The Angels Must Be British - During the German invasion of Belgium in 1914, Jules Jaspar, a chaplain in the Belgian army, is assigned to protect three mentally ill soldiers deemed unfit for duty. After leading the soldiers through dangerous terrain to mighty Fort de Loncin, the Battle of Liège rages around and above them. Jaspar and "the madmen" struggle to keep their wits in the underground fort as the Germans launch shell after shell without mercy, punishing the Belgian 3rd Division as they refuse to surrender.
Chapter IX
Jaspar
had often read of Saint Agatha of Sicily, who once awoke in a prison
to see the Apostle Peter and an angel tending to her wounds. He’d
always suspected the tale to be apocryphal, but never shared so with
parishioners. Now as he slowly emerged from the cocoon of laudanum,
the maelstrom of sleep spitting him out, he saw a hazy figure at his
bare feet, a glowing white cloth in its hand.
He
felt water and cloth soak his raw flesh, bringing pinprick sensations
that reminded him where he was and how he came to be there. Jaspar
could do nothing but feel, and strain his eyes to see what he could.
He couldn’t roll over or sit up, or lift his head from a rough
pillow on which he was propped. He watched the shape gingerly soothe
his feet with the brilliant cloth that glowed in the hands of his
caretaker – there was no mistaking that it glowed.
His
thoughts wound their way through a groggy maze to Saint Agatha in her
prison cell, of the angel and the Apostle appearing to the abused
martyr to comfort her in her distress. Aided by the remains of a dose
of opiate, Jaspar settled it in his head that the Apostle Peter was
there, cleaning his bloody feet. He wept more freely than he had when
shells and men exploded around him.
A
high-strung voice drifted into his epiphany. There was no trace of
Galilean in the voice – it was quite Dutch in its inflection –
and his dream slowly fell in pieces. “Are you waking, Jules Jaspar?
Do you hear me?”
It
wasn’t any ill feeling for Van Hove that made the fading of the
illusion so devastating. King Albert himself could have been the one
tending his feet, and the chill of the comfort being snatched from
him so cruelly would have still reduced Jaspar to a blubbering lump.
He wept bitterly now, his teeth clenched in anger.
“Don’t
weep, sir! You mustn’t weep!” Van Hove said earnestly as he
washed Jaspar’s feet. “There are angels on the way. An entire
legion! You’ll see, Jules Jaspar!”
Of
course, words like these could only have the opposite effect.
It
soon became clear what caused the white cloth to glow: stunning
sunlight poured into the concrete room from a barred window above
where Jaspar lay. It must have been late afternoon, the sun having
claimed the west. True to the sky’s newly treacherous nature, the
sun had tricked him.
The
longing for the spirit of the Apostle to rescue him was interrupted
further by a tall bearded man who, though of unimposing presence, had
an air about him that insisted he was a competent, studious young
fellow. His solemn green eyes conveyed wisdom, despite the man’s
relative youth. Under a bloodied smock he wore a plain muslin shirt
that had probably been pure white just days ago. It seemed he’d
been snatched from an office or a café and told the army needed him
right away.
The
man’s voice matched his scholarly face: “is he lucid, Eduard?”
“He’s
awake, Doctor,” Van Hove said quietly. “But he’s troubled. I
hope he hasn’t lost his faith.”
The
doctor approached the bedding on which the chaplain lay. “Let’s
not worry about that for the moment, Eduard. Sir, can you hear me?”
Jaspar
nodded. “Am I in the fort?”
“Yes,
you are.”
A
piece of Scripture came to Jaspar as naturally as the rumbling of the
gut during hunger. As if prompted, he said in a faint whisper, “Thou
shalt hide them in the secret of Thy presence from the pride of man:
Thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of
tongues.”
Van
Hove, who’d put his ear close to Jaspar’s lips to hear, rose
excitedly to his feet. “That’s from the Psalms, isn’t it? His
faith remains!”
The
doctor knelt beside him. “I’m Dr. Desmet. You’re the man who
brought the stragglers here?”
