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Netley, 20 August, 1916
My Dear Holmes,
I sit here, in my stark,
small room, on a balmy summer night, composing yet another letter to you. I
imagine that you would smile bemusedly at my behavior, since I write to you
although I have no idea where you are. I have seen neither hide nor hair of you
for these past two years, nor heard a word of your whereabouts. Yet there is a
part of me that knows you are alive. I shall add this letter to the collection
that I keep, a chronicle of sorts at my time here at Netley Hospital. Who knows?
Perhaps one day I shall even have the courage to give these letters to you, and
you can again shake your head in bemusement at my fanciful writings.
The
hospital continues its gruesome work of treating the wounded, and I fear that a
sense of despair pervades the halls as this grotesque war continues. I am still
amazed, when I have time to think, that is, that I am ending my military career
here at Netley, the same place it all began. Although when I was a
freshly-minted (and unbelievable naďve) army surgeon, I had not realized the
extent of the problems associated with the Royal Victoria Military Hospital, to
give it its formal name. It was merely a place to receive my training and head
out to far more exciting locales. Yes, I was young and foolish in those days,
Holmes.
I am certain that I have complained of the
hospital previously, but the incompetence of the design still galls me. The
corridors all have lovely sea breezes and fresh air, while the wards themselves
face the inner courtyard and are dark, dismal, and have poor ventilation. I fear
such miserable conditions begin to affect morale, both among the patients and
even among the staff. Thank goodness for the Red Cross and the huts they built
on the grounds, allowing for more beds and better conditions.
Although
our casualty rates are low, the overall atmosphere continues to take on a
depressive feel as the war grinds on. Many of the men are here to convalesce,
yet the military advisors seem to hover about, waiting for their recovery so as
to send the freshly (and barely) healed men back to the front lines. There are
complaints too, always whispered ones, about the men who suffer from
shell-shock, and the belief that these poor souls are somehow “faking” their
horrors so as to avoid service. I know, from personal experience, that the
conditions of battle, especially when you are wounded, shatter your nerves for
years. These “advisors” have obviously never been near a real battle (and would
likely suffer great indignities upon themselves if they were to merely venture
out on the front lines). From what I understand, fighting conditions have become
more deplorable from when I served, if such a thing is even possible.
Yet
our job here is to fix up these men so they can be sent back out, where they
will either die or suffer more horrors. I truly wonder if we are creating a
generation of lost souls. What price must we pay to prevail? Yet the
consequences of not winning are equally upsetting.
I am in a maudlin
mood.
I wonder, Holmes, if you could see me now, what you would say. My
guess is that it would be something along the lines of: ‘Why yes, Watson, this
is all very interesting. Now stop dissembling and tell me what is really
bothering you.’ Perhaps you would say, ‘Ah Watson, this is not the source of
your despair, which is actually caused by the letter in your pocket.’ Who knows,
Holmes? You might even say, ‘I see your wife has left you.’
Yes, I
received a letter today, Holmes. It is a letter from my wife. Perhaps I should
say that it is a letter from my soon to be former wife.
In my previous
communications to you (which you have never read, for they are sitting in my
trunk as if mocking me with own thoughts and weaknesses; I should probably just
burn the lot of them), I mentioned that my wife had gone to America to be with
her sister while the war continues. She did not feel comfortable remaining in
London on her own, and I am only able to visit rarely. I also know she was
dissatisfied with my decision to serve, believing, as you did, that this was the
work for younger men.
I could never explain, at least not to her
understanding, that this war was different and that I felt utterly compelled to
assist. Perhaps I just needed to feel useful again. Perhaps I was just jealous
of your adventures after all this time. Perhaps it is some higher calling. I
must be here, Holmes, if only to offer these wounded men some brief healing and
comfort in the midst of hell.
I exchanged regular correspondence with my
wife and had no inkling that anything was amiss, yet today I received word that
she had fallen in love with a butcher in New Jersey.
I would love to see
your expression right now to see if you are laughing.
She is seeking a
divorce, somewhere in the Western states.
I do not even feel sadness or
upset over her actions; I only feel regret over my own numerous failures. I was
never the husband she was looking for. My heart was always, as you know, engaged
elsewhere, with you. How can I begrudge her happiness, since I have been unable
(or perhaps unwilling) to provide it myself?
I should have followed your
advice all those years ago and never remarried. I would not have hurt her, or
myself, or especially you, my dear Holmes. I was so frightened as to what would
happen if our secret were to actually become public knowledge. I truly thought I
was protecting you, but perhaps I was only being selfish. I did not take into
account the emotions of my wife, nor of you, nor even of me, and the
difficulties we would face as we tried to lead lives based on falsehoods and
fear.
You have told me years ago that you have forgiven me for my
panicked response. I can only hope that it is true. I also hope that my wife can
one day forgive me for using her as a shield, when I should have stood bravely
beside you and accepted the consequences of our affair.
Damn, Holmes, I
miss you. Do you realize that this is, essentially, the longest period of time
that we have been apart, even including those three years of your supposed
death. It has been four years (well, technically, two years while you were in
America, one day of respite, and now two more years of war). I was so used to
turning to you, Holmes, for over 35 years. There is now such emptiness in my
heart.
I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I always have.
Yes, I know I
should burn this letter.
You will be pleased to know that I considered my
vow to you to remain safe, and did not rush off into certain danger (and likely
death). There is a shortage of medical personnel at the fronts, and they asked
for volunteers from the doctors and nurses here. I truly think they would have
considered me, despite my advanced years, as they were so desperate. I knew,
however, that I would be in daily danger, and I could not bear the thought of
meeting you in the afterlife and seeing your stern, disapproving face as you
cried, ‘Watson, I thought you had better sense than that!’
Do not worry,
Holmes. Not even after today’s news from the soon to be former Mrs. Watson will
I rush to the front. I plan to live and long to see you again when this is all
over.
On a lighter note, I did receive a bit of amusing correspondence
from our old friend, Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle. It seems that he was asked what you
were doing during the War while at some event (in France, I believe), and
surprised, he uttered that you were too old to serve. Of course, that led him to
enquire as to what, exactly, you were actually up to. I informed him that I did
not, exactly, know, but gave him a few details of our last encounter. Of course,
he wishes me to write a story. I do not know if I feel up to such an endeavor at
this time Holmes. Perhaps I will just let him spin one out of
cloth.
Well, the night grows late and I must attempt to get a few hours
of sleep (even though such an enterprise will likely be futile tonight). It
would amuse you, I think, to see your old housemate arising a five in the
morning to make my medical rounds. I doubt that my early morning disposition has
improved throughout the years.
As always, I remain,
Very
sincerely yours,
John Watson
August
1918: Renewal
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