by Anne Perry
“Private Corliss, the sapper brought in with his hand crushed, yesterday.”
The light in her vanished. “Oh. It’s pretty bad. I think three of his fingers are gone. He’s not doing so well, Chaplain. He’s very low. I’m glad you’ve come to see him.” She hesitated, as if to say more, but uncertain how to phrase it.
The fear tightened inside Joseph, knotting his stomach. This was exactly what he was supposed to be able to help, the shock, the despair, the inward wounds the surgeons could not reach. “What is it, Mrs. O’Day? I need to know!”
“I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t care,” she answered, meeting his eyes with a fierce honesty. “I don’t understand how any of these boys have the courage to go over the top, knowing what could happen to them, or along the tunnels under the ground. They’re terrified sick, and yet they do it, and they make jokes.” Without warning her eyes filled with tears and she turned half away from him. “Sometimes I hear them saying . . .”
He reached out his hand to touch her arm, then changed his mind. It was too familiar. “What is it you want to tell me, Mrs. O’Day?”
She blinked several times. “There’s a young war correspondent hanging around asking questions. I know they have to. It’s their job, and people at home have a right to know what’s going on. But he’s heard something about self-inflicted wounds, particularly to hands, and he’s pushing it.” The indecision was still in her face, the need to say more, or perhaps it was the will that he should understand without her doing so.
He remembered Sam’s fear, and his own. He had seen men paralyzed with terror, their bodies unable to move, or keep control of their functions. The underground tunnels were more than some men could take; the horror of being buried alive was worse than being shot for cowardice. He did not even know what Prentice was asking, or what he intended to write, and yet he came close to hating him already.
“I’ll find him,” he promised. “War correspondents don’t have any rights to be this far forward. They’re civilians; any officer can order them out, and I will, if he’s being a nuisance.”
She drew in her breath quickly to explain.
“I know,” he assured her. “We don’t know how Corliss lost his fingers, and I’m not certain that we want to.”
She relaxed. It was what she needed. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll take you to him.” She turned and led the way out of the door, along a path of wooden boards and into another hut with cots along either side. Joseph knew from the past that it was immediately next to the operating theater. He saw Corliss on one of the beds, lying on his side, his face turned away. The fair-haired figure of Prentice was easily recognizable in the middle of the floor, by his clean uniform if nothing else. He was talking to a soldier with his arm in a sling. He looked around as they came in and his face lit with anticipation.
“Ah! The chaplain again,” he said eagerly, dismissing the soldier and moving toward Joseph. “Have you learned any more about how the sapper came to lose half his hand?”
“He did not lose half his hand!” Marie O’Day snapped. “And will you please keep your voice down! In fact, you’d better get out of here altogether. This is a hospital ward, not a café for you to stand around in the way, chatting to people.” She was within an inch of his height and she was defending her territory and the men she cared about with a savage admiration and pity.
Prentice recognized that he was beaten, at least for the moment, and retreated.
Joseph gave her a beaming smile, then went over to Corliss’s bed and looked down at him. He was lying with his eyes open, staring blindly into the distance, his face without expression.
It was situations like this that Joseph knew he should have some answer for, words that would ease the pain, take away some of the fear that twisted the gut and turned the bowels to water, something to make sense of the unbearable. Only the divine could serve; there was nothing human big enough to touch it.
But what could he say? Looking at Corliss now, he knew at least that he was aware of being suspected, and that he could not prove his innocence. He had lost his hand, and it might even become infected and he could lose his whole arm. If he was found guilty of causing it himself, he would be blindfolded and shot to death in dishonor. Could anything worse happen to a man?
The words died on his tongue. He simply sat on the bed and put his hand on Corliss’s shoulder. “If you want to talk, I’m here,” he said quietly. “If you don’t, that’s all right.”
For a long time Corliss did not move. When at last he spoke it was hoarsely, as if his throat were dry. “What did Major Wetherall say? It hurts like a knife in my belly to let him down.”
Joseph saw the tears on Corliss’s face. “He sent me to keep the journalist out of your way,” he answered.
