It's not that I'm usually emotional or sentimental, but today I was unwittingly sent on a journey to explore my ''feelings''. All because of the memories of an old man I just happened to meet briefly at the hospital. And, my heavens, did he have a story to tell.

Turning up a couple minutes early for my appointment at the renal unit, in the Old Victorian hospital in my home town of Borden, I approached the nurse's station, appointment card in hand. I waited for the red head nurse to look up and greet me. She smiled warmly, ticked my name off in her diary and pointed me in the direction of my consultants waiting area, an area that consisted of only three closely grouped chairs that stood against the wall of the sickly peppermint green tiled corridor. The chair to the left was overflowing with old magazines, consisting mainly of used national geographic. Donated by a doctor I presumed. The chair to the right, sat a silent, grey haired old man, who stared down at his own liver spotted hands. His skin appeared to be tissue thin, almost transparent. Only the middle chair was empty. I didn't wish to seem rude or ignorant, so I left the magazines with their spectacularly shot front covers, where they lay. With a greeting nod, I sat next to the old timer.

I sat and I waited. I fidgeted my fingers, picked at the frayed skin around my nails. Finally, I picked up a creased copy of the N-G. On its cover was a picture of a chunk of ice sheet floating along grey seas. On top was a stalking polar bear. It was facing the camera. Was it stalking the photographer, I wondered. As I lazily studied the picture the old man suddenly came to life. Raising his head and reaching over a frail hand, he allowed his cold and clammy palm to settle on top of mine.

Taken back, a chill ran through me as his hand caressed mine, and I flinched to move it from his touch. But it did not move. I could not move. My hand was fixed in place, as was my arm, and the rest of me. I looked from my hand up into the old man's face. I should have been afraid, I suppose, but I saw no malice, no intent of wickedness in his sad tired milky eyes. All I saw was an old man who wanted, needed someone to notice him, to listen for a while to his story. I looked up and down the corridor, and watched as people went about their business, not noticing, not acknowledging each other.

I wondered how long this man had sat here, wishing to be befriended. Hoping to be asked if he was OK, if he needed anything, a drink, an ear, anything! I realized that he never had. Not once had anyone noticed him, not until now, not until me!

I still could not remove my hand from either the magazine or the old man's touch, and I didn't feel the need to do so. Looking into his imploring eyes, I knew what he wanted. So I said,

'OK, I'm listening! Tell me!'

Feeling relaxed and safe, I wait for him to speak.

'She's gone, you know, my Edna. Died!' he paused a moment, shaking his head sadly 'I miss her terribly, but at least I will see her soon'

My heart uncomfortably skipped as a wave of sorrow rushes through me. My attention returned to the man as he continued to speak.

'I held her hand as she passed. Our eyes were locked together till the last moment. Then she peacefully closed them as she went to her eternal rest. It was cancer that took her from me, you know. The doctors did everything they possibly could, but in the end she had to go' he sighed, looked up at me and asked 'Didn't she?'

My heart broke a little as I answered 'Yes, I'm sorry, but she had to go!'

The old man nodded 'Yes, my dear Edna had to go, I know. And so will I soon enough, but not just yet'

I watched as the sadness faded from his face, and a smile gradually curled up the corners of his mouth.

'Do you want to know how we met? It was a terrible time back then, but we found each other. Well, I found her that is?'

I smiled 'Yes, I would like that very much.'

I have to admit, I would never have given this much attention to a stranger before. My wife often likes to make me aware of how little attention I give her. I'm sure she would be flabbergasted at what was happening to me here. She'd probably be a little jealous too.

I felt the old man's hand on mine, begin to warm a little. Looking down, I watch speechless as his hand, gained colour, became less translucent. His skin firmed up. I was looking at a youthful hand. Raising my eyes questioningly, I watched as his features also filled out; as his eyes lost their milkiness and his hair thickened and grew dark. Although I should have been scared of what was taking place, I wasn't, I was fascinated. Beside me sat a man, the same man, but he was younger, late 20s! He was now wearing what looked to be an old soldier's uniform. Second World War, I guessed. I was about to speak, but he shook his head to stop me. I continued to listen.

'My name is, Captain William Deakin's, William to everyone. Nice to meet you, son'

He said, and snapped a salute.

'Now, where was I. Oh yes, Edna. I was stationed in France, close to the German border to begin with. We pushed on and Jerry fell back in retreat. We gradually made our way into the south of the Rhineland. A couple of months and we were a little over a stone throw away from Berlin. To our great annoyance, we were commanded to halt sixty miles southwest of the capital. It turned out that Churchill had promised the Yanks the honor of taking Berlin by themselves, a small price to pay for having the Americans join the war. We lost a lot of good boys from my unit on the way to Victory. We knew that Jerry had lost the war, and it was only a matter of time until they too figured it out and finally surrendered. There we were, stalled, twiddling our thumbs, and waiting to go into Berlin. It gave us a chance to rest, but we were restless. So hearing of a nearby POW camp, we decided to go and liberate our countrymen, and allies'

The old man.... I mean, the young Captain Deakin's, paused, his face looking like thunder. He shook his head regretfully.

