Paths of Glory

“But the depot’s three miles behind the line, Sarge. Can’t I wait for the supply truck in the morning?”

“No you can’t, Matthews, because if you don’t get moving, by the time you get back the fuckin’ Germans—excuse my French—will have joined us for breakfast. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“On the double, then.”

“Yes, Sarge!”

October 14th, 1916

My darling Ruth,

It’s been another one of those endless days, with both sides pounding away at each other, while we have no way of knowing who’s getting the better of this war. A field officer occasionally turns up to assure us that we’re doing a first-class job and the Germans are on the retreat—which raises the question, then why aren’t we advancing? No doubt some German field officer is telling his men exactly the same thing. Only one thing is certain, they can’t both be right.

By the way, tell your father that if he wants to make a second fortune, he should open a factory that makes ear trumpets, because once this war is over they’re certain to be in great demand.

I’m sorry, my darling, if these letters are becoming a lit

tle repetitive, but only two things remain constant, my love for you and my desire to hold you in my arms.

Your loving husband,

George

George looked up to see that one of his corporals was also scribbling away.

“A letter to your wife, Perkins?”

“No, sir, it’s my will.”

“Isn’t that a little pessimistic?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Perkins replied. “Back on civvy street I’m a bookie, so I’m used to havin’ to weigh up the odds. Men on the front line survive an average of sixteen days, and I’ve already been out here for over three months, so I can’t expect to buck the odds for much longer.”

“But you’re in far less danger back here than those poor devils on the front line, Perkins,” George tried to reassure him.

“You’re the third officer to tell me that, sir, and the other two went home in wooden boxes.”

George was still horrified by such casual references to death, and wondered how long it would be before he became just as hardened.

“The way I see it, sir,” continued Perkins, “is war’s like the Grand National. There’s lots of runners and riders at the start, but there’s no way of knowing which of them will finish the course. And in the end there’s only one winner. To be honest, sir, it’s not a racing certainty that the winner’s going to be an English nag.”

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