away, hut those are simple words. I don’t think they tell anything like all the truth. I saw his face when he was in the village shop. He spoke to me quite pleasantly, hut his eyes looked beyond me to some hell I could not see, hut perhaps I had a glimpse of it for an instant.
I know there are a million men out there who are staying and facing everything there is, no matter what, and that many of them will not come hack. Every reason in my mind tells me that if I knew where he was hiding in the hills, then I should tell the authorities so they can hunt him out. I imagine he will he court-martialed and then shot. I can see how that is necessary, or maybe thousands would desert, leaving only the bravest to face the enemy alone.
His father is so ashamed he won’t go to chapel anymore. His mother weeps, but for him, I think, not for herself or for shame. Perhaps it is something in us because we are women, we admire the strong and the brave, but we protect the weak. Is that pity, or simply that we do not think far enough ahead to see the damage it does?
I have troubled myself about this quite a lot. I ask you because I hunger for the answer and I know no one wiser or more able to weigh the matter from the view of both the army and the kinder and greater judgment of God as well. Or at least as much of Cod as it is given us to know.
Joseph had thought about the letter, rereading it to make sure his first impression was right. She did not dare write it openly, but he was convinced she knew where the deserter was, and wanted his opinion as to whether she should betray him or not.
Then he realized with a jolt that by the very use of the word betray he had allowed his sympathies to be as engaged as hers were. He knew the blind stare on young men’s faces when they had seen too much for the mind to bear, when their ears never ceased to hear the roar of the guns, even in the silence of the fields or the chatter of a village street.
And yet if she knew and sheltered him, even by her failure to report it, she would be held accountable for aiding a deserter. At the very best she could be shunned by her own people, at worst she could be charged with a crime. His instinct was to protect her, urge her to take no risks.
But there were other risks, to the conscience, the grief and the shame afterward, to the belief in one’s own compassion or morality. All her life she would remember whatever she did about it, and the life or death of this young man, and his family. One wanted to save everyone—and it was impossible.
He folded up the letter and put it away. He must answer it today. It would not wait. But he was not ready yet. If he was right and she wanted his judgment, then he too would never escape the consequence of it. He drifted off to sleep, the newspaper on the floor beside him.
He was jerked awake by the sound of shouting in the hallway. It was excited voices, high-pitched, over and over again, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” and Henry barking.
He stood up stiffly, papers sliding to the floor, just as Archie came through the door, Jenny on one side of him, Luke on the other, and Tom and Hannah behind him. Archie was smiling. He was still in uniform and there was something enormously impressive about the navy with the gold braid. Tom’s eyes were blazing with pride, and Jenny looked up at her father as if he were close to a god.
But the momentary joy did not hide the fatigue in Archie’s face, and Joseph recognized it with aching familiarity. He had seen that battle-weariness countless times before, the slowness to refocus the eyes, the way the shoulders were tight as if movement was not quite coordinated. Archie’s skin was wind-chapped and there was a razor cut on his left cheek. His dark hair had a touch of early gray at the temples.
“Joseph!” He held out his hand. “How are you?” His glance took in the heavily bandaged arm and the awkwardness of stance as he stood up. He understood injury.
“Good to see you,
I know there are a million men out there who are staying and facing everything there is, no matter what, and that many of them will not come hack. Every reason in my mind tells me that if I knew where he was hiding in the hills, then I should tell the authorities so they can hunt him out. I imagine he will he court-martialed and then shot. I can see how that is necessary, or maybe thousands would desert, leaving only the bravest to face the enemy alone.
His father is so ashamed he won’t go to chapel anymore. His mother weeps, but for him, I think, not for herself or for shame. Perhaps it is something in us because we are women, we admire the strong and the brave, but we protect the weak. Is that pity, or simply that we do not think far enough ahead to see the damage it does?
I have troubled myself about this quite a lot. I ask you because I hunger for the answer and I know no one wiser or more able to weigh the matter from the view of both the army and the kinder and greater judgment of God as well. Or at least as much of Cod as it is given us to know.
Joseph had thought about the letter, rereading it to make sure his first impression was right. She did not dare write it openly, but he was convinced she knew where the deserter was, and wanted his opinion as to whether she should betray him or not.
Then he realized with a jolt that by the very use of the word betray he had allowed his sympathies to be as engaged as hers were. He knew the blind stare on young men’s faces when they had seen too much for the mind to bear, when their ears never ceased to hear the roar of the guns, even in the silence of the fields or the chatter of a village street.
And yet if she knew and sheltered him, even by her failure to report it, she would be held accountable for aiding a deserter. At the very best she could be shunned by her own people, at worst she could be charged with a crime. His instinct was to protect her, urge her to take no risks.
But there were other risks, to the conscience, the grief and the shame afterward, to the belief in one’s own compassion or morality. All her life she would remember whatever she did about it, and the life or death of this young man, and his family. One wanted to save everyone—and it was impossible.
He folded up the letter and put it away. He must answer it today. It would not wait. But he was not ready yet. If he was right and she wanted his judgment, then he too would never escape the consequence of it. He drifted off to sleep, the newspaper on the floor beside him.
He was jerked awake by the sound of shouting in the hallway. It was excited voices, high-pitched, over and over again, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” and Henry barking.
He stood up stiffly, papers sliding to the floor, just as Archie came through the door, Jenny on one side of him, Luke on the other, and Tom and Hannah behind him. Archie was smiling. He was still in uniform and there was something enormously impressive about the navy with the gold braid. Tom’s eyes were blazing with pride, and Jenny looked up at her father as if he were close to a god.
But the momentary joy did not hide the fatigue in Archie’s face, and Joseph recognized it with aching familiarity. He had seen that battle-weariness countless times before, the slowness to refocus the eyes, the way the shoulders were tight as if movement was not quite coordinated. Archie’s skin was wind-chapped and there was a razor cut on his left cheek. His dark hair had a touch of early gray at the temples.
“Joseph!” He held out his hand. “How are you?” His glance took in the heavily bandaged arm and the awkwardness of stance as he stood up. He understood injury.
“Good to see you,
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