Corridors in Time: Bone Man

By Andre St. Jorre

In the streets of wintry London, people scurry about in the cold wind, anxious to return to their warm fire places. An old man shuffles alonghis hands and feet crippled by age, his breath labored, and his thoughts occupied by his unappreciated work at the University of London. As Arthur washes down a handful of pain pills with brandy, he enters a dark tunnel with only one wishto die. But as he falls and begins twitching, Arthur soon realizes that someone else has a diff erent plan for him.

Arthur is unwillingly swept back in time, where he soon discovers he is a medical doctor attempting to save lives in the midst of World War I. As chaos abounds, Arthur must not only treat the severely wounded, but also the soldiers who suff er from cholera, dysentery, and malnutrition. But just as Arthur becomes comfortable with his surroundings, he is transported back in time once again to another war. As Arthur immerses himself in his work once again, a beautiful nurse sets about changing his destiny forever.

In this historical tale, a man on an unforgettable journey through time soon learns more about himself than he ever could have imagined as he slowly realizes the incredible power of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475910278

Andre St. Jorre

Andre St. Jorre is a survivor who once lived on the streets, in back allies, and in abandoned cars during cold New York winters. He earned bachelor’s degrees in psychology and development and training, as well as a master’s degree in health science. He currently lives in Florida, where he is pursuing a master’s in psychology.

Book preview

Chapter One

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Corridors in Time

In the streets of a wintry London, the people were scurrying about to return to a warm fireplace, the wind was cool, and one could feel the dampness in their bones.

An old man slowly scuffled in unrelenting pain his hands and feet crippled by age, his breath labored, he measured his progress by steps, nothing else mattered, not pleasure, not food, nor a pretty girl. His deepest thought were his work at the University of London the terrible aches that was his constant companion, slowly towards Hyde Park, He had stopped at the Speaker’s Corner to listen a bit to the latest blathering of one who thought he had something to say. Alternate universes, was the subject today. The Corner at times filled up with the curious, the naysayers and hecklers.

The old man listened for a few moments, if only to forget the nagging pains that racked his body, he looked up at the sky, and decided it could only get worse. The rain began with a vengeance, his glasses had fogged over, he felt the water squish in his shoes, he pulled his Chesterfield close about him his homburg gave him little release from the unrelenting rain

He trudged on, he felt out of date, a dinosaur, his wife Katherine had died many years ago. He began to walk toward Marble Arch. Arthur had decided to drink the brandy, a Silver flask left by his great grandfather. He waited for the strong brandy to bite, and swallowed the remainder of his pain pills. Arthur entered the tunneled pathway to Marble Arch, he, in his depression, felt he had no family left, and that he was no longer of use to the university. It was time to go. Then he would feel pain no more, oblivion. Arthur began to reel and stumble, in doing so he fell face down the steps into a pool of water For the rain that had begun in earnest. A loose wire left unguarded by a careless workman lay forgotten in the darkened tunnel. When Arthur fell in the water his body twitched several times against the wet wire, then total darkness. Arthur began to visualize a long tunnel. It seemed to be an ancient passage way, the walls were covered with forgotten languages. There appeared to be stacks of ancient parchments, stone, clay and wooden tablets and scrolls, the writing seems to go back before most of the earliest civilizations. A face appeared, it looked incredibly ancient, a voice seemed to enter and speak to Arthur’s psyche It is not your time ye, for ye have another path to follow Arthur turned to speak to the apparition, but it had disappeared.

Arthur’s body seemed to become hollow, similar to a long, black tunnel within himself He tried to scream, but he had no voice. From the far depths of his being, a white, blinding ball of light slowly began to come into view. The light came far below his feet to the height of his upper chest, at the same time a grey hand, covered with caked and clotted blood, and reeking of death, and disease grabbed Arthur. He was yanked toward the apparition, several voices crying out at once.

Doctor, we missed you, as Arthur looked about, his senses went into over time. The stench of decaying tissue, urine, feces, vomit, chemicals, garlic, Phenol, and black powder were evident. Patients were lying on floors, with uniforms fouled, caked with old bandages. The light was poor, carbide, and oil lamps provided illumination. A cold, bitter wind blew through the broken windows, and the sagging roof. Arthur looked at the chaos before him. A face was peering back on the reflected tin that enhanced the light, he saw a younger man in a spade beard wearing the uniform of the 42nd Infantry of Foot. A male nurse approached him and said,

Sir Richard, Doctor Andrews sends his compliments, and requests an audience in bunker three as soon as possible, Arthur felt confused, but thanked the orderly as he exited. Over the bunker in Cyrillic letters, proclaimed Balaclava. Arthur recalled from his history a retreat by the Russian army, due to their frustrated attempt to pass through the Dardanelles and gain entrance to the Mediterranean and the warm water ports. The scuttling of their fleet was to their desperate need for the cannons, and their crews turned in to Marines. The allies of England, Ottoman, and French empires had banded together at Sevastopol in the Crimea a peninsula separating the sea of Azov and the Black Sea to force the Russians from the occupied areas and the Dardanelles at Constantinople.

Arthur looked about, and found the building that was used to treat the injured. It was partially damaged, with broken windows, part of the roof was open to the elements, the winter of ’54/55 had arrived. The medical supply ship, Prince, was reported sunk. This was Balaclava. In Crimea, many men were down with Malaria, Cholera, scurvy, and fevers and influenza abounded, Sentries were found frozen at their stations, hoary frost and ice seemed to be everywhere. The gunners near their cannons coveted the heat from their cannons in constant barrage. Many had lost most of their hearing due to the incessant din. Exploding shells from an unseen position wreaked havoc among the crowded masses of troops amidst protective barriers of sandbags. The new methods of bombardment were from devices called mortars; a similar device had been used in the war of the American colonies.

Shards of red hot metal flew in every direction, falling from the skies like a poisonous rain that fell. The shards were called shrapnel, a bringing deep suffering and misfortune to civilian and soldier alike. Instantaneous injuries were the result. The injured were brought to the dressing areas often near the ammunition storage. Wounds were summarily dressed, the light wounded were treated, and sent back to the Line. Often, many were left to die because adequate help was non-existent. While other were brought to the rear areas for surgery, the usual benefit was, amputations, or death by disease, and infection.

Arthur recalled the summer months were fraught with pestilence, over 8000 fresh troops fell to the scourge of Cholera, many had died while others were bed ridden with severe diarrhea. There was such an outcry by the British press and public opinion, but due to the insistence of the Sanitary Commission and Florence Nightingale. White Hall reacted reluctantly and sent a group of nurses headed by Florence Nightingale to Turkey, upon arrival the committee was placed several miles behind the front lines to tend and care for the ill and dying.

A black woman, Mary Seacore, a Jamaican nurse who had cared for cholera patients and who was familiar with various methods of treatment. She applied to the military at Whitehall and offered to volunteer her services, she was refused, upon using her own resources and securing a loan she secured passage to Turkey and offered her services to Florence Nightingale, again she was refused. Mary Seacore, purchased a building that served as a