Shoulder the Sky (11 page)

When Joseph opened his eyes again it was morning. He saw the sky above him, delicate blue with the light pouring through it, still touched with the cool silver of dawn. Then he moved. Every muscle in his body hurt. He felt as if he had been beaten. He was lying on the ground outside the first-aid post. He must have been injured.

Then he remembered the gas.

He rolled over and sat up, his head pounding, his stomach knotted. Someone came to him with a cup of water, but he brushed it aside. Where was Sam? He stared around. The earth was littered with bodies, some bandaged, some splinted, some motionless. He saw Sam's dark head. He looked to be asleep. There was a bandage around his chest, under his tunic.

Now he remembered it all, the choking, the pall of death over everything, the struggle to save, the overwhelming failure. It came back with a taste of despair so intense he sank back to the ground, breathing hard, unable to force strength into his limbs. He was barely aware of it as somebody held the water to his lips. He drank only because it was less trouble than arguing.

He lay there for a while. He must have drifted off into sleep again, because the next thing he was aware of was someone easing him up into a sitting position and offering him food, and hot tea with a stiff lacing of rum.

Sam was sitting cross-legged opposite him, pulling a face of disgust at the taste of the drink in his hands.

"I wonder what else was in the crater they got this out of!" he said sourly. "A dead horse, I should think!" He took a deep breath, coughed, and then finished the rest of it. He grinned across at Joseph. There was nothing to say, no hope or sanity, nothing wise or clever. The only thing that made it endurable was the knowledge that he was not done.

Half an hour later Joseph was still sore, his body aching and skin torn raw where he had scratched it because of the fleas and body lice that afflicted everyone, officers and men alike. There had been no time or opportunity to try to get rid of them.

It was now nearly midday. There was an air of anxiety even more profound than usual and Joseph became aware of it as he saw how many men there were still on the ground. Ambulances pulled up, were loaded, and drove away again, always five men or more in each. There was very little laughter; people were too stunned to joke.

Joseph stood up slowly, realized he could keep his balance, and set off to find the surgeon and see if he needed any help. But what could he say to a dying man, or one in appalling pain? That there was a purpose to all this? What? A God who loved them? Where was He? Deaf? Occupied somewhere else? Or as helpless as Joseph himself in the face of endless, senseless, unbearable pain?

There was nothing to say as he sat beside young, dying men. He repeated the Lord's Prayer, because it was familiar, and it was a way of letting a man already sinking into the blindness of death know that he was there. For some it was the sound of a voice, for others it was touch, a hand on a limb that they could still feel. Some wanted a cigarette. Though Joseph himself did not smoke, he had learned the trick early to carry a packet or two of Woodbines.

The bombardment picked up in the evening and went on all night. It was one of the worst he could remember because there were so many men gone that in places sentries on watch were alone, exhausted, and fighting against falling asleep. Apart from the fact that it was an offence for which a man could be court-martialled and face the firing squad, no one wanted to let down their friends or themselves.

There were no reinforcements yet. The Canadians had suffered the worst along this part of the line, and the French Algerians, further east. Now, far from a shortage of food, there were no men to eat it, and it was rotting.

By dawn there was some respite in the attack, possibly because, with the slackening of the wind, pockets of gas still lingered over the craters and in the lower-lying trenches. As full daylight spread over the vast wasteland, with its shattered trees and grey water, its mud and corpses, Joseph made his way back to his own dugout. He washed in cold, sour water, shaved, and sat down at his makeshift table with pen, ink and paper, and a preliminary list of casualties.

He hated it, but it was part of a chaplain's job to write to the families of the dead and break the news. He tried not to say the same thing each time, as if one man's death were interchangeable with any other. The widow or parents, whoever it was, deserved the effort of individual words. Nothing would make the loss better, but perhaps a little dignity, time showing that someone else cared as well as themselves, would make a difference eventually.

Here in his dugout he had a few possessions from home, things he had chosen because they mattered most to his inner life: the picture of Dante from his study in St. John's, that marvelous tortured face, which had seen its own hell, and bequeathed the vision to the world; a couple of books of verse, Chesterton and Rupert Brooke; a photograph of his family, all of them together three Christmases ago; a coin his friend Harry Beecher had found when they had walked together along the old wall the Romans had built across Northumberland from the Tyne to the Irish Sea, eighteen hundred years ago. They were all memories of happiness, the treasures of life.

In the dugout the air was close and humid. Somewhere in the distance a wind-up gramophone was playing. The cheerful, tinny sound of dance music was at once absurd, and incredibly sane. Maybe somewhere people still danced?

Outside Joseph knew men were digging, shoring up trench walls, carrying in fresh timber and filling sandbags to rebuild the parapets. He could smell food bacon frying as well as smoke, the rot of bodies, latrines, and the faint lingering odour of the gas.

He had many letters to write, but the hardest was going to be to the wife of a captain he had held in his arms while he retched up his lungs and drowned in his own blood. It was one of the worst deaths. There was a horror and an obscenity to it that was not there in a shell blast, if it had been quick.

Of course many other deaths were appalling. He had seen men torn in pieces, their blood gushing on to the ground; or caught in the wire and then riddled with bullets, jerking as the metal tore them apart, then left to hang there, because nobody could get to them. They could be there for hours before death released them at last.

He wrote:

Dear Mrs. Hughes,

I am deeply sorry to have to tell you that your husband, Captain Geraint Hughes, was among the victims of the attack of the night before last. He was a brave soldier and a fine man. Nothing I say can touch your grief, but you can be proud of the sacrifice he made, and the fortitude and good humour with which he conducted himself.

I was with him to the end, and I grieve for the loss of a man who lived and died with honour.

