Until We Meet Again

by Margaret Thornton

  ‘Scarborough…’ he said ponderingly. He knew, somehow, that that was an important link to his past. ‘I remember that now. I seem to remember going to school… There was a lad I was friendly with, but I can’t remember his name. He and I were really good mates. I seem to recall that we were inseparable… Was he there with me, when I lost this?’ he asked in a sudden moment of clarity, tapping at the stump of his left arm.

  ‘I don’t know, Tommy,’ said the nurse. ‘If you knew his name we might be able to find out. But I’ve told you, don’t try to force it. It will all come back to you in time.’ He looked dejected because, once again, the fleeting image had disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced. ‘Now, let’s have a look at your arm. It’s time your dressing was changed…’

  He had been told that, quite soon, when he was considered well enough to travel, he would be transferred to a hospital in England, one near to the channel port of Dover or Folkestone. And following that, it was usual for there to be a period of recuperation in a convalescent home before returning home. From what he had been told, though, the convalescent home and his own home were one and the same thing. Apparently his mother had disclosed the information in a letter she had written after learning that her son was, after all, alive and as well as could be expected. ‘Your mother, Faith Moon,’ the doctor had told him. ‘She’s in charge of the home in Scarborough. She sounds a lovely lady.’

  But it meant nothing to him. The names he was hearing – Dover, Folkestone, the Channel, the name of his mother, and even his own name and address – did not ring that important bell in his mind, although he knew he must have heard them all before.

  He could read and write, though. They were cognitive skills that he must have learnt as a child and ones he had not lost. What a strange thing memory was, he pondered. There were so many things that he knew about, but he could not recall how or where or when he had learnt them. The memory of a school, though, kept recurring, and the lad who had been his best mate. A nameless and faceless boy though, at the moment; there was no picture of him forming in his mind.

  The doctor who was dealing with his mental state told him it might help if he tried to write down anything that he could remember; anything, in fact, that he felt he wanted to write about. ‘You’ve still got the use of your right hand, you lucky chap!’ the doctor said. They were encouraged to look on the bright side and count their blessings, if possible, rather than dwelling on their misfortunes.

  He was given a pad and pencil. He had cogitated for a while, his mind an utter blank. Then an image came into his mind of a woodland glade where he had loved to walk. He could visualise it in all the seasons of the year. The pale green leaves bursting from their buds, newly awakened by the spring sunshine; the rich verdant green of summertime; the multi-coloured hues of autumn, the russet, gold, and scarlet of the leaves as they fell from the trees, forming a rustling carpet he had walked through, hand in hand, he seemed to recall, with someone who had meant all the world to him. But who, who was it…? He could see a wintry picture, too; the hoar frost on the bare branches of the trees, forming a silver filigree against the winter sky. And that was what he wrote about, this beautiful spot where he seemed to know he had spent many happy hours.

  The doctor read his scribblings; that was what they were because once he started, the words came spontaneously to him and he couldn’t get them down fast enough. ‘By Jove!’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘You have a great command of language, Tommy. That’s real poetic stuff. Were you a writer before you joined the army? A journalist, maybe? Or perhaps you had ambitions to become a novelist? No, I realise you can’t remember,’ he added, looking at the young man’s puzzled face. ‘But you’re well on your way to recalling everything, I feel sure.’

  He was remembering, hazily, how he had loved to write. How ideas had formed in his mind, quite easily, and he had had the urge to write them down at once before he forgot them. He remembered, also, how he had loved to read. He had been reading recently a book he had found in the small library that was available to the patients. It was called Far from the Madding Crowd by someone called Thomas Hardy. An enthralling story about a woman who was loved, in different ways, by three men. Had he read it before? He was not sure; he might have done so. But it was a comfort to him to read it now, to lose himself in the intricacies of the plot and to escape for a while from the worries of his memory loss.

