We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [2]
“’E’s a Jerry prisoner!” someone said angrily. “Best put him out of his misery. Bastards spent four years killing our boys, then think they can just put their hands up in the air, and suddenly we’ll bust our guts bandaging ’em up and looking after ’em. Oi say the war’s still on. Their brothers are over there”—he jerked an arm toward the gunfire—“still troying to kill us. Let’s shoot back.”
There was a measure of agreement in murmured angry voices.
“Very brave,” Joseph said sarcastically. “Ten of you kick an unarmed prisoner to death while your comrades go into no-man’s-land and face the Germans with guns.”
“We found him loike that!” The sense of injustice was hot and instant. Others agreed vehemently.
“’E was escaping!” someone explained. “Going off back to ’is own to tell ’em where we are, an’ how many. We had to stop ’im!”
“Name?” Joseph demanded.
“Turner.”
“Turner, sir!” Joseph snapped.
“Turner, sir,” the man replied sullenly. “’E was still escaping.” The resentment in his voice was clear. Joseph was a chaplain, a noncombatant, and Turner obviously considered him inferior. Joseph had now compounded that attitude with his holy-Joe interference, interrupting natural justice.
“And it takes ten of you to stop him?” Joseph inquired, allowing his voice to rise with disbelief.
“Two of us,” Turner replied. “Me an’ Culshaw.”
“Go and join your unit,” Joseph ordered. “Teversham and I will get him to the dressing station.”
Turner did not move. “He’s German, sir—”
“So you said. We don’t kill unarmed prisoners. If it’s worth bothering, we question them; if not, we leave them alone.”
Someone muttered a remark Joseph did not hear. There was a ripple of jerky laughter, then silence.
Whoopy Teversham leveled his bayonet and poked the man nearest him. Reluctantly the group moved aside, and Joseph bent to the figure on the ground. The man was still breathing, but he was obviously badly hurt. If they left him here much longer, he might die.
Slowly one of the other men stepped forward and helped lift the prisoner so Joseph could get his weight onto his shoulders and carry him at least as far as the Casualty Clearing Station. It might offer the man no more than a chance to die humanely.
The German was not heavy; perhaps hunger had taken its toll. Many people, both army and civilian, were starving. Even so he was awkward to carry, and the ground under Joseph’s feet was uneven. He knew it must be painful for the wounded man, but there was nothing he could do to ease it.
He was almost at the Admissions tent again when an orderly ran out to meet him and helped them both inside. In the light Joseph was stunned to see the German’s face. He was so badly beaten that his features were almost indistinguishable. His left arm was broken, and a deep wound in his thigh bled so heavily, it was impossible to tell if shrapnel or bayonet had caused it. His eyes were sunken with physical shock, staring in terror. Joseph could see now that he was very young.
“You’re all right,” he said to him in German. “We’ll dress the wound in your leg and clean you up a bit, then get you back to the proper hospital.”
“I surrender,” the boy answered thickly, his words blurred by the torn and swollen flesh of his face. “I surrender.”
“I know,” Joseph assured him. “We have lots of you. When we’ve got you bandaged and your arm set, we’ll put you with the others.”
“You going to ask me questions?” The fear was still there in his eyes.
“No. Why? Do you have anything to tell me?”
“No. I surrender.”
“That’s what I thought. Now be quiet until the doctor comes.”
Joseph left him with the medical orderlies and went back to assisting others, but the incident stayed in his mind.
It was many hours later when he finally found the opportunity to go forward to look for Bill Harrison, Culshaw and Turner’s commanding officer. He had known Harrison since 1915, and liked him. He was a quiet man with a nice sense of humor who had earned his promotion from the ranks.
It was now gray dawn, with