Paths of Glory (19 page)

George noticed that Private Matthews was nodding his agreement, while Private Rodgers kept his head down as he cleaned the barrel of his rifle with an oily rag.

“Well, at least you’ll be getting some leave soon, Matthews,” said George, trying to steer the conversation away from a subject that was never far from their minds.

“Can’t wait for the day, sir,” Matthews said as he began to roll a cigarette.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home?” asked George.

“Bang the missus,” said Matthews.

Perkins and Rodgers burst out laughing. “All right, Matthews,” said George. “And the second thing?”

“Take my boots off, sir.”

December 7th, 1916

My dearest Ruth,

Your photograph has just arrived in this morning’s post, and as I write this letter from a trench just outside, it’s balanced on my knee. “Quite a looker,” I heard one of the lads say, and I agree with him. It won’t be long before our second child is born, and I’ve been promised compassionate leave some time in the next three months. If I can’t make it home for the birth don’t imagine, even for a moment, that you are ever out of my thoughts.

I’ve been at the Front now for four months, and the new second lieutenants arriving from Blighty look younger by the day. Some of them treat me as if I’m an old soldier. Once this war is over, I’ll spend the rest of my days with you at The Holt.

By the way, if it’s a boy, let’s call him John…

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Sergeant Davies, “but we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

George immediately leaped to his feet, because he’d never heard Davies utter that particular word. “What kind of problem?”

“We’ve lost communication with the lads at the forward look-out post.”

George knew that
lost communication
was Davies’s way of saying that all three of the men had been killed. “What do you recommend, Sergeant?” he asked, recalling Evans’s advice.

“Someone’s got to get up there, sir, and sharpish, so we can restore contact before the bloody Hun trample all over us. If I may suggest, sir…”

“Please do, Sergeant.”

“I could take Matthews and Perkins, and see what can be done, then we’ll report back to you.”

“No, Sergeant,” said George. “Not Matthews. He’s due to go on leave tomorrow.” He looked across at Perkins, who had turned ice white and was trembling. George had no need to consult him about the odds of any of them reporting back. “I think I’ll join you for this one, Sergeant.”

When George had been at Winchester, on sports day he’d covered a quarter of a mile in under a minute, and at the end of the race he wasn’t even out of breath. He never knew how long it took him, Davies, and Perkins to reach the front line, but when he threw himself into the trench he was exhausted and terrified, and all too aware what the men at the Front were being asked to endure every minute of the day and night.

“Keep your head down, sir,” said Davies as he studied the battlefield through a pair of field binoculars. “The look-out post is about a hundred yards away, sir, one o’clock.” He passed the binoculars across to George.

George refocused the lenses, and once he’d located the post he could see exactly why communications had broken down. “Right, let’s get on with it,” he said before he had time to think what it was that he was meant to be getting on with. He leaped out of the trench and ran as he had never run before, zigzagging through waterlogged potholes and treacle black mud as he charged toward the forward look-out post. He never looked back, because he was sure that Davies and Perkins would only be a stride behind. He was wrong. Perkins had been brought down by a bullet after only a dozen paces and lay dying in the mud, while Davies had managed almost sixty yards before he was killed.

The look-out post was only twenty yards ahead of George. He had covered fifteen of those yards when the mortar shell exploded at his feet. It was the first and last time in his life that he said
fuck.
He fell on his knees, thought of Ruth, and then collapsed facedown in the mud. Just another statistic.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T
HE REGULAR FLOW
of letters suddenly dried up; always the first sign, all too often followed by an unwelcome telegram.

Ruth had taken to sitting in the alcove by the drawing room window every morning, hands clasped over her ever-growing belly; thirty minutes before old Mr. Rodgers cycled up the drive. When he came into view she would try to fathom the expression on his face. Was it a letter face, or a telegram face? She reckoned she would know the truth long before he reached the door.

Just as she spotted Mr. Rodgers coming through the gates, Clare began to cry. Did she still have a father? Or had George died before his second child was born?

