Goodbye to all That by Robert Graves — Read

I WENT on leave in April 1916. That Good Friday was the last occasion on which I ever attended a church service, apart from subsequent weddings, church parades, and so on. I remember the date, because the choir boys wore no surplices, and the psalms were read, not sung. My father wanted me to attend the early morning service, and even tried to bully me into it, but I was owed thirteen months' sleep; and though he came hobbling along to my bedroom door at half past six, banging loudly and saying that my mother counted on my accompanying her, this day of all days, I did not turn out. I pleaded a bad toothache; and it wasn't an excuse. A rear molar had flared up. So they had a grievance at breakfast and, having won the first trick, I knew that I must lost the second and attend the morning service. Not wanting to face a religious argument, I decided to humour my parents; if they believed that God stood squarely behind the British Expeditionary Force, it would be unkind to dissent.

I smelt no rat beyond a slight suspicion that they were anxious to show me off in church wearing my battle-stained officer's uniform. But my toothache got the better of me and arguments arose at the breakfast-table, during which I said things that angered my father and grieved my mother. At last, on her account alone - because she took no active part in the argument just looking sad and only officially siding with my father - I consented to come with them.