Chapter 4
The Letter
The esteemed professor was returning to Mitras after a few days' stay at the residence of one of his closest friends, Baron xxxx. Once at home, he was greeted by his servant, who provided him with a summary of the recent events in the capital. Finding the report brief and uninteresting, he promptly asked for his mail. On a silver tray, the servant presented him with a dozen letters, and one of them caught his particular attention. It was a thick envelope bearing the stamp of the postal service of the Trost district, as well as the vivid red seal of the Special Brigades. With a single glance, he recognized the nervous, elongated handwriting of his only child on the envelope. Delighted to finally have news from them, he immediately unsealed the envelope and immersed himself in reading the letter:
My dear father, I am writing to you today from the Trost Military Fortress, currently occupied by the forces of the Scout Regiment. I am quite comfortably settled here, and everyone is incredibly helpful towards me. You, who thought that a military environment would not suit me, I must inform you that you were completely mistaken.
I have been in my position for about fifteen days now, working in the former office of my predecessor. I have a team of about ten nurses from the region, all of whom are friendly and dedicated to their work. Furthermore, the new commander has been kind enough to arrange a nice room for me on the officers' floor, far from the sometimes noisy atmosphere of the new recruits' dormitories. You can well imagine how pleased your daughter, who values her sleep so much, was about that.
In your last letter, you asked me about the reasons for my sudden change of career, and to answer you properly and honestly, I needed a few days of reflection to sort out my thoughts. So many dramatic events have unfolded this year that I didn't know where to begin. But upon reflection, I believe everything became clear to me on the day they brought in a young soldier from the Garrison, severely wounded and desperately thrashing on an improvised stretcher. It was towards the end of the Reconquest Operation, and as I have already told you in private, after weeks of hard work, our material situation was more than dire. It was quite simple, we were lacking everything: chloroform, bandages, alcohol, and even soap. We had resorted to cutting strips of fabric from sheets to dress wounds, and unraveling the threads of old rags that kind-hearted housewives had donated to us, in order to suture flesh.
It was in this context of extreme deprivation that they brought us this poor boy, barely out of childhood. I still wonder if he was fifteen years old. He had a portion of his arm gruesomely torn off and part of his innards were hanging out. He had lost so much blood that we had to act hastily. I also vividly recall that on that evening, a violent storm had just broken out over the district, and the rain was loudly drumming on the stretched canvas of the tent that was sheltering us. The most experienced nurse in the team took charge of amputating the front of his arm that was already starting to rot. As she did that, I tried to sedate the poor child by giving him a sip of liquor that a tavern owner had brought us the day before, thinking it might come in handy (I must admit that the people of Karanes have been incredibly generous to us throughout this difficult time).
Perhaps it was due to the noise of the storm outside, but the child refused to be sedated. On the contrary, the alcohol had a formidable effect on him, and combined with the pain of the amputation, it plunged him into a state of madness like I had never seen before. I had to take a few moments to retreat within myself to recover from the nightmarish sight of that child being dismembered before my eyes, screaming in agony, struggling like a wild beast caught in a wolf trap. I won't hide from you, my dear father, that it was a terrible ordeal for me.
But resisting the temptation to flee from that accursed tent, which at that moment was a vestibule to hell, I resolved to patch up that poor disemboweled body. I skillfully managed to put the relatively undamaged viscera back in their rightful place. This may surprise you, as you well know that surgery—especially visceral surgery—has never been my forte. However, after these long months on the eastern front, I can assure you that the abdominal organs hold no secrets for me anymore. Indeed, belly wounds were common and plentiful, for with their powerful hands, some Titans have a habit of smashing the rib cages of their victims before ingesting them. That's what I unwillingly learned here during my mission. Believe me, I would have preferred never to have acquired that kind of knowledge, and I would have loved to continue prescribing sturgeon liver syrup to sniffling children. But the deed is done, and today, even if I would never challenge a young surgeon in terms of theoretical knowledge, I am experienced and confident enough to put a few of your proudest students to the test in an operating room.
