by Steve Emecz
Back in training, our instructor said that the only constant is war. I disagree. The other is Sherlock Holmes, my friend.
==IM/END/DELETE SEARCH==
Vir Requiēs
By Kaylin C. Sapp
Ohio, USA
Cadenced scales and chords discordant
Coaxed from strings, more scrape than tune
Partner with the darkling twilight
Shrouding all in fog-wreathed moon.
Softly now the lamp-light flickers
Casting ‘cross that pensive face
Shadows which betray the darkest
Perils of the human race.
A child’s hope, a father’s burden
A gracious lady’s firm behest –
But L’art pour l’art, because the Master
Is not swayed by wealth or crest.
But then! The tuneful musing halts
As convoluted lies take flight.
Sophistry and misconception
Must give way before the Light.
Truth is Light, and his Conductor
Unassuming, strong, discreet –
Stalwart friend and chronicler, he
Guards the sleuth of Baker Street.
Scarlet studies, Games and madmen
Speckled bands but one close call.
Valleys change from Fear to Shadows
Heralding the Final Fall.
An Empty House stands still and silent
Monument to genius gone
But no true hero lies forgotten
While a chronicler lives on.
The Darkest Hour
By Peter Holmstrom
Oregon, USA
It is only through great determination, and the realisation of my impending death, that I have chosen to tell this tale, for it concerns the darkest hour of my life. With the declaration of war in Europe, I volunteered my services in whatever capacity seemed fit. I do not deny at this late date, that I had believed my service to be one of medical training, or at the worst, tending to the wounded shipped back to England. But as the casualties wounded continued to piled up by the thousands, I was ordered to the front lines, straight into the inferno of the great Battle of the Somme. This truly was the most horrific experience of my life. The medical station, located within an abandoned church, became less about saving lives and more about expediting death. Morphine was in short supply within the first few days; the most we could do was clean their wounds and direct them to God, for whatever good it did them. The air stank with death. The soil outside became tinted with blood, and the sound of screaming was never far away from our thoughts and minds. It was on a particularly grueling day in late July, that I obtained the worst single memory I have of the war. I was tending to another of the many wounded men. A piece of shrapnel had punctured his right lung and was protruding through the other side. As I looked down at the young man who was all too young to die, the frequent, and somewhat comforting thought occurred to me that this boy would not have even been alive when I first met my old friend Sherlock Holmes. Our later adventures would have been nothing more than the meaningless screaming of the newspaperman, completely oblivious to the pains and evils of the world. And now here he was, dying on my makeshift-operating table. My mind went to those years in Baker Street. The comforting fire, the easy chair, which I so often found myself in, and Holmes standing near the hearth playing his violin. A bell would ring, and up would come some poor devil to ask for the help of the great Sherlock Holmes. It seemed like no matter how dire, Holmes could defeat any evil. But Holmes was retired to his bee farm, where I had not seen him for over ten years; and now there was an evil, which even he could not best. The boy on the operating table died. Screaming and panting as so many do, begging for a miracle that will never come. Blood dripped down my apron, as I watched the life drain from the boy’s eyes. I stormed out of the church, cursing the day that I ever decided to volunteer for this blasted war, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. As I focused harder, my mind almost thought that I was hallucinating. Across the square that separated the former church from the battered village, stood Sherlock Holmes. At least, I thought it was Holmes. The man across the way was dressed as an elderly beggar, hunched over and carrying a walking stick. But there was something in the eyes, and the way he walked which made me almost certain that was my old friend. I could hardly believe my eyes. I walked over with the firm intention of confronting the man. Disregarding the rain and the crowd of people, disregarding the whole war, I needed to see him. But by the time I moved across the square, the man had gone. I looked around frantically, no doubt attracting the attention of some of the soldiers lingering around outside, but I didn’t care. I moved through the crowd and began down the nearest alley, which I thought would be his likely route. The shadows rose around me as I walked between the shattered remnants of the village.
I had just about given up the search, when a hand seemed to come out of nowhere and tug at my shirtsleeve. Turning, I saw the same derelict old man hunched over in the shadows. He spoke some words French that I didn’t understand, but there was still that twinkle in the eyes.
“Holmes?” I must have sounded almost desperate, for Holmes began to chuckle almost apologetically.
“Why, my dear Watson, what are you doing in a place such as this?”
I let out a sigh that seemed to encapsulate the weeks of emotional torture undergone in this hellhole. The tension in my muscles fell away as I stared at my old friend, Sherlock Holmes.
“Holmes, you truly have no idea how good it is to see you!”
“And you old fellow, but please I beg you, keep your voice down, for this disguise is not for play.” He motioned me to step further into the shadows as we both sat down on a pile of rubble.
