We Shall Not Sleep (7 page)

"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 Austria-Hungary even more. The estimates we have altogether are beyond thirty-five million. God Almighty, Joe, what man with even a shred of sanity left could ever bear to imagine that happening again?"

Joseph closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the vision.

"The Peacemaker is planning to urge a settlement that will allow Germany to rise and begin it all over again," Matthew went on. "He hasn't forgotten his dream of dominion that would force peace on us all, but at the cost of strangling our spirits until we have no individuality left, only police to keep the law."

"And does this Schenckendorff believe he'll do that?" Joseph asked. "Why now? Why did he not see that years ago, or always?"

Matthew searched his mind and answered reluctantly. "Perhaps it was a dream with some nobility in the beginning. If I had ever seen war, real war like this, I might have done almost anything to prevent it happening again."

"Sold out your countrymen, without asking them if it was what they wanted?" Joseph's voice was quiet, his face bleak. "Or if they understood the price?"

"Nobody understands," Matthew replied. "You can't imagine ... this!" He swung his arm around vaguely to indicate the battlefield beyond the clay walls of the dugout. "It's a human abattoir. I don't know if you believe in heaven anymore, but you must believe in hell!"

Joseph smiled faintly. "I believe in summer nights with the sky pale with stars, and in the poplars at sunset, and in spring the beech woods carpeted with bluebells so dense you can't put your foot down between them. I believe in clean water and a quiet bed, in laughter and gentleness. I believe that some men have the courage and the honor to face anything at all, and die without self-pity or complaint. I believe in the possibility of friendship, the love that never betrays. That's as close to heaven as I can grasp at the moment."

Matthew sighed. "Schenckendorff is coming through the lines here. He knows your name, naturally. You should hear what he has to say. I expect your German is better than mine, colloquial anyway. Mine's a little rusty. Don't get enough practice. And I might need your help with the mechanics of getting to him, and making certain I can get him out of here and back to London." He looked at Joseph gravely. "We're so close to it, it would be easy to forget that the Peacemaker might still think he has a chance to win, and take the chance to kill him—and us."

Joseph winced. "I suppose he could. Why should anyone think themselves safe here?"

Matthew started to laugh, then stopped.

"Nothing we can do except wait." Joseph finished his tea as if it were fit to drink.

Joseph had one of the better dugouts, and he made room for his brother in it. At least it was dry. But he slept badly that night, excited as always to have seen Matthew, wondering if he was sleeping or only pretending to. He was concerned for his welfare in the filth and danger he was unaccustomed to. Joseph lay in the dark of the familiar space, knowing where everything was, the rickety table, the one chair, the shelf with his books and the picture of Dante Alighieri, who had written so brilliantly about a different hell.

Joseph was the eldest of the four siblings. He was quite aware that worrying had become a habit with him, and had increased since his father's death. He was not ready for the responsibility of caring for the other three, foreseeing dangers, comforting loss, finding a reason and an answer for pain. There was no answer, but you did not tell that to people you loved, and who had learned to rely on you. He was the wrong man to have chosen the church as a calling, but there was no way out now.

What if this Schenckendorff was one more trick of the Peacemaker's? Matthew had looked so excited, so hopeful, all because some man had turned up on his doorstep in London and said he was a Swiss priest! Anyone could say that. Heaven help him, Joseph had said exactly that himself when he had been behind the German lines last year. He had been believed, too.

They wanted to find the Peacemaker so desperately, and time was running out. After the war was over, what chance would they have? Still, if he were honest, what chance had they ever had? Maybe their hunger for revenge was the Peacemaker's final act of destruction of the Reavley family?

He drifted into half sleep and confused dreams. Then without any warning it was daylight. Cold and stiff, moving as quietly as he could, he got up, shaved, and began the long routine of paperwork, letters of condolence, and helping the wounded. He tried to comfort, advise, assist with practical things like eating or drinking with bandaged hands, or none at all, dressing with a shattered arm or leg, simple tasks that had suddenly become monumental.

Matthew woke late and excused himself to find something to eat.

There was no word of any German prisoner asking to see either Joseph or Matthew, and there were so many coming through the lines in the general area of Ypres that it was impossible to check all the names. Joseph continued with his usual duties. More often than not he was far forward of the Casualty Clearing Station, beyond even the old trench line, as the armies moved forward. British troops had just taken Messines and were advancing on Menin.

Matthew spent the days restlessly, trying to look as if he were collecting some kind of information that would justify his presence in the junior intelligence work he had told Colonel Hook he was engaged in. He spoke to German prisoners, but there was nothing of use they could tell him, and the pretense would soon wear thin.

It was the middle of the afternoon of the sixteenth when Snowy Nunn came to tell Joseph that Colonel Hook wanted to see him. "Roight now, Chaplain," he added, his fair face puckering up with apprehension. "It's another German prisoner. Oi don't know what anybody done to this one. Officer an' all, by his uniform, and the way he stands. He's got a foot all mangled up, so looks loike someone ran over it or something."

"Right." Joseph's heart sank. Another piece of random brutality, pointless but so very understandable. "I'll be there."

Snowy nodded, his eyes grave. "Whole lot more for the hospital, Oi reckon. Some o' the poor sods are knocked about pretty bad. Look loike hell, they do.
Oi
thought winning weren't much fun after all, an' we waited long enough for it. But Oi reckon losing's got to be a whole lot worse. Roight away, Chaplain, he said."

