his squint spectacles to inspect Jack's physique. "Would you mind removing your shirt, Sir?"
"Huh?"
"Visual fitness inspection."
"Ah, I see." And Jack obediently obeyed. One button after the other, he removed his blue collar shirt, revealing a carpeted chest of soft blonde fur, a silky soft tanned body, the slight remains of what looks to be a ribcage, hidden by several years of comfort eating and lack of exercise after being attached to an office chair for the past 20 years. He was fit, but for a man of his age, he was incredibly fit. Broad shoulders, thick arms, biceps that any woman would swoon for and... "What's that?" the man pointed his pencil to Jack's right nipple. "Is that a barcode?"
"It's a... a prison tag actually."
"Prison, eh?" Again, the man took notes, on a separate sheet this time. A yellow sheet, seeming somewhat more intimidating than the previous pink sheet. "Offence?"
"Petty theft." Jack was not ashamed. He was ashamed he had been caught, but after he was brought back to New York aboard the Carpathia, a blue, quivering, breathing yet half dead mess, he had to find a way of living. No way was he going to live in a homeless shelter. He would rather have died on that chunk of wood.
"Is that all, may I ask?" He needn't have asked if he could ask... it was his job after all.
"Yes... that's all." Jack lied.
"Okay, so where were we... occupation?"
"I'm a stockbroker." He tried to sound as if he didn't totally resent his profession.
"And how do you find it, Mr Dawson?"
Oh, the pretence continued? Challenge accepted. "It's enjoyable, Sir. Better than prostitution I always say." Jack laughed nervously. His interrogator looked less impressed. "Well, I don't ALWAYSsay it... just... sometimes, ya know?" he dug the hole deeper, hoping that soon someone would take his shovel and knock him out with it.
"Yes, well... Date of Birth?" He did his best to change the subject.
Jack was thankful. "December 16th 1897."
Pencil scratching paper, and then, "medical problems past or present?"
Jack thought on this for a moment, surprised that this particular thought came to mind at all. "Well, uh, in 1912 I was treated for hypothermia and pneumonia, and it's kinda affected my hearing ever since."
"Your hearing?" he noted this down.
"Yes, and my sight to an extent."
"We'll need to do a test of your vision then."
"Oh, and my breathing isn't what it once was, not by a long shot!"
"Your breathing?!" The man seemed shocked.
Jack was caught off guard. "Well... yeah... is that a bad thing?"
"In the army? Oh, most definitely! Do you know how vigorous and strenuous the army can be?"
"Oh yes Sir, I can assure you I do. I was homeless from the age of 15 to about 20... No difference really." Jack smiled and shrugged, as if his lungs had no problems whatsoever. Ever since he was found by the last returning lifeboat on that cold April morning, he was never the same, inside or out. He was ill, denied it his whole life, but he was. The decrease of physical activity was due to his job and his breathing difficulty. He hid it well, and was kicking himself now for even mentioning it.
"Does it trouble you greatly, Jack?" He sounded somewhat caring now. "Health before stealth I always say." He half smiled. Standing up, he pulled his stethoscope over his head and approached Jack, who was still standing shirtless. He placed the cold silver circle to his chest and said, "Now breathe deeply for me, Mr Dawson. I know you're eager to get out there and join the troops, but we can't have you collapsing in the middle of a battlefield due to faulty lungs, can we?"
Jack took a large inhale of cool air through his nose, his ribs lifting and coming outwards. As he exhaled the air he replied, "No Sir, we definitely cannot have that."
"Hmmm..." He listened intently, his bald head shining now under the lightshade. "Doesn't sound overly abnormal... And I hope you do know that the things you see out there will be unlike any other site you've ever seen. You are aware of this?"
"I've seen the movies Sir, I'm sure I'll nail it!" he joked.
Again, his examiner was not amused. "This is not a game. The world is at war, Mr Dawson. One can no longer doubt that the dark powers of Germany are in monstrous attack against Europe and therefore the rest of us." He went back to his desk, putting away his shiny instrument, and began rifling through papers.
"I see in the papers that this Hitler guy is quite the asshole." Jack folded his arms and tried to sound as if he knew what he as talking about.
Suddenly, the man fell into his seat, like a rag doll losing all support from the hopeful hands of a child who had been holding him up. Darkness dragged him down into his coffee stained and blood soaked thoughts once again. "The sights you will see out there... miles upon miles of dead bodies... people, innocent people, screaming out in terror, praying, begging for mercy, for salvation... thousands of innocents thrown into the deep end, not knowing what they had in store when they climbed aboard the bandwagon that is War... I think the smell that rises shall be horrible." His eyes fixated on the floor, he then sharply lifted his head to look at Jack, who was stunned to say the least at this man's calm yet unnerving outburst. "The smell of death is always horrible... you have no idea."
"Oh Sir, believe me, I do... I do." Jack knew all about corpses, and seeing them in their hundreds. Seeing people screaming for help in their final moments of life. A sharp pain hit him in the lung like an icicle, stabbing him. He tried not to show it, but the sinking of the Titanic was always with him. Being a survivor was his own war, his own personal struggle, for he had to live each day knowing that he was alive, and his beloved Rose was not. She was a pile of chiffon, silk, and a pair of high heels on the sea bed. The thought alone made his stomach turn.
"I count them... the boys... that come in."
"You mean the new recruits?" Jack questioned curiously, realizing that this man was hurting... but why? He looked as if he was about to begin sobbing.
"No... the boys that come in a body bag with a tag on their toe... if there's enough of them left to even fill up a whole bag." It was enough the make the bile rise in his throat.
"I'm sorry, Sir... it must be difficult for you." Jack sympathised with him as he buttoned his shirt back up, hiding once again his prison tag, a white band of a tan line around his aged wedding finger.
"Difficult? . . . Mr Dawson, everyday as I write down this information, name, age, health issues, fitness evaluation, I'm just trying to make human what will soon be another sad statistic in a list of the dead... I'm formally signing away your soul to be killed... You're a handsome man Jack, you really are. A face for the silver screen you might say . . . your skeleton will make a pretty one." And he proceeded to sign away the soul that stood before him.
Jack stared on in dismay. What was he doing? Did he ever think things through? Maybe it was time to start.