“They’re
not stragglers. They’re mad. Please don’t punish them, sir,”
the chaplain replied wearily, rubbing his eyes. Van Hove handed him
his spectacles, wearing an expression of pride at having kept them
safe. He was apparently not offended at being called mad while in the
room.
“Punish
them? I don’t have the authority. But if I did, I wouldn’t think
of such a thing, sir.” Desmet gripped Jaspar’s limp hand and
squeezed it. A look came over his face that said clearly,
I’ve only the nerve to say this once, so listen carefully:
“Thank
you, sir. You’ve done a truly good deed.”
The
gratitude of this stranger, some would insist the best kind of
gratitude, was lost on Jaspar. Being more alert, his nerves were
terribly aware of the damage to his flesh. “Is there an injection
of some sort you can put in my feet?”
The
doctor smiled as if caught doing something he shouldn’t. “I’m
afraid I have only iodine, sir. And I don’t want to give you
another dose of laudanum – you’ve slept fourteen hours.”
Jaspar
sat up with as much of a start as his ragged form would allow. When
he did, he realized he wasn’t in a small chamber illuminated by a
lone window, but in a long, wide room packed with men on their backs,
some on cots, some on beds of straw. Jaspar lay on the latter, and
was glad – he’d have died of shame if he’d been given a much
more comfortable cot. Some men cried out, others bore their suffering
in silence, either bravely, hopelessly, or grudgingly. Jaspar’s
senses returned, the last of the precious opiate’s magic leaving
him, and the shouts and groans were joined by guns and shells. They
weren’t muffled by the walls of the fort, but neither were they
unbearable; they were like a pianissimo accompaniment to every other
sound and word.
His
last, strongest sense to return was smell: human waste, sweat, and
the more industrial stenches of smoke and gunpowder reintroduced
themselves.
“Fourteen
hours, you say!”
The
alarm in Jaspar’s voice moved the doctor to placate him the best
way he could – by telling him all that had happened since he’d
been put in a slumber, if for no other reason than to assure him the
world hadn’t exploded or stopped turning while he slept:
“Liège
has fallen,” Desmet said softly. “The city was occupied this
morning.”
Jaspar
shoved the doctor from his bedside, as courteously as one could,
leaned over, and vomited.
Not
particularly fazed, having obviously seen much worse, the floor
already being painted with various human fluids, Desmet continued:
“The general arrived here soon after.”
“The
general?” Jaspar asked, catching his breath.
“General
Leman.”
“Oh.
I see.”
“He
commands Third Division.”
“I
know that,”
the chaplain grumbled weakly.
“My
apologies, sir. I only mean to fill you in. When he came, the
officers gave him a big rally.” Desmet’s voice revealed
bemusement. “One officer said, ‘General Leman has done us the
great honor of taking refuge with us! Shall we give up the general?’
All the lads shouted No!
So, it looks as though we’re all going to be here a while. Never
surrender, and all that.”
Jaspar’s
faculties were keen enough to detect the sardonic way in which the
doctor spoke. He felt a touch of resentment for this perceived
cynicism. So he replied in the childish hyperbole of one who hasn’t
taken a breath to cool his temper: “Good! I myself would rather be
crushed to powder than surrender. I say God bless General Leman, even
if you won’t, sir.”
“Don’t
say such things, Jules Jaspar!” Van Hove interjected. “None of us
will be crushed. We’ll be delivered soon! You’ll see!”
Perhaps
realizing the exchange might deteriorate into patriotism versus
madness versus pessimism, Desmet moved the talk elsewhere: “Can you
tell me about the men you brought here? I’d like to examine them,
and you can tell me more, if you have the strength.”
Jaspar
struggled to raise himself from his pile of straw. Desmet offered him
a pair of crutches. “Take these, sir. They may be of some
help.”
“And
I’ve found you a pair of boots!” Van Hove announced excitedly.
“They may be a bit loose. But I’ve stuffed them with as much
cotton as I could find.”
