Inch by inch, foot by foot, they crawled across the open ground until they reached the vestry door. Charlie pushed it open slowly, expecting a volley of bullets to follow, but the loudest sound they heard was the screech of the hinges. Once inside, Charlie crossed himself the way his grandfather always had when entering St. Mary’s and St. Michael’s on Jubilee Street. Tommy lit a cigarette.
Charlie remained cautious as he began to study the layout of the little church. It had already lost half its roof, courtesy of a German or English shell, while the rest of the nave and porch remained intact.
Charlie found himself mesmerized by the mosaic patterns that covered the inner walls, their tiny squares making up life-size portraits. He moved slowly round the perimeter, staring at the seven disciples who had so far survived the ungodly war.
When he reached the altar he fell on his knees and bowed his head, a vision of Father O’Malley coming into his mind. It was then that the bullet flew past him, hitting the brass cross and sending the crucifix crashing to the ground. As Charlie dived for cover behind the altar, a second shot went off. He glanced round the corner of the altar and watched a German officer who had been hit in the side of the head slump through the curtains and out of a wooden box onto the stone floor. He must have died instantly.
“I only ’ope he ’ad time to make a full confession,” said Tommy.
Charlie crawled out from behind the altar.
“For Gawd’s sake, stay put, you fool, because someone else is in this church and I’ve got a funny feelin’ it isn’t just the Almighty.” They both heard a movement in the pulpit above them and Charlie quickly scurried back behind the altar.
“It’s only me,” said a voice they immediately recognized.
“Who’s me?” said Tommy, trying not to laugh.
“Captain Trentham. So whatever you do, don’t fire.”
“Then show yourself, and come down with your ’ands above your ’ead so that we can be certain you’re who you say you are,” Tommy said, enjoying every moment of his tormentor’s embarrassment.
Trentham rose slowly from the top of the pulpit and began to descend the stone steps with his hands held high above his head. He proceeded down the aisle towards the fallen cross that now lay in front of the altar, before stepping over the dead German officer and continuing until he came face to face with Tommy, who was still holding a pistol pointing straight at his heart.
“Sorry, sir,” said Tommy, lowering the pistol. “I ’ad to be sure you weren’t a German.”
“Who spoke the King’s English,” said Trentham sarcastically.
“You did warn us against being taken in by that in one of your lectures, sir,” said Tommy.
“Less of your lip, Prescott. And how did you get hold of an officer’s pistol?”
“It belonged to Lieutenant ’Arvey,” interjected Charlie, “who dropped it when—”
“You bolted off into the forest,” said Tommy, his eyes never leaving Trentham.
“I was pursuing two Germans who were attempting to escape.”
“It looked the other way round to me,” said Tommy. “And when we get back, I intend to let anyone know who cares to listen.”
“It would be your word against mine,” said Trentham. “In any case, both Germans are dead.”
“Only thanks to me and try not to forget that the corp ’ere also witnessed everything what ’appened.”
“Then you know my version of the events is the accurate one,” said Trentham, turning directly to face Charlie.
“All I know is that we ought to be up in that tower, plannin’ how we get back to our own lines, and not wastin’ any more time quarrelin’ down ’ere.”
The captain nodded his agreement, turned, ran to the back of the church and up the stone stairs to the safety of the tower. Charlie quickly followed him. They both took lookout positions on opposite sides of the roof, and although Charlie could still hear the sound of the battle he was quite unable to make out who was getting the better of it on the other side of the forest.
“Where’s Prescott?” asked Trentham after a few minutes had passed.
“Don’t know, sir,” said Charlie. “I thought he was just behind me.” It was several minutes before Tommy, wearing the dead German’s spiked pickelhaube, appeared at the top of the stone steps.
“Where have you been?” asked Trentham suspiciously.
“Searchin’ the place from top to bottom in the ’ope that there might ’ave been some grub to be found, but I couldn’t even find any communion wine.”
“Take your position over there,” said the captain, pointing to an arch that was not yet covered, “and keep a lookout. We’ll stay put until it’s pitch dark. By then I’ll have worked out a plan to get us back behind our own lines.”