an hour it was plain that the Turks wouldn’t come, but lying there doing nothing was almost worse. Fuelled by the fitful breeze, the fire consumed the whole saddle, smelling like the stubble burning in the fields back home. They could see nothing, but as the flames spread they could hear the screams of the wounded men who had been left lying in the grass. Terrible sounds, wrenching at already strained nerves, and more unbearable because there was not a thing they could do to help them . . .
Stephen’s head nodded forward again and he snapped awake in the dark. Still quiet, but that seemed even more ominous. Sitting curled up in a corner of the trench, he felt completely alone, bereft; no human voice for comfort, no friendly light, and after a while he found himself stumbling over a prayer. He hadn’t prayed in years, and he could hardly remember the words, but they came to him after a while and he mumbled them fervently. He felt a hypocrite, praying to keep from falling asleep, but anything was better than hearing those screams in his head.
* * *
Dublin,
15 August 1915
Dear Stephen,
You really must write more! There was such a hiatus between your last two letters that I thought you’d fallen off the edge of the world, or worse. But I mustn’t complain. I was so delighted to receive your last letter that it put a spring in my step. I am amazed that you have finally landed in Turkey. I never thought I’d see the day. We’ve been fighting our wars in Flanders and Picardy for centuries, and this sudden change to an away fixture is quite beyond me.
To be serious, the thought of your fighting over there chills me to the bone. It seems that every day another familiar name is added to the roll of honour. The latest was Ernest Julian – my old law professor – and as I know he was in your battalion, I hope and pray you are doing everything you can to stay out of danger.
You asked for news of home. Well, you will be shocked and amazed to learn that I have graduated with a second-class degree. After many broad hints from my father I have taken up the family trade and I am to become a barrister. I have just started devilling for a KC called Percival Barton, who is a terribly clever old chap, though exceedingly fond of a drink. You will probably laugh when you read this, but I am very much the sober half of the firm. Apart from my other duties, I am responsible for retrieving the gaffer from the pub after lunch, nudging him awake during the long afternoon sessions, and checking him if he seems about to say something he will come to regret.
Which reminds me – who did I see last week, only your brother. We were just going into court when a group of militia came marching down the quays – you can spot the Citizen Army a mile off because their uniforms are a very dark green – and there was young Joseph, marching at the head and giving it the old left, right, left. Unfortunately, old Barton (who is a dreadful Unionist, particularly after a few brandies) let fly at them with a torrent of abuse that would make your hair stand on end, the gist of it being that they should be in France fighting for King and Country instead of prancing about like a troop of Boy Scouts. The last time I saw them, the Boy Scouts weren’t armed to the teeth with rifles and revolvers so, needless to say, I took a firm grip and ushered him off stage before Joe and his friends could get in a reply.
More recently, I bumped into your old pal Lillian Bryce. Did you hear she got a gold medal in the senior mods and won a studentship? So next year she’ll be doing postgrad work, as well as giving lectures and tutorials. More luck to her, I say. In a few years she could well be the first-ever woman fellow. And she’s such a charming girl; I don’t know why she’s got a reputation for being a bit peculiar. We had a good old chinwag and she made a particular point of asking after you. (Hint: I shan’t be too upset if your next letter heads in her
Stephen’s head nodded forward again and he snapped awake in the dark. Still quiet, but that seemed even more ominous. Sitting curled up in a corner of the trench, he felt completely alone, bereft; no human voice for comfort, no friendly light, and after a while he found himself stumbling over a prayer. He hadn’t prayed in years, and he could hardly remember the words, but they came to him after a while and he mumbled them fervently. He felt a hypocrite, praying to keep from falling asleep, but anything was better than hearing those screams in his head.
* * *
Dublin,
15 August 1915
Dear Stephen,
You really must write more! There was such a hiatus between your last two letters that I thought you’d fallen off the edge of the world, or worse. But I mustn’t complain. I was so delighted to receive your last letter that it put a spring in my step. I am amazed that you have finally landed in Turkey. I never thought I’d see the day. We’ve been fighting our wars in Flanders and Picardy for centuries, and this sudden change to an away fixture is quite beyond me.
To be serious, the thought of your fighting over there chills me to the bone. It seems that every day another familiar name is added to the roll of honour. The latest was Ernest Julian – my old law professor – and as I know he was in your battalion, I hope and pray you are doing everything you can to stay out of danger.
You asked for news of home. Well, you will be shocked and amazed to learn that I have graduated with a second-class degree. After many broad hints from my father I have taken up the family trade and I am to become a barrister. I have just started devilling for a KC called Percival Barton, who is a terribly clever old chap, though exceedingly fond of a drink. You will probably laugh when you read this, but I am very much the sober half of the firm. Apart from my other duties, I am responsible for retrieving the gaffer from the pub after lunch, nudging him awake during the long afternoon sessions, and checking him if he seems about to say something he will come to regret.
Which reminds me – who did I see last week, only your brother. We were just going into court when a group of militia came marching down the quays – you can spot the Citizen Army a mile off because their uniforms are a very dark green – and there was young Joseph, marching at the head and giving it the old left, right, left. Unfortunately, old Barton (who is a dreadful Unionist, particularly after a few brandies) let fly at them with a torrent of abuse that would make your hair stand on end, the gist of it being that they should be in France fighting for King and Country instead of prancing about like a troop of Boy Scouts. The last time I saw them, the Boy Scouts weren’t armed to the teeth with rifles and revolvers so, needless to say, I took a firm grip and ushered him off stage before Joe and his friends could get in a reply.
More recently, I bumped into your old pal Lillian Bryce. Did you hear she got a gold medal in the senior mods and won a studentship? So next year she’ll be doing postgrad work, as well as giving lectures and tutorials. More luck to her, I say. In a few years she could well be the first-ever woman fellow. And she’s such a charming girl; I don’t know why she’s got a reputation for being a bit peculiar. We had a good old chinwag and she made a particular point of asking after you. (Hint: I shan’t be too upset if your next letter heads in her
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