Archbishop Ralph laid his flashlight down on the floor and went forward, put his hand under the soldier’s chin and lifted it to look into the dark eyes, darker in the darkness.

“What’s the matter?” he asked in German, and laughed. “There!” he continued, still in German. “You don’t know it, but that’s been my main function in life—to ask people what’s the matter. And, let me tell you, it’s a question which has got me into a lot of trouble in my time.”

“I came to pray,” said the lad in a voice too deep for his age, with a heavy Bavarian accent.

“What happened, did you get locked in?”

“Yes, but that isn’t what the matter is.”

His grace picked up the flashlight. “Well, you can’t stay here all night, and I haven’t got a key to the doors. Come with me.” He began walking back toward the private stairs leading up to the papal palace, talking in a slow, soft voice. “I came to pray myself, as a matter of fact. Thanks to your High Command, it’s been a rather nasty day. That’s it, up here… We’ll have to hope that the Holy Father’s staff don’t assume I’ve been arrested, but can see I’m doing the escorting, not you.”

After that they walked for ten more minutes in silence, through corridors, out into open courts and gardens, inside hallways, up steps; the young German did not seem anxious to leave his protector’s side, for he kept close. At last His Grace opened a door and led his waif into a small sitting room, sparsely and humbly furnished, switched on a lamp and closed the door.

They stood staring at each other, able to see. The German soldier saw a very tall man with a fine face and blue, discerning eyes; Archbishop Ralph saw a child tricked out in the garb which all of Europe found fearsome and awe-inspiring. A child; no more than sixteen years old, certainly. Of average height and youthfully thin, he had a frame promising later bulk and strength, and very long arms. His face had rather an Italianate cast, dark and patrician, extremely attractive; wide, dark brown eyes with long black lashes, a magnificent head of wavy black hair. There was nothing usual or ordinary about him after all, even if his role was an ordinary one; in spite of the fact that he had longed to talk to an average, ordinary man, His Grace was interested.

“Sit down,” he said to the boy, crossing to a chest and unearthing a bottle of Marsala wine. He poured some into two glasses, gave the boy one and took his own to a chair from which he could watch the fascinating countenance comfortably. “Are they reduced to drafting children to do their fighting?” he asked, crossing his legs.

“I don’t know,” said the boy. “I was in a children’s home, so I’d be taken early anyway.”

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Rainer Moerling Hartheim,” said the boy, rolling it out with great pride.

“A magnificent name,” said the priest gravely.

“It is, isn’t it? I chose it myself. They called me Rainer Schmidt at the home, but when I went into the army I changed it to the name I’ve always wanted.”

“You were an orphan?”

“The Sisters called me a love child.”

Archbishop Ralph tried not to smile; the boy had such dignity and self-possession, now he had lost his fear. Only what had frightened him? Not being found, or being locked in the basilica. “Why were you so frightened, Rainer?”

The boy sipped his wine gingerly, looked up with a pleased expression. “Good, it’s sweet.” He made himself more comfortable. “I wanted to see Saint Peter’s because the Sisters always used to talk about it and show us pictures. So when they posted us to Rome I was glad. We got here this morning. The minute I could, I came.” He frowned. “But it wasn’t as I had expected. I thought I’d feel closer to Our Lord, being in His own Church. Instead it was only enormous and cold. I couldn’t feel Him.”

Archbishop Ralph smiled. “I know what you mean. But Saint Peter’s isn’t really a church, you know. Not in the sense most churches are. Saint Peter’s is the Church. It took me a long time to get used to it, I remember.”

“I wanted to pray for two things,” the boy said, nodding his head to indicate he had heard but that it wasn’t what he wished to hear.

“For the things which frighten you?”

“Yes. I thought being in Saint Peter’s might help.”

“What are the things which frighten you, Rainer?”

“That they’ll decide I’m a Jew, and that my regiment will be sent to Russia after all.”

“I see. No wonder you’re frightened. Is there indeed a possibility they’ll decide you’re a Jew?”

“Well, look at me!” said the boy simply. “When they were writing down my particulars they said they’d have to check. I don’t know if they can or not, but I suppose the Sisters might know more than they ever told me.”

“If they do, they’ll not pass it on,” said His Grace comfortingly. “They’ll know why they’re being asked.”

“Do you really think so? Oh, I hope so!”

“Does the thought of having Jewish blood disturb you?”

