Chapter 21 : The Fatal Meeting

Major Samson rose early on the morning of Saturday, 28 June and was soon on his way, leading his horse the short distance to the base of the bluff upon which the “Woman Castle” was perched. By camping on the northern side of the town, Samson could approach the castle without passing through the inhabited area. He reckoned on the town itself being full of billeted Greek troops. There was always the chance of encountering a sentry, in which case he would have to adopt the eccentric, amateur English archaeologist persona he had employed on so many occasions. Curiously, however, this side of the castle was deserted. He left his horse and clambered up the side of the bluff. Reaching the top, he paused behind the thick stone wall to regain his breath, then worked his way carefully along the northern side of the castle until he reached the central tower. He searched in vain for any sign of occupation in the tower itself; if there were a lookout, he was well hidden. Remaining as close to the wall as possible, and so out of sight of anyone who may be concealed in the tower, the Major soon reached the north-east corner of the castle: in front of him the great plain stretched away to the horizon, backed by the cerulean mountain range which ran down to the sea. To the immediate south lay the town itself.

                Samson reached for his field glasses and scanned the open areas of the town. There were definite signs of activity. He could clearly make out what was obviously an officer directing a body of troops. Somewhere — somewhere near — the German weapons lay secreted; of that he was sure. But what of the trenches mentioned by Achilles, one of which, now collapsed, contained the body of Achilles’ brother? To help him think, Samson drew a rough sketch map of the surrounding area, indicating the direction from whence he assumed the Bulgarian advance would come, and tried to imagine where he would site his defences. A second bluff to the south-east of the town meant that any advance would have to be funnelled through the town itself. Any artillery sited on the twin bluffs would command the plain and, should the Bulgarians break through, could also shell the town itself. But the object was to avoid a breakthrough, and for this the trenches needed to have been constructed out on the plain itself, perhaps a mile from the town, but no more, so that reinforcements could be readily brought up.

                Lionel Samson looked hard again through his field glasses. The plain itself was almost featureless. The only natural landmark he could see was the dried-up bed of an ancient river, which ran from north to south about fifteen hundred yards away. The banks had eroded over the years but still, on the near side, presented the only incline he could spot, forming, as they did, a low ridge which bisected the plain. Well-entrenched troops dug in along the top of that ridge would be able to pour withering fire down upon an enemy attempting to cross the sunken river bed. Samson looked again at the ridge. He was sure now that he could make out a narrow strip of discoloured earth running parallel to the river bank. Stones and occasional bushes and other foliage had been positioned on the forward edge of the line. From his vantage point, high on the hill, Samson knew that it did not look right; however, from ground level, all would appear natural. He had seen this before; this must be, he knew, part of the hidden trench system. It was to be Magersfontein all over again. An involuntary shudder gripped him; his muscles tensed. He lowered his field glasses and gently rubbed his temples.

The cold rain stung his face; ahead, Major Benson, leading the column, barked out directions. The night march through the tumultuous storm had been unsettling even to an experienced soldier and the prospect of being sent aloft, if only in a tethered balloon, filled Samson with silent fear. What if the furious wind caused the wire to snap, propelling him over Magersfontein Kopje and into Boer territory with no way to control his flight? Samson would climb into the wicker basket a reluctant volunteer. Then, as if rehearsed, the first rays of the rising sun coincided with a lessening of the gale. Within minutes the day had dawned calm and optimistic. General Wauchope halted the column. The attack should have taken place an hour previously, in half light; they were late due to the storm. Only the most perfunctory reconnaissance could now be attempted. In the near distance, separated by a shallow river and featureless plain, stood Magersfontein Kopje, glistening and forlorn like the prow of a beached ship.

Despite the lack of any evident activity, Wauchope decided that the high ground of the Kopje must be the site of the Boer encampment. If so, it appeared that the Boers had been caught unawares. The General acknowledged the unspoken query of his aid-de-camp with a single, emphatic, nod. The column advanced to give battle as the balloon was still being made ready. Samson had been busily engaged in checking the rope attachments to the wicker basket (for he had a horror of the basket coming adrift and plunging to earth), when the jangle of the advancing troops, a noise which at first he had perceived unconsciously, caused him to break off and look towards the river. Surely it was not possible? The column was advancing. Samson called out to Benson to delay the forward movement at least until such time as he had got aloft.

