over to his desk, opened it, and sat down to write.
CHAPTER FIVE
Joseph picked up a fresh newspaper and read a long article by Richard Mason, the man regarded by many as the best of the war correspondents. He was writing from the Balkans. It was vivid, immediate, and tragic in its evocation of courage and death. There was an anger in him at suffering that came through all the measured words.
Joseph remembered working beside him on the beach at Gallipoli. He thought of the cheerful Australian voices with their desperate jokes, their inventiveness, irreverence, and good-humored stoicism. He remembered the sinking ship afterward, the cold, and facing Mason in the open boat as the wind rose, and the terrible decision he had made. For all the rage he had felt, oddly enough he had not personally disliked Mason, even then.
He knew that Hannah wanted him to stay at home after he was better, but he had refused to consider the possibility seriously until now. He thought about the men he knew who were still in the trenches, men from the village and from Cambridge itself. Some of them he had taught at St. John’s. In his dreams he was there also. He still woke with surprise to find himself in the quiet, familiar room of his childhood, birdsong in the silence outside, no guns, no soldiers’ voices.
Could he stay? There was certainly plenty for a man of the church to do here, grief to comfort, confusion to try to ease, even anger and specific evil to fight against. He had been nearly two years at Ypres. No one would blame him if he said it was enough. He was thirty-seven, far older than the vast majority of the men. Even most of the officers below the rank of colonel were in their twenties, some even younger.
He would never again have to face the noise—incessant, battering the mind until thought and sense were almost impossible. He need never see another rat, another mutilated body, or watch another young man die and try to find meaning or hope in the closest one could see of hell.
Of course the suffering and the loss would be just the same. It would simply be that he did not have to share the physical reality. He could stay at home and only hear about it, imagine it, remember, and of course see the results in the faces of the women. And after it was over, he could help to rebuild again, whether they won or lost.
Was that what he wanted? With every nightmare, with every aching bone or stab of pain, yes! Yes, he longed to find a reason never ever to go back. He longed to stay here where he was safe and clean, where he could sleep at night, where he could see the slow, sweet spring blossom over the earth, watch the patient horses pull the plow, walk with his dog and see the birds circle in the sky at sunset and fly low to roost in the elms.
Could he do that with an easy heart, knowing his men in Flanders expected him back? No one wanted to return after leave. The only ones who imagined war in heroic colors were those like Hallam Kerr who had never been there. Even most of them were a little wiser, a little more sober now.
The morning post had brought him a letter from Isobel Hughes. He was surprised how much it had pleased him to see her handwriting on the envelope. He had torn it open eagerly.
She was concerned for his injuries in case they were more serious than he had said. They were. But then he would have felt childish telling her the pain had been so consuming he had, at the beginning, even wished he could die of it to escape. That sounded so cowardly now he was intensely grateful he had not said anything.
As always, she told him of village life in Wales, the changing seasons, a little gossip about those she knew and cared for, making light of the hardships without denying them. Only this time there was something darker, a story she introduced quite casually, but her choice of words was different and even her handwriting had an urgency about it.
A young man here on leave from the front has deserted. They say he has run
CHAPTER FIVE
Joseph picked up a fresh newspaper and read a long article by Richard Mason, the man regarded by many as the best of the war correspondents. He was writing from the Balkans. It was vivid, immediate, and tragic in its evocation of courage and death. There was an anger in him at suffering that came through all the measured words.
Joseph remembered working beside him on the beach at Gallipoli. He thought of the cheerful Australian voices with their desperate jokes, their inventiveness, irreverence, and good-humored stoicism. He remembered the sinking ship afterward, the cold, and facing Mason in the open boat as the wind rose, and the terrible decision he had made. For all the rage he had felt, oddly enough he had not personally disliked Mason, even then.
He knew that Hannah wanted him to stay at home after he was better, but he had refused to consider the possibility seriously until now. He thought about the men he knew who were still in the trenches, men from the village and from Cambridge itself. Some of them he had taught at St. John’s. In his dreams he was there also. He still woke with surprise to find himself in the quiet, familiar room of his childhood, birdsong in the silence outside, no guns, no soldiers’ voices.
Could he stay? There was certainly plenty for a man of the church to do here, grief to comfort, confusion to try to ease, even anger and specific evil to fight against. He had been nearly two years at Ypres. No one would blame him if he said it was enough. He was thirty-seven, far older than the vast majority of the men. Even most of the officers below the rank of colonel were in their twenties, some even younger.
He would never again have to face the noise—incessant, battering the mind until thought and sense were almost impossible. He need never see another rat, another mutilated body, or watch another young man die and try to find meaning or hope in the closest one could see of hell.
Of course the suffering and the loss would be just the same. It would simply be that he did not have to share the physical reality. He could stay at home and only hear about it, imagine it, remember, and of course see the results in the faces of the women. And after it was over, he could help to rebuild again, whether they won or lost.
Was that what he wanted? With every nightmare, with every aching bone or stab of pain, yes! Yes, he longed to find a reason never ever to go back. He longed to stay here where he was safe and clean, where he could sleep at night, where he could see the slow, sweet spring blossom over the earth, watch the patient horses pull the plow, walk with his dog and see the birds circle in the sky at sunset and fly low to roost in the elms.
Could he do that with an easy heart, knowing his men in Flanders expected him back? No one wanted to return after leave. The only ones who imagined war in heroic colors were those like Hallam Kerr who had never been there. Even most of them were a little wiser, a little more sober now.
The morning post had brought him a letter from Isobel Hughes. He was surprised how much it had pleased him to see her handwriting on the envelope. He had torn it open eagerly.
She was concerned for his injuries in case they were more serious than he had said. They were. But then he would have felt childish telling her the pain had been so consuming he had, at the beginning, even wished he could die of it to escape. That sounded so cowardly now he was intensely grateful he had not said anything.
As always, she told him of village life in Wales, the changing seasons, a little gossip about those she knew and cared for, making light of the hardships without denying them. Only this time there was something darker, a story she introduced quite casually, but her choice of words was different and even her handwriting had an urgency about it.
A young man here on leave from the front has deserted. They say he has run
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