Jaspar
didn’t bother resisting as Van Hove fumbled to put the boots on his
ragged feet. The clergyman winced and strove to keep his groans
inside for fear of appearing weak to the doctor, incapable of bearing
injury with dignity, like one who would rather surrender to the
Germans.
He
felt like Jonah being roused from an oblivious sleep while the crew
of the ship frantically fought the weather; he’d been in an
impenetrable slumber, while all around him men struggled to breathe,
to move their limbs, or to simply keep from screaming.
Once
vertical, Jaspar settled his tattered feet more firmly into the
boots. They were about a size and a half too big, no doubt taken from
a soldier who died in the meadows or the city, or one whose feet were
somewhere in a pile of amputated members. They were crammed with
cotton, just as Van Hove said. The boots were about as comfortable as
a layer of iodine itself, but Jaspar was nonetheless sorely moved by
the madman’s thoughtfulness. A bit of moisture welled in his eyes,
but afraid of being again exhorted not to weep, or viewed by the
doctor as one willing to capitulate, he dammed his tears as soon as
they began.
He
gripped the crutches and concentrated on regaining his mobility. He
negotiated the pieces of wood stiffly and awkwardly at first, but
soon found a tolerably swift stride. He alternated feet, using the
crutches so that he walked with only one foot, until the sole begged
for a rest, then switched to the other. His face was soon covered in
sweat as he followed the doctor around a corner, Van Hove seeing to
it he didn’t fall. The floor and walls tilted and threatened to
turn upside down.
His
nurse’s watchful eye couldn’t predict the almighty blast that
sent Jaspar to the floor. Everyone within the fort was stunned into a
moment of neurological cringe. Then, the clamor of men and might
within and without Loncin continued undeterred.
Van
Hove hurried to assure Jaspar as he helped him delicately to his
feet. “It’s one of ours being fired! Don’t worry, Jules Jaspar!
No weapon formed against this fort will prosper!”
Jaspar’s
left ear felt strange. He thought perhaps the firing of the gun had
finally obliterated its function for good, but touching it, he found
it had been bandaged and packed with some soft material. His fear
gave way and he was now more annoyed by the blast than outraged.
An
assistant to the doctor found his way through a throng of soldiers.
He took a suddenly confused Van Hove by the arm and guided him into a
small room nearby. Jaspar could see Roux and Magritte waiting in the
whitewashed stone chamber to which their comrade was taken. They
exchanged glances at one another, but the exchange ended there;
Jaspar couldn’t wave, his hands gripping his crutches, and he
thought it unseemly to call out hello, as if seeing a pair of friends
at church. He didn’t know why.
“I’m
going to examine these men for syphilis,” Desmet said quietly. “I’m
sure you’d rather wait outside.” His demeanor was as modest as if
he were the one to be examined. The closing of the heavy door might
have been ominous had another man shut it behind him, but the
doctor’s manner was so disarming that he almost seemed motherly.
Though, still stewing over the doctor’s facetious words concerning
Belgian perseverance, he decided not to share that compliment should
the chance ever arise.
Jaspar
looked about him and was disheartened as he noticed the comforting
beige of the fort’s more orderly section had given way to bleak
gray floors and roughly textured white walls. He recalled that the
large room where he’d lain with the wounded had been sloppily
painted brown, with gray and white spots visible throughout. Loncin
was beginning to feel like the dungeon it should have felt like all
along. Before he could dwell upon this, he noticed a familiar object of offense hanging from a large hook on the wall – a pail of water.
It looked as if it had been placed there just for him, dangling there
all by itself. He painfully maneuvered his way to it and, finding a
ladle in the pail, scooped up a drink and brought it to his mouth.
As
if rehearsed for a stage play, the First-Sergeant who’d days ago
upbraided him for his liberal use of water appeared from a nearby
corridor. When he recognized Jaspar, he abruptly halted his
overly-rigid walk typical of non-commissioned officers. His eyes
narrowed and fixed on the ladle of water approaching the wretched
chaplain’s mouth.
