Early in January, a curt telegram from the War Office reached Sir Geoffrey, as he stood in the hall, after a day in his coverts, shooting cock-pheasants.
"Lionel Pomfret wounded, degree not stated."
Next morning, Sir Geoffrey hastened to London and to the War Office. No details were forthcoming. The men he saw were kind and sympathetic. Captain Pomfret might be badly wounded, but the odds were against that. The anxious father couldn't find out where his son was, or even where he was likely to be. He engaged rooms at a hotel and spent a wretched afternoon at his club. Twenty-four hours dragged themselves by. He was wondering how much longer he could bear the strain, when the second telegram reached him.
"Arrived Southampton. Destination unknown. Love. Lionel."
The Squire, you may be sure, shared these good tidings with many friends, who congratulated him warmly. Obviously, the wound must be light. Exasperations followed, thick and fast. Sir Geoffrey hurried to the War Office, and thence to the Admiralty, and finally to Waterloo, where, eventually, he had the joy of seeing his son step out of a train, with a much-bandaged head, but apparently fit and in the highest spirits. A bit of shrapnel had knocked him down, inflicting a superficial scalp-wound, which was healing rapidly. Across his overcoat was a perfectly-defined cut made by a bullet which had missed him and killed the man at his side. He shewed his father a scar upon his neck, where another bullet had grazed him. Lionel talked fast and fluently. He had been in innumerable small actions since Mons, and had seen whole regiments cut to bits.
His destination for the moment was a private hospital for officers in Belgrave Square. There his wound was dressed, and Sir Geoffrey talked persuasively to the Sister-in-charge and Surgeon, who, under pressure, allowed their patient to dine with his father quietly at a club.
Sir Geoffrey never forgot that dinner.
War, as soldiers see it, was brought vividly home to him by a young man who talked of indescribable horrors as if they were negligible. Everything was accepted by Lionel as part of the "show." The father listened, thinking of the pin-pricks which, since August, had so irritated his sensitive skin, and felt grievously ashamed of himself. But, in Lionel's place, with Lionel's amazing experience, he, too, was sensible that he would talk coolly. That was part of the tradition of the Service. Tremendous issues must be so faced.
He took his son back to Belgrave Square at half-past nine.
Lionel slept soundly. The Squire lay awake most of the night. Throughout dinner, he had suppressed his feelings. And on the threshold of the nursing-home, the father had found no other words than these: