The year was 1943, and the war seemed to be at a standstill. At this crucial midway point, it could have gone either way. Britain was more or less begging for another fresh batch of American troops to join the conflict, as countless wives, mothers and sisters were receiving the dreaded yellow note from the postman back home. There were more deaths to report on the radio and in the newspapers than uplifting and hopeful victories, and so new recruits in Britain were few and far between. The war had been raging on for almost 5 years now, and Britain's male population had diminished greatly. American males however were brave, eager, excitable, and innocently naive. If all these new American recruits, young men who should have decades ahead of them, sat down with a weather beaten, broken nosed, scarred mind and shattered nerved Jack Dawson, they might think differently.
Rose was finally spending some quality time with her kids. Their Nanny Patricia had been politely fired, or let go as Richard liked to say, as Rose was dying to spend more time with Jack and Ruth. She had been so busy lately working on Richard's new projects, one after the other, no time for herself or her family. She never stopped acting because he never stopped writing. She admired him for it, but he refused to use other actresses for his main roles, and so the American sweetheart Mrs Calvert was always working on something or other. She loved acting and performing and working with him on the set of his newest creations, but lately she had been feeling so drained and tired and, as busy as she was, she felt empty. Standing in front of a camera felt like a punishment now rather than a joy. Each second spent on set was another second away from her children, and Ruth accidentally called Patricia "Mummy" a week prior. Rose didn't tell Richard, but that was the main reason she fired her. She was a good worker, but she was a more constant figure to the kids than Rose herself, and Rose hated it. If Rose could hire anyone to look after her home and her children, it would be Miss Trudy Bolt... God rest her soul.
One hot Sunday afternoon as Rose and the kids sat by the pool outside their Californian condo, Richard received a phone call. He was inside working on a new script, and, irritated that he had to answer the phone, he shouted from the upstairs balcony that there was someone on the phone for her. He didn't give specifics, and from the tone of his voice he clearly was in no mood to be Roses' secretary.
Richard had grown a temper lately, nothing in comparison to Cal's, but he was moody and almost stand-offish towards Rose. He was upstairs in the attic most days which was now his work space, a perfect room for writing, away from the chaotic children three floors down the spiralling staircase, and looking out towards the green wilderness of the sun-dried Californian landscape.
Rose stood up from the pool, the blazing Californian sky kissing her bare shoulders and thighs, dried herself off, and told Jack and Ruth to play nicely. "I'll be watching you from inside, so no funny business!" She pointed at them both and put on a playfully stern face. Jack saluted her and replied, "Yes, Mam!"
Just as Rose neared the kitchen door, she felt a tug on the towel around her waist. Turning around and looking down she saw her daughter. Waist height, burning red locks like a fairy from an Irish Fairytale, and ice blue eyes. She was a young Rose DeWitt Bukater, and an even younger version of her unknown Grandmother Ruth. Rose knelt down to get to her level, brushing a strand of wet hair from her forehead.
"Yes, darling?"
"Is Daddy okay?" She asked sweetly, not worried, just curious.
"Of course he is! Why would you ask that?"
The young Ruth hovered on her words for a moment, and then began. "I came downstairs last night to get a drink of juice and he was sleeping on the couch, and Jack sleeps on the couch when he is sick." She tilted her head to the side, squinting as the sun shone onto her face over the orange trees surrounding the garden. "Is Daddy sick?"
Rose laughed lightly. "No sweetie, Daddy's not sick." Ruth looked into her Mother's eyes, believing her, but still in need of closure. Rose wrapped her arms around her and pulled her in tightly, kissing her damp hair. "You have nothing to worry about, Ruth. If anything was wrong with Daddy, you and Jack would be the first to know." Rose stayed on her knees, her arms tight around her little red haired angel, resting her head upon her little head, looking at Jack splashing around in the shallow end of the pool with a beach ball. She took in this moment, photographed it mentally, and knew there and then that she would cherish it forever. She had reached that point in her life. That point in life that everyone strives to achieve, but most struggle to find. She had found bliss, something she never thought she would find. She was in paradise, and she never wanted it to end.
"Rose! Phone! Now!" A loud and further irritated Richard shouted down from the balcony above. Three short demands. Rose obeyed her director. She jumped ever so slightly and let go of Ruth who skipped off happily to join her brother in the swimming pool. Rose wiped away a joyful tear from her eye and composed herself. She headed through the shining kitchen, into the elegant hallway, and picked up the glossy black dial phone that lay on its side upon the table.
She took a breath and held the phone to her ear. "Hello, Rose Calvert speaking."
She waited... No reply.
"Hello? Is there anyone there?" she spoke a little louder. Perhaps it was a bad connection.