Returning to the case of this boy, we cared for him as best we could, and he continued to writhe in pain on his bed. After half an hour of torment, screams, and uncontrollable thrashing, the poor young man finally lost consciousness, which greatly improved our situation.
The rain seemed to never stop falling outside the tent, and the air we were breathing—a mixture of dampness and the smell of coagulated blood—was thoroughly nauseating. We were able to properly clean his wounds, ligate the vessels, suture the battered tissues before he lost too much blood—a complication we feared the most because, with the limited resources we had, it was impossible for us to perform any kind of blood transfusion on him.
Once the procedure was completed, one of the nurses asked me to clean up at one of the basins set up at the entrance of the tent. As I examined my reflection in the mirror of the washstand, I realized that my cheeks were covered in the blood of that poor child. The same was true for my missionary white attire, stained from the hem of my skirt to the collar of my blouse. And in the chamber pot, there wasn't a drop of water left for me to wash myself.
Between exhaustion, anger, and disgust at finding myself in such a state, I was suddenly seized by a fit of madness, and I stepped out of the tent in my surgical outfit, with a cap on my head, the apron tied around my waist, and my hands still gloved. And so, I ventured outside, into the raging storm, to take a shower fully clothed under the pouring rain. You'll surely think I'm completely mad when I confess that it did me a world of good. And as the cool rain beat against my feverish face and, in a way, washed away the foreign blood, I gradually began to feel alive again.
That's when a voice echoed in the fog, calling my name. At first, I thought I was dreaming and remained motionless, pretending not to pay any attention to the voice I thought my exhausted brain was conjuring. But the voice sounded again. So, I cast a circular glance around me to make sure I wasn't delirious. I was alone in the middle of the encampment. In the distance, I vaguely made out the Rose Wall rising through the mist. Then suddenly, I caught sight of the outlines of two tall male figures, large and imposing, seemingly floating above the ground like specters. They approached me slowly. After a while, in that misty twilight, I saw the cut and faded colors of two military raincoats. "Are you Doctor Zweig?" one of the two men asked me, in a friendly yet slightly authoritative tone.
I immediately confirmed that I was. As his comrade hung back a little, he stepped a few paces closer to me. He introduced himself, mentioning that he was the leader of a squadron from the Scout Regiment, currently stationed in the Trost District. During a visit to Karanes, one of his comrades had spoken highly of my efforts in organizing this camp and tending to the medical needs of soldiers and civilians sent to the front lines. The man's name was Erwin Smith. And as he approached even closer, he saw me in my blood-streaked surgeon's attire, drenched from the rain.
Like a gentleman, he tried not to show his surprise at finding me in such disarray, with a wretched appearance, dirty clothes, and disheveled hair. At that moment, I must have resembled more a madwoman escaped from an asylum than the qualified doctor he had been told about. However, in the state of fatigue and exhaustion I was in, I truly didn't care whether I appeared pleasant or displeasing to this stranger. Perhaps he saw signs of my exhaustion on my face? Surely, my features must have been drawn and my complexion pale... Whatever the case, he seemed to quickly understand that I wasn't disposed to listen to what he had to say. He then proposed a meeting for the next day at a restaurant two streets away from the apartment where I was staying. This lieutenant appeared entirely serious and kind, and his soldier's uniform made him even more sympathetic in my eyes. Without much thought, I readily accepted the invitation.
The next morning, after a short night's sleep, I returned to my post. Barely had I rejoined my teams when I was informed of the death of the young soldier we had tried to treat the previous day. A final feverish surge had overcome his last reserves of strength. I immediately went to the bedside of this child and thus discovered his small, pale face, frozen for eternity, slightly raised as if in a final breath. His slightly parted lips had already turned blue, and his large brown eyes had lost all their luster, staring blankly into space.