Captain Joseph Reavley, Chaplain

He looked on it and read it again. It still seemed formal. Should it be? Perhaps that was the only way that kept the dignity if there could be any dignity in mud and blood and pain, and coughing your lungs up.

Then he picked up the pen again and added,

We sat in the lamplight together and he spoke to me with great frankness. He had the courage to call my bluff, and ask me what I really believed. I think in trying to answer him honestly, which he deserved, I answered a few of my own questions also. I owe him a gratitude for that, and I shall not forget him.

Joseph Reavley

Before he could think better of it, or feel self-conscious, he folded the letter and put it in one of the envelopes. Perhaps the fact that it was personal would one day make her feel closer to the man she had loved.

That afternoon Joseph went with Sam to perform the duty he hated most of all, worse even than writing to families of the dead. The court martial of Private Edwin Corliss had been unavoidable. Since it was a capital charge, it was presided over by Major Swaby, from another division, with two junior officers, Lieutenants Bennett and Mac Neil neither of whom looked to be over twenty-three. They were all pale-faced, stiff and profoundly unhappy.

They were all behind the lines. Such proceedings were not conducted under fire. One room of a cafe had been temporarily commandeered and it had an oddly comfortable look, as if a waiter might appear with a bottle of wine at any moment.

Swaby came over to where Joseph and Sam were waiting. He spoke to them briefly. "Your man, Major Wetherall?"

"Yes, major," Sam said stiffly, his face pale and tight with anxiety. "He's a good man." He did not add any details of his service. This was not the time. Swaby understood.

"Don't worry," Swaby said calmly. "Straightforward case. We'll hear it and debate for a few minutes, then send the poor devil home. Wouldn't have brought it at all if the sergeant hadn't been pushed into a bit of a corner. Can't be seen to overlook these things."

"No, major." Sam relaxed only a fraction.

Swaby went up to the front and sat down at the table. The proceedings began.

Sergeant Watkins gave evidence, looking acutely unhappy, but he told the truth exactly as he saw it, standing to attention and facing forward.

Every accused man was entitled to ask an officer, usually of his own unit, to defend him, and Corliss had chosen Sam. Now Sam stood to question Watkins. He was courteous, even respectful. He knew enough to take great care neither to embarrass the man, nor seem to be condescending to him. Watkins was a career soldier. He would rather be abused than patronized.

Sam did not argue with the facts, he simply allowed Watkins to tell as little as possible, and choose his own words. It was apparent that if he had been allowed to, he would have let the matter go.

"Then why didn't you, Sergeant Watkins?" Sam said tartly. His face was pale, his eyes glittering with anger, his body stiff. He leaned forward a little and winced, probably as the bandage tightened over the gash on his chest.

"Civilian present, sir!" Watkins said bitterly. "Newspaper man. Couldn't let them write up that we 'ave no discipline. And 'e'd take it 'igher, sir!"

"I see. Thank you."

The surgeon looked so tired Joseph was afraid he was going to pass out before he was finished giving his evidence. Even Major Swaby seemed concerned for him.

"Are you all right, Captain Harrison?" he asked gravely.

"Yes, sir," the surgeon answered, blinking. "I really can't help you. I know Corliss lost two fingers in the accident, and we had to take a third off later, but I have no idea how it happened. Don't have time to think about such things, if it doesn't matter to the treatment. I certainly didn't ask him, and I've no idea if he said anything. People behave differently when they're in shock, and a lot of pain. There was an accident. That's all I know."

The prosecuting officer did his duty reluctantly. He had assembled several of the men from Sam's command who had been present just before the accident, and those who were there immediately after. He may not have wished to question them, but he clearly had been given no choice.

Joseph sat in wretched unhappiness, aware of Corliss's misery and his strong sense of guilt, although whether it was because he had unintentionally injured himself, or because he felt he had let his unit down, it was impossible to tell.

The verdict was given within minutes. Surely they would understand that the case was only brought because of Prentice. They could find Corliss not guilty, say it was an accident, whether it was or not.

It was customary that the most junior officer on the panel should give his opinion on sentence first, so he might not be influenced by his seniors.

Everyone waited.

"Lieutenant Bennett?" Swaby asked.

Bennett looked everywhere but at Corliss or Sam. Joseph had seen him fumbling through the handbook, his fingers trembling.

"Lieutenant Bennett?" Swaby repeated.

"I can't say anything else, sir," Bennett mumbled. "It's a capital charge, sir."

"I know what the charge is, Lieutenant. What is your recommendation for sentence?"

Bennett gulped. "Death, sir."

Corliss was already sitting; he was considered medically unfit to have to stand. His hand was very heavily bandaged and in a sling. Sam gripped hold of him, supporting him upright.

Swaby let out his breath, then gulped. "Lieutenant Mac Neil he asked.

Mac Neil looked as if he might be sick. "I ... I have to agree, sir. I ... I'm not sure that... I mean, is there .. . ?" He tailed off in profound distress.

"Would you prefer to suggest something else, Lieutenant?" Swaby asked.

Mac Neil was clearly floundering. "No, sir," he said hoarsely. "The law .. . the law seems quite clear," he said, his hand on a well-thumbed red book, The Manual of Military Law.

Swaby was ashen. It was not what he had expected, but they had left him no way out. He was too inexperienced in such things himself to know what latitude he had in reversing what his juniors had said, and there was no one to help him. The officers who usually conducted such courts martial previously were either dead or too badly injured to be here.

He gulped again, gagging on his own breath. "M .. . morale must be maintained. Any man who deliberately inflicts a "Blighty one" on himself in order to return home and escape his responsibilities to his country and his fellow soldiers must be made an example of."

The room was breathless.