‘Nothing to worry about, old man,’ was Benson’s response. ‘The Boer likes the high ground — it makes him feel superior. He must be up on the Kopje — the plain is clear.’ Benson grinned knowingly, turned and ran to the head of his battalion.

                Slowly, lazily, the amorphous object took shape; the balloon filled and became as one with the atmosphere. Gravity finally defeated, glowing pink in the precocious sunlight, it rose above the newly christened Headquarters Hill. And, as it rose, the featureless plain was shown not to be featureless. Along the foot of the ridge to which the column was advancing was revealed an elaborately constructed and concealed defensive earthwork, bristling with Boer troops, glistening with bayonets. Hurriedly, Samson picked up the telephone receiver and turned the handle. A disconnected voice answered.

‘You’ll have a good view of the fight, Captain Samson … ’

                ‘It’s a trap, do you hear, a trap!’ Samson shouted. ‘Earthworks at the base of the ridge … defensive … hidden … for God’s sake, order the recall!’

                The voice betrayed not a hint of anxiety. ‘Can’t be done, old man — too late. The General knows what he’s doing.’

                At that moment a continuous volley of shots rang out all along the defensive line. Everywhere surprised and bewildered men were falling, too stunned to take cover. Then the Boer cannon opened up. General Wauchope was an early casualty, hit almost simultaneously by two rounds which pierced his helmet. As he lay semi-conscious on the ground another bullet struck him, which seemed to awaken some final primordial instinct. With an all-consuming effort he struggled to his knees and, in a voice which remained firm despite his mortal wounds, cried out: ‘Good-bye, men; fight for yourselves. It is man to man now,’ before collapsing once more.

Major Benson, bemused by the sudden turn of events, and pinned down by the fire, momentarily turned his back on the enemy to gaze at the mocking balloon; as he did so a Mauser bullet entered the back of his skull. Helpless, and increasingly vulnerable, Samson slumped back in the basket as the balloon drifted towards the line of trenches. When it reached the limit of its mooring rope, the basket juddered violently, almost pitching Samson out. The rope strained as the balloon sought to travel onwards with the air current. Samson knew how the Boers treated prisoners — the evidence had been plain to see after the Battle of Modder River. But he had foolishly not thought to wear his revolver; if he had, the decision would have been a simple one.

                Captain Samson was still thinking of this when, directly in front of him, a small hole suddenly appeared in the wicker; then another. Momentarily puzzled, only the appearance of a third hole made him realize that he was being fired upon. The Boers had completed the murderous rout below and were now looking for amusement. It did not take long for the silk envelope to be pierced. The small tears grew and joined like drops of water on a window pane to form eventually a huge gash. The lifeless structure dropped, slowly at first, until, silk flapping madly, it plummeted the last fifty feet. Samson was thrown out by the force of the landing and, although conscious of a sharp pain in his legs, pulled himself behind the scant cover of a large anthill, there to await rescue or capture. His ears, which had been filled a few minutes earlier with the sound of the battle, now became attuned to the grisly sound of its aftermath. To his left a whisper struggled to make itself hear. A soldier of the Highland Brigade, both legs shot off at the knees, was muttering calmly to himself: ‘Oh dear, oh dear dear dear, oh dear, oh dear dear … ’ The litany lasted another hour. When, after a further hour, Samson was convinced the firing had ceased altogether, he tried to crawl back towards his own lines; he found movement impossible. Both his ankles were broken.

                Perhaps a hundred yards away, another Highlander, also shielding himself behind an anthill, stood, recited a few lines he had been mulling over —

Why weren’t we told of the trenches?

Why weren’t we told of the wire?

Why were we marched up in column

May Tommy Atkins inquire …

— and, rising, began to march back to base camp. One shot ended his forlorn, defiant gesture. Samson envied the man. The pain in his legs was excruciating; he removed his jacket, used it to shield his head from the rising sun, and waited. Nightfall brought with it both relief from the heat and a slim chance of escape. Dragging himself forward Samson had not gone fifty yards before tumbling headland into a donga. Two privates, trapped by the initial volley, lay mute and motionless, still terror stricken. At once aware that they would only respond to authority, Samson ordered them to carry him back to their own lines immediately. They obeyed mechanically.