“What my blood is doesn’t matter,” said Rainer. “I was born a German, that’s the only important thing.”

“Only they don’t look at it like that, do they?”

“No.”

“And Russia? There’s no need to worry about Russia now, surely. You’re in Rome, the opposite direction.”

“This morning I heard our commander saying we might be sent to Russia after all. It isn’t going well there.”

“You’re a child,” said Archbishop Ralph abruptly. “You ought to be in school.”

“I wouldn’t be now anyway.” The boy smiled. “I’m sixteen, so I’d be working.” He sighed. “I would have liked to keep going to school. Learning is important.”

Archbishop Ralph started to laugh, then got up and refilled the glasses. “Don’t take any notice of me, Rainer. I’m not making any sense. Just thoughts, one after the other. It’s my hour for them, thoughts. I’m not a very good host, am I?”

“You’re all right,” said the boy.

“So,” said His Grace, sitting down again. “Define yourself, Rainer Moerling Hartheim.”

A curious pride settled on the young face. “I’m a German, and a Catholic. I want to make Germany a place where race and religion won’t mean persecution, and I’m going to devote my life to that end, if I live.”

“I shall pray for you—that you live, and succeed.”

“Would you?” asked the boy shyly. “Would you really pray for me personally, by name?”

“Of course. In fact, you’ve taught me something. That in my business there is only one weapon at my disposal—prayer. I have no other function.”

“Who are you?” asked Rainer, the wine beginning to make him blink drowsily.

“I’m Archbishop Ralph de Bricassart.”

“Oh! I thought you were an ordinary priest!”

“I am an ordinary priest. Nothing more.”

“I’ll strike a bargain with you!” said the boy, his eyes sparkling. “You pray for me. Father, and if I live long enough to get what I want, I’ll come back to Rome to let you see what your prayers have done.”

The blue eyes smiled tenderly. “All right, it’s a bargain. And when you come, I’ll tell you what I think happened to my prayers.” He got up. “Stay there, little politician. I’ll find you something to eat.”

They talked until dawn glowed round the domes and campaniles, and the wings of pigeons whirred outside the window. Then the Archbishop conducted his guest through the public rooms of the palace, watching his awe with delight, and let him out into the cool, fresh air. Though he didn’t know it, the boy with the splendid name was indeed to go to Russia, carrying with him a memory oddly sweet and reassuring: that in Rome, in Our Lord’s own Church, a man was praying for him every day, by name.

* * *

By the time the Ninth was ready to be shipped to New Guinea, it was all over bar the mopping up. Disgruntled, the most elite division in Australian military history could only hope there might be further glory to amass somewhere else, chasing the Japanese back up through Indonesia. Guadalcanal had defeated all Japanese hopes in the drive for Australia. And yet, like the Germans, they yielded bitterly, grudgingly. Though their resources were pitifully stretched, their armies foundering from lack of supplies and reinforcements, they made the Americans and the Australians pay for every inch they gained back. In retreat, the Japanese abandoned Buna, Gona, Salamaua, and slipped back up the north coast, to Lae and Finschafen.

On the fifth of September 1943 the Ninth Division was landed from the sea just east of Lae. It was hot, the humidity was 100 percent, and it rained every afternoon though The Wet wasn’t due for another two full months. The threat of malaria meant everyone was taking Atabrine, and the little yellow tablets made everyone feel as sick as if they had the actual malaria. Already the constant moisture meant permanently damp boots and socks; feet were becoming spongy, the flesh between the toes raw and bloody. Mocka and mosquito bites turned angry, ulcerated.

In Port Moresby they had seen the wretched state of the New Guinea natives, and if they couldn’t stand the climate without developing yaws, beriberi, malaria, pneumonia, chronic skin diseases, enlarged livers and spleens, there wasn’t much hope for the white man. There were survivors of Kokoda in Port Moresby as well, victims not so much of the Japanese but of New Guinea, emaciated, masses of sores, delirious with fever. Ten times as many had died from pneumonia nine thousand feet up in freezing cold wearing thin tropical kit as died from the Japanese. Greasy dank mud, unearthly forests which glowed with cold pale spectral light after dark from phosphorescent fungi, precipitous climbs over a gnarled tangle of exposed roots which meant a man couldn’t look up for a second and was a sitting duck for a sniper. It was about as different from North Africa as any place could get, and the Ninth wasn’t a bit sorry it had stayed to fight the two Alameins instead of Kokoda Trail.