Silence... but then, there was the slightest hint of a muffled whimper on the other end, and the call ended abruptly.
Rose stood with the phone in her hand, utterly confused. She took it away from her ear as the beeping drone began, a reminder that the person on the other end had hung up. She put the receiver down and stood for a moment to think. Who was it? A newspaper journalist? A casting director? Perhaps it was a wrong number.
Unphased, Rose went back outside to join her babies who were fighting over the beach ball. She had one more day of perfection with them until she had to fly to an army barrack in Greece to perform her Cabaret act to crowds of rowdy soldiers in an exotic setting. She was excited, not only because she was going to meet the men fighting for the world's freedom from Germany and thank them personally, but it was also the last item on her schedule for a long time. After this, she was planning to have her life back. She was tired of playing other people. She wanted to bask in the glory of Rose Calvert for a year or two... maybe even more. Hopefully no unexpected and unwanted surprises arose after tomorrow.
Greece at night was just as hot as it was during the day. The Army Barracks were situated high up in the mountains, surrounded by Olive trees and overlooking a glistening Turquoise Sea. A white porcelain town with mosaic wall tiles and stylized street cobbles stood below the Barracks, and the native Greeks made Olive butter for the troops and offered them wine and fruit. Jack and his friends were back from a routine fitness check, and Jack was being playfully ridiculed from his fellow troops for having a somewhat crooked nose and two black eyes.
"How'd you do it, Jacko?" A Scottish soldier asked as he jumped up into his bunk with a laugh.
"I think it was that Greek girl he was talking to last week." An American responded. "She was exquisite! You should have seen the knockers on her, it's no wonder he has two black eyes and a broken nose!" A roar of laughter erupted like a bomb throughout the room. "I saw the way she looked at you Jack. She must like a greying man in uniform."
"Not only a man in uniform, but a man who has run through a hail of bullets without so much as a shirt on!"
"People will start to think you're suicidal, Dawson!"
"He's right you know. I mean, just last month you ran through a crowd of armed and angry Huns to help Mitch. You got hardly a scratch. I think they actually jumped out of your way when they saw you coming towards them!"
Everyone began to laugh and joke as they undressed, carefully hanging up their dog tags, folding their uniforms, placing their boots beneath the bed in neat rows, and climbed into their respective bunks. As they all spoke amongst themselves and chuckled heartily, Jack sat up on his top bunk silently, the lights going off one by one through the sleepy barracks. He didn't take in what they were saying as the darkness crept towards him, one bulb after another going out. As their voices merged and blurred and went out of focus, Jack took his shining silver dog tag, held it between his shaking fingers, and dragged it along his exposed thigh, digging into the muscular flesh and drawing warm blood. He watched the blood collect at the wound, then trickle down his thigh and gather in a small puddle on his already blood stained bed sheet.
Most of his friends weren't living, and as long as they lay rotting in foreign fields, beneath unmarked graves, in a million pieces, he would never be content with life. Life was not worth living when all you know is death. He no longer feared dying. He would happily welcome the day he met his Maker. He had narrowly escaped death more than once in his lifetime. Perhaps it was about time he ended it himself. Killing himself seemed like a plausible option these days. Plus, it would give the Huns one less kill to their list, which in an odd way is a good thing in Jack's mind.
He didn't feel he was serving his country the way he thought he would. He was simply a pawn in a game of Chess. A game of chess which had come to Stalemate. Gaining an inch of ground from the Germans cost more lives than it should have. He felt like a piece of meat. A piece of meat waiting to be butchered at any moment, slowly moving along a factory conveyer belt towards the inevitability of bombs and bullets. A piece of meat with a bloody dog tag that read, '51402911'. He was nothing but a statistic now. As far as he was concerned, Jack Dawson was dead.
Just as the last light went out in the room, the soldier in the bunk below Jack kicked his mattress and asked in an unapologetically loud voice "You looking forward to the strip show tomorrow, Jack? Emmanuelle and Rose! Oh boy I'm hard as a rock just thinking about that blonde beauty!"
Every man in that camp must have heard good old Harvey, and his question was soon followed by the chanting of the song, "If You're Hot, Take It Off" and ear piercing wolf whistles.
Jack lay on his side, eyes wide open, curled up in a foetal position, the occasional nearby whistle breaking his fortress of silence. Little He couldn't care less about tomorrow's Cabaret show. He knew that it was a last ditch effort to boost morale. As far as Jack was concerned, there was no morale left to boost. That's how he got the broken nose in the first place. Banging his face off of brick walls when no one was around was a more enjoyable pastime to Jack these days than watching two American whores get naked on stage.
Jack, trying to ignore the aroused and excitable troops around him, closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He closed his eyes, and he liked it.