I stared at my old friend as well as I could in this dim light. Even through the disguise I could see how the years had treated him poorly since last we spoke. The lines under his eyes and the grey in his hair did not need to be faked any longer. Yet as he spoke, I could tell that his spirit was still as strong as ever, and despite all the years, he was still Sherlock Holmes.
“I suppose you’re wondering why it is that I have forgone my quiet life of bee- keeping to come here?”
“Frankly Holmes, you could have come for a cup of for the tea for all I care, I’m just extremely glad to see you. This war has been eating away at me like I could never have thought possible.”
Holmes stared at me for a moment and let out a long breath, and after which he pulled out his familiar cherry wood pipe.
“I was sorry to hear about your wife Watson…”
The pain struck through me like a hot needle; on top of everything else, the reminder of my wife’s death at the hands of a disease I could not cure, pained me in a way I thought not possible in that city of blood. I swept away a tear, almost feeling glad that I could still feel.
“Tell me the story Holmes. How did you come here?” Holmes smiled slightly and patted me on the knee.
“It was only a few weeks ago actually. I was situated quietly enough in my Sussex bee farm, content to let the war play out without my involvement, when a motorcar came up the drive… Do you have a match old fellow?”
I shook my head; it had been more than a few months since I had smoked anything.
“Ah well, as I was saying… The driver turned out to be my brother Mycroft. You will remember of course that Mycroft’s position in the government would have made him quite indispensable through this war. So I knew that this was not a social visit. He came, insisting that I accompany him to the north of France, of all places, on a matter of some urgency.”
I could hear the contempt in his voice as he spoke, it was clear that Mycroft had exerted some influence over him.
“We arrived in a small town near the front lines
and proceeded to drive directly to an army hospital, without Mycroft letting me know anything of what was going on. ‘All I can tell you Sherlock is that there is a situation which requires your experience.’
‘The expertise assistance of the bee keeper, I rather think not.’
‘Don’t be flippant Sherlock, this is a matter of delicate importance.’
‘I’m jittering with anticipation.’ I sat myself back, as you can imagine Watson, with more than a little chip on my shoulder.
“Upon arriving in the hospital I was confronted with much the same scene as must be common for you, but for me it was more than a little sobering. We were shown through to a private room where lay a man, who had probably once been about five foot six, but now was missing his legs, with the rest of him hardly faring better.
‘Why are we here Mycroft?’
‘Wait… Lieutenant…Can you hear me?’ The man fluttered open his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, but said nothing. I looked at Mycroft, expecting some explanation.
‘This is Lieutenant Prendergast, Sherlock. He had been taken prisoner three months ago just outside of Verdunp. One week ago, he managed to escape back across the lines. We found him bleeding out on the fields of Flanders of Flanders, where we believe his most recent wounds were inflected there. Since then he has been in and out of consciousness, yet through his delirium, he has maintained one fact….’ Mycroft leaned down to speak into Prendergast’ ear. ‘Prendergast, tell us your secret you told the nurses.’
“For a moment Watson, I felt that Prendergast might die right there, he was shaking and sweating profusely, but he somehow found the strength as he struggled to find the words.
‘I heard em, they thought I was dead, but I heard em…’
‘What did you hear Prendergast?.’ said Mycroft. At this moment Prendergast lifted his head to stare directly into Mycroft’s eyes.
‘There’s a spy sir… A German spy, on the Somme… We’re being ambushed by a German spy!’
‘How can you be sure?’ said I.
‘I heard em talking…Soldiers, passing by me, they didn’t know I was there, but I heard em…They mentioned said how they got information from someone on the British lines. They knew when we’d attack… Even before the soldiers did… Thought that was funny they did… That they knew days before those who were gonna be doing the fighting. Who could know that sir? Who could know our own movements before we do?’
“We walked out of the hospital and back into the car; both of us knew to hold our tongues until then.”
‘Mycroft, I really don’t know what you expect me to do?’
‘Surely it’s obvious, solve the case, find the traitor.’ I let out a sniff at the absurdity of his reasoning.
‘If what he’s saying is true, that the German’s know our plan of attack before it moves down to the masses of the common soldier, then there can surely only be four or five people that...’
‘This is a delicate situation Sherlock! We have word every day of mutinies occurring on the front lines. Knowledge of an investigation into high-ranking officials might just push things into a massive widespread revolt! This needs to be done quietly, so no one will know. Should you find the culprit, there won’t be Scotland Yard to bumble in and take him away. There will be no trial Sherlock, moral for this war is weak as it is. No one can know of this treachery. Do you understand?’”
I stared at Holmes, not really believing what I was hearing. “Was Mycroft asking what I think he was asking Holmes?” Holmes chewed on his unlit pipe steam and stared off into nothing.
“We’re treading in extremely dangerous waters here Watson, and the destination might not be a pleasant one.”
