Anne Perry_World War One 03 Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Other Books by Anne Perry

  Copyright Page

  To my father,

  Henry Hulme,

  scientific advisor to the admiralty,

  World War II

  . . . beyond that whisper

  Going to look for angels in the gloom.

  —Siegfried Sassoon

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  ONE

  Joseph lay on his face in the ice-filmed mud. Earlier in the night a score of men had gone over the top in a raid on the German trenches. They had taken a couple of prisoners, but been hit by a hail of fire on the way back. They had scrambled over the parapet wounded, bleeding, and without Doughy Ward and Tucky Nunn.

  “Oi think Doughy’s bought it,” Barshey Gee had said miserably, his face hollow-eyed in the brief glare of a star shell. “But Tucky was still aloive.”

  There was no choice. Under a barrage from their own guns, three of them went to look for him. The noise of the heavy mortars was deafening, but when it eased, Joseph could hear the quick, sharper rattle of machine guns. As the flare died, he lifted his head to look again across the craters, the torn wire, and the few shattered tree stumps still left.

  Something moved in the mud. Joseph crawled forward again as quickly as he could. The thin ice cracked under his weight but he could hear nothing over the guns. He must get to Tucky without sliding into any of the huge, water-filled holes. Men had drowned in them before now. He shuddered at the thought. At least they had not been gassed this week, so there were no deadly, choking fumes in the hollows.

  Another flare went up and he lay still, then as it faded he moved forward as rapidly as he could, feeling his way to avoid the remnants of spent shells, the tangles of old wire and rusted weapons, the rotting bodies. As always, he had emergency first aid supplies with him, but he might need more than that. If he could carry Tucky back to the trench, there would be real medics there by now.

  It was dark again. He stood up and, crouching low, ran forward. It was only a few yards to where he had seen the movement. He slithered and almost fell over him.

  “Tucky!”

  “Hello, Chaplain,” Tucky’s voice came out of the darkness, hoarse, ending in a cough.

  “It’s all right, I’ve got you.” Joseph reached forward, grasped the rough khaki, and felt the weight of Tucky’s body. “Where are you hurt?”

  “What are you doing out here?” There was a kind of desperate humor in Tucky’s voice as he tried to mask his pain. Another flare went up, briefly illuminating his snub-nosed face and the bloody wound in his shoulder.

  “Just passing,” Joseph replied, his own voice shaking a little. “Where else are you hit?” He dreaded the answer. If it were only the shoulder, Tucky would have made his way back.

  “Moi leg, Oi think,” came the reply. “Tell you the truth, Oi can’t feel much. So damn cold. Don’t seem they have summers here. ’Member summers at home, Chaplain? Girls all . . .” The rest of what he said was drowned in another roar of gunfire.

  Joseph’s heart sank. He had seen too many die, young men he had known most of their lives, including Tucky’s elder brother Bibby.

  “I’ll get you back,” he said to Tucky. “Once you’re warmer you’ll probably feel it like hell. Come on.” He bent and half lifted Tucky onto his back. Hearing a cry of pain as he inadvertently touched the wound, he apologized.

  “It’s all roight, Chaplain,” Tucky gasped, gagging as the pain dizzied him. “It hurts, but not too much. Oi’ll be better soon.”

  Bent double, staggering under Tucky’s weight, and trying to keep low so as not to make a target, Joseph floundered back toward the line of the trenches. Twice he slipped and fell, apologizing automatically, aware that he was banging and jolting the injured man.

  He saw the parapet ahead of him, not more than a dozen yards away. He was sodden with mud and water up to the waist. His breath froze in the air and he was so cold he could hardly feel his legs.

  “Nearly there,” he told Tucky, although his words were lost in another barrage of shells. One exploded close to him, hurling him forward flat onto the ground. He felt a sickening pain in his left side, and then nothing.

  He opened his eyes with a headache so blinding it all but obliterated his awareness that the whole of his left side hurt. There seemed to be other people around him. He could hear voices. It took him several moments to recognize that he was staring up at the ceiling of the field hospital. He must have been hit. What had happened to Tucky?

  He tried to speak, but he was not sure if he actually made any sound or if the words were only in his head. No one came to him. He seemed to have no strength to move. The pain was appalling. It consumed his whole body, almost taking his breath away. What had happened to him? He had seen men injured, lots of them, their arms and legs blown off, bodies ripped open. He had held them, talked to them as they died, trying simply to be there so they were not alone. Sometimes that was all he could do.

  He could not take up arms—he was a chaplain—but the night before the war had been declared, he had promised himself he would be there with the men, endure with them whatever happened.

  Matthew and Judith, his brother and younger sister, had sat at home with him in St. Giles, watching the darkness gather over the fields, and spoken quietly of the future. Matthew would stay in the Secret Intelligence Service, Judith would go to the front to do what she could, probably to drive ambulances, Joseph would be a chaplain. But he had sworn that never again would he allow himself to care about anything so much that he could be crippled by loss, as he had been by Eleanor’s death, and the baby’s. Naturally his married sister, Hannah, would stay at home. Her husband, Archie, was at sea, and she had three children to care for.

