Paths Of Glory

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…

His thoughts were interrupted by cries that he heard long before he set eyes on his second daughter. George heaved himself up as Ruth and Nanny Mallory entered the room with his two daughters. He hugged Clare for some time before taking the little bundle in his arms.

“Fair hair and blue eyes,” he said.

“I thought you already knew that,” said Ruth. “Didn’t you get my letters?”

“Sadly not. Only your messenger, Geoffrey Young, who just about remembered that it was a girl, and certainly couldn’t recall her name.”

“That’s funny,” said Ruth, “because I asked him if he’d be godfather, and he agreed.”

“So you don’t know her name, Daddy?” said Clare, jumping up and down.

“No, I don’t,” said George. “Is it Elizabeth?”

“No, Daddy, don’t be silly. It’s Beridge,” said Clare, laughing.

More unusual than that, said George to himself, recalling Geoffrey Young’s words.

After only a few moments in George’s arms, Beridge began howling, and nanny quickly took charge of her. The child obviously didn’t appreciate being held by a strange man.

“Let’s have half a dozen more,” said George, taking Ruth in his arms once nanny had taken Clare and Beridge back to the nursery.

“Behave yourself, George,” teased Ruth. “Try to remember that you’re no longer on the front line with your troops.”

“Some of the finest men I’ve ever known,” said George sadly.

Ruth smiled. “Will you miss them?”

“Not half as much as I’ve missed you.”

“So now you’re back, my darling, what’s the first thing you’d like to do?”

George thought about Private Matthews’s response when he’d been asked the same question. He smiled to himself, realizing that there wasn’t a great deal of difference between an officer and a private soldier.

He bent down and began to untie his shoelace.

BOOK FOUR. Selecting the Team 1921 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 22ND, 1921

WHEN GEORGE CAME down to breakfast that morning, nobody spoke.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he took his place at the head of the table between his two daughters.

“I know,” said Clare, “but Mummy told me not to tell you.”

“What about Beridge?” said George.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy, you know Beridge can’t read.”

“Read?” said George, looking at Clare more closely. “Sherlock Holmes would have told us that read was the first clue.”

“Who’s Sherlock Holmes?” demanded Clare.

“A great detective,” said George. “He would have looked around the room to see what there was to read. Now, could this secret possibly be in the newspaper?”

“Yes,” said Clare, clapping her hands. “And Mummy says it’s something you’ve wanted all your life.”

“Another clue,” said George, picking up that morning’s Times, which was open at page eleven. He smiled the moment he saw the headline. “Your mother is quite right.”