Silence For the Dead

by Simone St. James

Selfishness is pre-eminently a defect which disqualifies a woman from the nursing profession. —Eva Luckes,

It was a curious stutter he had, in which he sometimes backed up and ran over his words again as if in a motorcar.

Something sounded in me, deep down like a bell being struck in the depths of the ocean, something that saddened and frightened me and made me exhausted in the same way one is exhausted after vigorously, repeatedly vomiting up one’s supper.

Books were a means to an end, even novels; for the more a person knew, the less she could be taken in.

I’d never had much education, but education, in my experience, was no match for doggedness. If I wanted to learn something, I was capable of studying it in a book until I understood it, no matter how long it took. In the end it was a matter of winning over the words that refused to obey, of comprehending them through sheer determination.

She’d known, just as I

had, that it was life or death to leave. And when you run, you must not look back, must not check over your shoulder, must not think too much, must not wonder. For I would only drag her down and drown her. Sometimes putting yourself first was the only thing you could do.

I’m talking about knowledge, Jack. In order to win, you just have to know more than your opponent does.

“Coldhearted or dead, Jack,” I said. “Everyone has to choose sometime.”

A man fighting for his sanity had the energy only for the simple tasks of his daily life. Friendship was a luxury.

This house was a vampire, feeding on the pain, the insecurity, the despair of these men.

How much do you think it costs to be in this place? God, the number would give you nightmares. The monthly fee is more than you make in a year.”

Our families don’t want us mixing with

the lower classes, and they prefer to forget that we did it for years in the trenches, so they pay for the privilege. All of us here are officers except for MacInnes and Yates. Or didn’t you notice?”

“Somersham’s family is in railroads,” said West, ticking off on his fingers. “Massively rich, they are. Mabry’s the only one from old money; his family owns half of Shropshire. Childress’s father is a newspaper baron. Even MacInnes has pots of money; his wife writes tawdry novels that sell like mad, and they live in a mansion in London. Yates is an orphan, but his parents left him their farm, and he doesn’t let on but it’s profitable as hell. I don’t know where Creeton’s money comes from, but there’s lots of it. My own father is in dairy.”

So much is written about the war nowadays, and in proportion so little of it strikes a right and wholesome note—and yet it is so clear. It is nothing but an intimately personal tragedy to every British (and German) soldier concerned in the fighting part of it. —Private A. R. Williams,