At Some Disputed Barricade_ A Novel - Anne Perry [120]
“Well, the French certainly would,” Joseph agreed. “No question.”
“Yes, but the Germans wouldn’t,” Morel pointed out.
For a moment Joseph barely breathed. “Through the lines?” he said softly, understanding at last.
“Why not?” Morel looked back at him, his dark eyes steady. “The ultimate escape.”
Joseph climbed to his feet slowly and dug his hands into his pockets. He stared beyond the lines in the distance, at the German trenches beyond. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “You speak German. So do I.”
Morel rose to his feet also, his eyes wide. “Really?”
Joseph knew what he was asking. “I want him back, to get the rest of you off. Especially Cavan. Are you game to try?”
“Of course,” Morel responded. He gave an abrupt little laugh. “What use would you be by yourself?”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
As darkness came, Joseph grew more and more apprehensive. Crossing the lines was likely to get them killed. Maybe Geddes was already dead and they would never know why he put live ammunition in his gun and deliberately betrayed his fellows by executing Northrup instead of merely frightening him.
The only plan they could form was to lie low until the first attack, then join with the French soldiers going over the top, keeping as far from the lights as possible. Become separated from the group as if by the fighting, and in the general turmoil press farther and farther forward. At least no one would be likely to suspect anyone coming up from behind and going on over.
The more Joseph thought of it, the more suicidal it seemed. But was it worse cowardice still to back out now and simply go home with Morel and hope he was believed.
“We should go now.” Morel’s voice came out of the darkness. “We might need all night to work our way into the French force and join them. We don’t know when they’ll go over. I don’t suppose they know, poor sods.”
That was the decision made. To argue now would look like fear. At the very least it would leave Morel to go alone, and that was unthinkable.
“Right,” he said as if Morel were in charge. Perhaps he should be. Joseph had been into no-man’s-land more often than he could count, but as a chaplain, in order to pick up whatever bodies he could find and help the wounded. After the worst night’s fighting he had been as far as twenty yards from the German trenches, but he had never faced an enemy soldier in anger, never fired a gun at a man.
“Are you all right, Chaplain?” Morel asked, the use of his occupational title betraying the uncertainty he felt of Joseph’s mettle.
“Yes, I’m right behind you,” Joseph said. “If we go over just behind the first attack, we can look like stretcher bearers. Attract less attention, and go as far forward as possible.”
“Won’t fool anyone for long,” Morel replied over his shoulder. “But maybe by the time they realize it we’ll be through. Just hope they don’t take us for deserters.”
“Deserters usually go the other way,” Joseph pointed out. “That’s what makes Geddes clever.”
“He’s a clever bastard, all right,” Morel agreed dourly, his voice low in the darkness in spite of the guns in the distance. He did not add anything more, and they went the rest of the way in silence, dropping down the slight slope toward the field dressing station a thousand yards away.
They curved around it, keeping as far away from the light as possible. Joseph, with his priest’s collar, did not need to account for his presence. For Morel it was harder. He had no rifle, only the revolver.
All around them were French soldiers, their outlines in the near dark little different from the men of the Cambridgeshires: helmets smooth, the occasional peaked cap, rifles stark. Their voices were muted, a little harsh with tension. Many smoked and the smell of Gauloises was different from Woodbine, but the long, slightly sour jokes were similar: self-mocking, the laughter quick.
There was coffee in their own version of a Dixie can. It was offered generously and