Kipling's Choice by Geert Spillebeen Page A

another.
    Most of the men have not yet been to the front. They are very proud indeed that a general is taking the trouble to speak to even the youngest officers of the whole brigade. John becomes quiet when the commander-in-chief hands out his specific commands.
    "Everyone will strictly adhere to my orders. Think about your training, follow the instructions. Trust your superiors. On Friday and Saturday we'll do one last test: field practice together with an artillery division and the military engineers. Tomorrow we'll march to Wisques. It's close by, to the south of Saint-Omer. Gentlemen, the hour of truth is near!"
    The general speaks in a melodramatic tone, but John is completely taken in.
Is that so?
he wonders.
    "Don't leave anything to chance," the general continues. "The enemy mustn't get a single break. Be especially careful with military documents at the front."
    John feels as though he is floating. He thinks about his sister and the carefree days when they rowed together on the narrow Dudwell River, which winds through their country estate. The water mill way in the back of the lush garden, the perfect hideout for boys like him. His motorcycle. His mother. And Daddo, of course. They would be so proud of him now!
    Lieutenant General Haking's nasal voice brings John back to reality. The commander-in-chief raises a glass with his most important staff officers and ends his speech in a stately manner. "Gentlemen, your country is counting on you. To victory!"
    The crowd applauds politely. Glasses clink together.
    "To the king!" Solemnly, the general sips his champagne.
    "To the king!" the men call out in unison.
    When the speech is over, the junior officers of the First Battalion are hardly impressed by the general's words. Quite the contrary.
    "The general is a real strategist," says someone scornfully. "Unbelievable, isn't it, so much experience."
    "Yes, with little tin soldiers," answers another. "His house is full of them."
    "The general just wants to see his name in the newspapers."
    "In the want ads," a third officer jeers. "Brains wanted. Apply to the Second Guard Brigade!"
    They chuckle and smirk, but on each face is a bitter smile. John can't understand why these sarcastic remarks are being made behind the general's back by officers in the First Battalion, of all people!
They
have had experience at the firing line, haven't they? And it's precisely
those
men who seem to have no interest whatsoever in Haking's words!
    "Captain Alexander, you were wounded at Ypres," John says, completely confused. "How can
they
make fun of..." He can scarcely find words to express his indignation.
    "They've described the general exactly," Alex replies, trying to quiet him. "Look, whoever returns from hell only
half
shot to smithereens considers himself lucky"
    "Hasn't the lieutenant general served at the front line himself?" Rupert asks.
    John looks wordlessly from the one to the other.
    Alex shrugs his shoulders and sighs. "If you survive a battle, the first thing you do is count your fingers and toes.
If
they're still there. Then you count your comrades on those fingers. After each attack. And each time you'll have more fingers left than friends."
    "And in the long run only your fingers remain," a voice calls out bitterly.
    The three turn around in surprise. They see a young captain from the First Guards, a tall, round-shouldered fellow.
    "And all your comrades—gone in a flash. Gone forever." His dull, black-rimmed eyes look right through John. He taps his cap in salute, a small, emotionless gesture. Then he disappears among the other officers.
    "Poor Davis," Alex whispers. "He's lost two brothers. One was just a couple of meters from me. Shrapnel was flying all around. The splintered tree stumps were full of that glowing metal. Davis's youngest brother was bent over, seeking cover. It happened quick as lightning. One moment he was watching me, waiting for a sign to go over the top. I can still see his friendly, confident gaze.