CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE RECEIVED WISDOM had been that the war would all be over by Christmas.
George and Ruth had returned to Godalming after their honeymoon to settle in the house Mr. Turner had given his daughter as a wedding present. The Holt was more than either of them could have asked for, and certainly more than George had expected. Set in ten acres of land, it was a magnificent house with a garden in which Ruth knew she would be spending many happy hours pottering about.
No one could have been in any doubt how much George loved his wife, and Ruth had the glow of a woman who knows she’s cherished. They wanted for nothing, and anyone who saw them together must have considered them a charmed couple, living an idyllic existence. But it was a facade, because George had a conscience.
During the next few months George could only stand by as many of his friends and contemporaries from Cambridge, and even some of the young men he’d taught at Charterhouse, left for the Western Front, never to return, while the only sacrifice he’d made was to put off his proposed trip to Tibet until after the hostilities had ceased. It didn’t help that the friends who visited him at The Holt always seemed to be in uniform. Brooke, Young, Somervell, Odell, Herford, and even Finch dropped in to spend the night before traveling on to France. George often wondered if any of them thought he’d found an easy way out. But even though they never once raised the subject, indeed went out of their way to stress the importance of the work he was doing, he could never be sure. And whenever the headmaster, Mr. Fletcher, read out the names of those Old Carthusians who had sacrificed their lives in the service of their country, it only made him feel more guilty.
George decided to discuss his misgivings with his oldest friend, Guy Bullock, who had returned to London to take up a post at the War Office. Guy tried to reassure him that there could be no greater calling than to teach the next generation of children, who would have to take the place of those who had fallen.
George next sought the counsel of Geoffrey Young, who reminded him that if he did decide to join up, someone else would have to take his place. He also mulled over the never-ending debate with Andrew O’Sullivan, who wasn’t in any doubt that they were doing the right thing by remaining at their posts. Mr. Fletcher was even more adamant, saying that he couldn’t afford to lose someone with George’s experience.
Whenever he raised the subject with Ruth, she left him in no doubt about how she felt. It finally caused their first argument since they’d been married.
George was finding it more and more difficult to sleep at night as he wrestled with his conscience, and Ruth often lay awake too, aware of the dilemma he was going through.
“Are you still awake, my darling?” she whispered one night.
He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips, before placing an arm around her as she rested her head on his shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking about our future,” George said.
“Bored with me already are you, Mr. Mallory?” she teased. “And to think we’ve only been married for a few months.”
“Terrified of losing you would be nearer the truth,” George said quietly. He felt her body stiffen. “No one knows better than you, my darling, just how guilty I feel about not joining my friends in France.”
“Have any of those friends said anything to make you feel guilty?” she asked.
“No, not one of them,” admitted George. “Which only makes it more telling.”
“But they know you’re serving your country in a different way.”
“No one, my darling, can exempt themselves from their conscience.”
“If you were killed, what would that achieve?”
“Nothing, other than that you’d know I’d done the honorable thing.”
“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
“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,
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.
BOOK THREE. No Man’s Land
1916