Ruth was standing by the door when Mr. Rodgers stopped pedaling, put on his brakes, and came to a halt by the bottom step. Always the same routine: dismount, rummage around in his post bag, extract the relevant letters, and finally walk up the steps and hand them to Mrs. Mallory. It was no different today. Or was it? As Mr. Rodgers mounted the steps he looked up at her and smiled. This wasn’t a telegram day.

“Two letters today, Mrs. Mallory, and if I’m not mistaken, one of them’s from your husband,” he added, passing over an envelope that bore George’s familiar handwriting.

“Thank you,” said Ruth, almost unable to hide her relief. Then she remembered that she wasn’t the only person having to suffer like this every day. “Any news of your son, Mr. Rodgers?” she asked.

“’Fraid not,” replied the postman. “Mind you, our Donald never was much of a letter writer, so we live in hope.” He climbed back on his bicycle and pedaled away.

Ruth had opened George’s letter long before she’d reached the drawing room. She returned to her seat by the window, sank back, and began to read, first quickly and then very slowly.

January 12th, 1917

My dearest one,

I’m alive, even if I’m not kicking. Don’t fret. All I’ve ended up with is a broken ankle. It could have been much worse. The doc tells me that in time I’ll be right as rain, and even able to climb again, but in the meantime they’re sending me home to recuperate.

Ruth stared out of the window at the Surrey hills in the distance, not sure whether to laugh or cry. It was some time before she returned to George’s letter.

Sadly, Sergeant Davies and Corporal Perkins were struck down in the same action. Two fine men, like so many of their comrades. I hope you’ll forgive me, my darling, but I felt I had to drop a line to their wives before I got down to writing to you.

It all began when Sgt. Davies told me that we had a problem…

“I’m going to recommend that you are discharged in the next few days, Mallory, and sent back to Blighty until you’re fully recovered.”

“Thanks, doc,” said George cheerfully.

“Don’t thank me, old fellow, frankly I need the bed. By the time you’re ready to come back, with a bit of luck this damn war will be over.”

“Let’s hope so,” said George, looking around the field tent, full of brave men whose lives would never be the same again.

“By the way,” the doctor added, “a Private Rodgers dropped by this morning. Thought this might be yours.”

“It certainly is,” said George, taking the photograph of Ruth he’d thought he’d never see again.

“She’s quite a looker,” mused the doctor.

“Not you as well,” said George with a grin.

“Oh, and you’ve got a visitor. Do you feel up to it?”

“Yes, I’d be delighted to see Rodgers,” said George.

“No, it’s not Rodgers, it’s a Captain Geoffrey Young.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m up to that,” said George, a huge smile appearing on his face.

A nurse plumped up George’s pillow and placed it behind his back as he waited for his climbing leader. He could never think of Geoffrey Young as anything else. But the welcoming smile on his lips turned to a frown as Young limped into the tent.

“My dear George,” Young said, “I came the moment I heard. One of the advantages of being in the Ambulance Auxiliary Service is that you get to know where everyone is and what they’re up to.” Young pulled up a small wooden chair that must have previously been used in a French classroom and sat down beside George’s bed. “So much news, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Why not start with Ruth. Did you get the chance to visit her when you were last on leave?”

“Yes. I dropped in to The Holt on my way back to Dover.”

“And how is she?” asked George, trying not to sound impatient.

“As beautiful as ever, and seems to have fully recovered.”

“Fully recovered?” said George anxiously.

“Following the birth of your second child,” said Young.

“My second child?” said George.

“You mean to say that nobody’s told you that you’re the proud father of…” He paused. “I think it was a girl.”

George offered up a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in. “And how is she?” he demanded.

“Seemed fine to me,” said Young. “But then, to be honest, I can never tell one baby from another.”

“What color are her eyes?”

“I’ve no idea, old chap.”

“And is her hair fair or dark?”

“Sort of in between, I think, although I could be wrong.”

“You’re hopeless. Has Ruth decided on a name?”

“I had a ghastly feeling you might ask me that.”

