Charles had returned to an empty Swamp after dinner. The "cretins" were gone, and he appreciated the quiet. He found two envelopes on his bed. Mail! Klinger took his time in getting it there. Typical. The first letter was from his father. His parents took turns writing to him. That was good – his mother would discuss her social life and the family; his father would discuss business and politics.
His father had stated that he was alone, in his study, as he wrote the letter. Charles smiled. He could almost smell that wonderful pipe tobacco his father used. The fireplace wouldn't be going in July, but only a few months and that would change. Business was on the uptick, his father noted. He'd met with several other industry leaders, recently, and felt strongly that a deal to combine efforts would result in cost savings, more profits, and a chance for him to show "the others" the RIGHT way to run a business in wartime. They'd donated $10,000 to the hospital, again. When Charles had been young, he'd been attacked by a swarm of bees. And found out he was allergic. Boston General's finest doctors had made the diagnosis, nursed Charles back to health, and suggested that he might not want to take a broom to a beehive again. Since then, his family made regular donations to the hospital, among other charities. His father added that Harvard's Rare Books Collection had some impressive new editions, including a Gutenberg Bible. Mr. Winchester suggested that it would be much better for the war to end soon, so Charles could return to appreciate such things. Charles shared a love of Rare Books with his father.
"Thank you, Father," Charles said to himself, and made a note to write back that night. He wanted to find out more about the newest collection of Rare Books at Harvard.
The second envelope was from the Medical Journal of New England. Charles had submitted an excellent, he knew, piece, based on new procedures of dealing with gunshot wounds to the abdomen. What was called "meatball surgery" made use of some creative methods that were not likely used back in the States. Thus, Charles had written an article, certain it would be his second one published by the Medical Journal. He'd written another paper, when back in Boston, that had detailed some new procedures in working with young Polio victims. The Journal had printed that, and he'd been complimented frequently on his piece.
Charles opened the envelope and read the letter.
"No," he said in horror, "This cannot be."
"How could they have reached such a conclusion?" he wondered.
His first thought was to throw the letter into the trash, or tear it up into very small pieces.
Then, he realized that he needed the letter so he could fashion a response.
If they were going to make this type of accusation, Charles Emerson Winchester would not allow it to go unchallenged.
What buffoon had written this letter? Two signatures, both from MDs.
Winchester was furious. He also knew he had to regain his senses to respond. No ranting or ravings, at least yet.
He decided that a couple of drinks and some time at the Officer's Club might be the necessary tonic.
So, he carefully folded up the letter and put it in his shirt pocket. No one should see the damned thing.
And left the Swamp for the Officer's Club.