Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [116]
“That is when Gabriel Hewetson and I began to have our conversations about the natural history of Berkshire. When I became aware that we had a rather extraordinary young gentleman in our midst. When I began to regain a sense of my vocation. I’ve often thought that Gabriel gave me more spiritual guidance than I did him, without ever speaking about God.”
I did not know what to make of him as a man of religious sensibilities. His rage against God was powerful, yet the trenches had not killed his faith. I thought I might risk interrupting his flow of words with a question.
“I’m curious, Mr Hastings. I’d have thought that as a chaplain you would have spent more time behind the lines, and yet you seem to have been actually at the front line a great deal. Was this usual?”
“Jesus Christ was the Son of God, but He was also a man—a carpenter’s son, a wandering preacher, a friend of the poor and the downtrodden. Jesus would not have spent that war comforting those already in the comfort of dry beds and hospital wards. When I volunteered, it was with the knowledge that I had to follow His example as long as my strength held out.
“Young Gabriel helped me maintain that strength, for a few vital weeks when I needed it most. And in the end, I failed him.
“We were among the armies transferred south in early May, to a quiet stretch of the Front on the west end of the Chemin des Dames, and it was as if we’d been lifted out of a cesspit during a riot and set down in Paradise. It was disorientating—there’d been heavy fighting there the year before, until the French mutiny, but the villages were still whole, church bells rang from intact steeples, old women went out to work the fields. Cows grazed, chickens scratched. We even slept to the song of nightingales.
“Three blissful weeks of this—broken by the occasional skirmish, of course, but with long stretches of silence to heal the soul. The air smelt of growing things, not of death. Bliss.
“And then, just after mid-night on the twenty-seventh, the Germans decided that our patch was the one they wanted for their break-through, and we were back in the thick of it. Fast asleep, most of us, when the gas canisters landed, and almost before the sentry could get to the nearest shell casing and hammer out a warning, a thousand guns opened up. The ground heaved, trenches collapsed, the sky was aflame.” The memory was so raw in his face, for an instant I thought I saw the fires reflected in his wide-staring eyes.
“A ten-mile retreat that first day, thousands taken prisoner, utter confusion, equipment abandoned, men fleeing in the wrong direction. The next day was worse, with the men beginning to panic. By the time the Germans came up against the Americans at Belleau Wood the first week of June, we fully expected Paris to fall. We took one look at the Yanks, and despaired—they were far too shiny-new to be of any use.
“But by God they held, and the German offensive ground to a halt, and then it was time to march back up the line and dig in again, after our nice quiet holiday.
“Every-one knew now, after four years, this was it. The men had been fighting hard since March, but now the death-struggle began in earnest, every inch of ground bitterly contested. Our men were footsore and exhausted and ready to do it all again, and I’ve never been prouder of them.” He paused briefly to take a swallow of cold tea.
“We’d been jumbled in among the French this time, which made for a certain amount of confusion, but no doubt the rivalry helped maintain spirits on both sides. I was no longer in Gabriel’s regiment, but as I was only a few miles up the road and padres were scarce, I saw him every two or three days. He had been badly shaken by the sudden bombardment down at the Chemin des Dames in May, and spent a couple of weeks twitching and pale. I urged him to go back for medical rest, but he refused. His men needed him, he said. It may even have been true.
“His regiment had been set to hold a hill. One pitiful