Taking a taxi to King’s Cross, the Field Marshal climbed into his compartment feeling as old as God. York station was full of soldiers and, having a long time to wait for the train to Braxby, he went into the station hotel, where he almost bumped into Hedley Ackroyd. ‘Better join me,’ he growled. ‘You on leave?’ ‘A short one, sir. My grandfather’s ill. We’ve been given new single-seater machines and brought back from France to see if we can do anything about the zeppelins.’ ‘What’s that on your chest?’ ‘Croix de guerre, sir. We shot down a German machine which was worrying a Caudron carrying a French general. He was so relieved at his escape, he put me up for it.’ The old man was recovering his spirits slowly. For a man who had spent half his life in odd corners of the world fighting for the Empire, he felt a curious ageing sensation of being safe only in his own small corner of Yorkshire that he had never felt before. It was good to be surrounded by familiar sights and reassuring to see familiar faces like Hedley’s.
