Megiddo's Shadow (21 page)

Hargreaves urged our troop on with quick hand signals, his swearing lost in the noise.

We stopped after about ten minutes; apparently we had reached our assembly point. Lieutenant Ranee squinted at his map. We were only a few thousand yards from the front line.

In the distance, by the glare of flare lights, figures could be seen scrambling through holes in the barbed wire, dozens of our infantry following one another into no-man's-land. It was clear they were well into the Turks' trenches.

I was already exhausted, my arms shaking. Unwittingly, I felt for my lucky handkerchief and locket. Still there.

“Blame the women!” Blackburn shouted.

I thought he was going mad. “What?”

He pointed at our exploding shells. “Every one of our shells was made by a British woman in a factory. Odd, isn t it?

I had no answer. The world was upside down when mothers and girls made shells that killed.

Captain Davison checked his luminous-dial wnstwatch every five seconds. Finally, he raised his hand and we rode in unison toward the front line. We picked our way over the British trenches on short wooden bridges that had been set in place for us.

The sun began to rise, glinting off the barbed wire. Lines of it had been cut by infantry, or by the shells. The openings were marked by red or blue flags. We followed the red ones.

The Turkish side was a mess of body parts—an arm here, a leg there, a head here, smaller parts everywhere, it seemed. They were scattered among their stores of weapons and food. A few half-starved, wounded Turks huddled under the watchful eye of an infantryman. Buke found his way through the debris and I turned to stare at the thousands of mounted horsemen behind me. It was a dream, as though the Bible had opened and armies were spilling from its pages into the Holy Land.

Soon we were on the Plain of Sharon, low hills swelling on either side of us. Australian Light Horsemen headed north; other riders turned east.

“Watch for wadis, men,” Sergeant Hargreaves barked, “and the Turks, too!” We formed into three columns and rode on. The sound of shellfire faded behind us, and soon it seemed as if there were no battle going on at all. I searched for the enemy, my eyes so wide they began to hurt. Frankly, we were moving too fast to do any proper scouting. The Turks did pop up out of wadis, but the moment we came in sight, they surrendered.

“It's like rounding up cattle,” I said after we'd ridden up to a group of Turks who threw down their guns and joined a line of prisoners.

Cheevers spat. “They're rolling over like whimpering dogs.”

“They're delaying us,” Blackburn said. “Every hour we spend gathering prisoners will give their reserves up ahead time to really dig in.”

The day grew so hot, even the Indians looked out of their element. We rode hard, and just as the sun was setting over the hills, we stopped to water the horses at a deserted village. I let Buke drink, then swallowed a can of bully beef that sat like a hard lump in my guts.

Blackburn studied a little map he'd cut from one of his books. “Looks like we've covered about twenty miles already.”

“And I haven't fired my gun once!” Cheevers complained.

I lay down on the ground and closed my eyes to nap. Moments later, a kick to my boots startled me awake. “You can forget your beauty sleep!” Sergeant Hargreaves grinned down in the semidark. “We want you ugly as the day you were born. We just got our orders; we're riding straight into Armageddon. Form squadron, on the double!”

Our regiment quickly carried on north. Two Rolls-Royce armored cars drove past us. A sandy-haired gunner in goggles stuck his head out the back and waved as though he were enjoying a Sunday drive.

Blackburn slapped at a mosquito. “The valley is too narrow. One machine gun could peg us like sitting ducks.”

“Keep quiet,” Cheevers said. “That's an order.”

Blackburn fell silent, pouting. Our clomping, snorting horses would surely be heard for miles. The moon rose higher in the sky, bright enough to light our way and make our buttons glint. The advance scouts found groups of Turks cowering in ravines. They surrendered without a shot, sometimes without even exchanging a word. Soon the numbers swelled, and twenty or thirty at a time would be sent back with only one man on horseback as an escort.

We reached a crossroad and set up positions.

“Good God! Ride. Wait. Ride. Wait.” Cheevers's teeth glowed in the moonlight.

I dismounted and stood staring out into the darkness of the deserted pass. Buke flicked his ears. A second later the rumble of an engine could be heard behind us. We turned to the sound as two headlights grew closer and brighter. The vehicle skidded to a halt, turning away from us so we could make out its shape: a long automobile with pennants flapping. Major General Barrow jumped out, shouting, “Davi-son! Davison! Where the hell are you?” I couldn't believe it; the commander of our entire division was at the front.

“Here, sir!” Captain Davison yelled, running to him.

Barrow's face was red. “You're an hour and a half late! Turks are already coming down from Nazareth to block the end of the pass.” He pointed into the darkness. “You must get there first!”

Captain Davison nodded, gave a breathless “Yes, sir!” and ran to his horse. A minute later we were galloping down the valley, leaving General Barrow to wait for the rest of the brigade. I kicked Buke's sides, holding my place in line, my
arms, legs, and spine aching. The path grew so narrow that we could barely push through two at a time.

