The Greatest Love

"More tea, Stanley?" Margery looked at her brother questioningly.

"No. Thank you. I need to tell you why I'm here. I came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" The colour drained from Margery's face as she put the teapot down on the table. She glanced from Stanley to her husband, Frank.

"Yes. I joined up. They're sending me to fight in France."

Margery had been expecting something like this. Stanley had always been impetuous and impulsive. She had hoped that the war would be over in weeks as the politicians had said, and by the time Stanley was old enough to enlist, it would be too late for him to go. Only the war was showing no signs of ending. Stanley had had his birthday and he was going. "But we might never..." Margery began, but stopped herself.

"...See me again," Stanley finished the sentence for her. "Margery, I'm not afraid to die for my country, and it's for a good cause. It's for our freedom. If not for people like me who are willing, Hitler would have all of us as his prisoners in no time."

Silence fell, with no-one knowing what to say. Finally, Stanley turned to Frank and said, "You should join up, too, Frank. This country needs all the help it can get. No good being apathetic at a time like this."

Margery sighed. It was only to be expected. She knew only too well how Frank felt about it all. She knew how much Stanley disliked him. There was certain to be an argument.

"No," Frank said, firmly. "There is no way I'll kill a fellow human being, German or not. It's not for me to decide who lives and who dies." He stood up, went to the window and looked out, turning his back to them.

"You're scared!" Stanley taunted. "Not for you? I'll tell you, man, it is for you to make sure your wife and any children you have are safe and that they have a future. And the way to do that is to fight for your country."

"Did you not hear what I said?" Frank turned and faced his brother-in-law. "I will not kill another human being. We must forgive our enemies, not kill them, Stanley."

"What?" Stanley spluttered. "Did I hear you right? Forgive them? After everything they've done? My God, you must be mad. I swear I'll never know what Margery saw in a lily-livered coward like you! You should be doing your duty and helping us stop these devils!"

"My duty," said Frank, calmly, "as a Christian, is to forgive my fellow man as Our Lord Jesus Christ did."

"That's no excuse," Stanley said, his voice rising. "Tom Barrett goes to church and he joined up at the same time as I did. You're just scared."

"Tom Barrett has always had some strange ideas about Christianity," Frank said.

"So have you, mate. If there is a God up there he'd be telling his followers to stop that Evil Adolf Hitler from taking over the world, so don't give me that claptrap. Blimey, my sister deserves a better man than you."

"That's quite enough, Stanley." Margery stepped between them and took her husband's arm. "I've always known how my husband feels about war, and actually, I agree with him. I'm sorry you've never got on. I'm sorry that whenever you meet, you argue. I love you both. The world needs both fighters and peacemakers. I wish you'd at least try to part on good terms."

"I should be going," Stanley said. "Goodbye, Marge. I pray for your sake that the fighters in this world outnumber the cowards." He snatched up his coat and hat, and left.

"You don't think I'm a coward, do you?" Frank said, his eyes fixed on the door Stanley had slammed behind him.

Margery went up to him and put her arms around him. "No," she said. "Sometimes it takes more courage to stand up alone for what you believe in and not follow the crowd."

**

A few days later, Margery went into the little village shop to buy a joint of mutton for a Sunday roast. A small group of village women were in front of her in the queue, speaking in low voices. "My Bill got his call up papers this morning," said Mrs Jackson, a tall, thin woman with frizzy hair which was barely tamed by the headscarf she had severely tied under her chin. She spoke with little emotion - she could have been discussing the fact that her gas bill had arrived.

"My Jack's too old," said the rotund, red-faced Mrs Lacey. "Can't say I'm sorry. That last war nearly did for 'im."

"Hey, Margery," Mrs Jackson greeted the new arrival. "Your Frank been called up yet?"

"No," Margery said.

"Won't be long, I shouldn't think," Mrs Jackson said. "They're calling up everyone under thirty."

Margery felt dizzy. Could they do that? Could they force people to fight and kill, even if they did not want to? What would Frank do if he was ordered to fight?

"You okay, love?" Mrs Lacey was saying to her. Margery focussed on the woman. "You look a bit peaky. Perhaps you should sit down."

