"Of course I'm right, boy," he said gently. "Except I was a bit above myself when I thought I could teach you, or anyone. You can tell people, that's all. Life teaches, or it doesn't. Be damn grateful you got the chance to try a bit harder. Where are you off to now?"
"Back to Ypres," Mason replied without hesitation. "I have things to do there, before the end. Would you like another cider?"
Oldroyd pushed his glass across. "Seems like a good idea. Don't mind if I do."
Matthew Reavley crossed the English Channel on the night of October 13. He had told Shearing only that he was pursuing information about a British collaborator with the Germans, which was part of his job anyway. It would be time enough to speak of the Peacemaker if Schenckendorff really did provide proof of his identity.
The weather was overcast with a sharp wind and a choppy sea, but the physical discomfort was small compared with the constant danger of torpedo attack. Even at this late stage when surrender was only weeks away, the war at sea continued. Ships still went down. He stood on the deck staring toward the dark coast of Belgium ahead and willed himself not to think of it.
They disembarked at Dunkirk near dawn. He waited in a cold railway station until the first train eastward to Ypres. It stopped several miles short, where bombing had destroyed the tracks. He was tired and cold and very hungry, but rations were short and he was grateful for a tin mug of hot tea given him by an army cook at the railhead.
He was in uniform but had removed his insignia of the rank of lieutenant colonel, a recent promotion, and substituted that of major. It was less conspicuous. They had learned in the past that the Peacemaker had allies in the least expected places. Any rank was sufficient to ask for a lift toward the lines. "Intelligence service," he said with a smile, to explain his absence of kit or weapons. "Trying to run down a traitor."
"Before it's too late, eh?" the young driver said with understanding. "Know where you want to be, sir? If I can help, I'll be happy to. Nothing filthier than a man who turns against his own."
"Gathering information—the man I need to see will be just behind the front lines." Matthew cranked the engine for him, then climbed into the front seat. They pulled away onto the early-morning road, crowded mostly with wounded coming back toward the hospitals.
"Looking for anyone in particular?" The driver swerved expertly to avoid a loose dog running after small groups of wounded men on foot.
"I'll start with the chaplain of the Cambridgeshires." There was no point in being secretive about seeing Joseph. He would have to ask people for directions in order to find his brother. Evasion had become a habit with him. He didn't like it—he found he was often evasive even when there was no need.
"Oh, Captain Reavley? You said your name was Reavley. He related to you, then?"
"My brother." He was proud to say that, especially here, so close to the fighting.
The young man nodded and concentrated on the road ahead. It was muddy and potholed at best, at worst gouged out by mortar fire and littered with debris. In the ditch there were broken wheels and shafts from wagons, old boxes half decayed, and sometimes even the carcasses of animals, mostly horses. That was something that sickened Matthew more than he had expected it to. They looked so vulnerable, having loyally gone to the slaughter to service men's rage and futility.
He could smell the front line long before they reached it. It was like nothing else he had ever known, thick and cloying. He gagged at the mixture of raw sewage and the sweet, stale odor of rotting flesh.
The driver glanced at him, then ahead again. "You'll get used to it," he said cheerfully. "I expect you'll be sick the first few times you step on a corpse thrust up by the mud, especially ifit's been there for a year or two and you realize it's one of our own. But you'll get on with it." He sniffed. "And if they're
"Back to Ypres," Mason replied without hesitation. "I have things to do there, before the end. Would you like another cider?"
Oldroyd pushed his glass across. "Seems like a good idea. Don't mind if I do."
Matthew Reavley crossed the English Channel on the night of October 13. He had told Shearing only that he was pursuing information about a British collaborator with the Germans, which was part of his job anyway. It would be time enough to speak of the Peacemaker if Schenckendorff really did provide proof of his identity.
The weather was overcast with a sharp wind and a choppy sea, but the physical discomfort was small compared with the constant danger of torpedo attack. Even at this late stage when surrender was only weeks away, the war at sea continued. Ships still went down. He stood on the deck staring toward the dark coast of Belgium ahead and willed himself not to think of it.
They disembarked at Dunkirk near dawn. He waited in a cold railway station until the first train eastward to Ypres. It stopped several miles short, where bombing had destroyed the tracks. He was tired and cold and very hungry, but rations were short and he was grateful for a tin mug of hot tea given him by an army cook at the railhead.
He was in uniform but had removed his insignia of the rank of lieutenant colonel, a recent promotion, and substituted that of major. It was less conspicuous. They had learned in the past that the Peacemaker had allies in the least expected places. Any rank was sufficient to ask for a lift toward the lines. "Intelligence service," he said with a smile, to explain his absence of kit or weapons. "Trying to run down a traitor."
"Before it's too late, eh?" the young driver said with understanding. "Know where you want to be, sir? If I can help, I'll be happy to. Nothing filthier than a man who turns against his own."
"Gathering information—the man I need to see will be just behind the front lines." Matthew cranked the engine for him, then climbed into the front seat. They pulled away onto the early-morning road, crowded mostly with wounded coming back toward the hospitals.
"Looking for anyone in particular?" The driver swerved expertly to avoid a loose dog running after small groups of wounded men on foot.
"I'll start with the chaplain of the Cambridgeshires." There was no point in being secretive about seeing Joseph. He would have to ask people for directions in order to find his brother. Evasion had become a habit with him. He didn't like it—he found he was often evasive even when there was no need.
"Oh, Captain Reavley? You said your name was Reavley. He related to you, then?"
"My brother." He was proud to say that, especially here, so close to the fighting.
The young man nodded and concentrated on the road ahead. It was muddy and potholed at best, at worst gouged out by mortar fire and littered with debris. In the ditch there were broken wheels and shafts from wagons, old boxes half decayed, and sometimes even the carcasses of animals, mostly horses. That was something that sickened Matthew more than he had expected it to. They looked so vulnerable, having loyally gone to the slaughter to service men's rage and futility.
He could smell the front line long before they reached it. It was like nothing else he had ever known, thick and cloying. He gagged at the mixture of raw sewage and the sweet, stale odor of rotting flesh.
The driver glanced at him, then ahead again. "You'll get used to it," he said cheerfully. "I expect you'll be sick the first few times you step on a corpse thrust up by the mud, especially ifit's been there for a year or two and you realize it's one of our own. But you'll get on with it." He sniffed. "And if they're
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