World War Cubbins

Enter Dr. Cubbins

November 8, 1914

I have not even been in these godforsaken labyrinths of mud for more than a week and a half and, already, I am growing very tired of them. Day in and day out, more soldiers rush into the front lines as others are struck down during the battle, unable to return home. I have already treated more wounded than I had on a yearly basis back in Portsmouth. For a man with a medical degree, who does not enjoy boasting about his cases, that is saying much about what I am dealing with here.

We joined the war not even a month ago after a German invasion of Belgium. I have to say, I don't think I had seen anyone, the day the news came out, that wasn't absolutely appalled or angered by German behavior. Belgium had no qualms with them, they were to be left alone. However, the German forces had another plan, to flank France and catch it unawares before they could mobilize their troops. The Schlieffen Plan. Sadly, as they marched through Belgium and left a trail of scarlet behind them, word got out and the French met the Germans at the Marne river. I suppose the news of this lit a fire under the bellies of our English leaders and, hoping it would end fast with our amalgamation into the allies, declared war upon Germany and along with French and Russian forces.

This European war is beginning to boil over. I am starting to wonder how long it is going to be before another thing else starts smelling rotten in the state of Denmark.

The men that have been here, since the very beginning (though there are not many), hardly ever sleep. Anytime they do, screams can be heard from deep within the trenches. Their nightmares succeed in keeping them vigilant but also ruining every chance when they can rest. They pace, fingers on the triggers of their gun, waiting for the time we come under fire. Paranoia is rising on the front line here. The trainees look so excited it is almost unnerving. It's sad that those smiles won't last long after their first fusillade against Germany. Poor unfortunate kids having their lives ripped from them, and while they are still alive no less.

I am glad I became a medicinal doctor rather than a surgeon. My left hand hasn't stopped shaking since my first bout with German fire the day I was dropped off. Even while I treat the soldiers, knowing I am in the safest place I can be for miles, I have to hide my vibrating limb in my coat pocket. I wonder how long I will be able to keep it hidden before my superior notices...

Now that I write, I am also glad I never thought of becoming a soldier.

My Florence was right. I should have just went to the store and forgotten about the war instead of acting like a hero. Nothing good will come of all of this fighting and accusing the other of petty war crimes. At least I followed her advice and decided to keep a personal journal rather than just my diagnostic book. It helps to write out what is running through my mind as she told me when she handed me this leather-bound notebook and a pencil.

I do hope she will forgive me when I return to her.

More inevitably to come,

George Cubbins

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May 21, 1915

I am in shock currently with the information I have received to-day. I was able to get over the Mustard gas attacks and am striving to help the soldiers (More on that after). With the trench foot cases, it has become a bit more manageable due to the warmer weather (more on that a later as well). However, the event that is causing me a bit of unsolicited thought, was the sinking of a United States ship.

At first, I thought that the lie-factory was at it again, creating more propaganda that moved so much faster than one can interview a person. Yet as the news began to wave amongst the men, and my superiors made no move to deny it, I began to doubt my previous assumptions. The Listomania was torpedoed by German submarines about a two to three weeks ago. Sadly, the news is rather slow these days.

Then again, If it wasn't for my constant writings, I would forget what day it is all together. Every day here is like a lifetime served under the constant rounds of gunfire and bombs. The screams of soldiers as they hit the ground of No Man's Land. We cannot give the bodies proper burials. Some we can't even retrieve least we die ourselves. Half of the men we take back have no I.D. or anything on their person except maybe a picture of loved ones they left: for a chance to fight for a better life. They left to die, for a better life.

I need to get on with the rest, instead of feeling bitter. It will solve nothing, in the end, except maybe return a sliver of my fleeting sanity.

Anyhow, I must say that the mustard gas has proven to be rather troublesome. Many men have died from leftover bombs in the German trenches. Any new trenches we dig now are jagged and going every which way. According to ballistics, the explosions will cover less distance the more the fires have to hit a solid surface, slowing down the blast's momentum. While I am unsure whether this works with the German gas as it does with bombs, I am sure that the gas is a very lethal problem our front is dealing with. Any German body we come across lately all have gas masks on. The men's guards remain high when scouting.

As for trench foot, I am to believe the slightly warmer weather has helped lessen the cases, but only by a few numbers. Many men have come in needing amputations or to take time to let the fungus heal. I believe the disease is similar to when you soak in a bath for too long and your fingers prune, but since there is hardly a way for their feet to fry, their pores never shrink and the bacterium in the mud take the chance to crawl their way inside the body, taking root into the limb and numbing it. Then continuing to cut off the circulation leaving a useless body part to dangle.

I am glad Florence will never get to experience these horrors of war. I shudder to think that she would never have been the same. Then again, I don't think I will either, but I have hope that I can at least return to a grumpy wife with a wonderful sense of humor and a voice that could rival gunfire. I actually think that gunfire is the one thing that reminds me of home, listening to her laugh. It may not seem like a compliment to some, but I miss it dearly.

It was her birthday a few days ago. I sent her a letter in hopes that it would get to her. Hopefully, our runners didn't get killed on the way back. I know it won't make up for it, not being there and the fight, but I hope it'll calm her nerves. She hasn't sent me anything, so stubborn. could rival a horse if she had the need to. Her steely gaze made men shudder in fear and tuck their tails behind them. This is reminding me of Shakespeare, his 130'th sonnet. I always admired that peice, because he wasn't trying to dis his woman through his passion, but told of all the ways she was imperfect and how it didn't matter. Because he would always think she was one of a kind and would revel in their love. She didn't need to be a goddess to win his affections.

Waging a war against bacteria,

George Cubbins

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A/N: so, I know I am lacking in contributing to the Lockwood and Co. Fandom, so I decided to upload this. I had originally wanted to just post all 12 pages of my project in one go and make it a one-shot, but as I read through it, I had so many time jumps and decided to make some more diary entries.

This was actually a project I had to do in school called In the Trenches. We had to write diary entries about WW2, adding in historical events and facts, as well as explaining illnesses, disease, and conditions in the trenches. At the time, I was re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-reading the first book (Like one does). I had to use a persona to create the story first, and all I could hear while I wrote was George Cubbins. This became the result and got me an A in each class. I don't know how with so many mistakes T.T. But I have edited them and will continue to do so.

Stay Tuned, and Thanks for Reading!

~Pheonix