Haus of War
Chapter 2
John didn't sleep well that evening, the little hours of the night he had left were spent tossing and turning, mulling over thoughts that had no right to be bothering him. He stared, wide awake, at the canvas roof of his tent for an hour before he rolled out of his sleeping bag and retrieved his bag. Rummaging around inside of it, he pulled out a small book.
The book was worn, its leather cover frayed and torn around the sharp edges. A zipper sealed the pages, protecting them from water when it rained. Unzipping the book revealed pages upon pages of quick, scratchy writing. Half of the pages in the book remained untouched however, as John had yet to record his thoughts in them. He wasn't necessarily a writer by nature, but his father had given him the journal before he had been drafted into the army.
.
.
It was back in London, where John had worked as a family doctor. His father had started the clinic, and had looked over a handful of patients and their families for years before he retired and passed the business on to John, who was fresh from medical school. For five years John had run the clinic with two assistants, and while the clinic was never too busy to need more than two assistants, it was a homely and fitful job, one John quite enjoyed.
Then, four years earlier, the war started.
At first, the war effort in England hadn't been too serious. While many young lads signed to the reserves, dreaming of adventure, John was content with working in the small clinic. Every month he would see the parade of soldiers walk past the shop, flags rising high as the boys were shipped overseas, but no urge ever swept him after seeing the patriotic display to take up arms and fight for his country.
It wasn't until nearly a year later, when the streets were consumed with fire, that John received his conscription for the war. It was late in the afternoon, and he was examining a woman who had a horribly persistent and ragged cough. John had been inspecting her windpipe, talking to the woman about the rise in grocery prices, when they both halted their conversation and listened to a strange, high pitched whine.
"Is that your boiler, doctor?" the woman had asked.
John had opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off as he was nearly deafened by a momentous explosion. He remembered being knocked off his feet, the woman he had been examining shrieking as she clutched the bed. The windows shattered and rained glass upon them, letting the sound of people crying in the streets pour into the room. Over the panic in the streets, he heard the roar of aeroplane engines as they streaked across the blue. Dull thuds echoed across the metropolis as bombs dropped from the sky, destroying buildings, cratering the cobbled streets, and setting fire to the rooftops.
"Run home," he hastily instructed the woman, pulling her from the bed and handing her shawl back. "Lock your doors and windows and stay hidden. Do you have a cellar?"
She nodded, frightened eyes filling with tears.
"Get your family and go there, stay covered."
John led the woman to the street and watched her run in the opposite direction. Grabbing his cap he pulled the clinic doors shut and locked them, pocketing the key. Another bomb dropped on a city block near him, and he watched as concrete, wood and steel flew into the air in a ball of red fire, the buildings insides gutted in seconds by the flames. Planes whined overhead, leaving streaks of cloud and steam behind them. John moved toward the wreckage, pushing against the swarms of terrified people trying to find shelter. His father lived two blocks away, the first block nearly having been destroyed already. He didn't care that his clinic would probably suffer the same fate as many other buildings in the area, only that he reached his father's apartment, and that the apartment was still in one piece.
It took longer than John had wanted to reach the apartment, he had been roughly jostled as people pushed and shoved, and some shooting him odd looks as John moved into the chaos rather than away from it. When he had finally reached the intact building, he let out a sigh of relief. John raced up the flight of stairs and pounded on his father's door. He waited a few moments, agitated and preparing to break the door down when finally he heard the chain slide loose and the door creak open. Leading his poor old dad down the many flights of stairs, they took shelter in the basement with the other tenants in the complex.
Thankfully, the clinic had not been completely destroyed in the blitz. John couldn't do much for repairs, as money was tight and another bombing was imminent, so he boarded up the shattered windows and continued work. During the following days the clinic was the busiest it had ever been as people rushed the shop for medicine, supplies and treatment. During the night, however, an inky blackness settled over London. Lights and fires were extinguished as the citizens surrendered to the darkness. Curfews were enforced, and anyone found with a light twinkling in the dark was severely punished. Late at night John would listen to the planes as they flew overhead, and even though he was protected by the darkness, he could no longer sleep through the nights after the terror of the first wave of bombs.
It was only a couple of weeks after that John received a letter by courier. He knew what it was before he even opened it. His fist curled and uncurled by his side as he stared hard at the death sentence, folded neatly into a crisp, white envelope. He had shut down the clinic and walked to his see his father, who had since moved back into the apartment. Together they sat at the small kitchen table and opened the letter.
John Hamish Watson is called to participate in the National Service overseas,
for Queen and Country, as is the duty of all capable British citizens. He is asked
to report to the central London recruitment office on December 12th, 1940.
General Officer Commanding-in-Chief H. Alexander.
His father's face was pale, but he said nothing to comfort his son. They both knew that there was no escaping what was to come.
