The Fallen (9 page)

“Does the coming of the Seven Princes of Hell not concern everyone?”

The Sister took a breath, a leathery stilted gasp, as if breathing was difficult. “It is unclear. There are forces, uncertainties, things which are still to be revealed. The waters of time are muddied and there is a breeze which
blows over the top of them. But if you mean is there still time to stop them from returning, my answer to you, Cardinal Bishop Adansoni, is yes.”

TWELVE

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The Italian Third Army had been held in the clearing for days, just down from where the mountainside began the slow long climb to the Karst Plateau of the Carso. Pine forests surrounded them for miles in every direction, the scent of the sap rich in the heady air. It was hot, too hot for the soldiers' heavy uniforms, infrequent solace provided only when the sun slipped behind the occasional cloud. The choke of coal smoke was in the air, the endless bark of Sergeants' commands echoing down the mountain towards where valleys ran with the dazzlingly clear cold water of the Soča River.

The trudge of a hundred thousand pairs of boots sounded like a beating snare drum, the maddening noise echoing up and around the steep rocky valleys and sheer cliffs. White limestone shone with vivid light from the mountain, its glare so bright that the soldiers at times squinted to see. Units marched aimlessly in long snaking grey lines up and then back down the surrounding paths and tracks, or put their backs into lugging provisions and supplies to the depots of the camp.

As a break to the monotony of camp life, a new contingent of soldiers had recently arrived and were being processed and broken out into their allotted units. They looked too young and lost among the sea of men who had arrived earlier and already experienced some of what the mountainside and the elements could throw at them.

With them, a group of Priests, black-cassocked, peaked birettas balanced on slick foreheads, had followed at the rear, all five of them flanking a solitary young Private, as if in some way he was special, ordained. As soon as they arrived in the camp, it was clear that they intended to direct this new intake themselves, gesticulating and leading the nervous band of young men towards a particular unit of soldiers who watched the new influx arrive with interest.

The Italian Sergeant Major, standing at the top of the track up which they marched, didn't try to mask his disagreement at the small entourage of Priests seemingly doing his own job for him. He rubbed his hands down the front of his coat, filthy from his work, and looked from the starched collars of the Priests' necks to their road-weary features. He tried to measure the greeting he should give the clergymen and the end opted for, “What's your jurisdiction here then, Fathers?”

The leading Priest scowled and sized the solider up disdainfully.

Immediately the Sergeant knew there was something different about these Priests, all of them sombre, hollow-eyed, cheerless. Worn, as if they had travelled far and hard to reach this place under great difficulties.

“Long way off the beaten path, aren't we?” the Sergeant Major enquired, addressing the leading Priest, and then wondering nervously for a moment if word of his own little foray into the local town with a couple of his men whoring and drinking before the big push east had found its way back to the officer's mess and drawn Priests to investigate.

“Long time on the road as well,” the Priest replied joylessly, his stubble the same jet-black as his eyes, and the Sergeant wondered what calling could had driven the Priests to have agreed to visit this ungodly place.

Hard men. That was the Sergeant's immediate impression of them, men not to be crossed. Men who would stop at nothing to answer their God's goals, no matter what the cost. Equally though, he supposed no harm could come of having Priests uttering prayers behind their backs as they climbed into the heights of the Italian-Slovenian border with the weight of the Austro-Hungarian army against them.

When the Sergeant Major had been first told of the plan, to drive east into the impenetrable heights of the Carso towards Monte San Michele, he had erupted with uncustomary derision, knowing that it would be madness. These northeastern border mountains, which now surrounded the Third Italian Army, were long known to provide Italy with both a shield against invaders and a wall to check their own ambitions of expansion. He knew any assault up them would be carnage.

“This one,” the Priest said, indicating the youngest soldier they flanked. “He is to go with that unit.” The Priest pointed towards a group of soldiers who had risen as one when the new recruits had arrived. He took the Private by the arm and urged him towards his new platoon.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the Sergeant, stepping into the Priest's line of sight. “I'm the one who decides who joins which unit.”

“Not this time,” replied the Priest, producing a piece of paper from the
depths of his robe and pushing it into the Sergeant's hand. The soldier's eyes caught sight of the signature and at once he blanched and nodded.

“Very well” he said, stepping back. “And are you intending to stay?” The Sergeant's tone had changed instantly to one of subservience.

The question seemed to surprise the Priest. “Of course! We intend to ascend the Carso with them! Our prayers, we hope, will be heard and answered for swift victory.”

“Well, all seems to be in order,” muttered the Sergeant, handing back the paperwork, having looked no further than the signature upon it. After all, that was all he needed to make him realise this was not an appointment he should question.

“Good,” nodded the Priest, taking the sheet from him. “I thought it would, with orders from Commander-in-chief Cadorna himself. Make sure the soldier remains with that unit. Do not let him leave it, not under any direction.” The Sergeant nodded. “You will not want Cadorna to know his own orders have not been followed to the letter, will you? Now,” he went on, looking over the massed ranks of infantry spread out across the stunted grass of the scorched mountainside, the endless, unmoving lines resembling bodies laid out in an open air morgue, “Where can we find lodgings? We need nothing extravagant. A little privacy will suffice.”

