everything.
He saw Joseph, knowing his outline from the angle of his shoulders and the way he stood, unconsciously favoring his right leg. Joseph gave no sign of having recognized him, but then he was not expecting to see Matthew here. He was absorbed in his work, seeming to know exactly where to be, what to say, and when he could help.
Matthew was awed by it. This was the older brother he had known all his life, and yet it was a stranger whose moral courage dwarfed his own. How could any man keep sane in this? There were broken bodies everywhere, ashen-faced, wounds hastily bound, the blood seeping through. He saw one soldier, not yet twenty, with a scarlet stump where his leg should have been.
Finally the rear door slammed shut and the ambulance jerked, stopped, then plunged forward, sending up sprays of mud. At last it picked up speed and disappeared into the rain. Matthew walked over to where Joseph was standing with the last of the walking wounded.
"Good afternoon, Chaplain," he said quietly.
Joseph stood motionless, then slowly turned. He stared with momentary disbelief, then, as Matthew smiled at him, dawning joy.
"Matthew!" He clasped his hand and wrung it so hard, he crushed his fingers.
It was all Matthew could do not to cry out. At home he would have hugged him, but here in the midst of this absurd mixture of chaos and discipline, it seemed the wrong thing to do. "Hello, Joe," he replied instead, grinning back.
"What are you doing here?" Joseph demanded. "The war's not over, surely?" He looked momentarily bewildered. "They're still fighting like hell ahead." He gestured slightly eastward toward the old battlefield of the Ypres Salient, and beyond it Passchendaele, which was on the verge of being retaken. The German border was still miles away.
"Not yet," Matthew answered. "Another three or four weeks at the most. That's not why I came." The excitement was sharp in his voice, and he could not control it.
Joseph looked at him, searching his eyes and finding no grief in them, no holding of darkness he needed to share. "The Peacemaker? You've found him?" His hand tightened again on Matthew's.
"Almost," Matthew answered. "In a day or two we'll know. Get these men back to help of some kind, and I'll tell you."
Joseph was puzzled. "Why have you come instead of writing? He can't be out here!"
"I'll tell you," Matthew replied. "Get your wounded to wherever they need to be." He was still standing in the mud, and the rain was getting harder.
Reluctantly Joseph obeyed, knowing which had the greater urgency. It was gathering dusk before they sat together in Joseph's bunker, shivering over a Dixie can of hot, muddy tea.
"Well?" Joseph demanded.
The rattle of guns was muted, far in the distance forward, but every now and then one of the big howitzers sent over a shell the weight of three grown men, which exploded close to them, shaking the ground and sending up massive gouts of earth.
"A messenger came to see me." Matthew swallowed and tried to conceal his distaste at the oily residue in the tea. At least the warmth of it eased the clenched muscles inside him. "A Swiss priest, or that was how he was dressed. He said the Peacemaker's ally in Germany, Manfred von Schenckendorff, is going to come through the lines at whatever point I would suggest. I said here, of course. He'll give himself up, so we can take him to London to expose the Peacemaker to the government. To Lloyd George personally."
"What?" Joseph stared at him, his face almost comical with disbelief in the yellow light of the lamp. "And you believed him? Matthew..."
Suddenly Matthew's elation vanished. Was he so hungry for justice, before it was too late, that all sense of reality had left him? "Think about it!" he said huskily, feeling the heat burn up his face. "Half of Europe is ruined. America has lost more than three hundred thousand men killed, wounded, or missing, but we've lost over three million! Germany's lost twice as many, and
He saw Joseph, knowing his outline from the angle of his shoulders and the way he stood, unconsciously favoring his right leg. Joseph gave no sign of having recognized him, but then he was not expecting to see Matthew here. He was absorbed in his work, seeming to know exactly where to be, what to say, and when he could help.
Matthew was awed by it. This was the older brother he had known all his life, and yet it was a stranger whose moral courage dwarfed his own. How could any man keep sane in this? There were broken bodies everywhere, ashen-faced, wounds hastily bound, the blood seeping through. He saw one soldier, not yet twenty, with a scarlet stump where his leg should have been.
Finally the rear door slammed shut and the ambulance jerked, stopped, then plunged forward, sending up sprays of mud. At last it picked up speed and disappeared into the rain. Matthew walked over to where Joseph was standing with the last of the walking wounded.
"Good afternoon, Chaplain," he said quietly.
Joseph stood motionless, then slowly turned. He stared with momentary disbelief, then, as Matthew smiled at him, dawning joy.
"Matthew!" He clasped his hand and wrung it so hard, he crushed his fingers.
It was all Matthew could do not to cry out. At home he would have hugged him, but here in the midst of this absurd mixture of chaos and discipline, it seemed the wrong thing to do. "Hello, Joe," he replied instead, grinning back.
"What are you doing here?" Joseph demanded. "The war's not over, surely?" He looked momentarily bewildered. "They're still fighting like hell ahead." He gestured slightly eastward toward the old battlefield of the Ypres Salient, and beyond it Passchendaele, which was on the verge of being retaken. The German border was still miles away.
"Not yet," Matthew answered. "Another three or four weeks at the most. That's not why I came." The excitement was sharp in his voice, and he could not control it.
Joseph looked at him, searching his eyes and finding no grief in them, no holding of darkness he needed to share. "The Peacemaker? You've found him?" His hand tightened again on Matthew's.
"Almost," Matthew answered. "In a day or two we'll know. Get these men back to help of some kind, and I'll tell you."
Joseph was puzzled. "Why have you come instead of writing? He can't be out here!"
"I'll tell you," Matthew replied. "Get your wounded to wherever they need to be." He was still standing in the mud, and the rain was getting harder.
Reluctantly Joseph obeyed, knowing which had the greater urgency. It was gathering dusk before they sat together in Joseph's bunker, shivering over a Dixie can of hot, muddy tea.
"Well?" Joseph demanded.
The rattle of guns was muted, far in the distance forward, but every now and then one of the big howitzers sent over a shell the weight of three grown men, which exploded close to them, shaking the ground and sending up massive gouts of earth.
"A messenger came to see me." Matthew swallowed and tried to conceal his distaste at the oily residue in the tea. At least the warmth of it eased the clenched muscles inside him. "A Swiss priest, or that was how he was dressed. He said the Peacemaker's ally in Germany, Manfred von Schenckendorff, is going to come through the lines at whatever point I would suggest. I said here, of course. He'll give himself up, so we can take him to London to expose the Peacemaker to the government. To Lloyd George personally."
"What?" Joseph stared at him, his face almost comical with disbelief in the yellow light of the lamp. "And you believed him? Matthew..."
Suddenly Matthew's elation vanished. Was he so hungry for justice, before it was too late, that all sense of reality had left him? "Think about it!" he said huskily, feeling the heat burn up his face. "Half of Europe is ruined. America has lost more than three hundred thousand men killed, wounded, or missing, but we've lost over three million! Germany's lost twice as many, and
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