White Feathers

White feathers.

The unutterable shame of being handed a white feather by a woman with an unforgiving face is a feeling quite unique. It is a feeling that Harry knew all too well.

Harry had many white feathers, you see, in fact, he had a collection of them; and every time he came home with a new white feather his mother would scoff at him, telling him to throw it away that very moment.

But he never did.

Rather, Harry kept his white feathers. They were a reminder to him of his own useless cowardice, they were a reminder to him that he wasn’t half the man his brother was.

Patrick was the golden child; he was the top of all his classes at Oxford university, he knew exactly how to behave in every social situation, he was well-mannered, well behaved and most of all, courageous.

Harry remembered well the day Patrick came home with a proud grin on his face, proclaiming that he had enlisted to join the British army.

It’s awful really, to see your mother cry, and Mrs Hampton cried and cried and cried until she could cry no more.

Harry envied his brothers’ bravery. He so desperately wished that he could do as Patrick did; how was it his brother could sign his life away in honour of country, so easily and so quickly, and yet could not?

It wasn’t that Harry had never tried to do what was expected of him, but every time he came close to the enlisting office the same thing would happen; he would break into a sweat, his vision would blur, a terrible sinking feeling would overcome his every limb, he would quicken his pace and walk straight past.

‘Why can’t I be like Pat?’ he would often ask himself. But alas, he was not like Pat and he didn’t need any feathers to know that.  

Of course, he remembered the very first feather he ever received. Everybody does. He was at a charity ball, raising money for the war efforts. As he mingled amongst tall hats and silk dresses, politely discussing the weather and other menial issues, an angry looking woman marched up to him and thrust out her arm. There it sat in her clenched fist, a white innocent tuft of shame. Unsure of its meaning, Harry accepted it.

“Coward,” she spat and suddenly Harry understood.

Of what came after that Harry didn’t remember much, there was some commotion and some yelling, then finally, silence. He was well aware of all the eyes around the room set solely on him, but all he could do was stand and stare. Embarrassed, humiliated, ashamed.

In his palm the single white feather stood out menacingly against the dark of the night.

The next day he went back to the enlisting office, but the same thing happened as every other times before. He broke into a sweat. His vision blurred. He was overcome by a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach. His pace quickened.

He walked straight past.

It was on a particularly warm spring evening that Harry was sat on his bed, the window, slightly ajar, carrying wafts of the sweet smell of camelias from the front garden in with the warm breeze. Pachelbel’s Cannon danced all throughout the house from his sister’s grand piano downstairs; it was evenings such as these that the constant internal uneasiness within Harry was allowed to be replaced with a comfortable sort of feeling.

In fact, Harry was so wrapped up in his own thoughts of content that he paid no attention to the ring of a bike bell and the knock on the front door; that is, until Pachelbel’s Cannon seized mid bar.

‘That’s odd’ Harry thought to himself. For his sister, Julia, a hot headed lass, had always held to the firm principle that an unannounced or uninvited guest was the worst form of nuisance in society, and, as a result, she was sure to never stop what she was doing when such a guest arrived, but rather, made them wait until she was quite finished. And Harry was sure they were not expecting any guests that evening.

Then there was a shriek from downstairs, unmistakably his mothers. Harry jumped to his feet and stared expectantly at his bedroom door. Moments passed, nothing happened. Until soon enough he heard the hurried ‘pitter-patter’ of footsteps coming up the stairs followed by a rapping on his door.

He swung it open to reveal Julia, standing with a downcast face and an outstretched arm. Between her middle and index finger lay a small, folded note.

Harry stared at it for a moment. “Is it about Pat?”

Her silence was answer enough.

Snatching the letter from her hand Harry retreated into the familiarity of his bedroom. He seated himself back on his bed and after a steadying breath, unfolded the letter. It read:

___________________________________________________________________________

Dear Sir or Madam

   I regret to have to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office to the effect that (No.) 5743004      .(Rank) P.E.        (Name) Patrick J. Hampton          (Regiment) army corps           was posted as “missing” on 30th March 1917     .

The report that he is missing does not necessarily mean that he has been killed, as he may be a prisoner of war or may be temporarily separated from his regiment.

   Official reports that men are prisoners of war take some time to reach this country, and if he has been captured by the enemy it is probable that unofficial news will reach you first. In that case I ask that you forward any postcard or letter received at once to this Office, and it will be returned to you as soon as possible.

    Should any further official information be received it will at once be communicated to you.

                                                                                                                          I am

                                                                                                                          Sir or Madam

Your obedient servant

W. Potter

Important,

     Any change in your address should be immediately noted to this Office. 

___________________________________________________________________________

Harry breathed in but felt he couldn't get in quite enough air to dispel the sudden dizziness that had taken over him. He stared at that one word ‘missing’, and repeated it to himself over and over, as if saying it repeatedly would somehow change its meaning.

His brother was missing.

He felt not just useless, not just powerless, he felt pathetic. No matter how long he stared at that one dreaded word he couldn't change the fact that his brother was probably dead.

Probably.

“Missing doesn’t mean dead,” Harry reminded himself. For all he knew, Patrick could still be out there, he could still be alive, he could still be rescued.

Harry stared at his own reflection in the small mirror that hung on his wall, remembering when he and his brother were just boys.

One summer they were playing their own two person variation of capture the flag in the woods that surrounded their summer home; Harry had strayed a too far from familiar territory and very soon found himself quite lost. There was not a tree, nor rock, nor sound that could tell him where he was. And the further and further he roamed, the less he knew where he was.  

He wandered the woods for what seemed like hours. The night grew nearer, the air grew cooler, and Harry grew all the more frightened.

The lad had resigned himself to a night under the trees and exposed to all sorts of hungry creatures, for when you are a child, the woods are filled with all kinds of unspeakable monstrosities. But then, in the distance, there was a voice.

‘Bandits,’ was his first thought.

But then as the voice grew nearer and clearer, little Harry knew he was saved. It was his own big brothers voice, calling his name.

Patrick had not stopped looking until his little brother was found.

Cursing at himself Harry lunged for the small tin box from under his bed and pried off the lid to reveal all his white feathers, he tipped them onto his bed.

One by one he inspected them, placing them carefully back into the box, and with every feather he put down, his conviction in the decision he was going to make became stronger and stronger.

When he at last reached the final feather, Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Patrick was out there; he was sure of it.

With a single movement Harry threw himself off the bed towards the open window and tipped out the entire contents of the box.

He did not stay to watch his white feathers fall and get carried off by the wind. Rather, he marched down the staircase, out the front door and up the lane. As he walked, he could hear his sister commence Pachelbel's canon, and despite the uneasiness growing in the pit of his stomach, Harry couldn’t help but smile, for he knew the next canon he would hear would not be that of Pachelbel’s, but the real burst of gun powder on the Western Front.

He was going to enlist. Not for glory, for honour or for feathers; but for Patrick.

He was going to find his brother.