‘At the going down of the sun’
Reverend Cope leaned over the young private. “Hold my hand man! That’s it, yes! Now, say after me; into Thy hands O Lord-“
Private Gillespie clutched his hand. The reverend saw the boy’s lips move and leaned closer to catch the whispered words. “Into Thy hands-“ Gillespie coughed, spraying blood over the reverend’s face, but the clergyman blinked rapidly and said urgently, “yes, yes, now after me; I commend my spirit-“
He smiled down at the younger man, trying to look encouraging despite the spatter across his face. He squeezed Gillespie’s hand more tightly. “Come on, man, say the words; I’m here and God can hear you.”
The surgeon, Doctor Howick, was struggling manfully to staunch the gaping wound in the private’s chest, standing shoulder to shoulder with the reverend.
Private Gillespie opened his mouth to say the words, but only a series of gasps issued forth.
“We’re losing him!” Howick shouted. “Nurse! More bandages, NOW!”
The reverend felt the panic in the surgeon next to him but all he could focus on was the young man below him struggling desperately for breath. “That’s right lad, just mouth the words, I can see what you’re trying to say.”
Their eyes met and held, and the clergyman felt like they were locked in some obscene mortal combat; not with each other, but with death who was hovering just out of sight.
He felt Gillespie’s hand begin to slacken, and urgently put his ear to the boy’s mouth. Soft as a butterfly’s wing, he heard the words, “I commend……my spirit.” He quickly straightened up and making the sign of the cross he rapidly intoned, “through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.” He was almost gabbling towards the end as he could see the light fading from Gillespie’s eyes.
The surgeon shoved him rudely out of the way, just as the nurse joined them with more bandages, but they both realised they were too late.
Howick rubbed his hand wearily over his unshaven face. “Right, that’s it then, move him over there,” and nodding to two orderlies, he stepped back as they lifted Private Gillespie off the table and onto the floor, to join several other corpses awaiting burial.
Doctor Howick turned to him. “You’ll not be needed now Rev, so if you want to step outside for a breather, I suggest you do so.” He jerked is head towards the tent flap.
Rev nodded mechanically. “Yes, yes, of course, I ah, yes.” He turned away and ducked out of the tent feeling like he was walking through glue. Everything seemed unreal, sounds seemed to be distorted, and objects appeared blurred one minute, then came into sharp focus in the next. He could feel his face getting clammy, sweat forming on his top lip. He turned away and threw up neatly behind a small bush.
He heard a quiet laugh behind him and straightening up turned to see Sergeant ‘Bully’ Scrivens standing there, a cigarette between his lips. “Not easy helpin’ a bloke to die, Rev,” he said, not unsympathetically.
Reverend Cope wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, realising with surprise it was shaking. “Yes, I mean, ah, no, no, not easy.” He looked at the older man, his handsome, weather-beaten face wreathed in smoke. Cope did not smoke, but at that moment, he very much wished he did; instead, he walked over to where Scrivens stood.
“That was my first, and I have a bad feeling it will not be my last before this wretched day is over.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it over this face, removing the last trace of Private Gillespie.
“Ya right, mate, better get used to it, eh?” Bully looked at him closely, noting the clergyman’s pallor and shaking hands. Poor bastard, he means well.
“Yes, yes, indeed.” The reverend looked down at his handkerchief, folding it neatly, the soiled side on the inside Bully noted.
“Give it ‘ere mate, I’ll tek it to one of the lads doin’ the laundry.”
Reverend Cope looked up at him and nodded his thanks handing over the bit of linen.
Bully put it in his breast pocket, flicked his cigarette butt away and entered the tent, leaving Cope with a sense of friendship and the fragrant smell of woodbine.
That day he was called upon a total of twenty-eight times to perform the last rites. After the last man had been comforted and the by now, monotonous words had been uttered, the reverend took off his stole and stood holding it in his hands, looking like he had never seen it before. The part of his brain that wasn’t dulled with fatigue told him that he really ought to go and get something to eat, but his stomach had different ideas and started to do slow somersaults. Walking over to a nearby fallen tree, he sat down abruptly and put his hands on his knees, the stole trailing on the ground.
As he sat there, he dimly became aware of someone communicating with him. He began to concentrate on the words that floated into his tired mind. Words of a father to a son, a wise counsellor, protector and guide. A bubble of joy formed in his chest as he recognised the speaker.
In that moment, surrounded by death, the blood of deceased men upon his hands and face, he felt content. He was not friendless. He was not abandoned.
Cope lifted his head and exclaimed aloud as he saw the sunset. The sun was setting in a pink sky, beams of light streaming out from the top like a child’s drawing. In that moment he knew complete peace. He would endure, he would overcome, and tomorrow he would carry on, knowing that God was with him.