***
17 Norbury Square
London, England
December 20, 1917
Dear Charles,
I hope this finds you well. My own health has finally succumbed to two and a half years of wartime conditions. I am staying with some friends of my mother’s here in London. I don’t know when (if ever) I’ll be able to return to duty, but in the meantime it’s lovely to be pampered.
I left Boulogne in November, when it became obvious that I was more of a burden than a help. I suspect my difficulties are at least in part psychological – a form of ‘shell-shock,’ maybe? But there is a physical component as well; I’ll not weary you with the details.
People keep sending me letters from the war, so I am constantly reminded of it. Sometimes I wish I was still there. Not only because of the friends I left behind, but because everything matters there in a way it cannot elsewhere – in Arkham, or even here in London.
Some of the letters are from people who have found out that I’ve been collecting stories about people’s war experiences and getting them published. Recently I had an interesting one from a nurse at one of the Canadian hospitals in Etaples – a curious little tale about an amnesia case that turned up in the middle of November. The man had no identification, though was evidently a soldier. He did not know his name, nationality, place of origin, military unit or rank. He spoke English, was probably British or Canadian, but it was hard to tell, because he had difficulty articulating. No one could remember having seen him before. He must have been in combat, because he had recently healed head and facial wounds which appeared to have been expertly treated, but no one could figure out where. His mental disorder and confusion were such that he was transferred to one of the facilities in England for the care of mental cases.
As if that wasn’t enough, a General disappeared from that same hospital several weeks ago. That’s right – disappeared. Maybe that’s the word they use when a high rank goes a.w.o.l. He’s been declared missing, but not missing in action, of course, since he was with the Medical Corps, not a combat officer.
Another tidbit is that the nurse who sent me the story, Alexa MacInnis, is acquainted with Herbert West, has even worked with him. She says he’s a good surgeon, but that’s not all. “A third of the nurses are in love with him, another third can’t stand him, and the rest are scared of him.” Interesting, no?
I must close this now. The people I’m staying with are quite convivial types, and tonight we’re going to a play, then to supper. They say I need “a real rest,” but feel compelled to entertain me. Just to have my own room, good sheets and hot baths is a wonderful rest, without anything else.
I’ll write again soon.
All my best,
Alma.
But she did not write. Weeks went by and I heard nothing from her. I tried not to let myself imagine too much, but every now and then my mind conjured up a scenario of Alma dancing with a handsome officer, laughing and flirting with him. Away from the grim business of war, why wouldn’t she allow herself to be diverted? And what business did I have to begrudge her that?
Then, just after Midsummer’s Day, this arrived:
No. 3, 175 Pembroke Road
London
June 15, 1918
Charles,
A short note to let you know I’ll be living here for some time. I’m writing a book about the war and feel I can do a better job on it here. And I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to Arkham, or to America for that matter.
Don’t worry about me, but don’t forget me.
Always,
Alma.
The Friendship of Mortals Page 21