For the next several months John trained in Citizen's Military Training, before being assigned to Eighth Army's XXX Corps as a field medic. If there was one thing John could be happy about, it was that he could practice his doctoring on the field, and was not simply placed as a foot soldier.
After ending his training in early 1941, John traveled to Kings Cross station, which would whisk him away to be shipped over the channel. To his surprise, he met his father and sister, Harriet, on the platform. He had not seen Harriet in years, and was taken with her appearance, which had turned from youthful and wild to hardened and steely. His sister stood silently, dry tears tracked down her cheeks, flushed from either embarrassment or alcohol, which he could not tell. His father looked older too since he last saw him. He was more bent and leaned heavily on an oak cane. Any man could look at him and see the weight of the world on his shoulders as he said his last goodbye's to his only son.
"John," he had said quietly, and John found it hard to meet the man's eyes. John breathed heavily from his nose, relying on his training to keep his emotions under control. It was failing miserably.
"My boy, my handsome boy," his father said, a spark entering his gaze, and from his jacket he pulled out the leather journal. It was new, flawless, and the polished leather spoke of worth his father could not afford.
"Dad, oh no…" John breathed as he laid eyes upon it. His father held up a hand and stopped him before he could say any more.
"It is a gift from both of us," Harriet spoke up, her voice cracking in the pressure. She took the book and shoved it roughly into John's chest.
"John, I know you know this as well as we all do," his father said, an air of dignity surrounding him. "War is terrible, an atrocity, and it is a waste of human life. I cannot bear to see your life be wasted on the battlefield, like so many others. So please… for my sake and your sister's, write, John. Write about everything you do, your see, and you feel, so I may know… if the worst is to happen…that my son's life was not wasted. That you truly lived, and that your life was not thrown away, lost in history, but preserved so that I may show others…that I may show others that… you… lived."
John embraced his father and sister for a long time before the train whistled its warning. Even then it was painful to tear himself away from them.
"And don't die, stupid," his sister choked and she punched him in the shoulder.
As the train rolled out of the station, and the faces of his family grew smaller and more far away, John laid his head in his hands and for the first time in a very long while, he wept.
But he kept his resolve to write. He recorded the day's activities every night by the gas light in his tent. In a world where he had to become hardened to everything and everyone around him, he poured all his emotion, all the tremors of his soul into the little leather book. He filled pages upon pages, being as descriptive as possible. Often times he would copy his entries upon paper and send them back to his father in the post. He would not be forgotten, even if his original book would be destroyed with him.
He would show his father that he had lived.
That he was living.
.
.
John had halfway finished penning his entry on the events of the day before when roll call sounded. Scrambling to his feet and shaking off his fatigues, he quickly dressed in his uniform and assembled with the other soldiers. Lt General Leese stood in front of the men to give the day's instructions.
"Breakfast will end at 07:00 hours. All officers are to report to be briefed at the main tent at 0:800 hours. Further instruction will be given then. Dismissed." John saluted with the rest of the men, and then dispersed with the crowd. It wasn't often that they had free time, even if it was only an hour in length.
John headed to the shoddy canteen that had been set up, grabbing a bowl and looking into the pot that the men in front of him had been drawing from. Inside a thick, grey porridge bubbled and spat. It was the most unappealing thing John had ever laid eyes on, and he was tempted to just skip breakfast that day. The cook, a meaty man with slicked back hair, watch him as he stood and looked into the pot with distaste. John looked up to notice the cook staring at him. John was holding up the line. This alone helped him resolve that he would skip breakfast, and had begun to walk away with the empty bowl when an arm suddenly wrapped around his.
"Tsk tsk, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. A doctor of all people should know that."
"'Morning Bill," John said as his bowl was taken from him and the soldier filled it to the brim with the gray slop. Bill Murray was a few ranks lower than John, but they dropped all military contexts when they were together. Bill had been one of John's acquaintances back in London, a friend of a friend to tell the truth. He had soon followed John with his own conscription into service, and was delighted when they were assigned to the same squadron. While they hadn't been considerably close before the war, after all they had gone through during their service, it was only natural that they had become close friends.
"This is war, John, everyone suffers," Bill smiled devilishly as he shoved the bowl back into John's hands and filled up his own. John felt queasy as he stared into his breakfast, waiting for a telltale eyeball to surface and stare back at him.
"You look green, you alright mate?" Bill teased him.
"Uh, let's go look at something nicer, shall we?"
They sat down on the beach, gazing at the blue Mediterranean Sea. Bill shoveled the porridge into his mouth as John picked at his own.
"I was starting to wonder if you made it through yesterday, I hadn't seen you," John broke the silence. Bill swallowed a mouthful of slop, then another before answering him.