'It was hell on earth. Death was everywhere. It wasn't a POW camp at all, but a concentration camp. We didn't know exactly what a concentration camp was, not really. Yes, there were rumours of ethnic cleansing, of genocide, but to see it in person, well nothing can prepare you for such horrors. The gates to the camp were wide open, left that way by escaping German camp guards. The prisoners that survived the death camp remained there. Some were too weak and sick to travel, but most simply had nowhere to go. Everything they had, had been stripped from them, clothes, belongings, homes, even their country. But worst of all, most had their families ripped from them and slaughtered. Where did we expect them to go? No, they stayed where they knew, where there was shelter, and a little food and water. They were still prisoners of a kind, just prisoners of circumstance. But that was not the worst of it!

We found the dead, the gas chambers, mass graves still open and half full with hundreds of bodies covered in lime, all naked, all rotting into the giant soup bowl. It was horrendous, and the smell was potently evil! But still, this was not the worst.

No, the thing that struck me to the core, that twisted me in the guts, was the storage sheds behind the smoke stacks. As we search for stores of food and medical equipment, we found the remnants of the Jewish people's lives. Each shed contained Tea chests full of personnel belonging. Thousands of spectacles, leather wallets, purses, hats, gloves, shoes, even children's toys. What chilled me most were the chests full of false teeth. Not expensive gold teeth, but normal everyday teeth. I mean, why? What did they collect them for, what did they plan to do with so many dentures?

None of the sheds contained anything of worth, no currency, no jewellery, no gold teeth. It had long been taken back to Berlin. As well as these storage sheds, all the Germans left behind was death, disease and misery, as far as the eye could see!' William moaned in despair. Before I could bring myself to speak, he went on.

'I keep saying, the worst, I know, well the worst was still waiting for me. I and my squad worked day and night to help those wretched people, to feed them, warm them tend the ill, bury the dead. We slept where we dropped, and then we continued the minute we woke, which was almost as soon as we fell asleep. That was when, given, like the rest of my chums, I had very little to eat since arriving, most of our rations having gone to those more in need, I had to relieve myself in the hut covering the cesspit.

Ooh! The cesspit! It stank beyond belief. I could barely bring myself to open the door, but I did. Part of me wished I hadn't, but I am thankful that I did. With nothing in my stomach, I had nothing but water to pass, and I did, down through one of the holes in the board. Trying not to breathe in too deeply, I listened to the splashing water below. That was when I heard it, a prayer! I thought I could hear whispering. A sing song that, although I could barely hear it and did not understand the language, I knew from its rhyme, it was in fact the Shema, a Jewish prayer. I heard it a lot that week. I quickly finished, zipped my trousers and stood listening, wondering if I was hearing things. Where was the prayer coming from? I looked all around, but could not locate the tiny voice. That was when my heart sank, as did my eyes. I looked at the soiled board I had just urinated through, and groaned. With silent trepidation, I grasped the edges of the damp, encrusted board and with some effort pulled it up and threw it out of the way. With the hut door wide open I peered down into the gloom of the pit and with horror, looked into the terrified eyes of a young child. I thought the poor soul was a little girl, but I wasn't sure as the child had sunk down into the human waste to the chin, and her face and hair were plastered with the filth. I bent low, turned away and wretched at the sight and smell, all the while the whispering prayer continued. Wiping my lip's clean, I turned back, leaned forward on my belly, and reached out my hand, and with imploring eyes and a soothing voice, I said,

'I won't hurt you' and gently shook my hand, but no matter how I begged, the child would not come. Impatiently, I barked a little louder than I meant, and watched as the lost soul sank deeper, up to her nose. I could bare this no more. I quickly back away, ran out into daylight and shouted out almost in despair to a couple of nearby squaddies. Waving my arm urgently for them to follow, I ran back into the hut and began to strip down to my long Johns. Without dwelling on what I was about to do, I slid over the edge of the pit, and lowered myself down into the fetid well. I was surprised at how warm the human waste was, and how thick and sick the air was to breath. Holding my hands and face as high as possible above the surface, I attempted to make my way the short way over to the small child. There were obstacles in my way I could not see, and did not want to see. All the while I continued to coo and soothe best I could, given the situation. I felt my leg strike something beneath the surface, sending the mass up to the surface. I watched the bubbling waste and in horror, saw another small child like face break the surface, and my resolve. I cried out loudly at the feces covered face of a rotting corpse, its mouth open wide in a silent scream, before it sank back down into the depths.

Seeing the rising panic in the eyes of the terrified child, I knew I would never convince her to come to me. So, with a calculated risk, I lunged as fast as possible and grasped her by the shoulders, dragging her screaming into my arms and holding her tight.

