Free The Fallen by Tarn Richardson Page B

you’ll be more comfortable lodging further down the valley, won’t you? Your type, begging your pardon, they are all encamped down there,” he said, waving with his arm. “All the officers are posted away from the infantry. Surely you’d be happier among them?” The Sergeant was suddenly sure he no longer wanted the Priest and his fellow chaplains to stay in his camp. A harrowing sense of tragedy reflected in the darks of their eyes, the deep frown lines around their drawn and unyielding features. Malice lingered like a presence about them, as if death was their past and would be their future. He noticed the way the Priest he was addressing wouldn’t make eye contact with him, that his gaze constantly strained to the high summits to the east as if they held a great fascination. And the Sergeant wasglad that he hadn’t looked into the Priest’s eyes. He was sure that, had he done so, he would have seen something that would have haunted him for many years to come
    The Priest raised his hand to silence him. “No,” he said. “Where you indicate is fine,” and he walked on, the chaplains falling into line behind him, taking their boxes of paraphernalia and swollen packs of provisions with them for the long march to the summit.

THIRTEEN
    T HE I TALIAN F RONT . T HE S OČA R IVER . N ORTHWEST S LOVENIA .
    The group of soldiers gathered around the young Private, personally delivered by the Priests, and inspected him as if he were some gift given to the unit.
    â€œWhat’s your name, son?” the Corporal within the group asked at length. He had an open, swarthy face, from which emerald green eyes sparkled.
    â€œPrivate Gilda. Private Pablo Gilda,” said the young soldier. Next to the weathered appearance of the Corporal, burnt by sun and wind, the young Private looked like a child.
    â€œDelivered to us by God?” said one of the soldiers in the group, mockingly. Pablo looked confused and the Corporal added, “The Priests. A personal entourage?”
    â€œThey’re Priests from my local church.”
    â€œAre they now?” replied the Corporal, pursing his lips and considering the comment with suspicion. Pablo noticed that the Corporal’s eyes kept dropping to look down at his hands, and surreptitiously the young man hid them behind his back. The Corporal clapped suddenly and his face broadened into a smile. “Anyway, Private Gilda, we are forgetting our manners. Welcome! Hope you brought your climbing boots?”
    Pablo looked about his person anxiously. By now the Sergeant Major had crossed the ravaged dry limestone ground and joined the circle of soldiers. “Leave him alone, Corporal Abelli,” the Sergeant warned. “You’ll do well to ignore this idiot,” he went on to say to Pablo.
    â€œCatholic Priests,” offered Abelli, taking out a large unlit round-bellied pipe and sticking it into the corner of his mouth. “Delivering our recruits now.” He shook his head, and searched in a pocket for a match. “Looks like we’re being honoured by the presence of the almighty, Sergeant Major? An army from God?” There was a trace of cynicism in his voice.
    â€œGot to wonder why they suggested this poor sod goes with you, Corporal Abelli,” said the Sergeant, looking Pablo up and down disdainfully.
    â€œThey obviously know class when they see it?” another of the soldiers replied, chuckling.
    The Sergeant Major ignored the comment and scowled at Pablo. “You sure you’re able to carry all that gear up a mountain,” he asked doubtfully, looking at the Private’s meagre frame.
    Pablo nodded. “I’ve done my training. Six months.”
    One of the soldiers whistled and another laughed.
    â€œTry six weeks in the Carso,” said one of them.
    The Sergeant Major told him to shut up. “You’re in no position to lecture, Private,” he told the soldier.