A devoted lost soul

A Devoted Lost Soul

Have you ever been subjected to a pesky, devoted fly? There you are, relaxing and quietly reading. Our friend the fly comes buzzing around you. You gently raise your hand to shoo it away. It disappears, only to reappear minutes later. You go to the kitchen; within seconds, the fly has followed you. Your next port of call is the garden. You still hear the buzzing right before it lands on your arm. You flick it off, and it merrily flies off. If only you could discern its features, I am sure the fly’s face would show contentment—a slight smile. You return to the house with the pest following you. Finally, you realize it poses no danger, and you accept its devotion.

Maybe it is a little unkind, but we had a student like this at my high school. I lived my schooling years with a very close, bonded group of three friends. This student became, through devoted persistence, the fifth member of our group. His name was Harold.

Harold was the intellectual type, with his nose always in a book. He wore large glasses, a little too big for his round face, which made him look owlish and exaggerated his beaky nose. His saving grace was that he took great pleasure in laughing. His laughter started way down in his rather rotund stomach, flowing out of his mouth in peals that made his whole body vibrate with merriment. It was his most endearing feature. In truth, when his laughter exploded, it made the four of us feel the world was not such a bad place.

He should never have been considered a member of our group, but his devotion to me was like that of the fly. It reached the point where we simply accepted him as a constant presence. If I was playing tennis, he sat there watching. When the play was finished, he was there to discuss the match as though he were my trainer. It was the same on the football field or at the swimming baths—when I was diving, a discipline I was particularly good at, he was right there to offer his opinion on my form. He found a way to sit next to me in class. When we had our little gatherings or played a game together, he was always hovering in the background. The day we finally told him he could join our group, I had never seen such an explosion of joy.

In our final spring term before attempting university exams, Harold became the guru of our group. If there were any difficulties, questions, or problems, we always referred to him. He seemed to have the knowledge and wisdom to give sound judgment to our various queries.

About a month before the end of term, I realized I had deeply upset him by organizing a weekend mountaineering expedition for our original group without his presence. It was not that he was furious, but profoundly disappointed. He acted like a deflated balloon: a remarkable, lifeless change from a chubby, smiling teenager. I pushed the dagger in a bit further by telling him he was not in physical condition to go mountaineering.

He replied that climbing the mountain was not important to him—watching and being with me for dinner was what mattered. When we returned from the trip, we found him looking like a whipped dog, his eyelashes half-closed. Poor Harold; he was never truly meant to be in our group.

Two weeks later, he came up to me and asked a favor.

“It is my birthday this coming weekend, and I asked my mother if I could go on a two-day camping trip with a friend. She agreed, but asked me with whom.”

“And what did you say?” I asked.

“You.”

I looked into Harold’s eyes and found expectation and sadness mingled with hope. Our group had been a bit distant with him after the mountaineering episode, and I felt a slight responsibility.

“All right. We leave Friday evening and return Sunday. You supply all the equipment.”

On Friday, at the appointed hour, I turned up at Harold’s home with my bicycle and a rucksack. Harold and his mother were waiting outside. I could see he had suffered an anxiety attack, worrying I would not show up. His mother seemed pleased he had chosen me to accompany him. As we waved goodbye and pedaled away, she warned us that a storm might brew by Saturday night.

The first night’s camp fell on Harold’s birthday evening. Our campsite was in a secluded forest Harold knew, about twenty kilometers from his home. While I went to gather firewood, Harold pitched the tent and laid out our sleeping bags. We celebrated his birthday with a cake and candles his mother had provided. Then we spent the rest of the evening, and part of the night, talking about our friends, school, future ambitions, likes, and dislikes. I could see Harold was immensely happy having me at the center of his universe.

As we slid into our sleeping bags, I turned to him. “Harold, well done. That was a very pleasant evening. You certainly have a talent for organization. Do you realize, when thinking about our future, my father tells me there is a strong possibility of war with Germany? If so, we will both be eligible for call-up. That will undoubtedly influence any future dreams.”