  There was someone leaning over him, a man with fair hair and a tired, serious face. He had blood on his hands and clothes. “Captain Reavley?”

  Joseph tried to answer but all he could manage was a croak.

  “My name’s Cavan,” the man went on. “I’m the surgeon here. You’ve got a badly broken left arm. You caught a pretty big piece of shrapnel by the look of it, and you’ve lost rather a lot of blood from the wound in your leg, but you should be all right. You’ll keep the arm, but I’m afraid it is definitely a Blighty one.”

  Joseph knew what that meant: an injury bad enough to be sent home.

  “Tucky?” The words came at last, in a whisper. “Tucky Nunn?”

  “Bad, but I expect he’ll make it,” Cavan answered. “Probably going home with you. Now we’ve got to do something about this arm. It’s going to hurt, but I’ll do my best, and we’ll repack that wound in your leg.”

  Joseph knew dimly that the doctor had no time to say more. There were too many other men waiting, perhaps injured more seriously than he.

  Cavan was right; the surgery was painful. Afterward, all Joseph did was swim in and out of consciousness. Everything seemed either the scarlet of pain or the infinitely better black of oblivion.

  He was half aware of being lifted and carried, of voices around him, and then a few very clear moments when he saw Judith. She was bending over him, her
face pale and grave, and he realized with surprise how frightened she was. He must look pretty bad. He tried to smile. He had no idea from the tears in her eyes if he succeeded or not. Then he drifted away again.

  He woke up every so often. Sometimes he lay staring at the ceiling, wanting to scream from the pain that coursed through him till he thought he could not bear it, but one did not do that. Other men, with worse injuries, did not. There were nurses around him, footsteps, voices, hands holding him up, making him drink something that made him gag. People spoke to him gently; there was a woman’s voice, encouraging, but too busy for pity.

  He felt helpless, but it was a relief not to be responsible for anyone’s pain except his own.

  He was hot and shivering, the sweat trickling down his body, when they finally put him on the train. The rattle and jolt of it was dreadful, and he wanted to shout at the people who said how lucky he was to have “a Blighty one” that he would rather they left him alone where he was. It must still be March and the weather was erratic. Would the winds make the Channel crossing rough? He was too ill to cope with seasickness as well! He could not even turn over.

  In the event he remembered very little of it, or of the train journey afterward. When he finally woke up to some kind of clarity, he was lying in a clean bed in a hospital ward. The sun shone through the windows, making bright, warm splashes on the wooden floor, and there were bedclothes around him. Clean sheets? He could feel the smoothness against his chin and smell the cotton. He heard a broad Cambridgeshire voice in the distance and found himself smiling. He was in England, and it was spring.

  He kept his eyes open, afraid that if he closed them it would all disappear and he would be back in the mud again. A slight woman, perhaps in her fifties, bent over him and helped him up to drink a cup of tea. It was hot, and made with clean water, not the stale dregs he was used to. The woman was dressed in a starched white uniform. She told him her name was Gwen Neave. He looked at her hands around the cup as she held it to his lips. They were strong and sunburned.

  During the next two or three days and nights she seemed to be there every time he needed her, always understanding what would ease him a little: the bed remade, pillows turned and plumped up, fresh water to drink, a cold cloth on his brow. She changed the dressings on the huge, raw wounds in his arm and leg without any expression on her face except a tightening of her lips when she knew it must be hurting him. She talked about the weather, the lengthening days, the first daffodils flowering bright yellow. She told him once, very briefly, that she had two sons in the navy, but nothing more, no mention of where they were or how she feared for them amid all the losses at sea. He admired her for that.

  It was she who was there at the worst times in the small hours of the morning when he was racked with pain, biting his lips so he did not cry out. He thought of other men’s pain, younger than he, who had barely tasted life and were already robbed of it. He had no strength left to fight; he only wanted to escape to a place where the pain stopped.

  “It will get better,” she promised him, her voice little more than a whisper so as not to disturb the men in the other beds.

  He did not answer. The words meant nothing. Pain, helplessness, and the knowledge of death were the only realities.

  “Do you want to give up?” she asked. He saw the smile in her eyes. “We all do, sometimes,” she went on. “Not many actually do, and you can’t. You’re the chaplain. You chose to pick up the cross, and now and again to help other people carry theirs. If somebody told you it wouldn’t be heavy, they were lying.”

  Nobody had told him, he knew that. Others had survived worse than this. Just hang on.

  It was a long, slow night. Other fears crowded his mind—of helplessness, endless nights when he was awake while the rest of the world slept. He would be dependent, with somebody else always having to look after him, too kind to say he was a burden, but growing to hate him for it. He did not drift into sleep until dawn. The next night was almost as bad.

  “What day is it?” he asked, when finally it was light again.

  “Twelfth of March,” the young nurse replied. “Nineteen sixteen,” she added with a smile. “Just in case you’ve forgotten. You’ve been here five days already.”

  It was the morning after that when the same nurse told him cheerfully that he had a visitor. She whisked away the remnants of his breakfast and tidied him up quite unnecessarily, and a moment later he saw Matthew walking down the ward between the other beds. He looked tired and pale. His thick, fair hair was not quite short enough for the army, and he was wearing a Harris tweed jacket over an ordinary cotton shirt. He stopped by the bed. “You look awful,” he said with a smile. “But better than last time.”