  Another leisure activity enjoyed by him and by other patients who were recovering well from their injuries was listening to music. It was a solace both to the mind and to the body. The music lifted his spirits; he was able to forget for a time the fact that part of his mind was still a blank, and his physical pains, too, seemed to lessen as he heard the sound of soaring violins, the plaintive tones of the cello and clarinet and the rippling arpeggios played on a piano. He recalled that at home, wherever that was, they had had a gramophone with a large brass horn, similar to the one in the hospital sitting room. He remembered listening to music although the names of the composers that he read on the record labels meant little to him now: Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn, Schubert, Chopin…

  He learnt to appreciate, possibly for the second time, the various symphonies, concertos and sonatas. He lost himself in the rousing climaxes to the Beethoven symphonies, but he found the works of Mozart to be more restful and peace inducing. There was a precision and order to the outpourings of this musical genius – apparently his catalogue of compositions was colossal – which Dominic found calming and consoling.

  Another composer whose works he was growing to love was Chopin. His compositions, in the main, consisted of works for the piano; waltzes, etudes, polonaises, mazurkas and nocturnes. Had he listened to them before, he wondered, in the time that was still a mystery to him? He was sure he must have done so. This music, more than any other, seemed somehow familiar to him.

  He was sitting one afternoon with two of his fellow patients in the communal room where the men relaxed when they were well enough to leave the ward for a little while. They were listening to a particularly haunting melody: a nocturne, a piece of night music. He found it soothing and evocative of pleasant memories and feelings. Images that had lain dormant for so many months began to rekindle in his mind as he listened to the liquid notes of the piano music rise and fall.

  Suddenly he could see a picture in his mind’s eye. The clarity of it made him gasp with shock and wonder. He could see a young woman with light auburn hair seated at a piano. He closed his eyes, fearing that the image would vanish as so many images had done before he had the chance to cling on to them. Then she turned and smiled at him, and in a blinding flash of recognition he knew who she was. She was Tilly, the girl he had loved – and still loved – so much and had had to leave behind to go and fight on the battlefield.

  But why were they calling him Tommy? It came back to him then with a force like a brilliant flash of lightning. He was not Tommy; he was Dominic, Dominic Fraser; that was his name. Tommy was the name of his red-haired friend, the school pal he had been so desperately trying to recall. Tommy Moon, and Tilly, the girl he loved, was Tommy’s sister, Tilly Moon.

  He leapt from his chair with an agility he had not felt since entering the hospital, startling the other two men who were deep in a state of relaxation. ‘I know who I am!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve remembered! I’m called Dominic, Dominic Fraser. They’ve got it wrong. I’m not Tommy. I’m Dominic! Do you hear? I’m Dominic Fraser.’

  The other two men stared at him in astonishment. ‘All right, all right, old chap, if you say so,’ said Charlie, another amputee who occupied the bed next to him. They had been in the hospital for the same length of time and had found that they rubbed along pretty well together. Charlie, a second lieutenant like his colleague – whom, of course, he had learnt to call Tommy – had lost an arm as well. They had commiserated with one another, at the same time knowing the profound relief that they would never have to return to the conflict. The man they called Tommy, however, had had little recollection o
f all that. He said that all he could remember was the final sortie into the darkness when he had been wounded.

  Charlie also jumped to his feet. He went over to his mate, who was staggering around in a daze as though he was drunk. ‘Come on, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sit down, there’s a good fellow. You look as though you’ve had a shock.’

  ‘I have, but a wonderful one,’ said the man he had known as Tommy, who was now saying he was called Dominic. He shrugged him away. ‘I’m all right. I’m not out of my mind,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. I’m…Dominic!’ He lolled back in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, and a look of satisfaction spread all over his face. He smiled in a way that Charlie had not seen him do before; the worried, tense look had gone from his eyes. ‘What a blessed relief!’ he sighed, closing his eyes in contentment.

  ‘I’ll go and get a nurse,’ said Charlie, making a hasty exit. Was this really a question of mistaken identity? he wondered. He had heard of such things happening before, and maybe it was not so surprising, with the amount of carnage and the melee on the battlefields. At any rate Tommy – or Dominic? – seemed very sure of himself.

  ‘Now, what’s all this about?’ asked the nurse called Mabel, the one who had been mainly in charge of him. He noticed that she didn’t use his name – Tommy, the name she had assumed was his – as she usually did.