"I'm fine," Margery said. "I just need to go home."

Forgetting about the mutton, she ran out of the shop and all the way home. "Frank?" she called as she opened the front door. There was no answer. "Frank?" She called again, mounting the stairs. Frank was lying on their bed, fixedly staring at the ceiling. He was holding a letter in his hand.

"Frank, are you all right? What's wrong?" She sat on the bed beside him. He turned his head to look at her. The look in his eyes terrified her.

"They've called me up," Frank said.

"What are you going to do?" Margery asked, softly.

"I won't go. I won't kill. I've been praying about this since the letter came. I'll face whatever they do to me. I know that's what God wants me to do."

Margery snuggled up to her husband and put her arms round him. "I love you," she said.

**

Margery had not foreseen the reaction of their friends and neighbours to Frank's decision. It had not entered her mind to even consider it. If it had, she would have assumed they would be tolerant and respect his feelings the same way that she did. So it did not occur to her to be ashamed of telling her neighbours when she met them the next day in the shop, that Frank had indeed received his call-up papers, but he was not going to fight. In fact, she felt proud of him for taking a stand.

The reaction she got shocked her to the core.

"He's not what?" Mrs Barrett had gasped. "Well, of all the irresponsible - just fancy!"

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs Jackson had stopped in her tracks. "You mean that man of yours isn't going to fight to defend you? It's disgusting. He should be ashamed of himself!"

Even the vicar's wife, who Margery had looked to for reassurance, for surely, as a good Christian and a long time friend, she would understand, put her slightly bulbous nose up in the air and declared, "We shall have to get that idea out of his head. It's his duty to go!  That's terrible!"

Margery stuffed the bag of potatoes into her shopping basket and slunk out of the shop.

It was not long before everyone in the village knew. When Margery went to the shops and the market, everyone pointedly moved away from her and turned their faces away. Even the shopkeepers did not pass the time of day to her any more. They would serve her, but would not look her in the eye and certainly didn't make cheery comments about the weather like they used to.

It was worse for Frank. They didn't ignore him, but jeered at spat at him, instead. Even in church.

The couple did not stay for a cup of tea after the service as they usually did, but slipped away without even shaking hands with the vicar. They walked home in silence, holding hands.

They didn't speak much over Sunday lunch, either. They didn't need to. They were both completely sure of the other's support.

As Margery washed the dishes, she heard the rattle of the letter box. That's strange, she thought. The postman never calls on a Sunday. Frank came into the kitchen holding an envelope. He opened it. Inside was a folded slip of paper. As he opened the note, a white feather drifted to the ground at his feet. As Frank read the note, his face fell. Margery did not have to read it herself to guess why.

She did what she knew Frank would do for her if the position was reversed. She gently took the note out of his hand, and without reading it, threw it on the fire. "That's where that belongs," she said, as they watched the paper blacken and curl and turn to ash.

It was only the first of many, all anonymous, unsigned and writing disguised. "They call you a coward," Margery said, as she threw the latest missive onto the fire unopened, "but I notice they don't have the guts to identify themselves."

Then the letter came that could not be ignored - the one from the government threatening legal action if Frank did not report for conscription within the week.

"I won't kill," Frank said. "But I can't stay here and be insulted, either. So I shall have to go."

"You're going? But what will you do if they try to force you to kill someone?"

"I shall volunteer for the medical corps," Frank said. "That way I can save lives instead of taking them."

"It's dangerous, Frank." Margery shivered.

"I know - but I have to prove I'm not a coward. That's why I'm going."

He left the next day. "Pray for me, Marge," he said as he held her tight before getting on the train.

Margery went home alone. The house was empty without him, and as she lay in their bed alone in the dark, her fears haunted her. No matter how hard she tried to pray, they would not go away.

By day, Margery was still alone. The neighbours seemed to be assuming that Frank had run away rather than join up and that made them even colder towards her. The poison pen letters didn't stop; people still ignored her, and, without Frank to vent their anger on, some even started spitting at her.

