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
THE 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.<