“Stand still,” Morel ordered him.
“Or what?” Snowy asked, lifting his shoulders and letting them drop. “You’ll shoot me, too?”
“Because I damn well ordered you to!” Morel snapped.
“What’s the matter, Captain?” Snowy said quite casually, although his voice shook a little. “Don’t you approve of men thinking for themselves when it’s a moral issue? What’s that, then—mutiny?” He took a step forward, then another.
Morel raised the gun a little higher. “Don’t be stupid!” he warned. “Whatever he’s come for, he hasn’t deserted. He’s here to get us to go back, and you know as well as I that if we do, we’ll be court-martialed and shot. There’s no way on earth they’ll let us get away with killing Northrup.”
“Did you kill him?” Joseph asked, doubt in his voice.
“No, I didn’t!” Morel said with sudden anger. “But it’s academic. I arranged the mock trial and I was in charge. It’s my responsibility. That’s how the army works. It’s how life works. You want to lead, then you take the glory—
“True,” Joseph conceded. “To do less is without honor. Did Snowy shoot Northrup? Did Trotter?”
Trotter was still sitting in the rubble, staring from one to the other of them. There was a bandage on his arm, but it had bled through.
“No,” Morel replied.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m bloody well sure!”
“How can you be?” Joseph persisted.
“Don’t be idiotic!” Morel’s patience was shadow thin. “You know Snowy. He fires high at the bloody Germans. He couldn’t kill anyone except by accident.”
“And Trotter?” Joseph’s voice wobbled a little with fear of failure, now that success might be so close. It was hot here in the sun, and quiet. They were miles from the guns; they could hear them only in the distance.
“Are you sure about him?”
“Yes, I am! It was Geddes who killed Northrup.”
“Why?” He had to say something, and he wanted to know, to be certain.
“I’ve no idea, and I don’t care,” Morel replied, still holding the gun steady. “And the court-martial won’t care, either. Don’t soil your dog collar by lying, Captain. I’d rather take my chances in Switzerland than come back and be shot by my own. Can’t go home anyway, so it’s all pointless.”
Snowy took another step toward Joseph.
“Stand still!” Morel snapped at him, jerking the gun toward him. “Think, Snowy! It might be all very heroic and honest to go back, but if they shoot us, what do you think that’s going to do to morale, eh? Do you want a real mutiny? All along the line?” His voice caught and there were tears on his face. “The Germans would make mincemeat of us—those of us that are left of the Cambridgeshires. Is that what you want?”
Snowy froze.
“They’ll shoot Cavan anyway,” Joseph pointed out. It was so quiet now that they could hear birds singing in the summer sky.
Snowy Nunn walked slowly over to Joseph. Not once did he turn to look at Morel. “I want to go home,” he said simply.
Joseph waited.
Morel put the revolver away. “They’ll shoot all of us,” he said again, but there was an exhaustion in his voice so intense that pity gripped Joseph like a vise.
“General Northrup wants to reduce the charge,” Joseph told him, his own voice gravelly, slipping out of control. He explained what the general had said.
Morel shrugged. “It won’t make any difference. What a bloody fiasco. We must be the stupidest people on earth. You won’t get Geddes back so easily, supposing you ever find him.”
“Where are the rest of you?” Joseph asked.
“I’ll tell them what you said,” Morel smiled bleakly. “They can make up their own minds. You go for Geddes; he’s the one you want.”
“Did he go on to Switzerland?”
“That was his intention.” Morel hesitated. “Look, Reavley, you’re a decent man, but you haven’t a ghost of a chance of bringing Geddes back. You aren’t even armed, for God’s sake! He’ll shoot you if he has to, to get you off his trail. I’ll come with you. That way you’ve a chance.”
“No—” Joseph began.
“Snowy and Trotter can put your arguments to the others,” Morel cut across him bluntly, all the old respect and acknowledgment of seniority gone. “They’ll get back. You’ll give your word, won’t you?” He turned to Snowy, Nunn, then to Trotter.
“Yes, sir,” Snowy said immediately. Trotter agreed also, rising stiffly to his feet at last. Only then did Joseph notice that his left leg was hurt as well.
“I’d give you my gun,” Morel went on, looking at Joseph. “But I don’t suppose you would know which end to fire.”
“Actually I nicked the tail of the plane of the Red Baron,” Joseph said with some dignity.
Morel stared at him.
“From another plane, with a Lewis gun,” Joseph added. “How do you suppose I got here so quickly?”
Morel began to laugh. It was a wild, hysterical sound, very nearly out of control.
Joseph came to a decision immediately, although possibly not a sensible one. He stuck out his arm, pointing.
“Right. Snowy, you and Trotter go and find the others, or as many of them as you can. Get them back to the regiment. Make sure you give yourself up and aren’t taken!” He looked at Snowy closely, his eyes hard. “Do you understand? It could all rest on that!”
“’Course Oi understand, sir,” Snowy said gravely. “It shouldn’t be too bad. Nobody’ll be looking for us going the other way. Good luck, Chaplain. But you watch for Geddes, sir. He’s a hard one, an’ he’s got nothing to lose now.”
Joseph and Morel turned south and made the best time they could. Joseph managed to persuade Morel to change clothes with a middle-aged man invalided out of the army and now mending shoes in a small shop. They continued with Morel looking less like a British officer on the run. Joseph also convinced him to speak German, and say that he too was Swiss, heading back home. No one was interested enough to challenge them seriously. They all had their own troubles.
Joseph and Morel were tired and hungry. They were within thirty miles of the Swiss border when the trail they had been following petered out. The village they arrived at had not suffered as much as many, and they were treated with courtesy, although less than the profound kindness that Joseph had received earlier when he was still in uniform. The people were war-weary, robbed by circumstance of almost everything they had. Still, they faced the possibility of invasion and occupation, and the loss of the only thing they still possessed: the physical freedom to be themselves—Frenchmen who owned their own land, blasted and burned as it was. Joseph did not blame them if they were less than wholehearted friends to men going back to a land that chose to fight on neither side.
“Can’t find any trace of him,” Morel said despondently.
Joseph’s feet hurt and his back ached. The late August sun was hot, and he was thirsty enough to have been grateful for even rainwater in a clean ditch. “No,” he said honestly. “I think we’ve lost him.”
Morel sat down on the grass, waiting silently for Joseph to make a decision. The sunlight on Morel’s face showed not only the ravages of emotion but the physical exhaustion that had almost depleted him. He was so thin his bones looked sharp beneath his skin.
Joseph, too tired to remain standing, sat down in the dust. He felt empty. He had not allowed himself to plan against the eventuality of losing Geddes. Consequently, he had no reserve strategy now to fall back on. If he had been alone he would have prayed, but it would be awkward in front of Morel, who had no faith left in God.
Was Joseph any better? What did faith mean? That everything would turn out right in the end? What was the end? Could any overriding plan one day make sense of it all?
“I don’t think he’s gone to Switzerland after all,” Morel said, interrupting Joseph’s thoughts. “If he were just a deserter, it would be one thing; but he’s wanted for murdering an officer, and that’s quite different. Any Englishman