The Major could visualize the forthcoming battle: the Bulgarian Army, having negotiated the narrow defile through the mountains, would advance with apparent ease across the plain, perhaps fatally lulled by the apparent lack of opposition. After the first clash at Kilkus the Greeks would hastily retreat, leading the Bulgarians ever onward in to the trap. If he were in charge, he would open up with his artillery from both the bluffs when the Bulgarian troops were perhaps a thousand yards east of the river bed and deliberately aim to overshoot, so that the shells exploded behind the advancing force. As troops under fire, in his experience, always sought cover away from the explosions, the obvious reaction would be for them to charge ahead to the river bed hoping to gain the safety offered by the shallow depression. In doing so, the troops would lose cohesion. If the artillery continued at a sustained rate, the odds were that the soldiers who ran for the dubious protection of the sunken bed would resemble something in the nature of a rabble. At this point the defending troops hidden in the trenches would reveal themselves and pour fire down upon the hapless Bulgarians while the shelling continued, now creeping up towards the Bulgarians. If, by some miracle, they should manage to break through the outer trench system, the Greeks would have an immensely strong defensive position provided by the town itself. If, however, the Bulgarians were routed, the fleeing troops could be harassed by a flying column from the town and pushed back all the way to the mountain defile. That was how it would happen.

                The Major put away his field glasses and notebook and skirted back by the wall of the castle to a small opening he had noticed earlier. This time he could hear voices — German voices. Treading warily, he entered the opening and crouched behind a large block of stone which had fallen from the parapet. From this vantage point he could see the enclosed courtyard. In the far corner a small group of German soldiers were involved in an animated discussion. There was much gesticulating and pointing. Finally, a decision appeared to have been reached and the soldiers, or artillerymen as Samson now realized, returned to their weapons. Samson recognized the weapons as the brand new Krupps model 10.5-centimetre howitzer. A battery of the weapons was hidden beneath a low section of the south-eastern wall. When wheeled back, they would be able to shoot over the wall while remaining hidden from view of anyone on the plain. Samson had heard from Cunliffe-Owen in Constantinople of the potentialities of the howitzer, which the Germans were also trying to sell to the impoverished Turks. He was sure, however, that these were not the missing weapons — they could never have been secreted out of Salonica in the manner described by Fitzmaurice.

                The maximum range of the howitzer was just under ten thousand yards. However, at the distance from which he estimated the guns would open up on the Bulgarians, the shells would be plummeting to earth almost vertically. The energy would be immense; no-one would stand a chance. And when the Bulgarian line did break the howitzers could harass the fleeing troops for a distance of five miles. If this was an example of the weaponry with which Berlin (or, more accurately, the Kaiser) was equipping the Greeks, the missing weapons, Samson thought, must be the new heavy machine gun which was capable, he was reliably informed, of sustained and withering fire without the mechanical problems experienced by earlier models. For once, he felt sorry for the Bulgarians.

                Samson had seen enough at the castle itself, but he still wanted to investigate the trench system. He wondered if the section of trench containing the body had been re-excavated; e felt he owed this much to Achilles. It would, he realized, be impossible to cross the flat ground during daylight; he would have to wait till that night. The Major was aware that the planned Bulgarian move could occur at any moment, and he had no intention of becoming involved in the fighting. But he had come this far and he had to see those trenches. Obstinacy in the face of danger was neither brave nor warranted. It was one of the inconsistencies of his makeup that Samson could be courageous when expediency was called for and cowardly when strength was needed. It would not be the first time that he had experienced difficulty in differentiating between the two options. As for the hidden weapons, he had almost lost interest in them now. If the secret consignment, which Fitzmaurice’s agent had seen leaving Salonica, did consist of the new German machine gun doubtless they would be distributed throughout the trench system and the town itself. What did it now matter where precisely? In a few days, perhaps hours even, they would be used as intended and thousands of men would be dead. Next year, the dividend on shares in the armaments company concerned would be increased as a result of the new Balkan War; and the country parson would accept the dividend of death to add to a meagre stipend, adding perhaps, if he thought of it at all, that God worked in a mysterious way …

                Samson re-emerged from the small opening in the castle wall and, crouching, jogged smartly back to the far corner of the castle. He would return to his camp to consider his options: either to do nothing and wait till nightfall or else to skirt around and enter the town from another direction to learn what he could. The danger of the latter course was self-apparent and Samson did not relish the thought of suffering the ignominious end of a captured spy. He would have to think long and hard before entering the town.

