“No, I’d disagree, lieutenant. This isn’t just another war story, is it? This one is unique. Why?”
Smith looked into the old man’s eyes. They were bright. Interested. Yet was there something else? A glitter of fear? As if he suspected he would hear truths expressed that he’d hoped would remain hidden.
“Lieutenant. You and your thousand men were subjected to an artillery bombardment. Then you were attacked by eighty thousand German soldiers. Tell me what happened next.”
“We stepped up to the lip of the trench and fired as the Germans advanced. We kept firing until we ran out of ammunition, or the guns jammed. The barrels became so hot that they glowed red.”
“And?”
“And the enemy kept advancing across the mud.”
“What did you do?”
“That was the strangest thing. My men began to sing music-hall songs and make jokes about the Hun and the shells exploding all around them.”
“Was that usual?”
“Before and after a battle, the men would sing and joke. But not during. You become focused on a tiny aspect of the conflict. You stop being aware of what is around you.”
“They were singing and joking. Weren’t your comrades suffering casualties?”
“Yes. Dreadfully. Within the hour our thousand-strong force was cut by half. Dead and dying men lay in the bottom of the trench.”
“What made your men experience such a mood of elation?”
“I don’t know, Mr Machen. It’s strange. I was frightened. I knew I would be killed, it was inevitable… but my arms and legs tingled. It was as if my body was stimulated by some impending event… something extraordinary. And yet my mind could only realize the terrible aspect of what was to come.”
“So it was as if mind and body had become somehow separate?”
“Yes… yes! That would be the best way of putting it, sir.”
“What happened next?”
“The Hun advanced like a solid wall of grey. Then they stopped.”
“Stopped?”
“Were stopped, would perhaps be more accurate.”
“Your weapons?”
“No. We’d all but run out of ammunition. Our big guns were being pulled back so we had no covering artillery fire.”
“And yet the enemy soldiers lay dead in no man’s land.” Machen inclined his grey head as he regarded Smith. “Dare I say the body count amounted to ten thousand?”
Smith nodded.
“And not a mark was found on the bodies? Not a single scratch?”
“That’s correct. The enemy assault failed. Our men retreated to their new lines in good order. Even the enemy artillery was silenced, and we could walk into no man’s land to collect their weapons. Our medical men eventually went out to examine the bodies. The doctors asked us how the enemy died and we told them-”
Machen harrumphed. “And you told them that they were slain by the ghostly archers of Agincourt?” His eyes burned with sudden anger.
“No, Mr Machen.” Smith shook his head. “They were killed by angels.”
Machen paused, but only for a few seconds. “Angels aren’t noted for their blood-thirsty tendencies, lieutenant.”
“So I was taught at Sunday School.”
“Well?” Machen slowly shook his head. “How do you wish me to respond? With a ‘Yes, lieutenant. Clearly they were avenging angels. Weren’t we, the British, fortunate?’ “
“No, Mr Machen. At Sunday School we are only taught a much-diluted version of Biblical events. The world of gods and spirits is far more complex than that.”
“Ah, the spirit world…”
“Please don’t mock me, sir.”
“Why should I mock you? Whatever you and I believe to make this existence a more palatable one should not be open to mockery.” The tremor of falling bombs jingled Machen’s decanters in their tantalus. “We should be free to choose our gods.”
“And to choose our angels?”
“If that is what is important to you, yes.”
“Mr Machen. What is important to me is that I learn what happened to me on that day in August when I should have been killed. I was saved by something I cannot understand. Perhaps ‘angels’ is the wrong word, but how else can I describe them?”
“Lieutenant. If you believe angels were your saviours then continue to believe. Take strength from that.”
“But I have to know what they were.”
“No, you don’t. And to dig deeper would be folly.”
“No, I-”
“Be content; let it remain a mystery.”
“That would be contemptible.”
“Contemptible?” Colour rose in Machen’s cheeks. “Contemptible? How can it be contemptible?”
“Listen, man. For Heaven’s sake, listen!” Smith pointed toward the curtained window. “Out there hundreds of men, women and children are being slaughtered by the Germans. You hear the aircraft? You hear the bombs? There are hundreds of them, tearing the heart out of this city. Yet you calmly tell me to forget that when the British were last threatened with annihilation, some force of pure good — angels, whatever — looked down and saw the slaughter. And they chose to stop it.” Smith sprang from the chair and swept the curtain open. Bursts of fire blossomed across the face of the city. The dome of St Paul ’s showed as a silhouette against the blood-red light. Smoke boiled into the sky. Searchlights stalked the clouds, while anti-aircraft guns hurled glittering tracer shells at enemy bombers.
“Don’t forget,” Machen said in even tones. “We have a blackout for a reason. Close the curtains, lieutenant.”
“Help me uncover the truth about the angels.”
“No.”
“But think! Just for a moment! If we can summon the angels again, they may halt the bombing.”
“Close the curtains. The pilots can see a lit match from 20,000 feet.”
“Not until you agree to help me.”
“Lieutenant, that is the worst kind of blackmail. And you don’t mean it.”
With a snarl Smith dragged the heavy blackout curtains shut. Machen was right. This was not the way. Taking a deep breath he said, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll bid you good night.”
Machen sighed. “I don’t blame you for trying to save London. Lord knows we need His help tonight. Sit down. Here… have a little more of this. You know…” He poured more whisky. “This is known as ‘the water of life’. Not without good reason, hmm?”