"I'm going," Joseph said impatiently. He resented Hook sending for him over some breach of discipline. There were going to be lots of instances of loss of self-control. He had known people to nurse loved ones over years to a painful death, never complaining. Then when it was all over and there was some ease at last, they were suddenly overwhelmed, letting slip the courage and the selfless endurance that had governed their lives throughout the sacrifice. He could sense now the same longing for peace and fear of change. They wanted to go home to what they had originally left, what this whole bloody war had been about saving, but it wasn't there anymore. The past never is. The England they had paid for with such a price no longer existed.

He walked quickly through the mud, used to keeping his balance in it, not avoiding the rain because he was already wet and there was no point.

He found Colonel Hook in the command bunker nearly a mile farther east. He looked tired and too thin.

"Ah, Reavley." He looked up from his maps spread out on top of a packing case. "Odd things come up." He looked puzzled rather than angry, and it was unusual that he had addressed Joseph by name rather than rank or calling.

Joseph stood to attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Got a German officer, says he's a colonel, but I think he might be more senior than that, although my German's not good enough to be certain. Know everyday language well enough, but not the differences of education and class. But he's asked
to
speak to you."

"Is he badly injured?" Joseph was surprised. Snowy Nunn had mentioned only a crushed foot.

"Not at all. Painful, no doubt, but he didn't even refer to it," Hook replied. "He didn't ask for a chaplain, he spoke of you by name— Reavley. Seemed to expect you to be here." The demand for explanation was clear in Hook's eyes.

Was this the Peacemaker's ally in Germany at last? "No idea, sir," Joseph said aloud, his voice husky. He cleared his throat. "I'll go and talk to him. Where is he?"

"Casualty Clearing Station," Hook replied. "His foot's a mess. Looks like someone pinned him to the ground with a bayonet." His face was pinched with disgust. "Damn stupid thing to do. If I thought I had a cat in hell's chance of catching the man who did it, I'd have him up on a charge."

"What's his name, sir?" Joseph's heart was pounding. Could they really be this close to the Peacemaker at last?

"No idea!" Hook said impatiently. "They've only got one colonel. Go back and bloody well ask!"

"Yes, sir." Joseph stood to attention, and then hesitated. He knew Hook wanted to say something more. Their eyes met for a moment. Joseph smiled.

Hook shrugged. "Get out," he said quietly. "Go and find out what the poor sod wants. No favors."

"Yes, sir."

"You mean
no, sir,"
Hook corrected.

It was Joseph's turn to shrug. He went out without replying. It was raining hard again. The wet khaki had rubbed his skin raw at his neck and his feet were getting new blisters by the time he caught up with the ambulances. There were very few men around. Most of the troops had moved forward, beyond Ypres now. Joseph remembered the town well, the places where in 1914 and 1915 they had eaten quite decent food, drunk wine, even sung around the piano in one or two of the better estaminets. He wondered how many of the people were still alive after occupation. Or had most of them fled ahead of the German army, back somewhere into France? How many of the buildings were still standing after the incessant bombardment? He had heard that Passchendaele was in ruins, nothing left but scattered stone and burned wood.

He walked back the way he had come through the mud to the cratered road. Thirty minutes later, he was back in the Casualty Clearing Station, standing by the cot of a German officer whose foot was swathed in bloody bandages, his face white and mask-like with the effort of controlling his pain.

"Captain Reavley," Joseph said, introducing himself. "I believe you wanted to see me, Colonel?"

The man stared at Joseph's uniform as if trying to understand his insignia, and the Military Cross and Distinguished Service Medal. These were both front-line awards, and yet he was still a captain. "You have been demoted?" he said in German. He spoke very quietly, the subject being a delicate one, and there was sympathy in his eyes.

It was Schenckendorff, Joseph was sure of it. He thought he was speaking to Matthew, and had therefore expected a major. And certainly the chaplain's collar confused him. Only the name was what he had been told.

But he must be careful. "What is your name and rank?" Joseph asked. "Why did you send for me?"

The man was exhausted, and to surrender must be almost intolerable for him. His accent was discreet, highly educated. He probably spoke English, even if he chose not to now. But if he really was the German ally of the Peacemaker, then he would be the man who had obtained the kaiser's signature on the original treaty, and he would unquestionably be of the old aristocracy.

"Why did you ask for me?" Joseph repeated.

"I asked for Major Reavley," the man replied, drawing his breath in sharply as another wave of pain overtook him. "I did not know you were a man of the church. It does not seem to make sense."

"It makes excellent sense," Joseph told him, moving a little closer but remaining standing. You did not sit on the narrow cot of a wounded man; the sheer alteration of weight could hurt intensely. "I am chaplain of the Cambridgeshire regiment, the remnants of which are still here at Ypres. I refused promotion because I want to stay with the men, not move back to regimental headquarters."

Schenckendorff nodded fractionally, both understanding and respect in his eyes.

"I think it is my brother, Major Matthew Reavley, whom you want, Colonel Schenckendorff," Joseph went on.

The man's face tightened. It would have been impossible for him to have grown any paler. Joseph realized with a sudden, searing pity what his decision must have cost. He was a man who loved his country and had once believed passionately that it could dominate and govern in a lasting peace. Now he was coming through the lines to betray, in turn, the trust that had deceived him. The courage and the grief of it were overwhelming. For the first time Joseph saw with wrenching power the meaning of defeat, not just of a nation but of individual men and the dreams they had lived and died for. Perhaps heroism could only be truly measured in those who had lost, and faced the ultimate truth without flinching.

"Yes," Schenckendorff agreed at last. "I would be obliged if I could speak with him. It is ... necessary."