Afghanistan
It was the year 1878 and I had just been sent to serve as a soldier under Her Majesty's civil service and join The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Afghanistan in my medical profession as an army-doctor. I was a Major under a new Colonel, Sebastian Moran, a tall fellow with powerful eyes and a hook-shaped nose; he was the sort of man, whose rank emanated off of him, and many a time I felt threatened under his shadow.
We had been fighting the Afghans for about a week it seemed, when I was approached by our General, Frederick Roberts, and he addressed me, while I was working with an important message "Major Watson" he started in the voice of authority "We have many injured. Many slain. The Afghan sun may be beating down upon us but faster work is needed, Watson. Faster work"
I brushed my hand across my brow to wipe away the perspiration. "That's 40,000 men!" I ejaculated at the nigh impossible task he was forcing upon me, as the more experienced of the medical assistants, but under Her Majesty's name I had made an oath, and I agreed, working to heal men many a day under the baited watch of Colonel Moran, whilst the rumbling sounds of guns exploded in my ears. War. I have seen it damage men beyond the help of a cure as a doctor, brave men become empty shells on the battlefield, and the Second Afghan war, of course, was no different.
I was in the middle of blotting a wound when I heard shouts from above me "Doctor Watson!" a voice cried, the man could not have been more than five and twenty, when he bought in his fellow soldier, shaking in fear with the wide eyed look of a startled doe in the range of a rifle, into my war-side surgery. Of course the shock of war had changed the man, he was no longer fit to fight for Queen and Country, and it pains me to say that the best thing for him was to be shot at close range by a pistol, and that I, myself, was the one to commit such an action. The bullet entered his skull with swift ease, while I was filled with the emotion of repentance, but my repentance was soon ceased from the knowledge that there had been a victory for Britain. My cries of excitement were swallowed by the long shadows of other fusiliers as we rejoiced under the braying heat of the Afghanistan sunshine. Still, alas, there was more fighting to be done.
The year that followed, 1879, was long and strenuous. I did not part take in much medical work, and worked more as a soldier and gunman to defeat the Afghans in many a battle. Only sometimes we were victorious, on the times that we were not I returned to my field as a qualified physician on the frontline to heal the young men who retained serious traumas from misinterpreted placement of the enemy. They could be jolly sneaky, it was unsurprising not many of my fellow fusiliers saw them heading towards them, roaring hungrily for British prey.
I was newly trained in the medial department, having retained my medical degree at St Bartholomew's previously, so I was not the only army doctor on the scene, but I, although I do not wish to boast, was the most experienced in the field. And in the time of fighting and battle, I was the one who was given the injured soldiers, men no older than eighteen years, screaming in agonising pain. Alas, some of them did not make it back to the frontline to fight for Queen and country. Even I, myself, picked up an injury in that dreadful war.
It was 1880 and I had gone back to the front-line to fight, when a bullet from the other side pierced the skin of my left shoulder, and shattered the bone beyond prepare, causing me to be invalid and no longer able to serve under the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in honour of her majesty, Queen Victoria. But I am not ashamed. The injury to my shoulder was a downfall, but it must not be said that I expected it, I did not, and no-one can predict the amount of pain a bullet to the shoulder can cause. Not even I. Sometimes even doctors must retain injury.
I was left to my own devices for a while, until one of the other medical assistants came to my aid to fix my injured shoulder. He did a good job, but unfortunately, in the midst of healing, I caught enteric fever and was u bed ridden for days down to the contagious symptoms I had contracted. I did eventually awake from my fever induced situation but was not allowed to continue with my work, neither doctoring nor soldiering.
The week after my fever had vanished, I was sent home on the HMS Orontes, a large scar on my shoulder, with other injured civilians some that, I had helped to cure, and others were beyond fixing, wide eyes fearful, but their faces held the smiles of men who knew they would be seeing their families again. Some never did.
You probably think that I am writing this because of the guilt of seeing men die in front of me because I was not fast enough to heal them. Because I feel my injury shows weakness. This is not the case; war can drive men mad, and the re-telling of my time protects what little sanity I have still kept. I must continue with my busy life as a domestic physician, which I am now, and perhaps there may be chances of ending my bachelor hood. All I know is that I must find somewhere affordable to live. The future lies ahead.