“ ’Cos he’s after me,” Corliss said. “He thinks I did it myself, on purpose. I heard him say so.”
“He doesn’t know a thing,” Joseph replied. “I might see if I can take him down a sap, that’ll give him a good idea of what it’s like. If he wants a story, that would be a great one. Make a hero out of him.”
Corliss smiled only slightly, and gulped.
“And Major Wetherall knows what it’s like down there,” Joseph went on.
Corliss blinked.
Joseph allowed the silence to settle.
“Thanks, Chaplain,” Corliss said at last.
Half an hour later Joseph had spoken to each of the other men in the room, then went outside to find Prentice again. He needed to appeal to the man’s better nature. If he understood what the losses had been, how many wounded and dead there were in every battalion, and no reserves to take their places, then he would not attack the morale of the men left who were trying desperately to stay awake day and night, sometimes to watch an entire length of trench from one dogleg to the next. They had been wet most of the winter, and frozen half of it. They lived on stale food, dirty water—and little enough of that. They slept in the open. Every one of them had lost friends they had grown up with, men they knew like brothers.
Many of them did not want to kill Germans. Some had blood-drenched nightmares from which they woke screaming, soaked in sweat, afraid to tell anyone—thoughts that might be seen as disloyalty, cowardice, even treason.
Prentice was talking to Sergeant Watkins. He looked relaxed, standing a little sideways next to a table with splints and bandages on it. His weight was more on one foot than the other, as if he had infinite time to spare. Opposite him was Sergeant Watkins, almost to attention, his jaw tight, his heavy face flushed.
“So morale is pretty low,” Prentice was saying with assurance. “In fact about as low as it can be. I’ve heard that some men don’t even want to fight the Germans. Is that so?”
“No sane man wants to kill another, if ’e don’t ’ave to,” Watkins replied in a low, angry voice. “But if Jerry fires at us, b’lieve me, mister, our boys’ll fire back. You go up the front line some time, instead of ’anging around ’ere, an’ you’ll soon see. What d’yer think all that noise is, thunder? God Almighty moving ’is furniture? It’s guns, boy, enough guns to kill every bloody thing in Flanders. Not that there is much left livin’ around ’ere!”
“And you’re short of ammunition, too, so I hear?” Prentice continued, not put off in the least. “Having to ration the men, even ask them to give back what they haven’t used.”
“None to waste,” Watkins answered, glaring back. “Everybody knows that, just don’t say so. If Jerry don’t know, don’t tell ’im.”
“With the odds so heavy against us, and morale so low, it must be hard to make the men get out there and fight?” Prentice raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes very wide.
“You’re talking rubbish!” Watkins said angrily, his face flushed dark red. “I got better things to do than stand ’ere listening to you rabbiting on. You get out an’ see what it’s really like, an’ leave the sick ’ere to themselves.” He turned half away.
“I thought you might have come t
o find out if the sapper’s wound was self-inflicted,” Prentice said very clearly.
Watkins froze, then turned back very slowly. “You what?”
Prentice repeated what he had said, his eyes challenging, his expression innocent.
Joseph’s throat tightened, his stomach churning. This was exactly what he had come to prevent. He must say something now, before it was too late.
“Mr. Prentice, you know very little about it,” he interrupted. “And military justice is not your affair. Sergeant Watkins is thoroughly familiar with his job. He’s regular army. He doesn’t need you to direct him.”
Prentice turned to Joseph and smiled, a cold, satisfied curve of the lips. “I’m sure he doesn’t,” he agreed. “He’ll do the right thing, for the good of the army as a whole, toward winning the war, whether he enjoys doing it, or it’s personally difficult for him. He mustn’t let like or dislike for a man stand in his way, or anybody else’s civilian beliefs. Nor mine.” He smiled even more widely. “Or yours, Chaplain. He’ll find the truth. But then I imagine as a man of God, you’re for the truth, too.”
Joseph knew he had lost the argument as he felt it slip out of his hands, and he saw it in Watkins’s face.
