Hook kept his courtesy with a very obvious effort. He remained looking at Joseph, as if desperate for his help. “If that is so,” he continued, “then it is, as General Northrup says, a capital crime. I can’t imagine why any of our men would do such a thing.” He spoke carefully, enunciating every word. “Major Northrup had been here only a matter of a week or two. I can’t think how he could have made an enemy of that depth in so short a time.”
“Of course he didn’t!” Northrup snapped. “Your men are out of control! On the verge of mutiny. Major Northrup exerted some discipline, perhaps for the first time, and they resented it. Or possibly there was mutiny planned, and he discovered it, and would naturally have had them arrested and shot. Have you considered that? It is a perfectly obvious motive. A child could understand it.” His eyes were watery and he blinked several times.
“Even a child would require that you prove such a thing before exacting punishment,” Hook told him, then turned back to Joseph. “Captain, I regret the necessity for this, most particularly now in the middle of one of the hardest offensives we’ve ever experienced, but I have no alternative other than to investigate the possibility of a crime, even though I do not believe it to be so.”
Joseph understood exactly what Hook was saying. Everything about it was bad. Even the suggestion of such a crime would damage morale irreparably. It was already fragile with the appalling losses, the failure to make any significant gain of land, the disastrous weather, the whispers of mutiny among the French troops—even if there was very little real evidence. Even though at least outwardly the men condemned the idea of mutiny, inwardly they had a profound natural sympathy.
And the additional tragedy was that in Northrup’s efforts to avenge his son’s death and protect his reputation, he was actually going to expose him far more. Now only his own immediate men knew he was incompetent. Soon his name would go down in history as having provoked a murder among the very men he led, murder in order to save their own lives from his stupidity. Joseph knew there was a pity in Hook that wanted to rescue Northrup from himself.
“Yes, sir,” he said aloud. “I can see that such rumors, however untrue, must be investigated and silenced, one way or the other.”
“One way or the other?” Northrup challenged him sharply, swiveling in his chair to face him. “There is only one way, Captain Reavley, and that is with the truth, and the justice that comes from it.”
“I meant, sir, whether there is any charge resulting from what we find, or if it is no more than careless talk,” Joseph corrected him. “I’ve heard nothing more than the usual grumbling and bad jokes. The men always complain, usually about petty things. It’s a way of making it bearable.”
“I am perfectly acquainted with front line humor, Captain,” Northrup said bitterly. “It does not extend to blackening the name of a dead officer.”
Hook drew in his breath, but Joseph preempted him. He looked at the general. “What are they saying of Major Northrup that is more than the usual complaints that fly around of any officer, sir?”
Northrup’s face was bright pink, his cheeks burning. “That he was an incompetent officer and gave orders that cost lives unnecessarily,” he said between his teeth, his voice trembling. “It is to cover their own cowardice.”
“My men are not cowards!” Hook said furiously, his thin body stiff, the color rising in his haggard face. “And deeply as I regret the death of your son, sir, I will not tolerate any man, of any rank, saying that they are. That is inexcusable, even in grief.”
Northrup glared back at him. “If they murdered my son in cold blood, then they are worse than cowards, sir. They are traitors!” His voice trembled. “And I will see every last one of them shot. Do you defy me, Colonel Hook?”
Hook was shaking. “No, sir, I charge you to make your accusations after they are proved, and to treat my men with the honor they deserve unless and until that time.”
“Then prove it!” Northrup’s voice was close to a shout. “Don’t hide behind your chaplain’s protection. Institute a proper inquiry.”
“By whom?” Hook could not keep the sarcasm from his tone. “I have no fighting men to spare…sir! Captain Reavley is the best man to do it. He is both liked and trusted, and he has known most of these men since they joined up. If anyone can find the truth and prove it, he can!”
“I want military police,” Northrup replied, gulping. “The chaplain is not qualified to investigate murder, and his profession makes it impossible either to be practical and insist that men speak to him and answer his questions, or that he should repeat what they say if they do. He might very well learn the exact truth, with a confession, and be unable to act on it.”
“That’s my answer, General Northrup,” Hook told him. “If you want to take it to the general in command of the Ypres Salient, then you must do so. I think it extremely unlikely he will spare men at the moment to investigate any front line soldiers on the possibility that there may, or may not, have been a crime, when there is no evidence beyond some ugly talk.”
“We’ll see,” Northrup retorted, rising to his feet. His face was ashen but for the flaming spots of color in his cheeks.
“Sir!” Joseph stood up, turning toward Northrup and barring his way out. “Major Northrup was very new to this section of the front. He made some bad decisions, specifically sending men out across no-man’s-land to look for wounded or dead when the weather and visibility made it recklessly dangerous. No one was rescued, and Lieutenant Eardslie, a well-liked and decorated officer, was killed. I would rather not have told you that. All men make mistakes, but this was a particularly foolish one, and he was told by the experienced men here that it was wrong, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Northrup was shaking; his whole body trembled. He stared wordlessly at Joseph, grief and incredulity naked in his face.
Joseph was furious with him and pitied him at the same time. It was a uniquely painful conflict within him.
“If I investigate his death, sir,” he continued, “I shall bring my findings to Colonel Hook, and any stories that are unnecessary to repeat, I shall make no written record of, and repeat them to no one. I think it would be wiser, and fairer, if we were to learn all we can before we make any decisions at all.”
Northrup stood silently for so long that Joseph thought he was not going to answer, then finally he spoke. His voice was hoarse, little above a whisper.
“Do so. But I will see my son’s name cleared, and if any man in the British Army, whatever his rank or his record, had a part in his death, I will see that man shot, and alongside him anyone who defends him or lies for him.” He snapped to attention, then before anyone else could speak, he strode the three steps to the entrance and went out.
“Thank you, Reavley,” Hook said with intense feeling. “For God’s sake, be careful what you find. We’re losing thousands of men a day to the Germans, or to the bloody rain. The men are on their last legs. Most of them will be killed anyway. The French weren’t cowards; they were just driven beyond human endurance. But Northrup looks readier to face a firing squad himself than see the truth, God forgive him.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be very careful,” Joseph promised. He gave a very faint smile. “I’ve done this before.”
Hook looked up at him. “Oh, yes, the murder of that bloody awful correspondent, Prentice, or whatever his name was, in ’fifteen. I heard about it. You didn’t ever find out who killed him though, did you?”
Joseph did not answer him.
Hook put both his hands over his face and let his breath out slowly. “I see.”
Joseph knew it would be difficult even to find a place where he could make himself heard, never mind to frame the questions. He was acutely conscious of disturbing men in their few moments’ peace to ask pointless questions. And if he was honest, he was not sure he wanted the answers. He had been just as appalled by Northrup’s stupidity as they were. He had prayed for some kind of release from it—but not this.
He began with Tiddly Wop Andrews. He found him standing on the fire step up to his knees in water, drinking tea out of a Dixie can. It was early evening.
“Hello, Chaplain,” Tiddly Wop said between the bursts of artillery fire. He always spoke quietly. He was a handsome man but profoundly shy. “Looking for someone?”
Joseph was on the trench floor. The duckboards had been swept away and he found it difficult keeping his balance in the mud. Because he was lower than the fire step, he was up to his thighs in it.
“Anyone who might know exactly what happened to Major Northrup,” he replied.
Tiddly Wop grinned. “He got shot,” he replied cheerfully. “That’s one Jerry whose hand Oi’d loike to shake.