"Yeah, it was rough. I got caught in a trench while some bloke shot rounds at me."
"I'm surprised he missed."
"Oi!" Bill laughed through a mouthful of food, setting his empty bowl down on the sand. "Doesn't matter, today will be a lot more relaxed."
"How so?" John asked.
"They got me on sentry duty for that Nazi-scum you dragged back to camp. I heard you were looking after him last night?"
"Oh…yeah. A couple broken ribs, nothing huge."
"Now correct me if I'm wrong, but one of the blokes on duty last night also told me you were talking to him too? Any juice?"
John froze, spoon halfway to his lips. Setting it back down, he thought for a moment. Bill took it as a sign that John didn't want to talk about it.
"Never mind," he said, "I got to get going anyways. Who knows, maybe I can chat with him too while I'm standing there. They might even give me a medal if I get anything interesting out of him."
Flashing John a smile, he headed back to camp, leaving him looking at the sea.
.
.
After deciding he could stand no more of the porridge, John set back to his tent, intent on finishing his journal entry.
"Captain Watson!" He heard a very familiar, and at the moment, a very unwelcome voice call. John turned on his heel to see Lt General Leese beckoning him over. John did so, and was a bit frightened when Leese threw his arm around his shoulders and steered him away from his tent.
"Good morning, sir," he said formally as he was guided away from the bustle of soldiers.
"As to you. I was wondering if you could do something for me."
"What would that be sir?"
"The Humanitarian Act under the Geneva Convention strictly states that prisoners of war should be fed," he said, rolling his eyes as if the idea was completely ridiculous.
John wanted to groan, but held it in.
"Didn't he technically surrender?" John asked.
"Still a prisoner, dear captain, and will be treated as such." He cleared his throat and looked around him before continuing. "To be honest, we had a nice heart to heart after you left. He may need more than a little food."
John slunk away and retrieved another bowl of grey porridge and his medical bag. This was not how he wanted to spend his free time, and he was not looking forward to seeing the man again. He had only just managed to convince himself that he had not betrayed his country by talking to him.
Taking a deep breath, he strode to the tent that held the man. Haus, John remembered the man's name, Sherlock Haus.
Standing before the door of the tent, Bill immediately flashed him another one of his trademark grins as he saw John approach. John figured the scowl on his face was telling his friend the entire situation without words. Bill waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he held the tent flap open for him, and John took the opportunity to give him a swift kick in the shin. He stepped inside the tent and felt the whoosh of air as the flap came down behind him.
The prisoner was lying on his side on the cot, back toward the entrance. His hands were still bound behind him, and John was sure the position was uncomfortable, since his one hand was white from lack of circulation.
"Hello," John announced himself awkwardly, but he received no reaction from the man. He just lay on his side, trying to ignore him, John supposed. John clasped his shoulder and turned him so he was facing him. The man jumped and fumbled with his arms before realizing they were still tied. John helped him sit up. "It's me again," He said reluctantly. He could feel the man's eyes staring him down from behind the blindfold. Even though he knew the man couldn't see him, John could still feel the intensity of his gaze, and uncomfortably fidgeted. It was then that John noticed the dark bruise running underneath the blindfold and peeping from beneath it on the bridge of the man's nose. So that was what Leese meant, John thought.
Reaching up behind the nape of the man's neck, he undid the gag, once against revealing the man's cupid bow lips and slender jawline.
"Brought you breakfast," John remarked as he scooped up a spoonful of the grey slop and brought it to the man's mouth. As soon as the food was under his nose, he twisted away.
"What the hell is that?" he spat, wrinkling his nose up at it.
"Breakfast," John repeated, and shoved the spoon closer to his face. There was only so much room available for the man to retreat back into.
"I am not eating that."
"Well you'll have to suffer through it just like the rest of it," John said, thinking of what Bill had told him earlier.
"Absolutely not! It's been reused at least three.." the man paused and took a sniff, "…no, four times, the mixture to water ratio is absurd, and there's a hair in it."
John's jaw fell open, and he looked back to the spoon. Sure enough a black hair sat in the sludge. John suddenly felt queasy again as he picked it out. But there was no way the man could've seen that with the blindfold on. Looking back to the man, he waved his hand in front of his face, but the prisoner gave no sign that he had noticed. Genuinely surprised and confused, John sat back on his heels.
"How did you..."
Without missing a beat, the man launched himself into explanation,
"The spoon made a very audible squelching sound as you lifted it from the bowl, which means the water ratio is too low and that oatmeal you're about to feed me is thicker than paste. Within those fantastic odours I can smell the distinct essence from a standard issue hair-gel, the only reason it's presence is there must be because there's a hair present and due to the fact I can even smell the gel it at all means the gel itself is as thick as the oatmeal, and also leaves me to conclude that because your cook wears such copious amounts of gel in his hair he doesn't wear a hairnet. That's unsanitary. The mix is at least four days old considering that it takes at least forty-eight hours for the bacteria inside of it to incubate and produce that specific odour, and that's probably bad since I could smell how vile it was when he began cooking it this morn-"
John took this opportunity to shove the spoon of porridge into the man's mouth, and smiled as he gagged on the putrid substance.