The
First-Sergeant stepped toward him, but stopped again. A great
uncertainty washed over his face. He looked at the pail of water and
back at his nemesis. Jaspar’s thoughts dared him to say something,
even do
something; he didn’t realize his face clearly expressed that dare.
He caught his reflection in the water and saw, as through a glass
darkly, a ghostly resemblance of what he’d once known to be his own
face: there were deep crags around his eyes that he was sure hadn’t
been there when he left Brussels, copious stubble covered his cheeks,
light blonde as it may have been, and his jaw was clenched as if he
was being led to a gallows.
Unremarkable
Jaspar trumped the sergeant; the desperation for a drink of cool
water was, understandably, misconstrued as a touch of maniac. The
First-Sergeant, with whatever that rank entails, turned and took his
assigned authority and duties elsewhere, leaving Jaspar to whisper
praise to God for the water that satiated and cleansed his mouth. He
pretended it washed away the soil and bits of blood and guts that had
made their way inside, knowing he was pretending and not at all
caring.
He
listened to the sound of guns and machinery outside the mighty haven.
His left ear now sealed, his brain had delegated all his hearing to
the right. Jaspar could hear more clearly this way, rather than
straining to hear with one ear while distracted by the pain in the
other.
When
the door to the improvised examination room opened, the doctor’s
assistant guided the madmen down the hall. Van Hove looked deflated,
deprived of the buoyancy of his declaration of pending Divine aid;
Magritte’s hands were shoved in his trousers pockets and he wore a
look of disinterest and irritation; Roux trailed behind, turning once
to look at Jaspar with a blank expression. The assistant’s eyes
were leery as he walked alongside them.
“Where
are they going?” Jaspar asked the doctor.
“Some
of the men are about to take a sort of communal bath. I thought
bathing with the other soldiers might remind these men they’re a
part of...all
this,
too. I don’t want them to feel ostracized.”
“I
suppose I could use a bath as well,” Jaspar mumbled modestly.
“Private
Van Hove washed you while you slept,” Dr. Desmet said. “And, I
removed a few bits of concrete from your feet.”
Jaspar’s
knees felt weak upon both revelations, given his prudish disposition
and the anguish in his flesh. Before he could ask questions one might
naturally ask after learning these things had happened while he
slept, the doctor volunteered his assessment of the madmen:
“There
are no signs of syphilis, so at least there’s that. I believe
Private Van Hove – Eduard, that is his name – has suffered a
psychotic break of sorts. I doubt he’s been insane his entire life.
When I pressed him to tell me more about his time before he was
conscripted, he said two years ago, he and a friend traveled to
Marseille. For a sort of adventure, I gathered. They were attacked
and robbed there, and his friend was killed. I’m not a
psychoanalyzer, but seeing such a thing must have contributed to his
state. What was he like when he came into your acquaintance?”
“He
spoke of summoning angels. As he still does.”
“Perhaps
some kind of monomania,” Desmet mused aloud.
“He
flew into a rage when Magritte mocked him. He hit himself in the
face, and screamed horribly. I had to...we had to silence him,
physically. We weren’t trying to hurt him, you understand. But we
had to keep him quiet.”
“I
see. Was he violent toward anyone else?”
For
the first time, Jaspar noticed the red imprint of Van Hove’s teeth.
“He bit my hand.”
“Mm.”
Desmet paced the corridor, hands in his pockets as if waiting for a
train. “Did he claim to see or hear things that weren’t there?”
Jaspar
was at a loss. He was almost sure all of them had seen the dogs,
freed them, was sure they’d all turned to children in the moment,
had all seen each other do so; he was less sure, but sure enough,
they’d all seen the Zeppelin, seen it rain hell, and that they’d
all run away in unspoken, unanimous terror.
“If
he did see or hear anything...anything only he
could...” Jaspar said unsurely, “he didn’t say so.”