A week after Frank had left, Margery also boarded the train to go and stay with her parents. Her mother and father were sympathetic with Frank's position, but Stanley, who was home on leave, refused to believe he was working for the medical corps and agreed with the villagers - he must have just run away.

At least in the town, nobody outside the family even knew Frank, and as long as Margery didn't say too much, people assumed her husband was away fighting. Stanley went back to the front the morning after she arrived, and so Margery was no longer ostracised when she went to the local shop.

One day, a telegram came. Stanley was missing, believed captured.

**

The dark green ambulance chugged along a narrow, one track country lane in France. The lane was never patrolled - the enemy general in charge of the area had mistakenly assumed that nothing would attempt to get down there. A tank or an armoured vehicle would never make it, for sure. The road was too bumpy for explosives to be carried safely, but an ambulance was not deterred. It was on its way to the front to pick up wounded people and take them to safety.

The driver had no idea where he was, not really. He'd learned his little route, and he knew he was in France, but more than that he didn't know. He wasn't attached to any platoon, but worked independently. He had to - for the soldiers he met despised his tendency to carry enemy soldiers to hospital as well as the Allied ones. But for Frank, there was no option to do anything different. He could see that the German and Italian boys were suffering as much as the British ones.

He wondered, as he drove, how Margery was doing and if she was well. He couldn't help smiling as he pictured her face in his mind. Suddenly, he was jolted back to reality by the sight of a man running out of the forest and into the field by the side of the track. He was limping, and seeing the ambulance, ran onto the road and waved.

Frank did even try to work out whose side the man was on, but slowed and stopped. He got out of the vehicle and beckoned the man over. He was dumbfounded to see that the soldier was none other than Stanley.

Stanley seemed to forget the differences he and Frank had had as he limped up to him. "Thank God," Stanley said. "We need to get out of here, fast. There's a troop of Jerries in those woods. I managed to get away from them, even though one of them shot me in the foot. I hid in some bracken and they all ran past me, but it's only a matter of time before they break out of those woods and kill us both."

"I should see to that foot first."

"But... we're behind enemy lines!"

"Is that so?" Frank said, reaching for a bandage and binding Stanley's foot. "Not the best place to bleed to death. Okay, that should do, let's go."

Frank shoved the ambulance into reverse - there was nowhere to turn around, and slammed his foot to the floor. The engine screamed in protest at having to go so fast in a low gear. As soon as they reached the entrance to a field, Frank executed a rapid three point turn and sped away at speed. The cracks of gunfire could be heard as the Nazis emerged from the forest. "Keep your head down," Frank said.

The passenger side window shattered as a bullet hit it, but thanks to Frank's command, it didn't hit Stanley but lodged in the dashboard instead. The ambulance picked up speed and before long, had lost the foot soldiers.

"I thought you said you'd never kill," Stanley said. "What changed your mind?"

"Did you see me kill anyone? I haven't changed my mind. Instead of putting my life at risk to kill people, I put my life at risk to save lives. Any lives."

"Whatever - I'm glad you were here, or I'd have been toast. Cigarette?"

"No, thank you."

"What do you mean, any lives? Are you saying that if I'd shot one of those Jerries in the foot you'd have picked him up and taken him to hospital, too?"

"Yes. I would."

"Okay. So you're not a coward - but you are crazy," Stanley said.

Just then the engine began to splutter and the ambulance juddered to a halt. "I was afraid of this," Frank said. "Looks like they hit the fuel tank. We're going to have to walk the rest of the way. I'm sorry - but at least we're not behind enemy lines any more."

Frank grabbed a couple of containers and helped Stanley get down. They set off over the fields towards the westering sun. It was slow progress. Stanley's limp grew steadily worse and they had to make frequent rest stops. Eventually, Stanley could go no further. Frank settled his brother in law under a tree and went to fill the containers with water. From the river, he could see some farm buildings - perhaps after a drink and a rest they could make it there.

As he made his way back, Frank saw the soldier in Nazi uniform, creeping behind the bushes towards Stanley. The man had a gun, and had Stanley in his sights.

Frank knew only too well that warning Stanley would do no good - with his injured foot, he wouldn't get far.

