THE WOMAN WHO WAITS
THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED IN ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING
Meanwhile, what was transpiring at home? What interpretation had been
put upon my absence?
Many weeks later, after my first letter had reached home like a
message from the dead, a post-card was handed to me from my father,
which seemed to echo the sob of a broken heart. It was the first
message to arrive from the England I loved so much, and my home, which
I yearned for.
Letters from every member of my family were hastening towards me; but
all were delayed except the single post-card, which told me only too
plainly of the tragedy at home which was the result of my absence.
The message, written in a shaky hand, ran briefly, thus: "My son, for
four weeks we have mourned you as dead; God bless you!"
In the despair of my heart my blindness and my bonds of captivity
seemed to grow greater. In that simple message I realised the terrible
truth, the full significance of the tragedy which had followed my
fall.
What had been my suffering to theirs? After all I was a soldier, and
mine was a duty. But those who wait at home--what of them?
The letters which followed confirmed my worst fears. I trembled and
cried like a child.
How brave they had all been! How unworthy seemed my life to warrant
the heroic fortitude and silent suffering which these letters
unfolded! What were a few bullets compared with the pluck and silent
self-sacrifice of the women of Britain, who were untrained to bear
such shocks? What physical pain could compare with such anguish as
theirs?
The first intimation reached my home by a letter returned from France,
undelivered, and bearing a slip containing these words, type-written:
"Killed in action September 9."
Three days later a knock at the door, and a telegraph boy handed in a
telegram which read:
"Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H.G. Nobbs ---- London
Regiment, Killed in Action Sep. 9."
and also another telegram:
"The King & Queen deeply regret loss you and the Army have
sustained by the death of Cap. Nobbs, in the service of his
Country. Their Majestys deeply sympathise with you in your
sorrow.
"KEEPER OF THE PRIVY PURSE."
Next morning my name appeared in the official casualty list under the
heading: "Killed in Action."
Letters followed from the front confirming my death, and even
describing the manner of my death.
Such things are unavoidable in modern warfare; and only those who
understand the conditions and the difficulties can appreciate the
possibility of avoiding occasional errors. It is surprising to me that
the errors in reporting casualties are not more frequent, and it
speaks well of the care given by those responsible for this task.
It is extremely difficult, and occasional mistakes are only too apt to
be widely advertised and give a wrong impression. Think of the task of
the hundreds and thousands of casualties; and the errors, terrible
though the suffering entailed may be, are comparatively insignificant.
But I have led the reader away from my story.
They thought me dead. Yes; killed in action. There was no getting away
from it; no need for me to describe the tears and sorrow. Those who
suffer must bear their sorrow in silence--more honour to them.
Obituary notices appeared in the newspapers, and letters and telegrams
of condolence poured in.
My solicitors took possession of my belongings and explained their
contents to my family.
A firm of photographers who generously invite officers to have their
portraits taken free of charge, now offered the plate for a
consideration to the illustrated papers; and even as I write these
lines many months later, my picture is dished up again in this week's
issue of an illustrated magazine as among the dead.
In short, during those few weeks which followed my fall, I became as
dead and completely buried as modern conventions demanded.
It is expensive to die and not be dead, for clothes of mourning cannot
afterwards be hidden under any other disguises; and it is a peculiar
feeling to be called upon to pay for your own funeral expenses.
And when once you are officially dead it is very difficult to come
officially to life again. Months have passed, and I am still waiting
for the official correction to appear.
As I walk through the streets of London my friends stare at me as
though I were a ghost. I feel as though I am a living apology for the
mistake of others.
To the illustrated magazine I have just referred to I wrote assuring
the editor that I had every reason to believe he was wrong in his
contention. He replied, enclosing my photograph, and asking me if I
was sure I was not some other person, as the picture referred to an
officer who was surely dead.
Perhaps even now I am wrong. Yet, I ought to know.