Moments later I was standing out in the sweet clean air with the young child still in my arms. Looking down into her sorrowful, tearful eyes, I too began to sob. Bending down I encircled the small girl in my arms and together we cried for all the wrong done to use. And there we stayed until our tears ran dry.

My buddies had quickly prepared a cold bath for us in an old oil drum cut lengthways. Unable to stand the stench, they left us to it. The young girl did not speak, not whilst I bathed and dried her, nor when I fed her or tucked her into my hastily made bunk in one of the huts. For days, as I and my squad continued to help the prisoners, the girl refused to speak, although she began to follow me wherever I went. Soon, the Red Cross arrived and took over the camp and the care of the Jewish people.

It was time for us to leave, to begin our march into what was left of the German capital. The girl, seeing that I had begun to pack my kit, clung to me, and silently begged for me not to leave. I explained to her that I had to go, and that the good people of the red cross would look after her, but she did not understand. Peeling her fingers off of my arm I passed her to a young nurse and made my way with my men out of the camp gates and along the gravel road.

As we approached a bend in the road that would take us towards a nearby village, I heard a voice calling 'Wilhelm, Wilhelm!!'

Turning to the outskirts of the camps barbed wire fence, I was surprised to see the tear streaked face of the small girl.

'Wilhelm, bevakasha, bevakasha!' she pleaded.

One of my buddies shouted over his shoulder 'She's shouting, 'Please, Please!''

I walked over to her, knelt and took hold of her hands through the fence.

I said 'William'

She began to cry again as she pointed at herself 'Edna. Bevakasha. Take me!'

I wiped a tear from her cheek with a finger and said 'I have to go Edna. Ani miztaeret, ani miztaeret, I'm sorry!'

We march to the forest edge, and without looking back at the pleading young girl, passed out of sight into the trees. My sight was blurred with tears, I couldn't look back.

A smile of sadness crossed Captain William Deakin's face as he spoke.

'I thought of Edna all the way to Berlin, and all the way back home to Borden in Lincolnshire, the following year. My heart broke the day I cried with her in my arms. It took a long time for it to recover from that hurt. Not for many years, not until a chance meeting over twenty years later, as I holidayed in Scarborough on the English east coast. The sky was angry and the clouds grey. I stood with my arms folded and balanced on the wrought iron railings of the promenade. I watched as rough seas crashed onto the beach and the gusting winds blew hard against the sails of the few boats that dared to battle the autumn weather. Over the whistling wind I heard a familiar phrase being called out.

'Wilhelm, Wilhelm, bevakasha?'

It took a moment or two for it to register, but when it did, I spun around searching the thin crowd. Running towards me was a beautiful young woman, waving and calling out.

'Is that you Wilhelm? My god, can it truly be you?'

She was smiling and crying, both happy and distressed, as she came to a halt in front of me. Standing there staring at me in wonder.

'It is you, is it not, Wilhelm?' she asks with a thick Germanic accent. Once the shock of realisation had passed, I eventually was able to speak 'Edna?' was all I could say.

The young woman smiled broadened and she launched herself at me and hugged me tightly and I hugged back. Looking down into her upturned face, I saw a beautiful young woman and not the filthy bag of bones I had found that day so long ago.

Ever since that day in Scarborough back in 1956, we were never to be separated again. We married two years later, but we never had children. We had passed through too much evil to want to raise children in such a world. Together we were happy, we were whole, we had a good life together, but she died, you know!'

I listened to William, all the while with tears threatening to spill from my eyes, and I watched on as the youthful visage of the young British soldier gradually aged back into the grey haired old man that I had sat beside. Looking down at our hands still atop the magazine, I watched as his tissue thin liver spotted hand lift up releasing mine. I smiled sadly at William, and nodded my understanding and acceptance of everything he had to say, and he nodded back.

At last I asked him 'William, when did Edna die. What year?'

The old man frowned in thought and said sadly '72, I think. A while back least ways'

A chill ran down my spine as I ask him 'and you William, when did you pass?'

I waited for his answer, with both fascination, and dread.

With a quizzical look, he replied 'Pass? Oh, a couple of years later I think. It's all so difficult to remember. I'm forgetting'

Looking at me, William said 'Edna die you know!'

'How long have you been waiting here, William?'

I was able to lift my hand from the magazine, and moving it, I attempted to place it comfortingly on Williams arm, but it passes through the fading man.

'How long have I been waiting! How longs a piece of string, son. How longs a piece of string?'

Finally, tears spilled onto my cheeks, and I said 'William, don't you think it's time that you followed Edna. Go and be with your girl, William. Go!'

A surprisingly sharp beep filled the corridor and high up on the opposing wall a red LED sign illuminated with my name and the room I was supposed to see my consultant. Looking back to the old man, all I could see was three empty chairs and a pile of worn magazines. Drying my face and releasing a cleansing sigh, I smiled warmly to myself and made my way to room 23, and to my appointment.