On December 31, 1944, a critically wounded Army officer, “young and boyishly handsome”, was transported from the Colambra Ridge battlefield in Italy to the Surgical Ward of the 69 British General Hospital Ship in the Bay of Naples. Just as the nurse on duty set to examine his bandaged skull, a patient from the adjoining bed spoke up admiringly, “...these Indians are damn brave men. This one decided to attack a German tank all by himself... I was stationed in India a while back, Sister... these guys from the Punjab, fight to the last man... Maybe, I wouldn’t be here if he was fighting by my side...”
The new patient struggles to ask for a glass of water, after consuming which he “felt the joy of life flooding back into him”. When his eyes regained a semblance of focus, the first image surging his senses was that the Sister minding him “was beautiful... piercing bright blue eyes...skin delicate, with a dewy complexion”. Telepathically, the Sister also found her emotions hopelessly aroused towards the Major and to regain composure, she said, “I am going to have a barber come and shave the hair in and around your left ear so it can be better dressed.”
Shortly, the Luftwaffe, by design or accident, targeted the Hospital Ship St. David. Sister Norah rushed to the deck, saw the mayhem in the dark sea below of mutilated bodies afloat. She “untied her apron, grabbed an inflated rubber ring, closed her eyes, held her breath and leapt into the dark sea”. She reached a man floating in a pool of blood and dragged him to the fuel door of her ship where sailors awaited to pull the survivors aboard; by any measure, “an act beyond the call of duty”, but it remained unrecognised.