A
brief silence fell before the chaplain whispered, not realizing he
was speaking aloud, “Seeing so many men killed must be like
witnessing the murder again, over and over. If I’d known, I’d
have tried to take him to Holland...no...no, that’s ridiculous.
Don’t listen to me...God help his poor soul...”
Dr.
Desmet now seemed to be studying him. Jaspar didn’t like it. The
doctor made it worse when he said, “Monsieur Jaspar, if only you
were an officer.”
“Our
officers are fine men,” the chaplain mumbled.
“I’m
sure there are fine men among them. But you seem to me a
compassionate fellow,” Desmet said, immovable in his belief in
Jaspar’s kindness and the weakness of whatever veil behind which it
hid.
The
latter averted his eyes to the floor. “I’m not as compassionate
as I ought to be – I almost struck poor Van Hove when he bit me.”
“That’s
only normal, sir.”
“I
suppose. In that case, I wish it had been Magritte who bit me...no,
no, I shouldn’t say that.”
“That,
too, is only normal. What was your own impression of Joseph
Magritte?”
“A
sour nitwit,” Jaspar answered readily. “And not because he thinks
he’s a king. That’s only...incidental.” Jaspar was quick to
add, for courtesy’s sake, “pardon my crude talk.”
“Oh,
I don’t mind,” the doctor said. “Actually, you and I are in
perfect agreement on that. Was he violent at all?”
“No.
Just insufferable.”
“Mm.
He doesn’t seem overtly psychotic. He probably suffers from some
general mood distemper, with delusions of grandeur. He tells me
neither of his parents suffered from any bouts of madness. But, as
you know, he insists his father was King Leopold. If he said his
father was mad, the papers might get a hold of it. Bad publicity for
a prince, you know.”
Desmet
smiled and put his hands behind his back, pleased with his joke,
though he could see Jaspar had slipped into deep thought.
“Is
something wrong, Monsieur Jaspar?”
“Private
Roux...he was the most...the most sane
of the three. Maybe it’s only because he didn’t speak. You’ll
pardon my saying so: I hope you don’t declare him crazy. I believe
he simply took leave of his senses. I understand it’s not sane to
cut one’s own throat, but I – and I know I’m less than a layman
– I can’t bring myself to call him deranged. I hope you checked
the wound for infection.”
The
doctor’s expression was dubious. Jaspar meekly began to apologize
for his presumptive psychiatric talk, but was interrupted by who he
thought to be an officer (interrupted conversations, he’d by now
learned, were a symptom of war he hadn’t read about in all those
manuals and memoirs).
The
First-Sergeant must have tattled, he supposed. The man was dressed
ornately, in a double-breasted blue cloak that boasted a yellow
embroidered cross on each side of the velvet stand-up collar. His
uniform – an actual uniform, not a wool coat from a local shop –
still showed signs of a proper starching, but was spattered with
other men’s blood. This explained the metal flask he held in his
hand. He wasn’t drunk, but his expression declared he had every
intention of getting there. Despite his uniform, the man wasn’t a
soldier, but a chaplain.
He
spoke as one unashamed, or short of time: “Can you spare a good
word for the men? Just a couple of regiments. What’s left of them.
The Twelfth and the...Twenty-second? Thirty-second?
Is there a Thirty-second Regiment? I can’t remember which...one of
those mixed
brigades,
you know.”
As
if seeking medical clearance, Jaspar turned to Desmet. The doctor was
clearly troubled.
“Monsieur
Jaspar!” The doctor’s voice was hushed but sharp and grave. “Sir,
are you thinking clearly?”
Jaspar
was taken aback by Desmet’s concern, and by the bewilderment on his
face; perhaps the doctor saw the same glint of mad desperation that
had driven off the First-Sergeant, and felt he wasn’t in the best
condition to give any kind of sermon. Still, Jaspar stiffened and
answered calmly but resolutely, “I can give a homily, sir. It’s
what I volunteered for this army to do, to lift the spirits of
others.”
