Howard had heard this phrase a number of times over the past couple of years, and he found it ludicrous and patronising. He’d seen the Belgian soldiers. They were brave. Lean, dedicated, fearless, fearful. He couldn’t imagine the paunchy dentist defending any one of them. It seemed ridiculous. Belittling. It showed the arrogance and ignorance of these elderly men who told young men to go to war. To die.

The bloody bodies of Belgian, French and British men flooded into Howard’s head. Limbs loose then lost, bone floating in weeping pus and poison; the agony, the waste; boys walking, left right, left right towards the machine guns. Obedience and lunacy inseparable. Duty and doom indivisible. Outrage soared through his body. He spat out his thoughts. ‘We signed that treaty in 1839.’ Forever ago. ‘I say we, although in fact I never signed it. Nor anyone I’ve ever met. It was some old men, long dead, who did that.’

The assembled men who sat as judge and jury muttered resentfully amongst themselves. ‘But still it means something. Keeping one’s word has to mean something,’ insisted the dentist.

‘Yes, it meant Asquith had no choice. But I do.’ Howard stayed firm and calm. He didn’t raise his voice. He knew there was no point. Sometimes the quieter you were, the easier it was to be heard, and he must have been heard because the crowds in the gallery booed and spat at him.

‘You do not have a choice! We’re all agreed, we’ll fight on to the last man.’

‘Do you include yourself in that, sir?’ He knew he was being inflammatory, but his patience was wearing thin.

‘War is a young man’s game,’ asserted the dentist.

‘It isn’t a game at all.’

‘It’s heroic.’

‘It’s barbaric.’

‘You don’t think our boys are brave?’

‘I do. And damned.’

There was a surge of outrage from everyone in the room. Of course it was uncomfortable, all those people yelling at him. It crossed Howard’s mind that they might be the same people who used to cheer for him from the stalls. It took a good few minutes and repeated calls for calm before the questioning could continue.

‘What time do you get up in the morning?’ This question came from the retired officer who was the obligatory military representative at the tribunal. He was a stocky, soldierly fellow who stood with his legs wide; he had a square block of a head and a weighty jaw. His brief from his superiors was clear: he was to protect the nation by obtaining as many men as possible for the army. He’d never seen actual military service personally and always deeply regretted the fact. He did not understand this deluded and awkward young man who could not see what fun there was to be had from a war.

‘I try for eight.’ Nine, sometimes ten. Getting up had become less compelling since his time on the Front, but even under oath Howard knew that was not something he should confess.