Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

“And I’d be a widow.”

“Along with so many other women married to honorable men.”

“Have any of the staff at Charterhouse joined up?”

“I can’t speak for my colleagues,” replied George, “but I can speak for Brooke, Young, Bullock, Herford, Somervell, and Finch, who are among the finest men of my generation, and who haven’t hesitated to serve their country.”

“They’ve also made it clear that they understand your position.”

“Perhaps, but they haven’t taken the easy way out.”

“The man who climbed St. Mark’s Basilica could never be accused of taking the easy way out,” protested Ruth.

“But what if that same man failed to join his comrades at the Front when his country was at war?” George took his wife in his arms. “I understand how you feel, my darling, but perhaps-”

“Perhaps it would make a difference, George,” she interrupted, “if I told you I was pregnant?”

This joyful piece of news did delay George from making a decision, but soon after the birth of his daughter, Clare, the feelings of guilt resurfaced. Having a child of his own made him feel an even greater responsibility to the next generation.

George continued to teach as the war dragged on, but if didn’t help that every day he had to pass a recruitment poster on his walk to school, showing a young girl seated on her father’s lap, asking, Daddy, what did YOU do in the Great War?

What would he tell Clare? With each friend George lost, the nightmare revisited him. He had read that even the bravest of men could snap when going over the top and facing gunfire for the first time. George was sitting peacefully in his usual pew in the school chapel when he snapped.

The headmaster rose from his place to lead the morning service. “Let us pray,” he began, “for those Old Carthusians who have made the ultimate sacrifice by laying down their lives for the greater cause. Sadly,” he continued, “I must add two new names to that growing list. Lieutenant Peter Wainwright of the Royal Fusiliers, who died at Loos while leading an attack on an enemy post. Let us remember him.”

“Let us remember him,” repeated the congregation.

George buried his head in his hands and wept silently before the headmaster added the second name.

“Second Lieutenant Simon Carter, who many of us will fondly remember as Carter minor, was killed while serving his country in Mesopotamia. Let us remember him.”

While the rest of the congregation lowered their heads and repeated, “Let us remember him,” George rose from his place, bowed before the altar and marched out of the chapel. He didn’t stop walking until he’d reached Godalming High Street, where he joined a queue of young men standing in line outside the local recruitment office.

“Name?” said the recruiting sergeant when George reached the front of the queue.

“Mallory.”

The sergeant looked him up and down. “You do realize, sir, that under the terms of the new Conscription Act, schoolmasters are exempt from military service?”

George took off his long black gown and mortar board, and threw them in the nearest wastepaper basket.

July 9th, 1916

My darling Ruth,

It was one of the unhappiest days of my life when we parted on that cold, desolate railway station in Godalming. Only being allowed a weekend together after I’d completed my basic training was cruel indeed, but I promise, I will write to you every day.

It was kind of you to leave me with the assurance that you believe I’m doing the right thing, even though your eyes revealed your true feelings.

I joined my regiment at Dover, and bumped into a few old friends. Do you remember Siegfried Herford? What a difficult decision he had to make, having a German father and an English mother.

The following day we set off for in a boat that leaked like a colander and bobbed up and down like a rubber duck. One of the lads suggested it must have been a personal gift from the Kaiser. We spent most of the crossing using our billycans to return gallons of water to the ocean. You will recall from our last trip across the Channel that I’ve never been much of a sailor, but I somehow managed not to be sick in front of the men.

We docked at at first light, without much sign of the French taking any part in this war. I joined a couple of brother officers in a café for a hot croissant and some coffee. We met up with some other officers returning from the front, who advised us to enjoy our last meal on a tablecloth (let alone the luxury of a china plate) for several months, and reminded us that we would be sitting in a different sort of dining room in 24 hours’ time.

As usual I can be relied on to forget something, and this time it was your photograph. I’m desperate to see your face again, even if it’s only in black and white, so please send me the snap I took of you on Derden Heights the day before we were arrested. I want to carry it with me all the time.

God knows I miss you, and I don’t begin to understand how one can be surrounded by so many people, so much furious activity and so much deafening noise, and still feel so very lonely. I’m just trying to find another way of saying that I love you, although I know you’d tease me if I were to suggest that you are the only woman in my life. But I already look upon Chomolungma as just an old flame.

Your loving husband,

George

Once George had handed the letter to his regiment’s postal clerk, he hung around waiting for the convoy of trucks to begin its one-way journey to the front line.

In the space of a few miles, the beautiful French countryside of Millet and Monet, with its dappled greens and bright yellows, and sheep and cows grazing in the fields, had been replaced by a far uglier canvas of burned and withered trees, slaughtered horses, roofless houses, and desolate civilians who had become pawns on the chessboard of war.

The convoy rolled relentlessly on, but before George was given the chance to be deafened by the noise, he watched as angry gray and black clouds of sulfurous fumes gathered until they completely masked the sun. They finally came to a halt at a camp three miles behind the front line, which didn’t have a signpost and where the days had been turned into perpetual night. Here, George met a group of men in uniform who wondered if they would be alive in twenty-four hours.

After a billycan of bully beef with a plate of stuck-together beans and maggot-riddled potatoes, George was billeted in a tent with three fellow officers, all younger than himself. They had experienced varying lengths of service-one month, nine weeks, and seven months: the last, a Lieutenant Evans, considered himself something of a veteran.

The following morning, after George had devoured breakfast served on a tin plate, he was driven forward to an artillery post some four hundred yards behind the front line, where he was to relieve Evans, who was long overdue a fortnight’s furlough.

“It’s not all bad, old fellow,” Evans assured him. “It’s a damn sight less dangerous than the front line. Think of those poor bastards just a quarter of a mile in front of you, waiting for the sound of the lone bugle that will send them over the top, having spent months being stalked by death. Our job’s simple in comparison. You have a detail of thirty-seven soldiers under your command, and twelve howitzers which are hardly ever out of action, unless they break down. The senior NCO is Sergeant Davies. He’s been out here for over a year, and before that he served fifteen years with the colors. He began army life as a private in the Boer War, so don’t even think about making any sort of move until you’ve consulted him. Then there’s Corporal Perkins. The damn man never stops complaining, but at least his sick sense of humor keeps the lads’ minds off the Hun. You’ll get to know the rest of the squad soon enough. They’re a good bunch of fellows and won’t let you down when it comes to the crunch.” George nodded, but didn’t interrupt. “The hardest decision you’ll have to make,” Evans continued, “comes every Sunday afternoon, when you have to send three lads to our forward look-out post for the next seven days. I’ve never known all three of them to return alive. It’s their job to keep us informed of what the enemy’s up to, so we can range our guns on them rather than our own troops.”