  ‘I’ve remembered who I am,’ he replied. ‘It’s as simple as that. I’m not Tommy Moon – he’s my best mate. I’m called Dominic Fraser.’

  ‘Come along then,’ said Nurse Mabel. ‘Let’s have you back in the ward and we’ll have a chat. I’ll get Dr Ingham and you can tell us all about it…’

  ‘Now, tell me everything you can remember,’ said Dr Ingham. ‘This is wonderful news, if we’ve got a breakthrough at last. Take your time now…’

  ‘I’m called Dominic Fraser,’ he began, saying the now familiar name for the umpteenth time, ‘and I live in Scarborough… I’d remembered that before, though. It’s a seaside resort on the east coast. I live in Jubilee Terrace, just off the esplanade. My parents are called Mabel and Joseph. That’s why the nurse’s name was familiar to me.’

  There seemed to be no doubt in the minds of the doctor and the nurse that the young man was who he said he was. He had gone on to tell them the name of his young lady. She was called Tilly Moon, and she had come vividly into his mind when he was listening to the music of Chopin. ‘She was a wonderful pianist,’ he told them. ‘She was going to music college, then she changed her mind and decided to become a nurse, just after I joined up. She’s at St Luke’s hospital in Bradford.’

  ‘I see,’ said the doctor. ‘And is she any relation to Second Lieutenant Thomas Moon?’

  ‘Yes, of course. She’s his twin sister. That’s how I met her, through Tommy.’

  ‘And what can you tell us about Tommy?’

  ‘He’s my best mate. We went to school together; King William’s Academy in Scarborough. King Billy’s, we used to call it,’ he grinned. ‘Then we joined up together in the Duke of Wellington’s regiment. We trained in Staffordshire and we both passed out as second lieutenants. Then we were sent overseas and we were both in charge of a platoon…’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Where is Tommy then? Is he all right? We were in it together. If you thought I was Tommy…then where is he?’

  ‘That is what we will have to try and find out,’ said the doctor. ‘You seem very sure of who you are, and I have no reason to doubt you. Can you tell us anything about Tommy’s movements? You say you were in it together. Do you mean you were in the same offensive? The Somme, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes…’ He closed his eyes, frowning in an effort to remember everything. ‘No, we weren’t exactly together. We’d been chatting in the dugout, then we were asked if we’d go out on a night patrol. At least, I was asked if I’d take my platoon out… and so Tommy volunteered as well. He’s like that, is Tommy. We’d agreed that we’d try and stick together – we’d promised Tilly that we would – and look out for one another. He had his men, of course, and I had mine, and we headed out in different directions…’

  He stopped suddenly, banging his fist against his temple. ‘Yes! I remember now. Tommy was the first to go – he’s like that, impulsive. He jumped up and snatched his battledress and went out. It was only after he’d gone that I realised. Yes, he’d gone and taken mine, the silly chump! It wasn’t the first time he’d done it either. It was too late to go after him…so I took his tunic…’ He stared at the doctor, light starting to dawn as he realised what had happened. ‘That’s why, isn’t it? That’s why they thought I was Tommy; I was wearing the wrong bloody battledress!’

  ‘It seems like it,’ said Dr Ingham slowly. ‘It does seem as though it’s a case of mistaken identity. All there is to go on are the identification papers; they’re usually decipherable despite any injuries… Can you remember if you saw Tommy again?’

  ‘Yes, I think so… Yes, I did! There was a sudden flash of light – a trench mortar – and I caught a glimpse of him in the distance. I could tell it was him by his mop of red hair… I didn’t see him again after that. That was when it happened. I was almost blown to blazes, wasn’t I?’

  ‘So you were,’ agreed the doctor.

  ‘But I was lucky; I survived, didn’t I?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘So you did, Dominic.’

  ‘So where’s Tommy then? Is he all right? They’ll have to find him.’

  ‘That’s what we intend to do,’ said Dr Ingham. ‘But we’ll be looking for Second Lieutenant Dominic Fraser, won’t we, not Thomas Moon. And of course we must let your parents know what has happened.’