“What happens to a man who has deliberately injured himself?” Prentice went on. “You owe it to the rest of his unit to deal with it, don’t you? The one thing I’ve noticed out here, even in a few days, is the loyalty, the extraordinary depth of friendship between men, the willingness to share, to risk and even to sacrifice.” There was a note of envy in his voice, he hurried his words with an underlying edge of anger. “They are owed honor, and the loyalty of those who have the power to protect them, and the duty to lead.”
Watkins looked at him in silent misery.
Joseph searched desperately for something to say, but what was there? Marie O’Day knew that Corliss’s wound could have been self-inflicted, even Sam feared it. He had said Corliss was close to losing his nerve.
“It’s a . . .” he started to say, looking for a medical excuse.
Prentice ignored him, keeping his eyes on Watkins. “Matter of military duty to collect the evidence,” he finished the sentence. “Find the truth. There must be someone who saw it. The only reason not to speak to them is that you fear what they will say.” He smiled for an instant, then it disappeared. “I’m sure that isn’t the case . . . is it?”
“ ’Course it isn’t!” Watkins said tightly, his lips drawn into a thin line. “I’ll look into it. If there’s evidence, there’ll be a court-martial. But it’s none o’ your business, mister! You get the hell out of here. Go do your job, an’ leave us to do ours!” He swiveled on his heel and strode out past Joseph, too angry to speak, and perhaps ashamed that he had allowed himself to be trapped.
Joseph had failed. Far from protecting Corliss, he had been instrumental in allowing Prentice to force Watkins into investigating the incident, and Joseph already felt the sick fear that Corliss was guilty. People had different breaking points. A good commander could tell when it was coming. Sam had seen it and tried to protect him. It was himself Corliss had hurt, no one else. He had not left his post, or fallen asleep, or allowed anyone else to take the blame. It was one of those cases where turning a blind eye would possibly have saved him, given him time to recover at least his self-esteem, the control to build something out of what was left. Prentice had no idea what any of the men faced, let alone sappers. Joseph should have found a way to prevent this.
He went back and talked with Marie O’Day. She was furious with Prentice, but she could not help.
They could all hear the bombardment. The heavy artillery seemed to have a very good range tonight. The walls shivered and the lights swayed, casting wavering shadows on the walls. About ten o’clock the first casualties came in: some with broken arms and legs, a man with a deep shrapnel wound in the chest, another with a foot blown off. The surgeons operated in desperate haste. The smell of blood filled the air. Everybody seemed to be splashed and stained with red.
The night stretched on. The noise of the artillery stopped and started, stopped and started. Prentice was somewhere around. Joseph saw him half a dozen times; once he was carrying tea, more often he was helping a wounded man or lifting a stretcher. His clothes were now as creased and bloodstained as anyone else’s, his fair skin pale from fatigue and perhaps horror as well, his voice rasping with emotion.
Then at about four in the morning Wil Sloan came in gray-faced, carrying one end of a stretcher on which Charlie Gee lay. His skin was almost blue, eyes sunken in their sockets, and there was a great scarlet streaming wound in the pit of his belly where his genitals should have been. Wil had tried to pad it with all the bandages he could find, but everything was soaked through.
“Help him!” he cried out, his voice close to a scream. “Help him! Sweet Jesus, do something!”
The surgeon dropped the needle he was stitching with, and an orderly picked it up and carried on. Marie O’Day let out a moan of anguish and lurched forward to help the other bearer ease the stretcher onto the table.
“All right, soldier,” the surgeon said gently. “We’ll look after you. We’ll stop the worst of the pain, and stitch you up.” He barely looked at the young VAD nurse who had come down from the other operating table. “Get water, plenty of pads, instruments,” he told her.
She stepped closer and saw the wound, and in a hideous moment of realization understood it. Her face went paper-white and she staggered backward and crumpled to the floor.
Joseph saw the movement but he was too slow to save her.
Marie O’Day picked the girl up and dragged her to the corner, then went about collecting the things the surgeon had asked for.
