—————
To The Immaru,
I have become a servant to the faction you know as The Immari. I am ashamed of the things I have done, and I fear for the world — for the things I know they are planning. At this moment, in 1938, they seem unstoppable. I pray that I am wrong. In the event I am not, I’m sending you this journal; I hope you can use it to prevent the Immari Armageddon.
Patrick Pierce
11-15-38
April 15, 1917
Allied Forces Hospital
Gibraltar
NOTE: The following was transcribed from the oral recollections of Major Patrick Pierce, United States Army.
When they pulled me out of the tunnel on the Western Front and brought me to this field hospital a month ago, I thought I was saved, but this place has grown on me like a cancer, eating me from the inside out, silently at first, without my knowledge, then taking me by surprise, plunging me into a dark sickness I can’t escape.
The hospital is almost quiet at this hour, and that’s when it’s most scary. The priests come every morning and every night, praying, taking confessions, and reading by candlelight. They’ve all gone now, as have the nurses and doctors.
Outside my room, I can hear them, out in the wide open ward with rows of beds. Men scream — most from pain, some from bad dreams; others cry, talk, and play cards in the moonlight and laugh as if half a dozen men won’t die before sunrise.
They gave me a private room, put me here. I didn’t ask for it. But the door closes and blocks out the cries and the laughs, and I’m glad. I don’t like hearing either.
I reach for the bottle of laudanum, drink till it runs down my chin, then drift into the night.
The slap brings me back to life, and I see a jagged set of rotten teeth inside a wicked grin on an unshaven dirty face. “Ee’s awake!”
The putrid smell of alcohol and disease turns my head and stomach.
Two other men drag me out of bed, and I scream in pain when the leg hits the ground. I writhe on the floor, fighting not to pass out as they laugh. I want to be awake when they kill me.
The door opens and it’s the nurse’s voice. “What’s going on—”
They grab her and slam the door. “Jus having a bit of fun wit da Senata’s Boy, Ma’am, but you’s a might bit prettia den ‘e is.” The man wraps his arm around her and slides behind her. “Mights be we start with you, missy.” He rips her dress and undergarments from the left sleeve all the way to her waist. Her br**sts fall out, and she raises an arm to cover herself. She fights back desperately with the other arm, but the man catches it and quickly pins it behind her.
The sight of her naked body seems to energize the drunken men.
I struggle to stand, and as soon as I reach my feet, the closest man is on me. He has a knife out and it’s at my throat. He stares me straight in the eyes while he blathers on drunkenly. “Big baddy Senata Daddy done sent him off ta war, done sent us all, but he can’t save you no mooor.”
The knife bites at my neck as the crazed man leers at me. The other man holds the nurse from behind, craning his head around, trying to kiss her as she turns away. The last man undresses.
Standing on the leg sends waves of pain up through my body — pain so bad it makes me nauseous, lightheaded. I will pass out soon. It’s unbearable, even through the laudanum. The laudanum — worth more than gold in a place like this.
I motion to the table, trying to break the man’s stare. “There’s laudanum, a full bottle on the table.”
His concentration breaks for an instant, and I have the knife. I draw it across his neck as I spin him around, then I push him away and lunge knife-out for the naked man, burying the knife to the hilt in his stomach. I land on top of him, jerk the knife out and plant it in his chest. His arms flail and blood gurgles from his mouth.
The pain from the lunge is overtaking me. I’ve got nothing left for the last man, the nurse’s captor, but his eyes go wide and he turns the nurse loose and runs from the room just as I pass out.
- 2 days later -
I wake up in a different place, like a cottage in the country — that’s how it smells and how the sun feels shining in through the open window. It’s a bright bedroom, decorated like a woman would, with knick-knacks and small things women like and men never notice except for times like this.
And there she is, reading in the corner, rocking silently, waiting. Through some sixth sense, she seems to instantly know that I’m awake. She sets the book down gently, like it’s a piece of fine China and walks to the bedside. “Hello, Major.” She glances down at my left leg, nervous. “They had to operate on your leg again.”
I notice the leg now, it’s bandaged, thick, almost double the width of my leg. When they brought me in, and for two weeks after, they threatened to take it off. ‘You’ll thank us later. Have to trust us ol’ boy. Seems horrid, but it’s for the best. You won’t be alone at home, I’ll guarantee you that, be tons o youngsters back from war scootin this way and that on tin legs, just as common as a drink o water I tell ya.’
I try to lean forward to get a peak, but the pain meets me as I rise, grabbing me and throwing me flat on my back again.
“It’s still there. I insisted they respect your wishes. But they removed a lot of the tissue. They said it was infected and would never heal. The hospital is a bad place for germs and after…” She swallows. “They said you’ll be in bed for two months.”
“The men?”
“Deserters, they think. There’s to be an inquiry, but… a formality, I presume.”
I see it now, the white bottle on the table, just like it was in the hospital. I linger on it. I know she sees me. “You can take that out of here.” If I start again, I’ll never stop. I know where that road goes.
She steps forward and grabs it quickly, as if it were about to fall off the table.
What’s her name? God, the last month is a blur, an opium and alcohol-ridden dream, a nightmare. Barnes? Barret? Barnett?
“Are you hungry?” She stands there, clutching the bottle to her chest with one hand, holding her dress with the other. Maybe it’s the drugs or having gone so long without food, but I have no desire whatsoever to eat.
“Starving.” I say.
“It’ll just be a minute.” She’s half-way out the door.
“Nurse…is it…”
She stops and glances back, maybe a little disappointed. “Barton. Helena Barton.”