In Memoriam

by Alice Winn

They had committed the cardinal sin: they had been found out.

“Sometimes I think you’ve read more than I have, Gaunt.” “Of course I have. I’m just less pretentious.”

I’m not sure how I feel about this David character. It seems awfully untoward to go about demanding people’s Christian names like a child or an American.

“Gas,” muttered someone. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was outlawed at the Hague Convention,” I said. I actually said that. I actually believed that the principles of our civilisation, our civilisation that has developed further than any other in the history of the world, giving us telephones and trains and flying, for God’s sake, we can fly, I thought, surely such a civilisation, that prides itself on conquering the beast in man and seeks only to bend towards beauty and prosperity, surely, surely, surely, it would not shatter in such a vile and disgusting way.

The Hague Convention sought to make war more humane. We had reached a point in history where we believed it was possible to make war humane.

He forgot sometimes that Gaunt wasn’t in love. That this was a convenient addition to their friendship, not a transformation.

It included our code for a coming attack: “μᾶλλον γὰρ πεφόβημαι τὰς οἰκείας ἡμῶν ἁμαρτίας ἢ τὰς τῶν ἐναντίων διανοίας.” Do you recognise it? It’s Thucydides, of course. “I am more afraid of our own mistakes than of the enemy’s plans.”

“That’s what’s waiting for all of us, if we survive,” he said. “Madness.”

“My Peter was killed at Loos,” said the farmer when he brought the milk. “Were you at Loos?” Ellwood was forced to admit he had been. “What was it like?” He did not know how to answer. It was the Hell you’d feared in childhood, come to devour the children. It was treading over the corpses of your friends so that you might be killed yourself. It was the congealed evil of a century. So he had simply stared at the farmer, speechless, until his mother took his arm and led him away, as if he was a drunken old fool. “He’s very tired,” she’d apologised to the farmer. Yes. He was very tired.

“It’ll be like Grinstead House all over again.” Devi smirked. “More than you know. It’s astonishing how well an English boarding school prepares one for prison. There’s a fellow in here who says he wishes his parents had sent him here instead of Preshute. Calls Preshute a ‘House of Tortures.’”

It was much easier to be brave for your friends than for yourself.

“Some girls gave me a white feather in town. I felt so awful I went and signed up that afternoon.” “I’d like to drag those girls into the trenches by their hair,” said Ellwood darkly.

They had long ago learnt, in much more trying circumstances, how much easier it was to do one’s duty after tea than before.