Jaspar
added a brusque “you’ll pardon me now,” feeling a bit guilty
owing to Desmet’s gentle deportment, and hobbled away with his
brother in clergy.
“I’ll
be honest with you, sir,” the uniformed ecclesiastic said, as
casually as to a familiar friend, “I’m simply at a loss for a
good message this evening.”
“Evening?
Is it nighttime?”
“It
is.”
The
other chaplain took a drink, clucked and smiled broadly. “Isn’t
it funny? I said, ‘I’ll be honest with you.’ Of
course
I’ll be honest with you!” The man’s face was inches from
Jaspar’s, as if to make perfectly sure he was comprehended. “How
could I not
be honest with you?”
He
spat a hearty guffaw that filled the corridor, even rising above the
grumbling and murmuring soldiers they passed. He abruptly choked his
laughter when they came to a stairway leading to a level below.
“They’re
making you out to be a hero,” the man suddenly mumbled.
“I
doubt that,” Jaspar replied, straining on his crutches.
“Well,
no, they’re really not. But there has been a lot of chatter about
it – the man of the cloth, who rescued two lunatic soldiers.”
“There
were three.”
The
man in the starched, blood-stained uniform took a drink and smiled.
“My error, sir.”
Jaspar
bristled. “Nevermind. It’s not important how many there were. I
didn’t save anyone,” he groused.
As
if he hadn’t heard his colleague, the other chaplain said
thoughtfully, “The way I see it, these men will accept a godly word
from someone in as terrible a shape as they are, as opposed to me. If
they were getting drunk, well, I’d speak to them...”
He
paused and looked above him, holding out his arms as if to receive a
gift from the heavens.
“...I’d
speak freely!
Free of all hypocrisy!” His expression fell somber. “Alas.” He
held up his flask as if making a toast. “Thank you, sir. You’re a
true gentleman and a true Christian.”
Without
thinking to aid his substitute down the concrete stairwell, the
wayward man of God went off to enjoy, or perhaps not enjoy, his
tipple. Knowing the crutches would only be a danger to him, Jaspar
braced his brain and slowly took the dozen or so steps into the
further recess of the fort. He quieted his groans for fear the
soldiers below, waiting for a message of encouragement, would hear
him bellow and size him up to be useless.
When
he reached the bottom and turned a corner, there sat a mess of a
hundred men or more, crammed together in a wide square space not
quite as big as an average gymnasium. It startled Jaspar to see all
hundred-something heads go silent and turn at his appearance. The
soldiers scrutinized him briefly before deciding his bandaged ear,
damp face, and dreadful limp made him acceptable for admittance to
their cramped, stinking, grim-faced meeting.
He
suddenly realized he had no message prepared, that he hadn’t
thought of something slapdash to say on the way to the dirty blue
congregation. All the same, if he could have reached into his coat
pocket to find a stack of old homilies and sermons had miraculously
materialized, he wouldn’t have found any of them fitting,
inspiring, or of any use at all in this pit. The only thing on his
mind now was his feet and the concrete beneath them that couldn’t
care less how difficult they made his preaching.
He
thought of Jesus Christ, naturally, how He suffered. Aware the mass
of soldiers was waiting to hear the chaplain’s good message so they
could think of other things without guilt, Jaspar said, so clearly
and fluently he surprised himself:
“We
thank Thee, our Father in heaven, that Thy Son, for our sake, did not
succumb to temptation in the wilderness and turn harsh desert stones
to soft bread beneath His aching bare feet.”
Guns
outside and above, ignorant of any good to be found in talk of stones
and bread, rumbled for a moment or two before a chorus of amens in
French and Flemish Dutch filled the stuffy room.
When
the soldiers resumed the subdued chatter among themselves, Jaspar
considered his job sufficiently done. He turned and faced the stairs,
looking to the top as if it were a mountain summit. “I thank Thee,
Father,” he whispered. He held the crutches over his shoulder like
a pair of rifles and began his ascent. Short bursts of anguish
escaped his mouth each time his boots made contact with concrete. He
was not ashamed.
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