In January 1916, the government made it law that single men between the age of eighteen and forty-one had to be conscripted into the war effort. Howard was back in England when the news broke. He’d left France in October 1915, shortly after he had come to understand the full horror and ineptitude that had led to the deaths of fifty thousand Allied men at the Battle of Loos. His brother Michael being one of them. Howard understood there was a need for conscription. The country was haemorrhaging men; youth was being massacred at a diabolical, unimaginable rate. He understood it but could not condone.

‘I’ve seen enough. I just want to go home,’ he told Basil Clarke.

‘You think we will lose?’

‘No.’

‘You think we will win?’

‘No. We’ve all lost already.’

Leaving France did not mean he had left behind the horror; he found it came with him. Everywhere. His nostrils could never be rinsed of the smell of blood, he was sure that mud sat under his nails, and sickness – a deep, deep sickness at humankind – lay in his heart. He did not approach Warrington to ask for work, he was clueless as to what he might write now; an adaptation of Little Women was a ludicrous thought. He struggled to find anyone who wanted to hire him to do anything at all, a healthy man who ought to have been at the front. Eventually he found work washing up at a big hotel in Mayfair. He was prepared to do the night shift and he cleaned the lavatories without complaint; he was paid cash in hand and below the going rate. When he received his papers calling him to arms, he walked to the police station and told them to arrest him.

He would not kill. He could not add to it. Really, he could not.

He swiftly became something of a celebrity conscientious objector, though he didn’t look for it. A dashing playwright who had been to the Front – taken serious risks to get there, gained a level of notoriety whilst doing so – was extremely interesting to the British public. The press pounced on him, persecuted and vilified him, whilst liberal groups held him up as a lone voice of reason.

It seemed most people enjoyed being swept up in the mass. They felt as though they belonged and had purpose in a crowd, in a mob, in an army. It was only the very secure who could suggest that following the masses might not be all there was. Those intelligent enough to understand as much, who recognised Howard’s peculiar and particular strength, were the most afraid, and hatred flowed through their veins. His handsome face was effectively used for and against him.

Why would such a healthy, tall, strong man refuse to fight for his country? Coward!

How could anyone let this model man march to certain death? Madness!