Burgess said, annoyed, “What is this? What’s going on?”
The doctor didn’t answer at once. He pulled down the bed covering and applied his stethoscope to Burgess’ chest. He listened for a long time, moving the instrument every few seconds. At length he stood erect, sighing deeply, shaking his head. “Remarkable. Absolutely a miracle.”
“What is? What’s all the mystery about?” Burgess was getting mad, without really knowing why. He guessed it was because of all all double talk.
There was now a look in the doctor’s eyes that Burgess could only interpret as pity. He sat down in a chair near the bed and leaned slightly forward. The nurse was standing quietly by the door, her face strained.
“Colonel Burgess,” the doctor began slowly, “do you know what day this is?”
Burgess scowled. “Of course I know what day it is,” he began, then stopped. Was this some kind of trick? What difference did it make what day it was? He pondered the matter for a moment, then shrugged. “Unless I’ve been knocked out longer than I thought, it’s May twenty-fourth.”
The doctor sighed again and the pitying look in his eyes deepened. “Colonel,” he said gently, “can you tell me the year?”
“The year?” An icy finger began tracing its way up and down Burgess’ spine. “The year?” he repeated, and wet his lips. “It’s nineteen forty-four, of course.”
The doctor smiled sadly and stood up. He paced the floor, as though preparing himself for what he had to say. He turned at last and looked, straight at Burgess. “Prepare yourself for a shock, Colonel. It is now August tenth, nineteen hundred and fifty-tour.”
A ringing began in Burgess’ ears. He closed his eyes, conscious that goose pimples were covering his entire body. He would not allow his mind to accept what he 28 had just heard. It was a lie, a trick. It was some new and heinous form of torture they had devised.
He heard the nurse say in hushed tones, “Should you have told him so soon, Doctor? The shock may be—”
“There would be no worse effects from shock now than there would be later.”
Burgess opened his eyes. The doctor, arms folded, was still standing in the same spot. The nurse had come to stand beside him. She seemed unhappy and anxious.
Burgess whispered, “It’s a lie. It’s some new form of torture.”
The doctor’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. Without unfolding his arms he turned his head, glancing about the room as if seeking something. His eyes fell on a newspaper lying on a table. He strode toward it, picked it up, folded it open to the front page and returned to the bed. Silently he handed it to Burgess.
It was a German newspaper. The colonel understood only a smattering of the language. Few of the words meant anything, but the figures were there. The figures “10” and “1954.”
Burgess put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He felt numb, paralysed. His mind became a kaleidoscope of pictures and thoughts. Ten years! Ten years taken from his life. A thousand thoughts pounded at his brain. He must regroup his thoughts, remarshall them. He must ask the questions one at a time, assimilate each answer before he asked a second.
He heard the doctor sit down on the bedside chair, and opened his eyes. He stared at the medical man a long time before speaking. The doctor’s expression was sympathetic and kindly.
Burgess said, “The war has long since ended, of course.”
Dr. Schroeder nodded, closing and opening his eyes. “In nineteen forty-five. The allies, as you can well imagine, were the victors. Germany was an exhausted nation, a foolish nation.” He paused. “Japan surrendered a few months later.” Again a pause. A faint, rueful smile touched the doctor’s lips. “The world,” he said, “is almost ready for its next war.”
Again there was a silence while Burgess assimilated this information. The doctor seemed to understand what was happening and merely waited.
Burgess said, almost reminiscently, “Then the invasion of the continent was successful after all.” He was thinking of the time, the effort, the thought, the planning — and the fears and doubts that had gone into the planning. He knew that thousands of men must have died.
“Yes, the invasion was successful. It happened...” The doctor closed his eyes and thought a moment. “The exact date escapes me. We Germans held out for nearly a year afterward. Then came the final drive on Berlin — the allies from the west, the Russians from the north.”
Burgess lay silent, tracing this over in his mind. He felt like Philip Nolan, the Man Without A Country who, in the last days of his life, was told about the events that had taken place in his beloved homeland. Unlike Nolan, Burgess was going to have a chance to pick up his life again, to adjust, and he wondered if this were possible. He said at last, “Tell me — what happened.” He closed his eyes to listen.
The doctor’s voice was kindly, considerate. “I will tell you, but please do not try to grasp it all at once. What has happened to you is a miracle in the medical world.” He paused. “Our ground gunners shot down your B-17. You were brought here on May twenty-fourth, nineteen hundred and forty-four. You were in serious condition. It was thought that you had no chance of surviving.” A pause. “I was called in to examine you. Your condition interested me. I am a specialist in nerves and nerve pressures. I asked for and received permission to have you placed under my personal care. But each examination continued to strengthen my original diagnosis that your chances of survival were practically nil. Yet I continued to hope. It would be a great contribution to medicine if I could keep you alive and eventually restore you to consciousness.”
Burgess opened his eyes. “And you succeeded.”
“I think it was as much your own subconscious will to survive as my medical ingenuity.”
Burgess lay still for a long time. It was a lot to grasp, to comprehend. Ten years. His mind still wouldn’t fully accept it. He asked at last, “After the war ended was the army notified, the United States Army?”
“Of course. We were told that you had no family. But there was a girl, a very lovely girl, named Sandra Pierce. She was here.”
“What?” Burgess struggled to sit up, but the doctor forced him gently back, nodding, closing and opening his eyes in that way he had.
“Yes. A month after the proper authorities were notified she came here, bringing with her a specialist, a Doctor Paul Avery, from your Johns Hopkins Hospital in the city of Baltimore. Doctor Avery examined you, and was forced to agree with my diagnosis: it might prove fatal to have you moved.”
“But Sandra? What did she say — and do?”
“There was little that she could say or do. She pleaded with us to let her take you home. It was no easy task to convince her that taking you home would be a risk to your life.”
“Then — she left me here?”
“You must not blame her. She had no alternative.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “She asked, but we could give her little hope that you would survive. Put yourself in her place, Colonel. What other course could she have taken?”
Burgess turned his head sideways on the pillow, an all consuming feeling of wretchedness and despair sweeping through him. In spite of himself a tear squeezed from beneath his tightly closed lids and coursed down his cheek. He brushed it aside and looked at the doctor again. “Did she ever contact you again?”
“Many times. By correspondent and cable.” The doctor paused. “Five years ago we received a letter from her addressed to you.” He opened a drawer in the night stand, rummaged around and presently pulled out a sealed letter. Sight of the familiar handwriting was a stab of pain in Burgess’ heart.