Joseph knew Charlie had understood at least some part of the meaning of his blinding pain, and the wrenching panicky horror in other people’s faces. He tried to look at Joseph. His lips moved but he had not the strength to make any sound.
Joseph thought of the girl who wrote to him every day, and felt so sick he was afraid he might faint, just as the nurse had done. But Wil Sloan was standing almost beside him, his eyes bright with tears, gulping to find enough air to sustain him, desperate, pleading without words, praying.
What God would let this happen to a young man? He would be better dead. He will probably die anyway, from shock and loss of blood, or from infection, but couldn’t it have been without knowing what had happened to him?
Joseph put out his hand and grasped Charlie’s, holding on to it, feeling the fingers move a tiny fraction. “Hang on, Charlie,” he said hoarsely. “We’re with you.”
The surgeon was beginning to work already. The anesthetic mask was not there yet. Charlie was still conscious.
The wound was ghastly, still pumping blood, even though the first-aid station had done all they could.
Then Prentice was there, staring. “What’s happened to him?” he asked. “God in heaven! His genitals have gone! There’s nothing left!”
Charlie’s eyes filled with tears and there was a gurgle in his throat. Joseph felt his fingers curl, and then loose again as the surgeon at last put the anesthetic mask mercifully on his face.
Wil turned around and looked at Prentice. His skin was gray, his eyes wild and he gasped and gagged for breath. He teetered for a moment, as if trying to keep his balance, then he lunged forward, swinging his fists, and caught Prentice on the side of the jaw.
Prentice went staggering backward, but Wil followed him, lashing out again and again, left fist, then right, then left. Prentice crashed into the far wall, sending a tray of instruments flying off the small table. He put up his arms to shield his face, but it was useless. Wil was in a red rage and he went on striking him on any part of his body he could reach, head, shoulder, chest, stomach.
The surgeon swore. “For God’s sake, stop him! Somebody get hold of the bloody lunatic!”
Prentice fell over and slid down against the wall, half on top of the girl who had fainted. Wil grabbed his arms and yank
ed him up again, punching at him at the same time. Prentice gave a high-pitched scream as his shoulder dislocated with the twist of his own weight against the grip. Wil hit him again and he crumpled.
The orderly stood frozen. Marie looked around for something to hit Wil with, before he actually killed Prentice.
Joseph stepped forward, forcing the picture of Charlie Gee out of his mind. He stepped behind Wil and put his arms around his neck, throwing his weight backward so Wil was forced to let go of Prentice to save himself. But he struggled, trying to swing around and rid himself of the restraint.
“Stop it!” Joseph said fiercely. “You’ll kill him, you fool! That isn’t going to help anyone.”
Wil jerked against him, almost pulling Joseph off his feet, then recoiled as his neck met the lock of Joseph’s arm.
Prentice was clambering to his feet, his face streaming blood, his uniform torn and his left arm hanging limply, oddly angled at the shoulder. His mouth was a snarl of pain and fury, but he was equally clearly terrified.
Joseph kept his grip on Wil, but he met Prentice’s eyes. “Back off.” He waved. “Or I’ll let him go.”
Prentice was gasping, blood from a broken tooth running down his lip. “I’ll have him court-martialed!” he choked out the words. “He’ll spend the next five years in the glass house!”
“You can’t have him court-martialed,” Joseph replied coldly. “He’s a volunteer. You can sue him in civil court, if you can get an extradition order. He’s an American over here to help us in the war.”
“General Cullingford is my uncle!” Prentice wiped his hand over his mouth and winced with a cry as it jagged his broken tooth. The gesture did nothing to stop the blood. “I’ll see he’s kept here!”
“For what?” Joseph asked, eyes wide. “Nobody here is going to have seen a thing! Are you?” he demanded, glancing sideways at Marie, working beside the surgeon, up to her elbows in blood, and the orderly passing instruments, swabs, needles threaded with fresh silk.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the surgeon said without looking up. “Get that bloody idiot out of here.”
