November 27, 1915
He rises every so often, Lockwood does. He tries to find me in my hideaways or on my lunches, basically whenever I get a break. It's never about; anything important, any medical emergencies, or issues with his wrappings. He simply wants a conversation about anything and everything.
His smile and cheerful disposition are the most irritating and infuriating thing to witness first thing in the morning. He comes around the corner as if there aren't bodies just outside; burning and disfigured with either little or no hope of making it home. Soldiers crying for the mothers they left safely at home. Boys that lied about their age because they believed in servicing their country so much that they failed to realize the consequences of their actions until it was much, much too late. During all of the carnage and the chaos, amid all of the screams that kept the men up at night, there was Lockwood. It was like he forgot he was near the biggest war to have ever trampled over Europe.
Instead, during his semi-blind stupor, he has the gall to ask about my old life at home. I don't usually give in to his incessant pestering nor his pleading- but today was an exception. I told him about how I accidentally stumbled upon the choice for my studies at oxford. It's a wild story that involves a sharp knife, a game of darts, a bottle of Vodka, and a flatmate with too much time on his hands.
In return, he regaled me of how he met his girl, Lucy. According to him, they were grade school sweethearts who met by chance, got married young, and never looked back. I'll admit, even with all of my complaints in prior entries, it is rather comforting to hear a normal story not riddled with the gore outside. Just a man reminiscing about the woman he left behind. Makes one wish for his own wife. I think I'll write to Florence today.
Wondering about a girl,
George Cubbins
June 20, 1916
Another battle is in the making. I can feel it. Tension is rising on both sides of the western front. Lockwood shares the same suspicions as I do. We are alike, he and I, in that we don't like to sugarcoat the inevitable. It hasn't been long since the last raid, but you never quite know when the next will occur. Staying on your toes is the best chance at survival.
There has been much talk about what is going on in the Atlantic. German sub warfare has been put on a hold recently, while the British navy is taking out more German ships than they are of us. There have already been hundreds of killings, execution, and brutal slaughter of civilian lives, especially in Belgium. I'd honestly go as far to say that what we are doing here, holding the line against men like the germans, is the most important thing one could be doing at this present moment.
But I digress. My doctor duties should take precedence over my speculations and the importance of aiding the war effort. Most of the soldiers from the previous bouts of chemical warfare have been healed. Some more than others, and a few casualties during the first few months of the new batch, but nothing too disheartening. My friend even made a full recovery.
Even though Lockwood has gone back to regular duties, he still comes to visit me after the morning shootings for a cup of tea, right before I go on checking my patients for the day. Sure it's rather cold when he gets here, but he drinks it anyway. he always tells me that re-heating takes away from the flavour. We keep each other company telling one another our lives before the war, and what we wish we could go back to.
Unlike me, however, Lockwood doesn't regret ever joining the war. He wanted to be a part of history instead of studying it for once. Giving him a real experience to talk about when he had to tell rich people about what happened in the trenches. I thought this both foolish and interesting at the same time. His reasoning was solid, but it wasn't a very good reason to go to war. We talk much. Mostly it's about our wives and the hell we put them through.
His smile never seems to leave him. That is until he thinks about the war.
We made a promise a few days ago that I forgot to document. When we were talking about home lives, I brought up the fact that he should be careful if he ever wants to go back to London. He smiled cheekily, his inner bright hope shining through (at first when I saw this, I thought he was just conceded) assuring me that he would be fine. There was a pause for a long time as we sat in tense silence. Then he asked me to do him a favour. I told him it depended on the favour. He sighed almost sadly, "If I never make it, and you happen to examine my corpse, Can you tell Luce what I did and take care of her? She gets rather lonely sometimes." I took a moment to consider his request before I responded. I told him I would, that is, if he made it easy and wrote his address down. I have the piece of paper here in my hand. I am afraid I will lose it under all this clutter on my desk so here: 23 Portland Row, London.
I have never been good at talking to people. According to my wife, my scientific aura and sharp eyes drive a lot of people away and if they aren't running, they wish to slap me (according to her friends, my face looks rather slapable.). I don't find much time for socializing. Yet, even in a muddy trench system, I am happy to call this man my only friend I have ever made on my own.
All of this talk about war and blood and home has got me sick. Not in the stomach, not in the leg, but the head. I feel more drained mentally than I ever have been. I feel like I should go to bed early tonight. Maybe that will help. If my hunches are correct, I'll need the sleep. I haven't gotten very much rest since coming here.
Counting sheep,
George Cubbins
October 13, 1916
I hate that my hunch was right all those months ago. It seems like only days ago that the battle of Sommes broke out right before our eyes. The kill count has doubled and more men flock to the side of the beds. I haven't seen Lockwood in 2- no maybe 3- I'm not sure how long, but it has been long. I fear for my comrade.
I don't want to keep the promise we made.
Speaking of promises, I keep thinking about them constantly. What if I went during this war? Will Florence ever know how much I love her? Will she ever realize how sorry I am for leaving her? These troubles keep me vigilant during the daylight hours, sceptical of everything but medicine. I feel like I have to write something, that will have to be brief, but I can elaborate later.
If I am long gone from this world, and if anyone is to find this journal, hand it over to Anthony John Lockwood. If this is Anthony, I know I promised you if you were to ever pass over, I would find your wife and personally see about breaking the news about it and take care of her. If you find this, would you please have the courtesy to do the same for me?
Aside from that little break, Tanks have arrived on our side of the front recently. The Germans are fleeing for their lives. Before the war, I wouldn't have found humour in this. Now, however, I feel my sadistic chuckles rumbling inside my throat at the sight. They look like ants in the holes they dug for themselves to hide inside. I don't doubt that we must look the same, but now they are on the run, for the crickets have come!
I am starting to seriously consider my mental health. I have been more observant than usual, taking in all of my surroundings and constantly looking over my shoulder. I feel like I am being watched every second of every hour in every day that passes me by. Any foreign noise will cause me to flinch, not large, but enough to streak a paper. My hand is shaking again. I fear for my job in this war. Now that I think about it, I also fear for anyone finding this book and using it to exploit me with the information I have written inside it.
I will have to keep it hidden from now on.
…and also tell Lockwood where it is just in case. That is, when he comes back, not if. It would be such a loss for anyone who had ever come in contact with him if he passed on in battle. He is a good man, a strange one (perhaps a bit conceited), but an honest man. And the world is starting to run thin of that supply.
Searching for my friend,
George Cubbins