Page 89 of These Old Lies
“I dislike seeing the reputation of His Majesty’s Government smeared by a police force that can’t figure out how to follow the law.” Ned let a grin spread across his face. “George is going to use this as leverage to go after the budget of the vice section.”
“Always happy to be a hero,” Hugh replied with a mock bow. Ned was happy to see Hugh return to form, hair impeccably combed and his suit pressed.
Apparently, Hugh didn’t feel the same about Ned’s attire.
“You look awful,” he said, looking Ned up and down. “That colour never suited you, and those circles under your eyes aren’t doing you any favours.”
Ned suppressed a sigh. “I’m getting old. I can’t figure out whether I’m Sisyphus rolling stones uphill or Prometheus waiting for my liver to be eaten. I seem to spend all my days questioning whether I’m making anything better at all.”
The political thrust and parry had never been why Ned did his job, but there had been a time where he had found an intellectual thrill in outthinking an opponent. Even a year ago, he would have had some satisfaction at beating the Home Office at their own game, at keeping the government away from using gases, but nothing seemed to replace the bone-deep tiredness he felt.
Hugh reached out and straightened Ned’s tie and jacket. “I’ve often wondered what would happen if the legendary Edmund Pinsent was as ambitious with his own life as he is with solving everyone else’s problems.”
Before Ned could even fathom what that meant, a bell rang, and Hugh motioned to the stream of people entering one of the large wooden doors. “To the firing squad then?”
???
The tribunal had set up camp in what had originally been the committee meeting rooms of the town hall, an overdone rectangular room in thatneoclassical style that had been in vogue in the early thirties. The bright colours of faux marble were in stark contrast to the hushed crowd sitting in rows along the wooden benches.
A line of sombre men ran along one wall of the room, waiting their turn to be brought in front of the panel of four who sat on a raised dais. Charlie was by far the oldest and the least agitated of the applicants. He stood tall, staring straight ahead and listening attentively to the proceedings of the other objectors, face impassive.
The man currently in front of the tribunal was some religious hothead, here to make a scene and a political statement. Ned was reassured by the chair’s composure, remaining in control of the proceedings while also not dismissing the objector’s application out of hand.
He shifted awkwardly on the back bench where he was squished in with Betty, who was wearing her Sunday best as well as a large hat that Ned knew was Charlie’s handiwork.
“Mr Charles Villiers!” the clerk called out.
Charlie moved to stand in front of the panel with the casual indifference that used to drive officers crazy. Ned sent out a prayer that Charlie didn’t feel the need to be too contrary to authority today.
The chair flipped between the papers in front of him. “Your letter to the panel said you served in the Great War, Mr Villiers?”
“Yes, sir. Scottish Regiment of the 1st London Territorial, and then the motor pool of the general staff. Arrived in Flanders in November ’14 and decommissioned in July of ’19.”
That got some raised eyebrows from the audience, but the chair continued with his questions. “I looked up your war record. You were written up for insubordination on a fairly regular basis, with one very serious field punishment for striking an officer in 1917.” Ned’s stomach twisted, Pemberton’s name would be all over that record and field punishment.
“Yes, sir,” Charlie responded. Q as There was a pause while the panel waited for an explanation, but Charlie remained impassive.
“This tribunal is for men with serious objections to combat, Mr Villiers, not troublemakers who can’t follow orders.” Ned pressed his nails into hispalm at the chair’s insinuation.
“My objections are serious, sir.” This time Charlie did expand. “I know what it is to kill. I think a man’s soul can only take so much of death before he loses it entirely.”
“Your file also notes that you were awarded the Military Cross for bravery in rescuing injured fellows, all while under intense enemy fire.” This comment came from a man sitting at the end of the dais, younger than the rest, with a scar across his face. His suit was ill-fitting, like it had been bought for another man. Ned would put money on him being the labour representative.
The chair’s expression remained impassive, and he returned to his sheet. For several awkward moments, there was nothing but the sounds of the audience, whispers, the rustle of clothing, a ticking clock. As if to telegraph to the crowd that he was pondering a difficult question, the chair removed his glasses and leaned back to look up to the ceiling.
“Mr Villiers, not one to give credence to gossip, however, a deeply troubling accusation regarding self-harm to avoid serving is included in your military file. I would be remiss in my duty not to inquire. Therefore, my question is simple. Did you commit an act of self-harm during your previous service?”
Ned’s breath hitched. There was no going back now. Charlie had been adamant he wanted to face the question head-on, with his shoulders held high, and Ned had promised to stand right beside him.
Betty reached over and gripped Ned’s hand.
Charlie began to speak, “On 3rd May 1917, my division was part of an attack on the Scarpe. I was separated from the rest of my section. I advanced through No Man’s Land and came across a German soldier. I shot him in the chest. Saw the look in his eyes as I did it. Blue and so damn scared. If he didn’t deserve to live, I couldn’t see much point in doing so either. I crawled to a shell crater, and slit both my wrists. I wasn’t motivated by a desire to escape the front, but rather I wanted to ensure that I would die there.”
The room was silent. Betty’s hand tightened around Ned’s.
Charlie continued, “I will forever be grateful that I was unsuccessful, thanks to the friends that found me and brought me back to British lines.”
The horrific truth was now a matter of public record. Ned didn’t know how to feel. He just knew he wanted to hold Charlie and run his hands through his curly hair.