Megiddo's Shadow (15 page)

“What happens to the men in the rowboats?” I asked.

“Destroyers from Gibraltar will look for the survivors,” Blackburn said.

“Poor guys! I hope a few made it.”

“We survived, lads!” Cheevers grinned. “We even scared the Hun bastards away with our singing, thanks to you, mate. Good thinking on your part.”

“Yes, good work,” Blackburn said, giving me a soft pat on the shoulder.

A few minutes later roll call sounded and we gathered on the deck. Colonel Wilson stood on the remains of the wireless station. “Boys, we've been through the fire. Brave men have died this day—our friends, our brothers, our fellow yeomanry. I know you mourn them, and well you should. However, you must now remember your duty to your country, so that their deaths won't be in vain.”

He waved a white paper. “I have a telegram from General Allenby himself, the commander in chief of the forces in Palestine. He wrote:
You are needed
. I replied:
We are coming
. I know every last one of you will be up to the task of giving Johnny Turk a good hiding.”

What did Palestine have to do with us?

“The climate out there will test your limits, but you lads are made of stern stuff! You proved it just a few hours ago. Are you ready for your task, men?”

We forced out a tired cheer and were dismissed. I'd read about the battles for Gaza and knew the Suez Canal was important for transporting troops from India and Australia.
Our boys were in Jerusalem, which was probably where we would end up. I would be a million miles from Emily!

“You're looking glum, mate,” Cheevers said.

“But why Palestine? Why not France?”

“Ah, who wants to be in a frosty trench? We'll be toasty warm in the Holy Land.”

“But what do I know about Turks?”

“They're like Huns but uglier. Not sure why we haven't walked over them yet. Some daft boiled owl must be in charge.”

“They'll fight hard to keep their empire together,” Blackburn said. “Russia is on one side, eyeing up Constantinople. We're pushing through Palestine. No wonder they're taking money, troops, and guns from the Germans.”

“The Turks will be pushovers!”

Blackburn snorted. “Remember Gallipoli? Hundreds of thousands of our troops thought they'd be in Constantinople in days. The Turks pushed
us
off there.”

“The papers said it was a ‘great and glorious retreat,’” I said, hearing Uncle Nix's voice: “When can a retreat be called great?”

“Ah, the Turks got lucky! They'll wilt when they see the Lincolnshire Lads riding at them. Don't be glum, chum!” Cheevers punched me in the shoulder.

I nodded, until he winked and gave me a grin. I faked a grin back. I felt heavy and tired, wishing I knew what the future held.

The
Mercian
sped on, leaving the dead deep in their watery grave.

W
e stood on the deck in full kit, rifles and all, gawking as we drew closer to Alexandria. The sun was so hot I felt like a boiled egg in a Tommy hat. I gazed at the tan stone buildings poking at the sky. It was as though the city hadn't changed since the times of the pharaohs.

We soon shuffled off the
Mercian
, glad to see the last of that tin piece of hell. I nearly broke into tears watching Buke trot down the livestock gangplank; he was thinner, but healthy, and he whickered the moment he saw me.

We saddled up and rode through the cramped streets, almost brushing against huts of stone and shells of wood and mud. The place smelled like charred meat and dead dogs. A few Egyptians stared, though others barely even raised their heads. They'd been here for thousands of years and would be here long after we were gone. I scratched at the lice biting my skin—the
Mercian's
last laugh.

A troop of Australian Light Horsemen sat outside the tram station, faces brown, weary, and wrinkled, slouch hats shielding their eyes from the sun. The Aussies had proven their worth at Gallipoli and were so feared that the Turks called them the white Gurkhas.

“They're tanned as dark as Turks,” Cheevers whispered.

I nodded, though I wasn't sure what a Turk should look like.

“Hey, Tommies!” one Aussie shouted. “Welcome to Beelzebub's stronghold. If the Turks don't bite your arses off, the flies will.”

Lieutenant Ranee laughed, then shouted, “Ignore the Anzacs! They've all had a bit too much sun. We've got a tram to catch!”

We loaded our horses in open cars. I climbed up the side, and Buke lowered his head enough so that I could scratch his nose. “It'll be hot, pal, but the sun'll go down, and you'll be the first to get water when we make camp.” He gave a soft neigh and pressed against my hand.

Lieutenant Ranee's whistle cut our visit short. I quickly bought a postcard of Alexandria from a one-eyed woman as old and weathered as the Sphinx. I scribbled:
Emily, Surprise! Will write more soon. Missing you!
I addressed it, dropped it in the mailbag, and got on the tram, jammed between Cheevers and Blackburn in a stuffy passenger car.

We went from tram to horseback to tent to tram, officers constantly shouting at us to move faster. The sun threatened to cook us right off the backs of our horses. At some
point we crossed the Suez Canal on a pontoon bridge, then entrained again to cross the Sinai. For a farm boy, there was nothing more awe-inspiring and awful than the sight of endless desert.

Baked and rattled half to death, we passed the boundary pillars between Egypt and Palestine. We were in the Holy Land. I had expected to feel closer to God. Instead, I just felt tired.

Soon we spotted palm trees and, finally, the green-blue sweep of the Mediterranean. We stopped in Belah, a small village that had been a staging ground of the battles for Gaza. The tram station was by far the largest building in the area. It was located next to a graveyard where wooden crosses poked out of the ground. Soldiers had fought and died for this chunk of sand.

“Everyone wants a Victoria Cross,” Blackburn said, “but most of us just get a wooden one.”

Cheevers smacked him on the back of the head. “Shut your gob! You'll bring bad luck.”

We detrained, and watered from a well dug in the sand near the open sea. Buke gulped so much he began to cough. “Take it easy, boy,” I said, and gently pulled his head back.

