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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