"Like I said, everyone suffers."
The man's mouth set in a hard line as he finished spitting out the slop. John heard him mutter under his breath, "…it was porridge… I always get something wrong…"
John set the bowl down, "Alright, I won't force it on you." Suddenly he felt cheated, as it had been forced upon him earlier. Flicking away the though he pent his fingers and stared at the man before saying, "That was…incredible actually."
He watched as the man's mouth softened in surprise at the compliment.
"How did you even do that? I mean, you can't even see and you described the porridge perfectly." John asked, still amazed.
"It…well, I've done that for a while now."
John saw how the tables had turned. It was the man who was feeling uncomfortable. He decided to probe further.
"What did you do before the war…Sherlock," he asked, testing the name. It felt weird in his mouth.
"I was a detective, of sorts."
"Did that help you get into being an officer then?"
"Yes. They put me in intelligence and…" Sherlock cut himself off, realizing he had said too much.
"I see, that's kind of like me then," John said, trying to relieve the sudden tension. He turned his gaze to Sherlock's eye. If John couldn't get him to eat, he might as well tackle the next challenge. He reached up to undo the blindfold, and noticed how Sherlock sat perfectly still. John decided to ease him by continuing. "I was lucky that they made me a medic. Believe it or not, a lot of people with the training become foot soldiers. Back home I was a…"
The blindfold slipped from Sherlock's face, revealing intense, sharp blue eyes.
"…doctor." John stared, transfixed by clarity of Sherlock's eyes. They were a bright, pale blue, like winter skies, and seemed to emanate their own, foreign light. Compared to their colour, everything else seemed gray and dull. John felt them pierce right through him, stripping away the layers of armour, drawing him in and staring at his raw form. They were the kind of eyes that could unravel his life story with just a simple gaze, hard and concise, like nothing could escape them. But beneath the coldness John felt he could see something stranger, like a subtle innocence…
Pulling his eyes away from Sherlock, he felt a chill race through his core, like he had just stepped from an ice shower into warm air. John examined the bruise, noticing a small cut running through Sherlock's eyebrow, and he focused on that instead. Pulling out a cloth and peroxide, he cleaned the dirt and sweat away. But even as he tried to concentrate on the cut, John still found his eyes wandering down. Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore, instead fixing his gaze on one of the tent's corners, but John still felt an odd sense of wonder as he looked at those clear, blue orbs. Sherlock suddenly flicked his gaze up to John, noticing his staring.
"So," John started, feeling the need to cover up his actions, "I was under the impression that most Germans would rather die than surrender."
Sherlock let out a slight scoff, "I'm not sure if that's true, but if it helps, I'm not fully German."
"Oh, do you mind if I ask how?"
"My mother was from England."
"That explains why you speak English so well."
"She insisted on it. So since I'm part English, I decided to surrender." John let out a small laugh at this remark.
"So, if you surrendered, why is Leese giving you such a hard time?" John asked, giving the bruise a final wipe before sitting back down to face Sherlock.
"I won't tell him anything."
"But you surrendered, so why does it matter?"
Sherlock merely looked at him with pity, as if John should understand why Sherlock refused to talk. But John didn't understand. "Is it a loyalty issue?" John asked.
"No. I feel no loyalty toward the Nazi's," Sherlock confessed. "I didn't ask to be part of this war; I was dragged into it because of my …talents."
"Seems to be a common story," John said softly, tipping his head back to stare at the canvas roof of the tent. He thought for a long moment, about himself, about Sherlock. While his initial apprehension about Sherlock had dissipated, he still felt that he was being lured into pitying this man. And John knew it was working.
"That still doesn't explain why you won't talk." John said suddenly, snapping his head back to look at Sherlock for any hint that he was lying.
"I want to get out of this alive." Sherlock answered, turning his eyes toward the tent wall, as if he was aware of some unknown figure lurking outside it.
I want to know… that you lived. His father's voice echoed back to him.
Suddenly, the swell of a trumpet cut through the air. It was nearly briefing time. John stood and retrieved the blindfold and gag. He tied the gag first, but paused just for a moment before replacing the blindfold to cast one last glance into his eyes. They seemed…sad.
Like the eyes of a man who had not yet lived.
Author's Note:
Reviews are always wonderful :)
London Blitz - 57 consecutive days of bombs being dropped on London by the Axis. Considered a Strategic Failure.