                The Major commenced his descent from the summit of the bluff, half in control and half sliding, for the dry earth gave way easily beneath his feet. Approaching the base, the event which had threatened finally happened: he lost his footing completely and tumbled inelegantly for the last thirty feet. When he finally came to rest, nuzzled by his horse, he was aware of an intense pain in his right ankle. He knew at once it had been badly sprained. After massaging it vigorously, he attempted to stand; it was no good. He could put no weight on that leg. Samson sat, cursing his luck, when he was suddenly aware of the sound of voices, presumably attracted by the commotion he had made. There was nothing for it now; he struggled to his feet by lifting himself up while clinging to the saddle. Supporting himself as much as possible he gingerly placed his weight on his right leg as his left foot searched for the stirrup. The pain was acute and caused him to utter an involuntary cry. At that, the voices were raised; they were closer now. He swung himself into the saddle and spurred the horse on. As he galloped away shots rang out. Small puffs of earth and dust exploded to his right. Either they were poor marksmen, he thought, or else they were firing warning shots. But Samson did not stop: crouched low, hugging the horse’s neck, desperately trying to make for the sparse shelter offered by a small grove off to his left.

                When far enough away he allowed his mount to slow and checked to see if he were being followed. He was alone. The Major made it safely back to his camp and all but fell out of the saddle. The ankle was by now badly swollen. He strapped it as best he could, propped himself up against a tree, and spent a miserable afternoon, half expecting to be set upon by a scouting party from the Castle. His plan to reconnoitre the trench system that night would have to be abandoned till the following day. However, by Sunday morning, there was little improvement; his ankle still throbbed. Another solitary, wasted day was spent at his camp by the end of which he had decided that he would make a concerted attempt that night to scout the trenches before returning to Salonica on Monday.

                Samson wiped his forehead and swigged some water. He sat motionless in the forlorn shade of bleached leaves under a bleached sky. He remembered staring at a similar colourless sky, early in the morning, from the window of the Hotel Berlin in Smyrna. As he watched the sunrise that day, Edith slept peacefully, her arm outstretched to where her lover should have been. Her dream thoughts were of the night before; his waking thoughts were of the day ahead, and the meeting with Arthur Roberts. Samson remained unconvinced by Edith’s protestations that it would all go satisfactorily. Even Arthur would not give up a prize such as Edith readily. Behind him, Edith stirred; before she became fully conscious he silently slipped under the sheet, next to her.

                The return journey from Smyrna to Constantinople without her had been an agony of self-doubt. She must have decided to stay with Arthur; there could be no other explanation. As the steamer battled its way up the Hellespont, Samson wished his journey would come to an end. To have lost something so soon after having gained it was a blow too hard to bear.

Once, during the early evening, he fancied he heard a shot, but it was a solitary occurrence followed by a profound silence. He retrieved some food from the saddle bags, then stared at it idly before putting it back. What he wanted most was to be able to think of nothing. He had intended to leave camp about midnight to give himself enough time to reach the trench system and return under cover of darkness. However, suffering from a lack of sleep over the previous nights, Samson had the greatest difficulty in trying to stay awake on Sunday night. From some time after ten o’clock he began to doze fitfully but was never conscious of being completely asleep. It therefore came as a profound shock to him when he struck a match and checked his watch: it was approaching three o’clock. It would be dawn in ninety minutes.

                He should have saddled up then and there and headed back, west, to the railway line. But it hurt his pride to think that he had missed the chance of fulfilling his own personal mission because he had overslept. Instead, once he had painfully climbed back into the saddle, he rode out to the east, to the line of discoloured earth he had seen from the Castle. When he reckoned he was about five hundred yards distant from the low ridge he dismounted and began half crouching and half walking. With the tight strapping he had re-applied to his ankle he could manage perhaps fifty yards before sinking to his knees again; it was taking much longer than he thought. As he neared his destination he became aware of a strange presence just ahead. He stopped and listened: Greek voices, singing, if he were not mistaken. He had heard such singing before — in Adrianople, just prior to a battle. Then it was the Turks; now the Greeks. It was the men’s way of settling their nerves. The trenches ahead must be manned then, as he was sure they had been unoccupied when he first saw them on Saturday. It must have happened while he was laid up at his camp. So, Ferdinand must have made his move. He crept forward. The singing had stopped now and had been replaced by nervous chatter. He could distinctly hear a conversation and wished his knowledge of Greek was better. If only there had been a German liaison officer in the trench with a telephone to keep his masters informed!