Any other man would have had a loaded pistol at his belt and would have silently drawn it and shot the enemy soldier dead. Frank refused to carry a gun - he knew he'd never use it, and it was extra weight to carry. Frank had no time to think, or even pray. He dropped the containers of water and ran back to Stanley. He got there just as the Nazi soldier took aim. Frank threw himself at the enemy soldier just as he fired. The shot went wide, and Frank and the Nazi wrestled on the ground. The soldier was trained in combat; Frank was not, and so it was not long before Frank was lying on the ground and the German had his foot on Frank's chest, pointing the gun at him. The German chuckled as he slowly pulled the trigger. Frank stood no chance.

Stanley stared in horror as the German turned to him. He was sure he was about to die - so much so that his life flashed in front of his eyes. Again, the German slowly pressed on the trigger.

Click. The German muttered something Stanley was sure must be an obscenity and tried again. Click. No more bullets. Nevertheless, Stanley was injured, and as the German took a step towards him, Stanley was sure again he would die. The man probably had a knife as well as a gun.

"Don't move." The voice was unfamiliar and came from somewhere behind Stanley.

The German dropped his useless gun and put up his hands; Stanley turned and saw a British soldier with a rifle aimed at the German.

The farm Frank had seen had been commandeered by the British; a patrolling sentry had heard the shots and come running. Stanley was safe.

**

Margery's mother held the telegram in trembling fingers. They always brought bad news. "I can't open it," she whispered, handing it to Margery.

Margery tore it open. "They... they've found Stanley!" She cried. "He's alive! He's injured, but he's alive and he's coming home!"

"It's a miracle!" Her mother cried. "Did you hear that, Percy?" She took the telegram and ran with it into the back garden where her husband was digging.

Margery was overjoyed to hear about her brother, but was only too aware that she had had no letter from Frank this week, and that worried her. Still, it was possible the mail just hadn't got through. She went back to her desk where a half-written letter to Frank lay on the blotter. She picked up her pen and began to tell him about Stanley.

Stanley arrived a few days later, leaning on a cane, his foot still bandaged. He hugged his mother and father. Margery watched him, thinking how haggard and weary he looked. When he turned to her, the smile he had been holding for his mother faded away. He had a haunted, grief-stricken look in his eyes.

Stanley could see how happy his sister was to see him. That meant they hadn't told her. Perhaps her telegram had gone to her house in the village. He was going to have to tell her. His heart deflated. He didn't know how to begin.

"We'd better go in and sit down. I have some very bad news."

"Yes, Stanley, you should be sitting down," his mother said. "But you don't have to talk about the war. Not if you don't want to."

He sat down heavily in his father's leather armchair. "I have to tell you this," he said.

"Can I get you some tea?" Margery asked.

"No. Thank you. Please, Margery, sit down and listen to me."

Margery saw how pale he had become, and the sudden sharp edge to his voice. Falteringly, he related the story of what had happened. He saw how Margery's face lit up when he came to the part where Frank had picked him up in the ambulance, and how it crumpled when he told her how Frank had died. "He saved my life," Stanley said, holding his sobbing sister in his arms. "He was no coward. A coward would have run away and let the Jerry shoot me, but he didn't. I'm sorry I ever called him a coward. I never got the chance to say I was sorry - or to thank him..."

"He'd forgive you," Margery said, through her tears. "I know he would."

Margery's mother stood up. Her eyes were wet, but there was determination in them. "I'm going to make sure that boy gets the recognition he deserves. I'm going to write to the village paper and tell them this. It'll put those people to shame, I swear it will."

Margery excused herself and went to her room. She didn't really care whether the likes of Mrs. Jackson were put to shame for calling Frank a coward. It didn't matter that Stanley knew the truth, either. None of that would bring him back to her.

She cried for a long time. Her mother's determination to set the record straight was no comfort. She needed comfort. What would Frank do if he were here and she were dead? She knew the answer to that. She got up and picked up her Bible from the bedside table, and sat on the edge of the bed. The leather bound book fell open at a well-thumbed page.

The words were blurred by her tears, but she didn't need to read them, for she knew the verse she had underlined on that page by heart.

"Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends."