It was New Year’s Eve at St. Mercy’s Memorial Hospital, but no one on the Intensive Care Unit floor felt like celebrating. It had been a stressful night; three patients decided 2011 would be their last year on Earth. ICU Nurse Jennifer Collins walked back to the her station and sat down, exhausted. She sipped on a cup of coffee and looked at the monitor for room 12A. The old man’s vitals were stable (thankfully). Maybe she could ring in 2012 without any more drama.
The old man was veteran of World War 2. His daughter said he had come home from the war, started a family, worked in the community and had become a civic leader. That he was a good man. A church-going man. But time was doing what the Germans never could; the old man was losing his final battle.
She saw him in his sterile room, wired to every machine the hospital could throw at him and breathing shallowly. In the chair next to him was an equally old woman just staring at him. She had been up during visiting hours every night he had been on the floor. Nurse Collins smiled. She hoped she would find true love like they had apparently found.
Suddenly an alarm went off. The old man started thrashing around and pulling at his tubes stuck in his arm. Nurse Collins bolted from her chair and was in his room in less than five seconds. She calmed the old man and started to reattach a couple of his IVs. As she silenced the alarm, the old man started to speak. “The Resolution.” he croaked. “The Resolution!” His wife held his left hand and stroked his forehead.
“What’s he talking about, ma’am?”
The old man’s wife looked at the nurse and said, “I honestly don’t know.”
The old man said, “The coffee can in the garage. The Resolution!”
And on that New Year’s Eve, a mystery began to unravel.
A quick phone call to their daughter retrieved the coffee can from their house a few blocks away. With nurse and the daughter looking on, the wife pulled a piece of paper out of the can and began to unroll it.
Jan. 1, 1945. Bastogne, Belgium
Today I resolve to be a better man. To give up my wicked ways. If God allows me to survive this frozen Hell and the German artillery, I will turn over a new leaf. I will start a new life.
Sgt. Red Getty
The older lady was puzzled. She started to explain, “It’s his handwriting, but his name is not Red. Or Getty. He’s Sam Michael and he was Corporal. I know he was injured severely when a shell went off right next to his foxhole in the Battle of Bastogne. He spend nearly a year with his face bandaged. I didn’t meet him until 1947. He didn’t talk much about his time in the war and never about before it. All I know is that he was an orphan.”
In the bottom of the can was a key. The old man looked at the three women and said, “chest in the garage.” The daughter headed home before he could gasp the last word.
When she returned, three women looked at the old chest. The daughter’s hand shook as she unlocked it. Inside were a couple of medals and a few old yellowed newspaper clippings, a photo and other assorted papers.
Nurse Collins picked up the newspaper clipping and read the first one aloud:
July 1, 1940 Nantucket, Massachusetts. Heir to the Franklin Oil Fortune, Fredrick Franklin III was arrested for the suspected murder of socialite Francine Kelley.
The man’s wife, looked at the picture. “It’s him. I can’t believe my eyes, but it’s him.”
The daughter picked up the second clipping.
December 9, 1941: Nantucket, Massachusetts. Suspected murderer and heir to the Franklin Oil Fortune, Fredrick Franklin III, is missing. Police found his Chrysler submerged in local bog, but no body was found.
There, once again, was the old man’s picture, grinning and wearing a tuxedo.
The daughter then pulled a letter out of the chest and read it aloud:
“Dearest Son, I can’t tell you how much you have sullied the family name. Your drinking, womanizing, gambling and lying have gone on long enough. You will disappear and join the Army under the name that I have secured for you. If you survive this godforsaken war, you will no longer be part of this family. You are disowned.
Your father.
The old lady sat down, weak from the shock. Nurse Collins looked in the chest and pulled out a photograph. There was a group portrait of the 101st Airborne. There, in the corner of it, were two men. One was the old man. The second was another man — a Corporal with the old man’s name.
The daughter pulled out another newspaper clipping from The Boston Globe:
January 28, 1945: Boston-area man, Sergeant Red Getty, dies January 2 in the Battle of the Bulge. Local resident severely injured.
Beneath the papers, at the bottom of the chest, was a black diary. The daughter pulled the book out and read the first page aloud. What she read caused all their jaws to drop.
“If you are reading this, you now know my secret. In 1945, my foxhole was hit by a German 88 shell. My buddy, Corporal Sam Michael was killed instantly. I was severely injured. Before I passed out, I placed my dog tags on what remained of Sam’s corpse. His head was gone, so there was no real proof of who he was. He was an orphan and had no family. So at that very moment, I decided to kill off the wicked Fredrick Franklin once and for all. I was evacuated back to England and it was the end of the war before I got out of the hospital. By that time, no one remembered what Sam Michael looked like. I vowed to start over and live a Christian life. A life of redemption. I pray that I succeeded. I’m very proud of my daughter and my wife. And I hope that God has forgiven me for Francine’s death. It was an accident. An accident caused by an arrogant, cocky little boy in a man’s body. I pray I kept my most important New Year’s Resolution of all.
The three women stared at the old man lying in the bed. He looked at them and a tear flowed down his wrinkled cheek. And before they could say another word, the alarms went off a second time. 2011 had claimed its final life.
Fredrick Franklin III had given up his wicked ways and led an amazing life. And as the clock struck midnight, he kept his most important New Year’s Resolution of all — and he was finally forgiven.