I couldn't have said why, but this death deeply moved me. All morning, I assisted the nurses as they prepared his body for the funeral service agents. After that, I stayed to watch over his corpse until the agents arrived. They wrapped his body in a modest linen sheet and placed him on a cart pulled by a mule to take him away, I know not where.
As I watched the funeral procession recede, I was overcome by a terrible feeling... an awful sense that I was unjustly being stripped of this body that I hadn't been able to save from death or that it was being taken from me as punishment for a mistake I had made. It was a very strange sensation, a real heartbreak, one I had never experienced before.
Seeing me so affected, the elderly nurse I had been working with since the beginning of my mission—the one who had carried out the amputation of the child's arm—took me by the hand and led me around the camp to clear my mind. Kindly, she reminded me that I had an appointment with the soldier who had come to find me yesterday.
However, still in a state of shock, I informed him of my desire to cancel the meeting. The appointed time had already passed, and I wasn't in the mood to engage in conversation with this unknown man. My only desire was to remain here, in this camp, and provide assistance to any suffering souls, attempting to alleviate the distress caused by the death of that child. But with tact and kindness, the kind woman found the words to convince me to step away from the morbid atmosphere of the field hospital for a meal. A simple lunch couldn't further torment me. A bit reluctantly, I finally made the decision to go to the meeting.
And so, I entered the small restaurant with at least an hour's delay. To my great surprise, I found the military man sitting by a window, holding a lead pencil and scribbling in a small notebook. He seemed quite surprised to see me arrive. Perhaps he had interpreted my lack of punctuality as a refusal on my part?
As I approached him, he stood up and pulled out a chair for me at the table. This act of courtesy immediately put me in a good frame of mind. And so, I found myself sitting in front of this tall man, impeccably dressed and a few years my senior. With his sharp, intelligent gaze, some might have called him handsome. Though he wasn't exactly my type, I found him amiable. Which I consider a good start.
Before I continue, I must share with you, my dear father, a rather amusing tidbit: in the various districts of Wall Rose, the soldiers of the Scout Regiment are objects of fantasy for women of all ages and backgrounds. I've never quite understood what people find so attractive about them, but it must be noted that every time a soldier wearing a uniform adorned with the wings of freedom enters an establishment, the waitresses, as well as the older proprietresses, hurriedly adjust their bodices and rush to their table while giggling like young hens. It's a sight that's always amusing to observe and never gets old. This lieutenant was no exception to this rule. All female eyes were therefore directed toward us (or should I say, toward him), and in this somewhat heavy atmosphere of curiosity, he began to speak to me with his calm cordiality. Ignoring the constant comings and goings of the female staff at our table, I readily listened as he explained the reasons for this meeting.
At first, he revealed that he was searching for a doctor to succeed the elderly physician who had been serving in their regiment for three decades and was about to retire. He wished to find someone experienced, with an ability to adapt to emergency situations. One of his subordinates – Captain Zacharias, who currently commanded the troops on the eastern front – had spoken to him about me and my actions with the armed forces during the Operation. It's true that I had treated several of their comrades, even if the soldiers with the most severe traumas were mostly from the ranks of the Garrison. According to him, I had the perfect profile for the position.
I listened silently, a bit taken aback by his straightforwardness. But out of pure curiosity, I allowed him to continue. He ordered two plates of boiled vegetable salad, which one of the young waitresses promptly served us with an exaggerated smile.
