March 15, 1947
Dear Texas,
I'll be leaving Spithead for my last journey next month. Considering how slow mail is, I think that I will already be dead by the time you receive those last words of mine. I did tell you in another letter when I was sold for scrap just a year ago, but it doesn't change that I'm not happy about giving you these last news. It was just a matter of time before the end would be coming for me, anyway. It's not really a good sign when that paper is signed, is it?
A shame that indeed, I will not be retained as a museum ship, but Britain is in poor shape. If there's a useless hunk of steel lying around, you sell it and you scrap it, no matter if it has a soul or not. It's a timeless fate for us ships; whether we're made of timber or steel doesn't matter, our vessels are simply resources to be reused. There is no funeral, no requiem aeternam, no ceremony. There are no flowers, no gravestones, no beautiful coffins: there is just either sinking, scuttling, or scrapping. The closest we got to this is the decommissionning ceremony, but once the end truly comes, it's all unceremonious.
If I'm being honest, though, it's not a bad thing for me to finally reach the end of my journey, as I am more in pain than ever. As I told you, my vessel had been hit by two of these bloody Fritz bombs in the Mediterranean, way prior to your arrival in Europe, but the damage made by one of them was never repaired. The massive concrete block in my vessel, remember? I did go into surgery twice for it, but for the most part, although I was patched up by the auxiliaries, I was prescribed painkillers to cope with the chronic aches in my back that would remain. A tolerance problem started to manifest after some time, however, and these days, my treatment only works every other day or so, leaving me to grin it and bear it somewhat unpredictably. I cannot augment the doses any more lest I want to overdose or at least suffer severe side effects, but I would be lying if I said that the idea never crossed my mind. As your friend Arkansas, God rest her soul, would say, when you're in a pain you're unable to ease, "it does things to you".
The time we spent in each other's presence was brief, but it nonetheless left a mark on me. Mainly, one of the things I want to tell you is that you inspire a lot of respect in me. Your dedication to your duty, your resilience in the face of this terrible thing that war is, your cleverness, and on top of all, your faithfulness to your beloved Oklahoma, even as she lay barely conscious in a hospital, crippled beyond repair. The same cannot be said for some others. I have seen it happen, and I find such behaviour to be the pinnacle of vileness. I am very sad still that I did not get to meet her: not only did she deserve a better fate, she also seemed like a lovely person to be around. I wish her a peaceful passing when her time comes. Even after she's on the other side, she will always wait for you, even as she goes to live a new life. This love of yours will never end, and you will reunite someday, free to live it as you please, in a world where there are no admirals, no deployments, no wars, and everyone you've known and loved will be there, including myself.
I am, however, very grateful that I got to meet Arkansas. This girl had the strength of a mountain despite all the pain she was carrying, first from whatever she went through that left her broken, but second from this terrible day where every single American life was thrown upside down, and you got hit right in the bullseye: your own wife was a victim of it. She did not like fighting, but she knew what she had been built for and was ready to set her discomfort aside to fulfil her function. Lazy in appearance, but a tireless workhorse at the core: she was simply an intelligent one. A pillar of strength, letting you lean on her unconditionally, when she could have chosen to leave you alone with your grief because you were no longer the happy Texas she knew. This speaks volumes about her character.
Once again, not everybody does that: such scoundrels are more common than it's comfortable to think about. I have one for a sister who I will not miss. She would have got along well with your comrade Nevada. One thing I will say about this one is that she has a lot of learning to do. If it takes such a terrible event such as this infamous attack to get her to question whether it was truly a good thing to treat everyone like dirt and, from what you told me, straight up bully her own sister, and she's still capable of downplaying the harm she has caused when talking about it with unrelated people, this is not a sign of a secret heart of gold hidden deep down, nevermind whatever excuse your sister New York finds for her. She was, indeed, genuinely affected, and I sympathize with her pain, but I will never hold a fond view of her. She's lucky her fiancée was either nice or foolish enough to come back and actually agree to tie the knot.
You are going to be preserved as a museum ship, and the duty to preserve the memory of those who fell, humans and warships, will be yours to bear onto your shoulders, just like every one of us who will be turned into floating relics of a distant past. Not only that: you will be the only dreadnought left in the world. That is a double duty to fulfil.
Ah, I wish I could have been your companion in such an endeavour, even if from an ocean away, and stayed in touch through letters, but it sounds like this is not in the cards. I will go on my ninth lifetime as a warship, refining the naval art of war a little more: if I happen to pass by the United States, or if I decide to join your Navy, I will try to sail by your berth. You may not recognize me, but I will certainly remember you, somehow. We never truly forget. We simply have trouble recollecting, and we are a new person each time.
It is time to lower my flag, now. I may adorn my face with paint for the last time on the way to my final destination, just like I would do when sailing into battle. Please be as brave as you have always been, Texas. Make it so your darling, sister and friends would be proud of you. The future looks very lonely, but you will have many stories to tell to those who will cross your path. You will see times changing in a way that none of your contemporaries would have ever dreamed of. It will be a long, hard road, and even as you will eventually die, because even a museum ship cannot last forever, this life will have a tremendous impact on your future ones. Your future selves will be proud and confident.
So long, my sister in arms.
His Majesty's Ship, Warspite