We sat there in silence for a time, neither of us wanting to speak the truth. The sound of the rain was indistinguishable from the sound of the bullets in the distance, and I wished to god we were still in Baker Street. After a moment, he turned to me. “And so I ended up here Watson… It became clear with little investigation that the spy must be located at this location; the orders came in from too many different people for it to be from headquarters. No, it has to be on the receiving end. I took this disguise and came here.”
I barely heard this last sentence. A German spy… on our lines, passing information about troop movement and attack plans, could cost England thousands of lives.
“Can I help in some way Holmes?”
“I should like that Watson. I’ve determined the information isn’t being sent via wires, or other more modern technology. So the last two nights I have held vigil over the front lines. Yet so far, I have seen nothing.”
“Then I shall accompany you tonight.”
“Thank you, my friend. Let us meet here, at around nine, and perhaps together we can stop a traitor, and save England in the process!”
I spent the rest of the day tending to the wounded, actually saving more than I watched die, which gave my mind some relief. I found my spirits to be much improved; the thought of once again chasing criminals with Holmes made even the war seem tolerable for a little while.
At the stroke on nine, I slipped out of the church into the dark, to find Holmes where I had left him a few hours before. He had abandoned his disguise, and was instead now looking more like the old Holmes I had in my memory.
We walked through the shadows, beyond the village, moving ever closer to the front lines. We ended our journey on the side of a hill, from where we could see both the village in the distance, and the trenches holding thousands of young English boys, most of them whom would probably never see come home.
We sat together for a time, finding cover in a outcropping of rocks as we stared out at the barren fields of Flanders. I remember the screams the most.
With the mass numbers wounded in every attack, the General ordering thousands to attack daily, most of the wounded were left where they were. Screaming for a help that would never come. But through all the faint screaming, there was an eerie, hollow silence in the air. The sky was uncommonly clear, and the moon shone down bright onto the battered landscape; dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture wounds from artillery rounds, once beautiful fields were now no man’s land. Grey sections of earth probably to never see life grow on it again. I couldn’t help but think these thoughts as we sat together, waiting for a sign of treason on that cold summers night.
“Is any of this worth it Holmes? Can any of this death and destruction have a purpose?”
“There is a point to it perhaps Watson, but it is not for us to see. The bleak landscape we see before us, and the horrors you have seen in the hospital, will be used as a symbol. A warning beacon for other generations, to remind them that war is not to a means for the politicians to achieve their ends. From the ashes of this war will come a peaceful, a more conscientious world. That is why we fight Watson. Not for the politicians in Whitehall, but for the well being of the all. And may a better world come from it.”
“One can only hope.”
Holmes suddenly leaned forward, looking intently into the night’s sky, and the expression on his face growing deadly serious. I turned to see what he was looking at, but could see nothing.
“Holmes? What is it?” “Of course. What a fool I’ve been!” “Holmes? What did you see?” I could tell Holmes couldn’t hear me. Even through the dark I could see the mind of the great man was moving faster than any others.
“What a fool I’ve been! Come on Watson! We’re running out of time!”
We were sprinting off the hillside before Holmes had even finished the sentence. No longer concerned with lurking in the shadows, Holmes ran at the speed of a man half his age, and with double the determination. I somehow managed to keep up with him, all the while gripping the revolver I had placed in my pocket.
We ran through the night, approaching the village within a very few minutes, ending our return outside the same
church which I had left mere hours before.
“Holmes, what are we doing here? Tell me! What did you see?”
Holmes beckoned me further into the shadows across from the church as to give us a clear sight of the entrance.
“I was a fool not to think of it earlier, and had it not been a clear night I would have missed it completely.”
“I looked as well, but didn’t see anything!”
“It was a mere instant, passing in the direct light of the moon. A bird Watson! A carrier pigeon. It must be painted black as to hide itself in the night. And where would the sound of a pigeon not attract notice?”
“In the tower of a church! Blast it all Holmes, are you telling me the traitor’s been under my very nose the whole time!”
“Yes, and hopefully we haven’t missed him already.”
Our wait was not a long one. Within five minutes, the large oak doors opened, and a man strolled casually out.
“Holmes! It’s General…”
“No names Watson! Not even in whisper. Quietly now, we must follow him.”
We followed him through the night; right back to his own quarters. I stared at the man in front of us as we followed. The man who had ordered hundreds of thousands of men to their deaths. The man who I believed had our best interests at heart. The man who was a traitor. There was a guard stationed in front of the General’s quarters, but Holmes led us around to the back where a window had had its glass blown out. We stood on the other side of the street, staring at the window, knowing what lay beyond.
Even through the darkness, I could see the look of struggle in Holmes’ face.
“I must confess Watson, I don’t know what to do.”
“Why don’t we have him arrested? Surely the name of Sherlock Holmes would convince at least an investigation!”