Free Amy by Peggy Savage Page A

and swallowed. She could never get used to the smell and never seemed to be able to get rid of it. It seemed to cling in her hair and clothes and stay in her nostrils for days, sour and rotting.
    The priest led her through a little cemetery beside the church. There were a few ancient gravestones, but most of the graves had simple wooden crosses. One of the graves was decorated with a wreath made entirely of beads that shone and glittered in the sun. Who had made that, she wondered? It was a work of art, a reminder of days of peace and leisure. Between the graves the grass was mown and here and there a late, lost poppy was still in bloom. At first sight the little graveyard seemed filled with peace, with loving memories of villagers of the past, villagers who had died in the love and care of their families. But there were two fresh graves, each with a bunch of wild flowers in a jar. Amy stopped beside the graves. Often she was able to take the name and rank of the dead. At least their suffering families would know where they were.
    ‘Two British soldiers,’ the priest said. ‘We don’t know who they are. They only had half their clothes, and nothing to say who they are.’
    Amy felt an immense sadness. These two young men had died here, far from home, with only strangers to bury them. They had mothers at home, back in England, who didn’t know what had happened to them, who would probably never know.
    They came to a tall, rusty cross, with a figure of Christ that had lost its head.
    The priest stopped. ‘A bullet,’ he said. ‘It was a bullet.’
    The head with its crown of thorns looked up at her from the grass. She shivered, for a few moments unable to move on.
    She steadied herself against the cross. The little churchyard reminded her of home. She saw herself going to church with her father every Sunday as a matter of course, but she had had doubts before. Her work at the hospital and the occasional suffragist meeting had opened her eyes to the dreadful privations of the poor in England. One Sunday, an idea, almost a blasphemy, had come into her head and shocked her.Did God only live in comfortable places? Was He really in the slums and workhouses? Was He here on the battlefields? What kind of God would make a world like this? The face, looking up from the grass, had no answer to give her.
    Over the hills there came a sound, a tearing, crashing boom, a shriek, a rumbling; the sound of great guns. The priest winced and shuddered. ‘This way,’ he said.
    The door of the church was open and a cloud of fat, bloated flies buzzed around it. As she approached the foul smell hit her again like a blow, a solid wall of pestilence and putrefaction. She hesitated and slowed. For a few moments she was overcome. She began to tremble and leant against the church wall. She wanted to run away, run to the ambulance and drive away, away anywhere, as long as it was away from here. Slowly she gathered her strength and walked inside.
    A dozen men, French and English, were lying in the straw on the floor. They lay close together, their uniforms tattered and filthy. Some of them were moaning in pain, some muttering and calling out in delirium . One man was laughing, a continuous high-pitched manic laugh behind empty, staring eyes. His left arm was in a crude sling and he held up his right hand as if he were holding a gun. He pointed it at Amy. ‘Bang,’ he said, and then the manic laugh again. An orderly from the RAMC and some of the village women were handing out tin mugs of water. Every head turned towards her. Some of the men gave a faint, ragged cheer. One man, an older man by the look of him, in a sergeant’s uniform, called out, ‘Thank God. God bless you.’
    The orderly came towards her. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. He was small and thickset, with a strong Northern accent, Lancashire, perhaps, or Cumberland. He had a bloodstained bandage around his head.
    ‘You’re hit yourself,’ Amy said.
    ‘Just a