“Could it be Elizabeth?”

“I don’t think so. More unusual than that. It will come to me in a moment.”

George burst out laughing. “Spoken like a true bachelor.”

“Well, you’ll find out for yourself soon enough,” said Young, “because the doc tells me he’s sending you home. Just make sure you don’t come back. You’ve done more than enough to salve your conscience, and there’s certainly no need to shorten the odds against you.”

George thought about a dead corporal who would have agreed with Young.

“What other news?” asked George.

“Some good, some bad—mostly bad I’m afraid.” George remained silent while Young tried to compose himself. “Rupert Brooke died at Lemnos while on his way to Gallipoli—even before he reached some foreign field.”

George pursed his lips. He’d kept a book of Brooke’s poetry in his knapsack, and had assumed that once the war was over he must surely produce some memorable verse. George didn’t interrupt as he waited for other names to be added to the inevitable list of dead. One he dreaded most.

“Siegfried Herford bought it at Ypres, poor devil; it took him three days to die.” Young sighed. “If a man like that has to die before his time, it shouldn’t be on some muddy field in no man’s land, but on the summit of a great mountain he’s just conquered.”

“And Somervell?” George dared to ask.

“He’s had to witness some of the worst atrocities this war could throw at a man, poor fellow. Being a front-line surgeon can’t be much fun, but he never complains.”

“Odell?”

“Wounded three times. The War Office finally got the message and sent him back to Cambridge, but only after his old college had offered him a fellowship. Someone up there has at last worked out that we’re going to need our finest minds once this mess has been sorted out.”

“And Finch? I’ll bet he found himself some cushy number taking care of nurses.”

“Far from it,” said Young. “He volunteered to head up a bomb disposal unit, so his chances of survival are even less than the boys at the Front. He’s had several offers of a safe job in Whitehall, but he always turns them down—it’s almost as if he wants to die.”

“No,” said George, “he doesn’t want to die. Finch is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t believe anyone or anything can kill him. Remember him singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ on Mont Blanc?”

Young chuckled. “And to cap it all, they’re going to give him an MBE.”

“Good heavens,” laughed George, “nothing will stop him now.”

“Unless you do,” said Young quietly, “once that ankle of yours is healed. My bet is that you two will still be the first to stand on the top of the world.”

“With you, as usual, a pace ahead of us.”

“I’m afraid that will no longer be possible, old boy.”

“Why not? You’re still a young man.”

“True,” said Young. “But it might not prove quite that easy, with one of these.” He pulled up his left trouser leg to reveal an artificial limb.

“I’m so sorry,” said George, shocked. “I had no idea.”

“Don’t worry about it, old fellow,” said Young. “I’m just thankful to be alive. However, once this war is over there are no prizes for guessing who I’ll be recommending to the Everest Committee as climbing leader.”

Ruth was sitting by the window in the drawing room when a khaki-colored car drove through the front gates. She couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel, apart from the fact that he or she was in uniform.

Ruth was already outside by the time the young woman driver stepped out of the car and opened the back door. The first thing to emerge was a pair of crutches, followed by a pair of legs, followed by her husband. Ruth dashed down the steps and threw her arms around him. She kissed him as if it were the first time, which brought back memories of a sleeping compartment in the train home from Venice. The driver stood to attention, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Thank you, Corporal,” said George with a grin. She saluted, climbed back into the car, and drove off.

Ruth eventually let go of George, but only because he refused to allow her to help him up the steps and into the house. As she walked beside him into the drawing room, George demanded, “Where’s my little girl?”

“She’s in the nursery with Clare and nanny. I’ll go and fetch them.”

“What’s her name?” George called after her, but Ruth was already halfway up the stairs.

George propelled himself into the drawing room and fell into a chair by the window. He didn’t remember a chair being there before, and wondered why it was facing outward. He looked at the English countryside that he loved so much, reminded once again of just how lucky he was to be alive. Brooke, Herford, Wainwright, Carter minor, Davies, Perkins…