                Samson could not have been more than fifty yards from the rear of the trench now. As well as the sound he could also smell the presence of the troops. There could be no way now of establishing the nature of the weapons except by bluff and he was too handicapped by his ankle to attempt that. No, he had seen enough now. He knelt on one knee, then turned to retrace his steps. As he did so a blinding burst exploded, seemingly above his head. He looked up, shielding his eyes: it was a phosphorus shell. It could mean only one thing. His adrenaline flowed, his mouth tasted bitter. He spun round again to face the trench and, in doing so, collapsed as his ankle gave way. As the shell floated incandescently down to earth it illuminated, in the near distance, the mass ranks of the Bulgarian advance. At any moment the German howitzers on the twin bluffs would change from phosphorus shells to high explosive and the Bulgarians would return fire.

                Samson was transfixed, suppliant as if in prayer. When the phosphorus shell was finally extinguished he could see, all along the Bulgarian line, orange flashes punctuating the remains of the night. For the moment the Greeks in the trenches held their fire. Another illuminating shell burst. He was caught out, unprotected, in the open: either he had to hobble back to putative safety as best he could, all the while exposed, or go forward and take his chance in the trench with the Greeks. Light was already seeping into the sky from the east as the Major made his choice. He scrambled forward, fell into the trench, cried out in pain and hauled himself up as best he could. For a moment there was no reaction from the startled Greek soldiers and Samson wondered what to do next. He raised his hands, balancing unsteadily, and spoke with as much authority as he could muster in the circumstances: ‘I am a British officer. Do not shoot!’ The soldiers in front of him, perhaps convinced that he represented no threat, relaxed slightly, more concerned now about the Bulgarians at their backs. Samson lowered his hands. As he did so a single shot rang out behind him. Samson heard the shot and, for an instant, wondered why it had been fired. He was not conscious of feeling anything but noticed that the right hand pocket of his shirt seemed to bellow out; he now felt a strange, warm sensation. Looking down he saw a spreading stain and realized he had been shot in the back, the bullet exiting from his chest.

                There was no sign of pain registered on his face; just a look of intense curiosity. He fell backwards against the trench wall, unable to take his eyes off the stain. He thought he heard a voice; an English voice. Samson looked up. There was more light now but still he could not make out the owner of the voice. Then it came again, more insistent this time.

                ‘What is your mission, Major?’ it demanded. ‘Tell me quickly or I’ll finish you off.’

                Samson lowered his head away from the sound of the voice and re-examined his chest; the stain was still spreading. The voice came again:

                ‘Major!’ followed by a slap across the face. ‘Your mission!’

                Samson looked up again at a face he recognized, a face … no, it was not possible. He whispered, as if to convince himself, ‘Hoffmann.’

                Captain Alfred Hoffmann grabbed Samson and shook him violently. ‘This is your last chance,’ he hissed.

                Samson could only mutter “Hoffmann” again. The German stood to his full height and pointed his pistol at Samson’s forehead. Still Samson experienced neither pain nor fear; he was drowning in his own blood but felt warm and secure. He could see the barrel of the gun pointed at him; he even fancied he could see the bullet gleaming in the chamber — the bullet which was going to kill him. Samson raised a half smile. Soon it would be over.

                Hoffmann hesitated. ‘I assure you, Major, I do not want it to end this way but unless you tell me what I want to know I will have no alternative.’

                The troops around them had mounted the firing step while this small drama was being enacted. The Bulgarians’ fire was being returned all along the line. Samson could see the new German model 08/13 heavy machine guns being fired relentlessly by the Greeks. His mission was complete. ‘Finished,’ he whispered.

                ‘You give me no choice, Major.’

                Major Lionel Samson closed his eyes.

The letter had eventually reached him in Stamboul, just as Samson was about to depart for Adrianople. For two weeks he had been searching fruitlessly for Edith. Roberts himself had not called at the Embassy — the granting of the permit by the Minister of the Interior was a personal matter between himself and Hakki Pasha, although it would have been usual practice to have informed the diplomatic staff. Evidently, Roberts did not want further official interference, even if helpful and from his own Government. According to the official at the Ministry, the delay in the granting of the permit was over a purely technical matter. Although Samson could not hint at the possibility that Roberts’ deal with the Vali had been uncovered, from the official’s general demeanour he was convinced that this explanation was genuine. The last interview with the Minister was on Wednesday, 9 October 1912 and Roberts left in ample time to catch the steamer to Smyrna that evening. All that the official could recall was that Roberts had been unnaturally irritable, which had made the interview with Hakki awkward, but which was ascribed to his annoyance at having to leave the site and travel to Constantinople.