Then, he questioned me at length about my work with the wounded, especially the resources we had at our disposal to carry out the task entrusted to us by the government. He seemed fully aware of the destitution affecting our field hospital, and he revealed that the situation was even worse to the south. He then asked me how I perceived the current events. I didn't hide my exasperation – to say the least – with the political decisions that had led to ▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮ ▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮. That's when he made a revelation. Out of the blue, without any preamble, he told me that the number of casualties counted so far in Karanes, meaning only on the eastern front, was ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮. At that moment, I thought I had misheard. I jumped in my chair and dropped my fork on the table. He provided me with a personal estimate of the total losses counted so far, deduced from reports sent by his lieutenants stationed in the various districts of Wall Rose. The figure was over ▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮. Not to mention, according to him, the ▮▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮. I believe I turned pale, as he suddenly seemed concerned about my stunned silence. He poured me a glass of water and gave me a few moments to collect myself. We continued to discuss for a little over an hour, and throughout the conversation, I detected in this man an iron will coupled with a certain integrity of mind. I appreciated the staunchness of his opinions. Finally, he announced that he would soon be entrusted with the command of his battalion and thus wanted to surround himself with people eager for change. I refrained from immediately responding favorably to his proposition. I intended to take some time for reflection and send him my answer in a few days.
Eventually, I bid him farewell and returned to the camp where I was awaited. Barely had I put on my apron when three severely wounded new soldiers from the Garrison were brought to us. Among them was a young woman in her twenties, who was swiftly taken care of by the sole surgeon among us. My colleague immediately attended to the younger of the two men. As for me, I decided to tend to the injuries of the older one.
The unfortunate soldier entrusted to me (a man in his forties, with a shattered chest) passed away in less than five minutes after being placed on the operating table. His heart gave out, likely due to aortic dissection, and despite our efforts, we were unable to revive him.
My colleague, who was slightly more experienced than me, managed to stabilize her patient's condition for half an hour. After that, she faced the same failure.
As for the young girl, she had already bled out before reaching the inside of our fellow surgeon's tent. This triple failure plunged our entire team into an unfathomable abyss of despair. I sought refuge in one of the pavilions reserved for the use of medical staff. Before anger and frustration could completely overwhelm me, I took a seat at a small table and immediately began writing a note on which I penned the following words:
"Dear Lieutenant, I accept your proposition from noon. Kindly contact me once the operation is over. I will likely be staying at my parents' place in Mitras."
I entrusted the missive to one of the young individuals responsible for camp maintenance, always eager to assist. In exchange for a few coins, I tasked her with delivering the message to one of the officers of the Scout Regiment. This task she successfully accomplished, as she returned a few minutes later with a note written by the hand of this future commander – the same one with whom I had lunch a few hours earlier – confirming the receipt of my letter. My agreement was evidently understood, for I received a response in the best manner, in my opinion, meaning quite simply: with a few polite words scribbled in pencil on the corner of a notebook page.
So, my dearest father, that is how I resolved to accept the honorable proposition of this man and in what context my decision to join this regiment was made. Please know that I did not consent to such a great sacrifice in accepting this position as a doctor. I believe that my commitment to these brave soldiers is only the logical continuation of the dramatic events that unfolded last winter, events in which I became an involuntary witness.
I hope you will understand the reasons that led your daughter to forsake the comfort of our family home to seclude herself within a malodorous fortress guarded by titan killers. But between us, I fear you might share some responsibility in this matter. You may have committed the crime of raising a child in the cult of selflessness, altruism, and dedication. Furthermore, I am afraid that your idealistic tendencies may have somewhat influenced her own way of thinking. If this adventure were to take a dramatic turn, please be aware that your daughter will hold you partly responsible.
With these exaggerated threats, I send you a thousand kisses. Please embrace mother tightly for me as well.
Your devoted daughter,
Mary Magdalene
Post-scriptum: I hope the Special Operations Brigade won't censor my account too much. In case they do, we will discuss all of this during my next visit. Best regards to you."
At the bottom of the letter, it was noted: "Verified by the brigade responsible for monitoring communications and military transmissions in the Trost District."
The old professor carefully folded his child's letter. With a sigh, he slipped the letter into the left pocket of his brocade vest, against his heart that tightened at the thought of his beloved daughter leading a life he found perfectly unworthy of her stature, intelligence, and kindness.
To be continued...