We set up our tents, and the sun forced us to stay inside them. I took out my writing paper and opened Emily's locket to gaze upon her photograph. Working on an empty cartridge box, I held the pen lightly because my fingers were so dry they had cracked and bled, and it hurt like blazes.

I folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, then closed the locket with her picture. I often wondered what she was doing at any given moment. Was she attending to the dressing on a wounded soldier? Or was she outside the hospital, lighting a cigarette, her thumbnail flicking the match?

I pictured her standing on a balcony, looking out over the ocean. I clearly saw the curve of her hips, the length of her legs. I hoped she was thinking of me.

I buttoned the locket into my breast pocket, next to my mother's handkerchief. Flies buzzed at me, bigger and ten times more determined than those at home. Out in the burning sun, I swatted them all the way to the quartermaster's tent.

W
e rode north into miles of brush and balding hills. The sun hadn't let up. We passed other yeomanry, tanned and smart-looking in their desert gear. They had a great laugh at our woolen uniforms and tin hats.

Blackburn kicked Cromwell until he was riding next to me. “We're almost at Jerusalem.”

“How do you know?”

He tapped his head. “I memorized my map. The last village was Enab. Next stop: the Holy City”

We followed a steep road with hairpin bends. I tried not to look over the edge. Then, our horses ragged, we rode over a ridge and saw fifty or so bell tents, an ancient wall, and thousands of sand-colored buildings.

Jerusalem.

The city where Christ walked.

In the Bible, Jerusalem was like a crown upon the Lord's
head. I thought I'd be so stunned by the sight of it that I'd fall to my knees, but it looked fake, as if someone had painted it on a giant canvas.

We dismounted at an army camp, picketed our horses, and stood at attention in front of the largest of the tents. Inside was some bigwig for whom we stood at attention for nearly an hour, the sun blistering our skin. I blinked, my eyelids scraping bits of dirt across my eyes. My kit, rifle, and helmet were gaming weight every second; my uniform sponged up my sweat. We stank something fierce, and the lice were having a fabulous picnic under my clothes.

Whichever mighty officer we were waiting for was probably asleep, a plump general on a cot, his feet up, his boots polished to perfect glory, and an orderly waiting with a glass of water.

Water. Droplets slipping down the side of the glass. Cool water. I'd sweated all the water from my body. How was it possible that I was still standing? Droplets traced a path through Cheevers's dusty face. He gave me a grim little smile.

Loud laughter spilled out of the tent. Minutes passed. The cluster of white army tents blurred; so did Jerusalem. I blinked. The tents returned to straight lines, then blurred again.

Two orderlies strutted out of the tent and tied back the flaps. A colonel stomped out and stood to one side, and a major general in khakis appeared, wearing a sun helmet with a white plume. He commanded an entire division— thousands of men. He was just one step away from the commander in chief.

Colonel Wilson snapped a salute and said, “The Lincolnshire Yeomanry, reporting for duty, General Barrow.”

“You're a day late!” The general rested his left hand on his sheathed saber. “Let's see what you brought me.”

I peered over Blackburn's shoulder. The general was tanned, his scowling face scarred, his mustache bushy, like my father's. He wore a monocle in one eye. He swiftly inspected us, passing close enough that I caught a whiff of spicy cologne. He turned smartly and faced the regiment.

“You are now the property of the Fourth Cavalry Division.” His voice was deep and strong, as if it belonged to a man three times his size. “You are
my
men. From here on, there are two things to remember.” He pointed at the sky. “Number one: that is the sun. You will face no greater enemy. Johnny Turk is nothing compared to what the sun will do to you.”

He motioned toward our mounts. “Two: your horses are more important than your mothers, your fathers, the men standing next to you. Good horsemanship is the backbone of this division. You will feed your mount, water it, brush it, be sure it is sleeping comfortably every night. If your horse gets sick or breaks its leg, we will shoot you.”

“He's kidding, right?” Cheevers whispered.

“At the beginning of every day in the field you will be given a gallon of water. That is for you
and
your horse, so let your horse drink first. If your mount dies, then you are only half a soldier. Remember: it cost us more to ship your horse here than it did you.”

I wasn't sure I liked this general.

Barrow pointed at the regiment. “I expect the best from
each and every one of you. You will begin your journey to your position tomorrow morning. Until then, you are dismissed.” He saluted. Colonel Wilson returned the salute. Lieutenant Ranee shouted, “Lincolnshire Yeomanry—about left!” and we turned in unison and began marching.

I glanced at the major general, who continued to glare as we passed. He said something to his staff sergeant, and the two men laughed. Perhaps the whole tirade had just been a cruel joke.

“Well, I guess we've been coddled up to this point,” Blackburn said.

“Yep,” I said. “Now it's for real.”

W
ithm twenty-four hours we held our own position at the front, surveying the moonlit hills. We had finally been given desert issue gear—tan cotton uniforms and sun helmets—so we all looked brand spanking new, clean, and green. Every few minutes one of our field guns roared, shaking the ground and my nerves. Somewhere in the distance the Turks waited, bayonets pointed in our direction.

“Saddle up, you worms!” our new sergeant shouted. “You've drawn night patrol duty, and you're going to have the pleasure of my company. Bring extra clips.” Hargreaves was the toughest, meanest man I'd ever met. The army had shaved a badger and stuffed him into a uniform.

We assembled on the edge of camp—six troopers, a lance corporal, and the sergeant. Buke snorted and pawed at the ground, ready to go, but my hands were trembling. Any sort of ambush could be waiting in the darkness. Dad had
charged into the Boers' fire; Hector had gone over the top; I could do this. I could.