and yanked him up again, punching at him at the same time. Prentice gave a high-pitched scream as his shoulder dislocated with the twist of his own weight against the grip. Wil hit him again and he crumpled.
The orderly stood frozen. Marie looked around for something to hit Wil with, before he actually killed Prentice.
Joseph stepped forward, forcing the picture of Charlie Gee out of his mind. He stepped behind Wil and put his arms around his neck, throwing his weight backward so Wil was forced to let go of Prentice to save himself. But he struggled, trying to swing around and rid himself of the restraint.
“Stop it!” Joseph said fiercely. “You’ll kill him, you fool! That isn’t going to help anyone.”
Wil jerked against him, almost pulling Joseph off his feet, then recoiled as his neck met the lock of Joseph’s arm.
Prentice was clambering to his feet, his face streaming blood, his uniform torn and his left arm hanging limply, oddly angled at the shoulder. His mouth was a snarl of pain and fury, but he was equally clearly terrified.
Joseph kept his grip on Wil, but he met Prentice’s eyes. “Back off.” He waved. “Or I’ll let him go.”
Prentice was gasping, blood from a broken tooth running down his lip. “I’ll have him court-martialed!” he choked out the words. “He’ll spend the next five years in the glass house!”
“You can’t have him court-martialed,” Joseph replied coldly. “He’s a volunteer. You can sue him in civil court, if you can get an extradition order. He’s an American over here to help us in the war.”
“General Cullingford is my uncle!” Prentice wiped his hand over his mouth and winced with a cry as it jagged his broken tooth. The gesture did nothing to stop the blood. “I’ll see he’s kept here!”
“For what?” Joseph asked, eyes wide. “Nobody here is going to have seen a thing! Are you?” he demanded, glancing sideways at Marie, working beside the surgeon, up to her elbows in blood, and the orderly passing instruments, swabs, needles threaded with fresh silk.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the surgeon said without looking up. “Get that bloody idiot out of here.”
“You should take him out under arrest!” Prentice gasped, spitting more blood.
“Not him, you!” the surgeon snapped.
“I’m injured! He’s broken my damn teeth!” Prentice said furiously.
“I don’t do teeth.” The surgeon was still working on Charlie, head down. “See the regimental dentist, if you can find him.”
“You’d better tell him you got too near an explosion, and fell on one of the props.” Joseph eased his hold on Wil Sloan, who straightened up, coughing now that he could get his breath back.
Prentice glared at him. “You think I’m going to lie to protect you? There’s military discipline for this sort of thing. You can’t attack somebody and get away with it. He’s a raving madman!”
“Really?” Joseph said, an exaggerated lift in his voice. “I saw nothing in particular. I was too busy thinking about a man shot half to pieces to worry about what was happening to a stupid journalist who didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut in an operating theater.”
“I saw nothing,” the orderly added, his face twisted with anger and pity. “Did you, Mrs. O’Day?”
“Not a thing,” she replied. “Nor did Janet.” She gestured to the girl now climbing up slowly from where she had been slumped against the wall. The whole episode had taken only minutes. Janet stared at the scene in front of her, at Wil and Joseph, at the operating table, and then at Prentice. Her face was filled with shame, but it was only Marie O’Day’s opinion she cared about, what had happened between the men barely touched her consciousness.
“Take them away.” Marie O’Day gestured to the blood-soaked swabs in one of the dishes. “Bring me some more—quickly.”
The girl moved to obey, grateful for a second chance, but still keeping her eyes averted from the operating table, in case her nerve betrayed her again.
“Out!” Joseph ordered Prentice. He pushed Wil in front of him also, and a moment later they were in the entrance, and then outside on the wooden walk. “You’d better get out of here,” he said to Wil. “You’re a volunteer, you can go wherever you like. If you’ve any sense, you’ll go at least as far as divisional headquarters for a while. They’ll find you something to do.”
“What about Charlie? I can’t leave him!” Wil demanded.
“You can’t help,” Joseph said gently. “You getting thrown out won’t make it any better for him. Just lose yourself for a while. Go to Armentieres, or somewhere like that.”
Wil’s eyes were still sunken with shock, and now, after the exertion, his rage having cooled off and the horror returning, he started to shake, but, stumbling and slipping on the boards, he made his way reluctantly along the line of the huts, and around the corner.
“Don’t think I’ll forget this!” Prentice snarled, blowing bubbles of blood through his bruised and rapidly swelling lips. One eye was already darkening with a huge bruise and the other cheek was blotched. His arm hung uselessly and obviously with pain.
“You can remember what you like,” Joseph replied. “But you’d be wise to say and do nothing. If anyone hears about what you said in front of Charlie Gee, you’ll get no cooperation from any of the men. And you may find you have other ‘accidents’ on dark nights. As you pointed out to Sergeant Watkins, friendship is about all we have here, that and loyalty to your unit and a belief that we’re fighting for something that matters; honor, a way of life, people we love.”
He looked at Prentice’s face. The man was not used to physical pain, and he was obviously hurting pretty badly. “You’d better go up to one of the forward first-aid stations,” he advised. “You’re hardly a hospital case, but you could do with a little attention, a stitch or two, perhaps, and someone to put your shoulder back. It’s quite a simple thing to do, but it’ll hurt like hell.” He said that with pleasure. “Wait your turn, and tell them anything you want. A shrapnel burst near you would probably be best. It looks as if you fell. There’ll be lots hurt worse than you are, so you’ll make a fool of yourself if you raise a fuss. People are hard on cowards.” He gave a very small, tight smile. “And do it smartly, before I arrest you.”
Prentice was furious. “That lunatic attacked me! I didn’t even hit him back! Or are you going to lie about that, too?”
“For getting in the way of treating the wounded, and wasting medical officers’ time,” Joseph replied without hesitation. “You didn’t hit him back because he didn’t give you a chance. Be grateful I haven’t arrested you already.”
Prentice stared at him just long enough to realize he meant it, then turned on his heel and went off, shambling unevenly, feet slithering on the boards, physical and emotional shock making him dizzy.
Joseph went back inside the hospital hut to check on Charlie Gee’s condition. It was too much, he thought. He remembered how alone and inadequate to the burden he had felt when his parents were killed, and suddenly he was the head of the family, expected to know the answers, and have the strength and the inner certainty to help.
That had been nothing compared with what he needed to do now. No teaching, no ministry prepared you to have answers for this. What kind of a God hurled you into this hell without teaching you what you were supposed to do, to say, even to think in order to keep your own faith?
There was no answer, only numberless men, young, broken, and in desperate need. He went up the step and in through the door.
It was several days after Matthew had returned from seeing Mary Allard in Brighton before he could take the time to go up to Cambridge and find an opportunity to speak with Aidan Thyer. It was a bright spring morning with a sharp wind and sunlight glittering off the wet cobbles of the streets. The porter let him into St. John’s College. Apparently he had been told to expect him, because he walked with him across the outer quadrangle, under the arch and into the smaller, quieter inside quad where the master’s lodgings were situated on the farther side.
“There you are, sir,” he said respectfully. All men in uniform were regarded with a special dignity, whether he knew them or not, and he remembered Joseph with affection, and a peculiar awe for his part in the previous summer’s tragedy. He did not want to be intrusive, and the indecision was in his face, but he had to ask.
“How is the Reverend Reavley, sir? We think of him often.”
“He’s well, thank you,” Matthew replied.
