right, it won't be for much longer anyway. If you're around in no-man's-land, watch for craters. Some of them are pretty deep, and God knows what else is floating in them. Not much gas left now, but it's heavy, sticks to the low bits, so stay higher an' you'll be all right. Don't need to tell you about the barbed wire, you can work that out for yourself."
Matthew studied him in the now-broad daylight. He was a lieutenant, and he looked by his build and the fine texture of his skin to be about eighteen or nineteen. But from the weariness in his eyes and the dry, painful humor of his voice he was an old man, long past his prime.
"Thank you," Matthew replied. "I'll probably just be speaking to people, prisoners coming through the lines. But I'll remember your advice."
"You'll have to find the prisoners before you speak to them," the driver pointed out. "Chaplain's back at the Casualty Clearing Station now and then, but mostly he's forward. I'll take you as far as I can."
Again Matthew thanked him.
They continued on in silence past columns of men walking slowly in the opposite direction. They moved as if half asleep, and their eyes seemed to see nothing. They put one foot before the other, shambling unevenly on the ruined road. Had they been lying down rather than standing, Matthew would have assumed them dead.
Suddenly he saw the human cost not in numbers of millions but individually, each an irretrievable loss. He was no longer aware of the stench, or the far distant noise of guns beyond the flat horizon as the armies moved inexorably forward, closing on the old battlegrounds and then at last moving toward Germany itself.
He had no wish to speak now, nor did he care if the young driver thought it was a squeamish stomach that held him silent. When they reached the field hospital, he thanked the driver, shook his hand, and jumped from the vehicle.
Inside, he asked an orderly if he had any idea where Captain Reavley was. When that man could not help, he went to the next person, and the next. Finally a mild, good-natured American first-aid volunteer called Wil Sloan told him and offered, if he would work his passage by helping carry stretchers, to give him a lift farther forward to the station where Joseph was most likely to be.
"Known the chaplain since the Christmas of ‘14," Wil said with a smile as they started out. "I drive with his sister most of the time. I guess she must be your sister, too, eh?"
Matthew swallowed hard. He could not think of Judith in this mud and rain, working day after day trying to do the impossible, seeing men die all around her. She had never spoken of it in the few times he had seen her at home on leave. Had she worked to forget? Or did she simply believe that he would never understand the reality, and that to allow anyone to believe less was a betrayal of the courage and the pain? If she had thought that, it would only have been the truth.
But then he never spoke of his work, either, because he was not allowed to. It was founded on lies and delusions: who could deceive the more efficiently and commit his own kind of betrayal.
Three times they got stuck in waterlogged craters, and Matthew had to climb out and help dig while Wil struggled with the steering wheel and the reluctant engine to get it started again. He was scratched, bruised, and splattered with mud by the time they finally reached the casualty dressing station where Joseph was. It was only a series of tents with some wooden duckboards to mark the walkways between. Even before locating his brother, however, he needed to fulfill his obligation to Wil and help load the stretchers into the ambulance.
He worked hard, slipping and staggering between the Evacuation tent and the parking area, trying desperately not to drop anyone. The loaded stretchers were not as heavy as he expected. Many of the wounded were only boys, light-boned, with no muscle on them yet. Their faces were hollow with shock. There seemed to be blood on
Matthew studied him in the now-broad daylight. He was a lieutenant, and he looked by his build and the fine texture of his skin to be about eighteen or nineteen. But from the weariness in his eyes and the dry, painful humor of his voice he was an old man, long past his prime.
"Thank you," Matthew replied. "I'll probably just be speaking to people, prisoners coming through the lines. But I'll remember your advice."
"You'll have to find the prisoners before you speak to them," the driver pointed out. "Chaplain's back at the Casualty Clearing Station now and then, but mostly he's forward. I'll take you as far as I can."
Again Matthew thanked him.
They continued on in silence past columns of men walking slowly in the opposite direction. They moved as if half asleep, and their eyes seemed to see nothing. They put one foot before the other, shambling unevenly on the ruined road. Had they been lying down rather than standing, Matthew would have assumed them dead.
Suddenly he saw the human cost not in numbers of millions but individually, each an irretrievable loss. He was no longer aware of the stench, or the far distant noise of guns beyond the flat horizon as the armies moved inexorably forward, closing on the old battlegrounds and then at last moving toward Germany itself.
He had no wish to speak now, nor did he care if the young driver thought it was a squeamish stomach that held him silent. When they reached the field hospital, he thanked the driver, shook his hand, and jumped from the vehicle.
Inside, he asked an orderly if he had any idea where Captain Reavley was. When that man could not help, he went to the next person, and the next. Finally a mild, good-natured American first-aid volunteer called Wil Sloan told him and offered, if he would work his passage by helping carry stretchers, to give him a lift farther forward to the station where Joseph was most likely to be.
"Known the chaplain since the Christmas of ‘14," Wil said with a smile as they started out. "I drive with his sister most of the time. I guess she must be your sister, too, eh?"
Matthew swallowed hard. He could not think of Judith in this mud and rain, working day after day trying to do the impossible, seeing men die all around her. She had never spoken of it in the few times he had seen her at home on leave. Had she worked to forget? Or did she simply believe that he would never understand the reality, and that to allow anyone to believe less was a betrayal of the courage and the pain? If she had thought that, it would only have been the truth.
But then he never spoke of his work, either, because he was not allowed to. It was founded on lies and delusions: who could deceive the more efficiently and commit his own kind of betrayal.
Three times they got stuck in waterlogged craters, and Matthew had to climb out and help dig while Wil struggled with the steering wheel and the reluctant engine to get it started again. He was scratched, bruised, and splattered with mud by the time they finally reached the casualty dressing station where Joseph was. It was only a series of tents with some wooden duckboards to mark the walkways between. Even before locating his brother, however, he needed to fulfill his obligation to Wil and help load the stretchers into the ambulance.
He worked hard, slipping and staggering between the Evacuation tent and the parking area, trying desperately not to drop anyone. The loaded stretchers were not as heavy as he expected. Many of the wounded were only boys, light-boned, with no muscle on them yet. Their faces were hollow with shock. There seemed to be blood on
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