The Climate of Courage. Jon Cleary

wound he didn’t have.

      The youngster suddenly noticed the purple ribbon on Greg’s chest. “That’s all right, sarge. You’re Sergeant Morley, ain’t you? No, go on, you stay there. Me and me cobber’ll be all right. I’ll just get me kit bag. There. Well, best of luck, sarge. Look after yourself.”

      When the two boys had gone Sarah whispered, “That was cheap.”

      “I know,” said Greg, smiling at the woman opposite, who was looking at him with frank admiration. “I feel like being cheap to-day. Cheap and nasty and don’t-give-a-bugger-for-anyone.”

      He knew that yesterday he wouldn’t have thought of taking the seats from the two kids, nor of putting on the cheap act about carrying a wound. But yesterday he had been another man, a friend to everyone: and to-day he was as badly wounded as any man who had ever stopped a bullet. But if he told that to Sarah, it would only look like another cheap bid for sympathy.

      The woman opposite leaned across. “I heard the other young soldier ask if you were Sergeant Morley. You’re the Victoria Cross winner, aren’t you? That’s the ribbon there, isn’t it? I saw your photo in the papers earlier in the week.”

      “Yes,” said Greg, all at once wishing he had taken off his ribbon this morning and carried it in his pocket. He glanced at Sarah, expecting her to look bored, but she smiled at the woman opposite. She moved her arm, linking it in his, and he knew then she was only keeping up appearances. For a moment he was angry, then with a sense of fairness that had once been foreign to him, he realised she was doing it for his sake. He pressed her hand, but there was no answering pressure.