Fitzmaurice sensed that Samson had been ill at ease throughout the fortnight he had spent in Pera, but put it down to anxiety as to his new posting. The Embassy cable, recalling the Major from Smyrna had been sent late on 8 October, the day Montenegro had declared war on Turkey; since then Bulgaria, Serbia and Greece had all entered the fray. There was bound to be a bloody struggle for Adrianople and, although he enjoyed a certain amount of protection by virtue of his position as the English Consul, it was not unknown … look at what had happened to Blyth the previous year in Busrah. Yet Fitzmaurice also believed that Samson had never been intimidated by the thought of physical danger.

                When the letter arrived from Smyrna, with its small, neat, over-ornate writing, Fitzmaurice immediately recognized it as coming from a woman and, having established that, it did not take much to realize that the Major had had an affair of the heart in Smyrna. For a brief moment Fitzmaurice toyed with the idea of holding on to the letter. It might be better for the Major’s sake, he reasoned, that he should not receive it as he was setting off on a dangerous commission. Fitzmaurice, who had avoided all entanglements in his twenty-five years in the East, knew that in these parts women were a constant source of trouble. However, when, as he was helping to load the carriage to take Samson to the station, the Major specifically inquired if any letter had arrived for him, Fitzmaurice had no choice.

                ‘Oh, yes,’ he had lied, ‘here, I almost forgot.’ And he produced the crumpled envelope from an inside pocket. There was no time for Samson to read it immediately; he would have to wait until he was safely ensconced in his compartment on the train to Adrianople. Once under way he wondered whether to open the letter after all. Did he really want to know the reason? The carriage jolted sharply as the line curved around the shore of the Bosphorus. A ferry kept pace with the train for some seconds before heading off to the Asiatic shore. He held the envelope in his hand, wishing now that Fitzmaurice had withheld it; then he tore the end of the envelope off.

“Hôpital Civil, Smyrna,

10 October 1912

My darling,

                Forgive me — forgive me. I know how I have hurt you, but what could I do? Fate intervened and I could do nothing. I was at the Quay waiting as the steamer sailed up the bay. I was nervous but also excited at the prospect of being honest with Arthur, and for us to fulfil the plans we had talked about. I remember now, as I write, the gulls wheeling and crying in the breeze. I stared, mesmerized by the wave thrown up at the steamer’s bows and how it fanned out and followed after the ship for a little while before giving up and settling back into the sea. The steamer tied up and the passengers disembarked; I waited and waited. My anxiety as to how our meeting would go was replaced by a new worry — why was Arthur not on board? Had something happened in Constantinople? After some time an officer came down the gangway and asked if I were Mrs Arthur Roberts. When I said “yes” he asked my to accompany him on board. I followed him along one companion way and down another, becoming ever more isolated, until it was not possible to go any further away from the main part of the ship. And there was Arthur, in bed, deathly white.

                The officer explained that it was typhoid fever and that they had put him there so as not to alarm the other passengers. When all was quiet he was taken off by stretcher and placed in quarantine in the local hospital. Oh, my darling, can’t you see? It is a judgment for what we have done. If only we could have spoken to Arthur before — but it is too late now. If he dies, you see, it will be my fault. If he lives, how can I tell him? I tried to find you; believe me, I tried. I spent the night by Arthur’s side, but the next day, after they had given him a sleeping draught and he was resting more easily, I went back to the hotel. The clerk said you had returned to Ephesus. And so I also went to Ephesus. But when I arrived Edwards told me you just left for Constantinople. I couldn’t follow you there, my darling. I had to stay with Arthur.

                Forgive me for what I have done. Perhaps, one day, we can be together once more. For the moment, once Arthur has recovered his strength, we are returning to Oxford. If you can, you can write to me there, care of Johnny. I will explain the situation to him; he will understand. There is still talk of Carchemish next year — perhaps then? —

Edith”

The Major read the letter through twice, then tore it neatly into small squares and stood by the open window. The first drops of rain from an approaching storm stained the glass but were not yet sufficient to wash away the accumulated dust. Lionel Samson hesitated for an instant, then scattered the pieces of the letter upon the wind. Caught in the slipstream, they mingled momentarily with the dirty smoke and disappeared from view, falling to earth with the rain. There, bespattered, the now meaningless lines of ink blurred and ran, washing away what remained of the message they contained. Major Samson closed the carriage window, sat down with his head leaning slightly forward, and sobbed quietly.