  It was Mr and Mrs Moon, he reflected, who had been told that their son was alive and as well as could be expected. What, then, had Mr and Mrs Fraser been told?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Hmm…a pretty kettle of fish, you might say,’ Dr Ingham observed to Nurse Mabel Culshaw as they left Dominic in the ward. They felt pretty certain that the young man was who he said he was.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied the nurse. ‘I must say he seems sure of his facts, doesn’t he? There doesn’t seem to be any doubt that he’s Dominic Fraser and not Thomas Moon. What do you think we should do now? What’s the next step?’

  ‘We must contact the War Office and find out what really happened to Thomas Moon. It’s Dominic Fraser we’ll be enquiring about though… Oh, Hell’s bells! What a blasted muddle! I’m starting to get confused with it all. And I have a dreadful feeling that when we enquire about Tommy – Dominic, whoever – we will discover the worst. I’d bet a pound to a penny that he’s been killed in action.’

  ‘And that’s what his parents will have been told… Oh, how awful!’ exclaimed Nurse Culshaw. ‘Except that…he hasn’t been killed,’ she went on slowly. ‘He’s alive and recovering very nicely. Oh, goodness gracious me! It’s the other parents who’ll be in for a shock, isn’t it? Mr and Mrs Moon. They think that Tommy’s alive – that he’s here in hospital – and he may well have been killed. Oh, that’s dreadful! Oh, my goodness! It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘It’s no use us jumping to conclusions,’ said the doctor. ‘That is only what we’re assuming. But the first thing we must do is to find out the true facts from the War Office, then we can take it from there. I don’t think I should even contact Mr and Mrs Fraser, or Mr and Mrs Moon, until we get definite confirmation one way or the other. Another few days won’t make much difference in such a mix-up as this. And it may well be that the top brass at the War Office will want to deal with it. Yes, I think it would be best left to them… I daresay it’s happened before, although I’ve not come across a case myself, and no doubt it will happen again before this wretched war comes to an end.’

  ‘But we can’t stop Dominic writing to his parents, can we, if he wants to do so? He’s got the use of his right hand, you know, and you remember all that stuff he wrote down when you asked him to try and record his memories?’

  ‘By Jove, yes! So
I do. He has quite a way with words, that young man. Oh glory be! What are we to do? I think I’d better tell him to hang fire for a while until we’ve completed our enquiries. He seems a very sensible, level-headed young man. I’m sure he’ll understand what I’m on about. The trouble is… I get the impression he’s thinking his mate, Tommy, is still alive.’

  The War Office in London was contacted and told the tale of the wrong battledresses, which had resulted in the finding of the wrong identity papers. The facts were as had already been assumed by the staff at the field hospital in Calais. Second Lieutenant Dominic Fraser had been killed in action just prior to the first offensive on the Somme, and his parents had been duly informed of his death. Except that it was the wrong set of parents who had received the news.

  There was a good deal of consternation and head scratching at the War Office. The scale of the carnage was so vast that communications were delayed from time to time, and mistakes were made. But this was a blunder of the first degree. It was nobody’s fault, though, except perhaps that of the young men concerned who had ended up with the wrong uniforms. High on adrenalin, eager, and yet fearful to get started on the action, one could imagine how it must have happened. And it required the most delicate handling now.

  As far as Mr and Mrs Fraser were concerned, a letter would be written, explaining that there had been a case of mistaken identity and that their son, Dominic, was alive and recovering from his injuries in a field hospital near Calais. With regard to Mr and Mrs Moon, it was decided that a letter would not suffice. A high-ranking officer must go in person to the address in Scarborough to inform the parents of the sad facts of the case.

  Joseph and Mabel Fraser were the first to receive the news. On opening the letter and reading it at the breakfast table Mabel gave a shriek of incredulous joy, and also of disbelief. ‘Oh, oh!’ she gasped. ‘Joseph…he’s alive! Our Dominic… he’s not dead after all!’ She put her head in her hands, giving way to a paroxysm of sobs and tears of blessed relief.