  Joseph blinked. “Last time? Last time I was home I was fine.”

  “Last time I was here you weren’t even conscious,” Matthew replied ruefully. “I was very disappointed. I couldn’t even shout at you for being a fool. It’s the sort of thing Mother would have done.” His voice caught a little. “Tell you she’s so proud of you she’d burst, and then send you to bed with no dinner for frightening the life out of her.”

  He was right. Were Alys Reavley still alive that is just what she would have done, then later send Mrs. Appleton upstairs with pudding on a tray, as if she were sneaking it up and Alys did not know. In one sentence Matthew had summed up everything that home meant, and the impossible loss of their parents, murdered at the end of June two years ago, the same day the Archduke and Duchess were assassinated in Sarajevo. The loss washed over Joseph again in stinging grief, and for a moment his throat ached too fiercely to reply.

  Matthew blinked. “Actually for this she’d have had you down again, for hot pie and cream,” he said a little huskily. He fished in his jacket pocket and brought out something in his hand. It was a small case, of the sort in which good watches are presented. He opened it and held it up. It contained a silver cross on a purple and white ribbon.

  “Military Cross,” he said, as if Joseph might not recognize it. “Kitchener would have given it to you himself—it’s good for morale, especially in hospitals. But he’s pretty occupied at the moment, so he let me bring it.”

  It was the highest award given to officers for consistent acts of courage over a period of time.

  “I’ve got the citation,” Matthew went on; he was smiling now, his eyes bright with pride. He took an envelope out, opened it up, and laid it on the table beside Joseph, then put the cross on top of it, still in its case. “For all the men you rescued and carried back from no-man’s-land.” He gave a tiny shrug. “It mentions Eldon Prentice,” he added quietly. “Actually there’s a posthumous M.C. for Sam Wetherall, too.” His voice dropped even lower. “I’m sorry, Joe.”

  Joseph wanted to answer, but the words would not come. He remembered the death of war correspondent Eldon Prentice as if it had been a month ago, not a year. He could still taste the anger, everyone else’s, not just his own. The night Charlie Gee was wounded, Joseph could have killed Prentice himself. And he had never stopped missing Sam. He had never told Matthew the truth about that. “Thank you,” he said simply. There was no need for elaboration.

  Matthew understood this as well. “I heard Tucky Nunn’s not doing too badly. He’ll be home for a while, but he’ll get better. In the end his wounds weren’t as severe as yours.”

  Joseph nodded. “Doughy Ward got it,” he said quietly. “I’ll have to go and see his family, when I can. They’ll just have the five girls now. It will be a hardship for the old man. There’ll be no one to take over the bakery.”

  “Maybe Mary will,” Matthew suggested. “She was always the equal of her father at the baking, and more imaginative. Susie could keep the books.” He sighed. “I know that’s not what matters. How’s everyone else? The people I know?”

  Joseph smiled ruefully. “Much the same, or trying to be. Whoopy Teversham is still a clown, got a face like India rubber.”

  Matthew rolled his eyes. “Last time I was here
the Nunns and the Tevershams were still not speaking to each other.”

  “Cully Teversham and Snowy Nunn are like brothers in the trenches,” Joseph said with a sudden ache in his throat, remembering them sitting together all night in the bitter cold, telling stories to keep up their courage, the tales getting wilder with each one. Two men half a mile away had frozen to death that night. They found their bodies when they brought the rations up the supply trenches the next morning.

  Matthew said nothing.

  “Thanks for the phonograph records.” Joseph changed the subject abruptly. “Especially the Caruso one. Was it really popular?”

  “Of course it was,” Matthew said indignantly. “That, and Al Jolson singing ‘Where did Robinson Crusoe Go with Friday on Saturday Night?’ ”

  They both laughed, and Joseph told him about other men from the village, but he spoke only of the pranks, the rivalries, the concert parties, and letters from home. He said nothing about the terrible injuries—Plugger Arnold dying of gangrene, or handsome Arthur Butterfield with his wavy hair, drowned in a bomb crater in no-man’s-land. He did not talk about the gas either, or how many men had been caught on the wire and hung there all night, riddled with shot, and no one could get to them.

  Joseph spoke of friendship, the kind of trust where everything is shared. He saw, as he had many times before, the guilt in Matthew’s face, that he, a healthy young man, should be doing a job here at home when almost every other man he knew was either at the front or at sea. Few people realized how important his job was. Without good intelligence, quickly gathered and correctly interpreted, tens of thousands more lives would be lost. There was no glory at the end; in fact, seldom was there any recognition at all.

  Joseph was simply grateful that his brother was safe. He did not lie awake at night, cold and sick with fear for him, or scan each new casualty list with his stomach churning. He knew that Matthew was responsible specifically for information concerning America, and the likelihood of their joining the Allies, as opposed to their present neutrality. He could imagine his duties might involve the decoding and interpretation of letters, telegrams, and other messages. “How’s Hannah?” he asked.