Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [14]
The words died on his tongue. He simply sat on the bed and put his hand on Corliss’s shoulder. “If you want to talk, I’m here,” he said quietly. “If you don’t, that’s all right.”
For a long time Corliss did not move. When at last he spoke it was hoarsely, as if his throat were dry. “What did Major Wetherall say? It hurts like a knife in my belly to let him down.”
Joseph saw the tears on Corliss’s face. “He sent me to keep the journalist out of your way,” he answered.
“ ’Cos he’s after me,” Corliss said. “He thinks I did it myself, on purpose. I heard him say so.”
“He doesn’t know a thing,” Joseph replied. “I might see if I can take him down a sap, that’ll give him a good idea of what it’s like. If he wants a story, that would be a great one. Make a hero out of him.”
Corliss smiled only slightly, and gulped.
“And Major Wetherall knows what it’s like down there,” Joseph went on.
Corliss blinked.
Joseph allowed the silence to settle.
“Thanks, Chaplain,” Corliss said at last.
Half an hour later Joseph had spoken to each of the other men in the room, then went outside to find Prentice again. He needed to appeal to the man’s better nature. If he understood what the losses had been, how many wounded and dead there were in every battalion, and no reserves to take their places, then he would not attack the morale of the men left who were trying desperately to stay awake day and night, sometimes to watch an entire length of trench from one dogleg to the next. They had been wet most of the winter, and frozen half of it. They lived on stale food, dirty water—and little enough of that. They slept in the open. Every one of them had lost friends they had grown up with, men they knew like brothers.
Many of them did not want to kill Germans. Some had blood-drenched nightmares from which they woke screaming, soaked in sweat, afraid to tell anyone—thoughts that might be seen as disloyalty, cowardice, even treason.
Prentice was talking to Sergeant Watkins. He looked relaxed, standing a little sideways next to a table with splints and bandages on it. His weight was more on one foot than the other, as if he had infinite time to spare. Opposite him was Sergeant Watkins, almost to attention, his jaw tight, his heavy face flushed.
“So morale is pretty low,” Prentice was saying with assurance. “In fact about as low as it can be. I’ve heard that some men don’t even want to fight the Germans. Is that so?”
“No sane man wants to kill another, if ’e don’t ’ave to,” Watkins replied in a low, angry voice. “But if Jerry fires at us, b’lieve me, mister, our boys’ll fire back. You go up the front line some time, instead of ’anging around ’ere, an’ you’ll soon see. What d’yer think all that noise is, thunder? God Almighty moving ’is furniture? It’s guns, boy, enough guns to kill every bloody thing in Flanders. Not that there is much left livin’ around ’ere!”
“And you’re short of ammunition, too, so I hear?” Prentice continued, not put off in the least. “Having to ration the men, even ask them to give back what they haven’t used.”
“None to waste,” Watkins answered, glaring back. “Everybody knows that, just don’t say so. If Jerry don’t know, don’t tell ’im.”
“With the odds so heavy against us, and morale so low, it must be hard to make the men get out there and fight?” Prentice raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes very wide.
“You’re talking rubbish!” Watkins said angrily, his face flushed dark red. “I got better things to do than stand ’ere listening to you rabbiting on. You get out an’ see what it’s really like, an’ leave the sick ’ere to themselves.” He turned half away.
“I thought you might have come to find out if the sapper’s wound was self-inflicted,” Prentice said very clearly.
Watkins froze, then turned back very slowly. “You what?”
Prentice repeated what he had said, his eyes challenging, his expression innocent.
Joseph’s throat tightened, his stomach churning. This was exactly what he had come to prevent. He must say something now, before it was too late.
“Mr. Prentice, you know very little