The Friendship of Mortals
Page 17
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No. 1 C.C.S.
C.A.M.C.
St. Eloi, Belgium
May 12, 1915
My Dear Charles,
My experience with rain and mud in England was good preparation for my current situation. I have never seen so much mud, and hot water is a luxury I never fully appreciated until now. Indeed, I am inclined to think that hot water, not art, is the hallmark of civilization.
Things began to get exciting here a few weeks ago, which is why I haven’t had time to write. I managed to convince those in charge that surgery is my thing, not handing out reprimands to men who have let their feet get rotten or examining their genitals for signs of venereal disease, or seeing that Rules are Enforced. So, just as the Germans began attacking Ypres again I was assigned to the C.C.S. here at St. Eloi.
A C.C.S. (for you civilians unused to the rampant initialisms so dear to the military mind) is a Casualty Clearing Station, the first stop between the field of battle and the military hospital (or the morgue, depending on how things turn out). It is a field hospital of the most basic sort.
Charles, you cannot imagine the intensity after a raid or a battle, with wounded men coming in by the dozens. My efforts back home to keep myself in good physical condition have paid off, because all of us here have been tested to our limits and beyond. I think my record now is three solid days of operating with only the shortest breaks between cases. It’s amazing what one can do when one has to.
The casualties are sorted by type of injury and likelihood to withstand transport and surgery. Those whom the stretcher-bearers have assessed as unlikely to survive are left behind in the field – a callous but necessary practice called triage. Even so, when one is finished with a case, there is another ready for one’s attention. And another after him, and another. After a cigarette break, one carries on. No, do not imagine I have taken up smoking; that is a kind of joke here – “Everyone fall out for a cigarette. Those who do not smoke will go through the motions.” It’s about what we need to catch our breaths, so to speak, although we have one fellow here – a Frenchman, naturally – who smokes while operating. When one of the nurses objected to his dropping ash into the wounds, he muttered, “Ah, mais c’est sterile, Mademoiselle,” and carried on.
I am sure you think you know the reason I decided to come here – my research. But you must realize that a C.C.S. is not the sort of situation in which one can carry out experiments of the sort we did in Arkham. It is a lovely irony that I should be surrounded by fresh corpses which I cannot utilize. I have heard of men severely reprimanded for leaving their dead comrades’ equipment on the field and bringing back their bodies instead. So a dead man is worth less than a rifle, except to his friends; thus the dead must be treated with respect. It’s a nuisance, altogether.
I’ve been hearing artillery at work for some time now, so suspect it will be a busy night. I had better get some sleep while I can.
Herbert.
He remained at St. Eloi for a full year, growing increasingly impatient with what he considered an unproductive situation and with his superiors. In his letters I began to see an attitude like the one that preceded the Commencement Day incident, and wondered whether this was what Quarrington had warned me about. But my hints as to the desirability of a return to Arkham were uniformly ignored. In 1916 he found an opportunity for change and seized it. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he manufactured it.
St. Eloi
Jan. 16, 1916
My Dear Charles,
The ebb and flow of ‘personnel’ washed a rather interesting individual to our blood-soaked little outpost recently, an Englishman named Morton who was supposedly inspecting something or other. He had a civilian look under the thinnest of military veneers, but he is well acquainted with Sir Eric Clapham-Lee, and for some reason was extraordinarily loquacious.
I already knew, of course, that Sir Eric is a surgeon of considerable repute in England. That was one of the reasons I approached him in the first place. He has great ambitions to revolutionize surgery and open a new field for enterprising individuals. He told me a little of this on the ship from America, before he was felled by sea-sickness.
Morton was elusive as to details, but I gather that a precipitous descent in the Clapham-Lee fortunes may be imminent, due to some financial disaster in the Far East. This, added to Sir Eric’s scientific zeal, may furnish an avenue for a quid pro quo.
(War, I have found, induces in me a peculiar combination of ennui and anomie, which time reduces to a low cunning).
Now I will tell you something: Before I left Arkham, I worked out a way to create artificial tissue that is non-specific until it has been applied to a particular place in the body. Once assimilated, it promotes exceedingly rapid healing and reconstruction of severely injured areas. You can imagine how useful it has been here, and how many opportunities I have had to test it. I am quite overjoyed with it. I can put a man back together who has been very nearly destroyed. It may be that his own mother would not recognize him, but he will be alive and unmistakably human. I hope you understand now what I have to offer Sir Edward Clapham-Lee. If I decide to; I shall reserve judgment for the present.
Fondest regards,
Herbert.
Clapham-Lee was only one element in the formula; West himself was the other.
