“Yes, sir,” he replied, meeting the wide, blue eyes and seeing the imagination of horror in them, and perhaps guilt, because he knew, and still had no choice but to send more men to face something he did not experience himself. Joseph wished he could think of something to say that would at least show he understood. For ministers and generals to risk their own lives helped no one. Their burdens were different, but just as real. Quite suddenly he felt an almost suffocating sense of loss for Owen Cullingford, not for Judith’s sake, but simply because the man was gone, and he realized how much he had liked him. “Yes, I was there. It’s a new kind of war.”
“I’d give anything not to have to send men to that!” Sandwell said quietly, his voice shaking. “God in heaven, what have we come to?” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Captain. You know better than I do what the reality is. Perhaps you would be kind enough after dinner, when we address the subject more seriously, to tell us anything you think might assist us to be of more help, and more support to our men?”
“Anything I can,” Joseph agreed.
They moved further into the room, side by side, acknowledging people, being introduced, making polite remarks. After a little while they separated, Judith to talk to one of the other women, Joseph to answer questions from a bishop and member of the House of Lords on conditions and supplies that might be helped by civilian donations.
It was only as they were going in to dinner that he heard a voice he recognized with a stab of memory so sharp the sweat broke out on his skin and he felt cold the instant after.
“Virtuous and no doubt commendable, but naive, Miss Reavley.”
Joseph spun around and saw Richard Mason talking to Judith. They were standing a little apart from the stream of guests moving toward the dining room. He still looked tired, his skin, like Joseph’s own, chapped by the wind, eyes hollow, as if Andy’s death were with him all the time. Also he had been at Gallipoli longer, and was perhaps more profoundly shocked by it than Joseph, who was used to Ypres. His dark hair had been properly cut and was smoothed back off his brow, and the power in his face, the carefully suppressed emotion, was naked to any observer who had ever been racked by storms themselves, or known feelings that overwhelmed caution and self-preserving.
“I have seen as many wounded men as you have, Mr. Mason!” Judith retorted icily. “Don’t patronize me.”
His eyes widened slightly and there was reluctant admiration in them. It could have been for her spirit, or the fact that she drove an ambulance. Or it could simply have been that she was beautiful. Anger and grief had taken the bloom of innocence from her and refined the strength. Cullingford had awoken the woman in her, and scoured deep with loss, all in the same act. Perhaps Mason saw something of it in her, because another kind of certainty had gone from his eyes, and whether she was aware of it or not, it was she who had caused that.
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and went through the doors to the dining room, leaving him to follow or not, as he wished.
Joseph found himself smiling, even though he was overtaken by a wave of fierce and consuming protectiveness toward her, and a knowledge that he could never succeed; no one could protect Judith, or be protected from her.
He followed after her, awed, proud, and a little frightened.
As always, he could smell the sour stench of the Front before he heard the guns, or saw the lines of troops marching, the broken trees, the occasional crater beside the roads where heavy artillery shells had fallen. There was a terrible familiarity to it, like reentering an old nightmare, as if every time sleep touched you, you were drawn back into the same drowning reality.
Like anyone else, he had to walk the last few miles. He was passed by Wil Sloan, driving an empty ambulance. He stopped, but not to offer a lift; it was forbidden and Joseph knew better than to hope.
“How’s Judith?” Wil asked anxiously, sticking his head out of the side and trying to make himself smile. “I mean . . .” He stopped awkwardly, memory sharp in his eyes.
Joseph smiled. “Last time I saw her she was making mincemeat out of a top war correspondent,” he answered. “She looked gorgeous, in a long, blue gown, and she was going in to dinner at the Savoy.”
Wil looked uncertain whether to believe him or not.
“Actually,” Joseph amended, “that wasn’t the last time. I did take her to where she was staying after that.”
Wil relaxed. “She’s going to be all right?”
“In time,” Joseph told him. “We all will be, one way or another.” He stood back, waving him on, to avoid the embarrassment for Wil of having to explain why he couldn’t offer a lift, even to a chaplain.
Wil smiled and gave a little salute, then slipped the ambulance into gear again and moved forward. Joseph watched him drive into the distance on the long, straight road with its shattered poplars and the ditches on either side. The fields were level, a few copses left. One or two houses were burned out. There was a column of smoke on the horizon.
It was dusk and the heavy artillery was firing pretty steadily, sending up great gouts of dark, sepia-colored earth, when he reported to the colonel.
“You look rough, Reavley,” Fyfe observed. “Leave doesn’t agree with you. Feeling all right?” He asked it casually, but there was a genuine anxiety in his face.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I ran an errand to Gallipoli. Bit of bother on the way back.”
Fyfe raised his eyebrows. “Bother?”
“Yes, sir. Ship I was in got stopped by a German U-boat. They let us off before they sank it, but rather more rowing than I care for.”
“Are you fit to be here? You look stiff!”
“Yes, sir, but not too much.” Deliberately Joseph used the words he had heard from so many wounded men. “I’m a lot better than many of those who are fighting.”
Fyfe gave the ghost of a smile. “True. Glad to have you back. Morale needs you. Lost one or two good men since you’ve been gone.”
Joseph nodded. He did not want to know who they were yet. “Do you know where Major Wetherall was moved to, sir? I need to see him.”
The colonel looked surprised, then curious. He looked at Joseph’s face, and read absolute refusal to speak. “I don’t know where he went, but he’s back. Been here a few days. He’s probably in the same dugout as before. Are you going to tell me what it’s about?”
“No, sir.”
“I see. I suppose your calling allows you to do that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go on, then. If you go to the front line, take care. It’s going to be a rough night.”
“Is anyone going over on a raid?” He gulped. It was too soon. Far too soon. Yet what difference did it make? Whenever it was, it would come, and then that would be the end. The sweetness and the burden of friendship ached inside him like a physical pain. It would serve nothing to delay it.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Reavley?” Fyfe repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel nodded and made a small gesture with his hand. “Glad you’re back. The men need you. Young Rattray was wounded. Not too bad.”
“Yes, sir. Is he still here?”
“Hospital in Armentieres.”
“Thank you. Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Reavley.”
Outside in the dark he walked over the mud to the beginning of the supply trench and down the steps. It must have been raining again because there was water under the duckboards and he heard the rats’ feet scuttling and the heavy plop and splash of their bodies as they slid off.
He made his way west toward Sam’s dugout. He half hoped he would not be there. It would delay what he had to do. He passed the Old Kent Road and turned along Paradise Alley. Now and then a star shell flared up,