When I turned back to say good night, I saw he was already asleep.

The next morning, we woke late to a cloudy sky. Definite signs indicated that at some point in the day it would rain. We spent most of the day cycling a circular route Harold had devised, planned to take us back to his home for Sunday luncheon with his parents. On the way, we visited two old churches, had a pint and sausages in two separate village pubs, and played a game of darts in one.

Toward evening, we pedaled at a faster pace to find a suitable campsite. Above us, the sky filled with threatening dark clouds, warning of an imminent storm. I urged Harold to pick a secluded spot so we could pitch the tent quickly. Just as we pegged it down, the first raindrops came clattering through the trees. We had only seconds to dive inside and scramble into our waterproof sleeping bags.

The storm struck. It was big, and it was brutal. Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky, and a violent wind rushed through the forest. The tent was lifted off its anchorage like paper in the wind. We lay there, allowing the torrential rain to pour over us. The trees above bent as though a giant of great strength were pushing them down.

Harold, his face streaming with water, turned to me. “George, I am scared. If anything dreadful happens, I just want you to know: the minute I saw you, I fell in love with you. May I kiss you?”

I was completely bewildered by his statement, but had no time to process it before his cool, wet lips pressed against mine in a passionate kiss. It was clear he had been bottling up this ardor for a very long time. His declaration complete, he gave me a light kiss on the cheek, turned his back to me, and fell asleep within minutes.

I lay there looking up at the dark clouds moving across the heavens, a matching storm brewing inside my mind. Harold's declaration was disturbing and entirely unexpected. At this point in my life, adoration and love meant nothing to me. Coming from Harold, it felt both bizarre and quirky. Yet the expression on his face, the kiss, and his words touched a note of tenderness and understanding somewhere deep within me.

It took another half hour for the storm to pass. I lay in a pool of water as the rain and wind swept over me, until sleep finally crawled through my body.

The first thing Harold said to me in the morning was, “Thank you, George.”

“Thank you for what?” I replied in a slightly irritated voice.

“For allowing me to express myself. For allowing me to kiss you. For letting me declare that I have always deeply loved you,” he said slowly, his tone resonant with feeling.

“Harold, I would not use the word allowing—forced acceptance feels more appropriate. Confronted with your declaration of love, I frankly feel very uncomfortable. I am touched by a feeling of tenderness for you, but I ask that in the future, you please keep your emotions to yourself.”

“George, I will. But before I do, I wish to express myself one last time. A profound love is a hard secret to carry. I know my life has been dedicated to trying to look after you. When you need me, I will always be there. I didn’t ask for this to happen; your presence, your soul, and your spirit simply enveloped me, chaining me to you for life. I hope one day you find love as I have experienced it. I am finished. Now, let’s find the tent and go home.”

Harold kept his word, though during the final few days of term he remained constantly in my company.

My father was right: England declared war on Germany. Within a year, all of us had signed up at our local regiment office—the four of us as regular soldiers, and Harold in the Signals Regiment. Basic training was a far cry from our quiet school life, but we survived.

After that, our paths separated for a time. Three of us experienced the horrors of war in France and had to be rescued at Dunkirk. Then came the storming of the Normandy beaches—the big push. Our group was assigned to the same landing craft. I was a lieutenant by then, in charge of the unit. Just before our craft hit the beach, I led a short prayer. Afterward, I gathered my three friends and embraced them. We waved to Harold, who was near the back among his signal buddies.

Once on the beach, I charged forward, exhorting my men to follow. The sand kicked up beneath a hail of bullets. Within minutes, a debilitating pain shot through my left leg, and I fell. I fainted.

They told me afterward that Harold had seen what happened and rushed forward, regardless of commands or his own safety. He took me in his arms, and as he did, caught a bullet to the head. He was buried alongside many others in the British cemetery in Normandy. Out of our group of five, only two of us survived.

We meet every year on the 6th of June.

I did find love eventually—though never, I imagine, with the intensity of Harold’s.

David Nutt July 2026