May 10, 1916
My Dear Charles,
Since I wrote you last I decided that I should experience something of life in the trenches. During the fighting near St. Eloi in April I managed to leave my relatively bomb-proof haven at the C.C.S. for an Advanced Dressing Station (an A.D.S. of course – what else?) just behind the lines, as the unofficial guest of the officer in charge there. As it turned out, that worthy fellow met with a bad end when the station was shelled, and it fell to me to direct the removal of the wounded to a place of safety. I found it an oddly exhilarating experience, Charles, dashing about dodging bullets and encouraging the stretcher-bearers, even taking a hand in stretcher-bearing myself. My brain has never been clearer than it was during this episode – an effect of undiluted adrenaline, I suppose. I was tempted to repeat the experience by getting myself transferred officially to one of these front-line stations but resisted, knowing that my talents are put to their best use in the operating theater and my experimental work cannot be done in the field.
Of course my superiors were not happy about this little adventure, although a little thought should have shown them that my presence was a piece of good luck. After all, Briggs would have been killed even if I had not been there, in which case the outcome would have been less satisfactory. But no, Rules were violated, resulting in disciplinary procedures and a blot on my record. Fortunately, I had already written to Clapham-Lee, hinting that transfer to another venue may be of mutual benefit for scientific collaboration. So we shall see what transpires.
Herbert
What transpired was a transfer the following month.
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital
Etaples, France
August 17, 1916
My Dear Charles,
Success! Since my last letter things have changed considerably. The powers that be decided that cooperation is the thing, with surgical expertise best concentrated in places where it can be mobilized to greatest efficiency. And Sir Eric now believes that a certain obscure Yankee may help him achieve his dearest ambitions.
So here I am, near this little French town where the war has sprouted a veritable city of hospitals and supporting institutions. The countryside is quite interesting – sand dunes and pine groves, a little like Cape Cod back home. There is a good view from the No. 1 to the seaside village of Paris Plage. Opportunities abound for exercise and amusement, which somewhat compensates for our close quarters and the everlasting regulations.
Despite which, I am working again – real work, besides what I do in my official capacity. For the first time I have been able seriously to pursue my revivification work. In the warren of build
ings here I was able to commandeer a hut that is just adequate for my purposes. Clapham-Lee was helpful in this matter (although I am beginning to develop reservations about his motives). With the abundance of corpses available here, I have already carried out a number of revivifications. Some were like O’Brien and Hocks; I think the violence of their deaths carried over. They came to life filled with the intent to kill, and since the only thing available to be killed was myself, I had to dispatch them. (Finally a use for the pistol I am permitted, as an officer, to carry. Besides target-shooting, that is). Disposal of the bodies is absurdly easy. But I have registered several successes, some of them stellar compared with our Arkham results. With my tissue-regenerating substance, I was able to restore some of these men to the extent that they were able to return to active duty, slightly diminished in mental capacity, perhaps, but certainly functional. The most fortunate were considered unfit for further service and sent home.
Rejoice with me, Charles, because I must perforce keep this secret from my colleagues, even Clapham-Lee – no, him especially.
There are moments when I envy your peaceful haven in Arkham, closeted with your books.
Herbert.
P.S. But most of the time I do not.
My peaceful haven.. Yes, I suppose it was that. Most of the time, my work was a refuge from memories and regrets. But every now and then, I would stop whatever I was doing – counting the leaves of plates in a book or holding up a page to the light to discern the watermark of the paper – because of an unbidden image that had invaded my mind – Alma, her hair loose and haloed with light; West’s half-smile when he had caught me out in a lapse of logic during one of our arguments. Sometimes an entire minute would pass before I returned to my work.
Etaples
Oct. 22, 1916
My Dear Charles,
We have just come through several extremely bloody weeks, for me a maelstrom of life and death, to the point that sometimes I do not know whether I am trying to save a living man from death or restore a dead one to life. It has occurred to me more than once that it may not matter. I have plumbed their tissues in pursuit of their lives, swum in their blood, been splattered with fluids from their uttermost depths, seen things that no man (not even I?) should see – hearts laboring futilely in broken bodies, brains pulsating within shattered skulls. I have heard agonized screams and pleas for the mercy of death. Nothing can shock me now. And yes, I have possessed their lives, held them in the palm of my hand, snuffed them out like candles when it suited me. Perhaps some day I will tell you.
And no, Charles, I have not heard or seen any ghosts, rudely evicted spirits wandering about seeking their lost bodies. But then, I do not look for such things. One or two of them were lively conversationalists, quite argumentative. At least one could have been called impertinent. Apropos of impertinence, Clapham-Lee and I continue to dance – a pavane still, not a tarantella.
Yours “in haste,” as we used to say in more civilized times.
Herbert.