Angels in the Gloom

to find meaning or hope in the closest one could see of hell.

Of course the suffering and the loss would be just the same. It would simply be that he did not have to share the physical reality. He could stay at home and only hear about it, imagine it, remember, and of course see the results in the faces of the women. And after it was over, he could help to rebuild again, whether they won or lost.

Was that what he wanted? With every nightmare, with every aching bone or stab of pain, yes! Yes, he longed to find a reason never ever to go back. He longed to stay here where he was safe and clean, where he could sleep at night, where he could see the slow, sweet spring blossom over the earth, watch the patient horses pull the plow, walk with his dog and see the birds circle in the sky at sunset and fly low to roost in the elms.

Could he do that with an easy heart, knowing his men in Flanders expected him back? No one wanted to return after leave. The only ones who imagined war in heroic colors were those like Hallam Kerr who had never been there. Even most of them were a little wiser, a little more sober now.

The morning post had brought him a letter from Isobel Hughes. He was surprised how much it had pleased him to see her handwriting on the envelope. He had torn it open eagerly.

She was concerned for his injuries in case they were more serious than he had said. They were. But then he would have felt childish telling her the pain had been so consuming he had, at the beginning, even wished he could die of it to escape. That sounded so cowardly now he was intensely grateful he had not said anything.

As always, she told him of village life in Wales, the changing seasons, a little gossip about those she knew and cared for, making light of the hardships without denying them. Only this time there was something darker, a story she introduced quite casually, but her choice of words was different and even her handwriting had an urgency about it.A young man here on leave from the front has deserted. They say he has run away, but those are simple words. I don’t think they tell anything like all the truth. I saw his face when he was in the village shop. He spoke to me quite pleasantly, but his eyes looked beyond me to some hell I could not see, but perhaps I had a glimpse of it for an instant.I know there are a million men out there who are staying and facing everything there is, no matter what, and that many of them will not come back. Every reason in my mind tells me that if I knew where he was hiding in the hills, then I should tell the authorities so they can hunt him out. I imagine he will be court- martialed and then shot. I can see how that is necessary, or maybe thousands would desert, leaving only the bravest to face the enemy alone.His father is so ashamed he won’t go to chapel anymore. His mother weeps, but for him, I think, not for herself or for shame. Perhaps it is something in us because we are women, we admire the strong and the brave, but we protect the weak. Is that pity, or simply that we do not think far enough ahead to see the damage it does?I have troubled myself about this quite a lot. I ask you because I hunger for the answer and I know no one wiser or more able to weigh the matter from the view of both the army and the kinder and greater judgment of God as well. Or at least as much of God as it is given us to know.

Joseph had thought about the letter, rereading it to make sure his first impression was right. She did not dare write it openly, but he was convinced she knew where the deserter was, and wanted his opinion as to whether she should betray him or not.

Then he realized with a jolt that by the very use of the word betray he had allowed his sympathies to be as engaged as hers were. He knew the blind stare on young men’s faces when they had seen too much for the mind to bear, when their ears never ceased to hear the roar of the guns, even in the silence of the fields or the chatter of a village street.

And yet if she knew and sheltered him, even by her failure to report it, she would be held accountable for aiding a deserter. At the very best she could be shunned by her own people, at worst she could be charged with a crime. His instinct was to protect her, urge her to take no risks.

But there were other risks, to the conscience, the grief and the shame afterward, to the belief in one’s own compassion or morality. All her life she would remember whatever she did about it, and the life or death of this young man, and his family. One wanted to save everyone—and it was impossible.

He folded up the letter and put it away. He must answer it today. It would not wait. But he was not ready yet. If he was right and she wanted his judgment, then he too would never escape the consequence of it. He drifted off to sleep, the newspaper on the floor beside him.

He was jerked awake by the sound of shouting in the hallway. It was excited voices, high-pitched, over and over again, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” and Henry barking.

He stood up stiffly, papers sliding to the floor, just as Archie came through the door, Jenny on one side of him, Luke on the other, and Tom and Hannah behind him. Archie was smiling. He was still in uniform and there was something enormously impressive about the navy with the gold braid. Tom’s eyes were blazing with pride, and Jenny looked up at her father as if he were close to a god.

But the momentary joy did not hide the fatigue in Archie’s face, and Joseph recognized it with aching familiarity. He had seen that battle-weariness countless times before, the slowness to refocus the eyes, the way the shoulders were tight as if movement was not quite coordinated. Archie’s skin was wind-chapped and there was a razor cut on his left cheek. His dark hair had a touch of early gray at the temples.

“Joseph!” He held out his hand. “How are you?” His glance took in the heavily bandaged arm and the awkwardness of stance as he stood up. He understood injury.

“Good to see you, Archie,” Joseph replied, gripping his hand firmly. He met his eyes only for a moment, giving away nothing.

Tom carried his father’s case upstairs. Luke stood around, longing to ask questions and not sure how to begin. Archie sat down and Jenny slipped onto his lap and leaned against him. Hannah went to get hot tea and cakes.

“How long do you have?” Joseph asked, hoping it was at least a week.

Archie shrugged very slightly. “Three or four days,” he replied. “We’ve lost a few men. Had one or two nasty scraps. Gun turret caught fire.” He did not add that there were no survivors. Joseph knew enough about such things not to need explanation and he did not want the children to hear. There was so much that was better unsaid. Nor would Archie ask Joseph about whatever shell-fire or explosion had caused his injuries. One did not relive it; there was no point, no explanation, nothing eased.

Tom came back into the room silently.

“I hear the Duke of Westminster’s unit has reached Bir Hakeim and rescued the crews of the Tara and the Moorina,” Joseph observed, struggling to think of something hopeful.

Archie smiled. “That’s good. All I heard in London was the political news, and word about Verdun. We’re taking bets as to whether Lloyd George will be prime minister by autumn.” He stood up restlessly, sliding Jenny onto her feet, and began walking around the room, looking at the familiar ornaments, pictures, the way the afternoon light fell slanting through the windows onto the worn patches in the carpet.

Joseph knew what he was doing. He had done it also, making sure in the deeper parts of his mind that he was really home, that it all remained the same, whatever happened to the world away from here. Later, alone, he would probably touch those things, steeping his senses in their feel and their smell, to carry with him when he had to leave.

“Last bets I heard were on conscription by the middle of the year,” Joseph said quietly.

Archie was by the mantelpiece. He turned, glancing at the children, seeing their faces as they watched his every move and gesture. “Which way is your money?” he asked.

“For it,” Joseph replied. “About sixpence.” He made himself smile. He knew the news was bad and he was reading in Archie’s eyes the things he would not say in front of anyone else. There was a tacit understanding that one never spoke of defeat, or even its possibility, in front of women or children.

“Sounds about right,” Archie agreed.

“I’m going to join up,” Tom announced. “Navy, of course. Sorry, Uncle Joseph, I don’t mean to be insulting. Of course the army’s good, too, but we’re naval, aren’t we Dad?”

Archie’s face tightened, but he knew better than to argue, especially in front of anyone else. “Yes. But we’re officers, not ratings, so you’ll study properly first.”

“But, Dad . . .” Tom started.

Archie gave him a quick smile. “And you’ll obey the captain! You’ll not discuss it over tea!”

Luke turned to see if Tom would obey.

“Yes, sir,” Tom said reluctantly.