The Sergeant pointed weakly to an officer's tent on the side of the ridge, standing empty as it had done for the last few days, ever since it had been erected. He supposed that would suit their needs. Few officers had risked coming into the front line from the lower valleys, even though the enemy was still miles away, high up in the crevices and ravines of the Carso, waiting for the Third Army itself to come to them.

“But sir,” the Sergeant Major added quickly, his confidence still dented by the image of his unflinching and ruthless Commander-in-chief's signature, “surely you'll be more comfortable lodging further down the valley, won't you? Your type, begging your pardon, they are all encamped down there,” he said, waving with his arm. “All the officers are posted away from the infantry. Surely you'd be happier among them?” The Sergeant was suddenly sure he no longer wanted the Priest and his fellow chaplains to stay in his camp. A harrowing sense of tragedy reflected in the darks of their eyes, the deep frown lines around their drawn and unyielding features. Malice lingered like a presence about them, as if death was their past and would be their future. He noticed the way the Priest he was addressing wouldn't make eye contact with him, that his gaze constantly strained to the high summits to the east as if they held a great fascination. And the Sergeant was
glad that he hadn't looked into the Priest's eyes. He was sure that, had he done so, he would have seen something that would have haunted him for many years to come

The Priest raised his hand to silence him. “No,” he said. “Where you indicate is fine,” and he walked on, the chaplains falling into line behind him, taking their boxes of paraphernalia and swollen packs of provisions with them for the long march to the summit.

THIRTEEN

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The group of soldiers gathered around the young Private, personally delivered by the Priests, and inspected him as if he were some gift given to the unit.

“What's your name, son?” the Corporal within the group asked at length. He had an open, swarthy face, from which emerald green eyes sparkled.

“Private Gilda. Private Pablo Gilda,” said the young soldier. Next to the weathered appearance of the Corporal, burnt by sun and wind, the young Private looked like a child.

“Delivered to us by God?” said one of the soldiers in the group, mockingly. Pablo looked confused and the Corporal added, “The Priests. A personal entourage?”

“They're Priests from my local church.”

“Are they now?” replied the Corporal, pursing his lips and considering the comment with suspicion. Pablo noticed that the Corporal's eyes kept dropping to look down at his hands, and surreptitiously the young man hid them behind his back. The Corporal clapped suddenly and his face broadened into a smile. “Anyway, Private Gilda, we are forgetting our manners. Welcome! Hope you brought your climbing boots?”

Pablo looked about his person anxiously. By now the Sergeant Major had crossed the ravaged dry limestone ground and joined the circle of soldiers. “Leave him alone, Corporal Abelli,” the Sergeant warned. “You'll do well to ignore this idiot,” he went on to say to Pablo.

“Catholic Priests,” offered Abelli, taking out a large unlit round-bellied pipe and sticking it into the corner of his mouth. “Delivering our recruits now.” He shook his head, and searched in a pocket for a match. “Looks like we're being honoured by the presence of the almighty, Sergeant Major? An army from God?” There was a trace of cynicism in his voice.

“Got to wonder why they suggested this poor sod goes with you, Corporal Abelli,” said the Sergeant, looking Pablo up and down disdainfully.

“They obviously know class when they see it?” another of the soldiers replied, chuckling.

The Sergeant Major ignored the comment and scowled at Pablo. “You sure you're able to carry all that gear up a mountain,” he asked doubtfully, looking at the Private's meagre frame.

Pablo nodded. “I've done my training. Six months.”

One of the soldiers whistled and another laughed.

“Try six weeks in the Carso,” said one of them.

The Sergeant Major told him to shut up. “You're in no position to lecture, Private,” he told the soldier. “You've not even seen any action yet.” He turned back to Pablo. “So, the Priests, they must care about you if they delivered you here personally.”

Pablo shrugged. “I suppose so. They were my Priests, at the church in Udine.”

“Family in Udine, are they?” asked the Sergeant, and Pablo's face darkened and he shook his head, looking at his boots.

“No, I don't have any family,” he answered bluntly.

“Everyone has family,” replied Corporal Abelli.

“Not me,” said Pablo, and there was heat now in his face.

“Well, we're your family now,” said the Sergeant, cooling the situation.

“Poor bloody sod,” said one of the Privates, and laughter followed among his peers.

“Hey!” the Sergeant replied, raising a chubby finger in his direction, “the army cares about all of its soldiers.”

“If they cared about us,” growled a Private from across the path, “they wouldn't have sent us to this godforsaken place in the first place! Less than two months since Italy entered the war and already men are dying by the thousands in these mountains.”

The Sergeant Major rounded on him. “Some soldier you are, Sarem!” This is war, Private! Death is caught up with it. You should know that! It's why you wear your uniform.”