know that he was there. For some it was the sound of a voice, for others it was touch, a hand on a limb that they could still feel. Some wanted a cigarette. Though Joseph himself did not smoke, he had learned the trick early to carry a packet or two of Woodbines.
The bombardment picked up in the evening and went on all night. It was one of the worst he could remember because there were so many men gone that in places sentries on watch were alone, exhausted, and fighting against falling asleep. Apart from the fact that it was an offence for which a man could be court-martialled and face the firing squad, no one wanted to let down their friends or themselves.
There were no reinforcements yet. The Canadians had suffered the worst along this part of the line, and the French Algerians, further east. Now, far from a shortage of food, there were no men to eat it, and it was rotting.
By dawn there was some respite in the attack, possibly because, with the slackening of the wind, pockets of gas still lingered over the craters and in the lower-lying trenches. As full daylight spread over the vast wasteland, with its shattered trees and grey water, its mud and corpses, Joseph made his way back to his own dugout. He washed in cold, sour water, shaved, and sat down at his makeshift table with pen, ink and paper, and a preliminary list of casualties.
He hated it, but it was part of a chaplain's job to write to the families of the dead and break the news. He tried not to say the same thing each time, as if one man's death were interchangeable with any other. The widow or parents, whoever it was, deserved the effort of individual words. Nothing would make the loss better, but perhaps a little dignity, time showing that someone else cared as well as themselves, would make a difference eventually.
Here in his dugout he had a few possessions from home, things he had chosen because they mattered most to his inner life: the picture of Dante from his study in St. John's, that marvelous tortured face, which had seen its own hell, and bequeathed the vision to the world; a couple of books of verse, Chesterton and Rupert Brooke; a photograph of his family, all of them together three Christmases ago; a coin his friend Harry Beecher had found when they had walked together along the old wall the Romans had built across Northumberland from the Tyne to the Irish Sea, eighteen hundred years ago. They were all memories of happiness, the treasures of life.
In the dugout the air was close and humid. Somewhere in the distance a wind-up gramophone was playing. The cheerful, tinny sound of dance music was at once absurd, and incredibly sane. Maybe somewhere people still danced?
Outside Joseph knew men were digging, shoring up trench walls, carrying in fresh timber and filling sandbags to rebuild the parapets. He could smell food bacon frying as well as smoke, the rot of bodies, latrines, and the faint lingering odour of the gas.
He had many letters to write, but the hardest was going to be to the wife of a captain he had held in his arms while he retched up his lungs and drowned in his own blood. It was one of the worst deaths. There was a horror and an obscenity to it that was not there in a shell blast, if it had been quick.
Of course many other deaths were appalling. He had seen men torn in pieces, their blood gushing on to the ground; or caught in the wire and then riddled with bullets, jerking as the metal tore them apart, then left to hang there, because nobody could get to them. They could be there for hours before death released them at last.
He wrote:
Dear Mrs. Hughes,
I am deeply sorry to have to tell you that your husband, Captain Geraint Hughes, was among the victims of the attack of the night before last. He was a brave soldier and a fine man. Nothing I say can touch your grief, but you can be proud of the sacrifice he made, and the fortitude and good humour with which he conducted himself.
I was with him to the end, and I grieve for the
The bombardment picked up in the evening and went on all night. It was one of the worst he could remember because there were so many men gone that in places sentries on watch were alone, exhausted, and fighting against falling asleep. Apart from the fact that it was an offence for which a man could be court-martialled and face the firing squad, no one wanted to let down their friends or themselves.
There were no reinforcements yet. The Canadians had suffered the worst along this part of the line, and the French Algerians, further east. Now, far from a shortage of food, there were no men to eat it, and it was rotting.
By dawn there was some respite in the attack, possibly because, with the slackening of the wind, pockets of gas still lingered over the craters and in the lower-lying trenches. As full daylight spread over the vast wasteland, with its shattered trees and grey water, its mud and corpses, Joseph made his way back to his own dugout. He washed in cold, sour water, shaved, and sat down at his makeshift table with pen, ink and paper, and a preliminary list of casualties.
He hated it, but it was part of a chaplain's job to write to the families of the dead and break the news. He tried not to say the same thing each time, as if one man's death were interchangeable with any other. The widow or parents, whoever it was, deserved the effort of individual words. Nothing would make the loss better, but perhaps a little dignity, time showing that someone else cared as well as themselves, would make a difference eventually.
Here in his dugout he had a few possessions from home, things he had chosen because they mattered most to his inner life: the picture of Dante from his study in St. John's, that marvelous tortured face, which had seen its own hell, and bequeathed the vision to the world; a couple of books of verse, Chesterton and Rupert Brooke; a photograph of his family, all of them together three Christmases ago; a coin his friend Harry Beecher had found when they had walked together along the old wall the Romans had built across Northumberland from the Tyne to the Irish Sea, eighteen hundred years ago. They were all memories of happiness, the treasures of life.
In the dugout the air was close and humid. Somewhere in the distance a wind-up gramophone was playing. The cheerful, tinny sound of dance music was at once absurd, and incredibly sane. Maybe somewhere people still danced?
Outside Joseph knew men were digging, shoring up trench walls, carrying in fresh timber and filling sandbags to rebuild the parapets. He could smell food bacon frying as well as smoke, the rot of bodies, latrines, and the faint lingering odour of the gas.
He had many letters to write, but the hardest was going to be to the wife of a captain he had held in his arms while he retched up his lungs and drowned in his own blood. It was one of the worst deaths. There was a horror and an obscenity to it that was not there in a shell blast, if it had been quick.
Of course many other deaths were appalling. He had seen men torn in pieces, their blood gushing on to the ground; or caught in the wire and then riddled with bullets, jerking as the metal tore them apart, then left to hang there, because nobody could get to them. They could be there for hours before death released them at last.
He wrote:
Dear Mrs. Hughes,
I am deeply sorry to have to tell you that your husband, Captain Geraint Hughes, was among the victims of the attack of the night before last. He was a brave soldier and a fine man. Nothing I say can touch your grief, but you can be proud of the sacrifice he made, and the fortitude and good humour with which he conducted himself.
I was with him to the end, and I grieve for the
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