Eventually we ascended one of the hills, following a steep ridge of jutting rocks, hooves hammering sparks. Buke stumbled, snorted, and found his footing, causing my heart to stop briefly. Just as we got close to the top, a scout came galloping out of the darkness, holding his rifle above his head.

“He's seen the enemy,” Cheevers said.

Davison drew his sword and swung it from the rear to the front: advance! We kicked our horses into a hard gallop.

I clutched the reins, my ears roaring with the pounding of hooves and chugging breath of the horses. The armored cars on either flank bounced across the ground with their lights off. I couldn't see much farther than a few feet in front of me; I prayed there weren't any large stones. Or other surprises.

At the top of the rise, several lights appeared across from us—fires, blazing in the night, figures sitting around them. Davison signaled and, as one, the Second Lancers brought up their lances. Dust had jammed my sword in its scabbard, so it took a good hard tug to get it out. Davison swung his saber several times in a row: charge!

In the first moments of our approach I could see perhaps a hundred Turks around the fires, singing, of all things. It was obvious they were having a grand old time, their guns leaning against each other like stooks of wheat, out of their reach. They hadn't even bothered to post a watchman.

One Turk stood, turned, and dropped his coffee cup at the sight of us. They ran for their guns as the armored cars flicked on their lights and gave off a burst of machine-gun
fire. The Turks fell to the ground, covering their heads. We thundered down on them, and in no time they were surrounded and taken prisoner.

Waiting for our next command, Cheevers and I stared down at our enemy.

“They weren't even watching for us!” I said.

“That's because this army is a total farce.” Cheevers sheathed his sword. “We'll be sipping tea in Constantinople tomorrow.”

I slipped my feet from the irons, got off, and warmed my hands by the enemy's blaze.

T
he Turks' fires died down and the rays of the moon outlined a large hill beside us. Chaplain Holmes sat on his horse, contemplating the scene. For a padre, he'd ridden unusually hard; his white collar and face were stained with dirt. “That's the city of Megiddo,” he said.

“There's a city up there?” I asked.

“The rums of King Solomon's city This is where the armies of evil will mass: ‘And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon.’ Then they'll march on Jerusalem. Armageddon will begin on the plains below.”

“Maybe it just did,” Cheevers said. “Not much of a battle, was it?”

“This isn't Armageddon.” Blackburn was cleaning dirt from under his nails with a knife. “Since we've taken Jerusalem and the Turks won't get it back. Ever.”

“I can't imagine a war bigger than this one,” Holmes said.

I opened up the corn bag, split what remained between the two feed bags, and hooked one to Buke's reins. When he'd eaten I sat down on the dried grass next to Cheevers. He ripped back the lid on a bully beef tin, and the raw salty smell made me salivate and feel sick at the same time. I wished I'd taken some more oranges. “An army marches on its stomach,” I said.

Blackburn gave me a surprised look. “Napoleon devotee, are you?”

“Just something I heard once. What do you suppose is happening out there?”

“We're moving faster than they can react,” Blackburn said. “Even a retreating army can't travel as quickly as we can.

“No point thinking too hard about it, lads.” Cheevers leaned back, closed his eyes, and within moments was snoring lightly.

I lay on the ground wishing it were dawn and I could get a good look at Megiddo. How many armies had surrounded that pile of rock and been ground to death by chariots? And to think we had taken it without bloodshed. We'd made the big push and survived. I wanted to write Emily I allowed myself to imagine what I would tell her, were she alive.

I considered writing another letter to Dad, but there was no time. It was September, and harvest would be in full swing. He used to fork stook after stook into the steam-driven threshing machine, amazing the crews with his tireless strength. Maybe, on the other side of the world, he was doing that right this moment. I closed my eyes.

Two seconds later I was kicked in the shin. “Get up, you clods,” Sergeant Hargreaves commanded. “Prepare your horses.” I'd have a nice bruise. If only I could kick the bastard back.

I pulled my watch out of my pocket. It was five a.m.

“Word is we're going to capture a town called Afuleh,” Cheevers said. “The Turks we caught were just the advance party. Somewhere ahead of us is the rest of their regiment.”

I tightened my saddle to the last notch, but it wasn't enough. Buke had sweated himself skinny in a matter of hours. “Pitts!” I called. “A belt plate and a punch!”

He came over, metal plate in hand. “Hold your horses, Canuck. You're not the only one.” In seconds he'd punched another hole in the belt. “There ya be. You can't blame me now if you fall off.”

We rounded the hill that the ruined city of Megiddo sat atop, the sun now rising behind it, lengthening its shadow through the mist. The city was overgrown; no one had lived there for a thousand years. Here and there I could pick out lines of ancient architecture. This was where the end of the world would begin.

“Can't imagine living on top of that,” Cheevers said.

I flicked Buke's reins, urging him to speed up. “There's so much hullaballoo about it in the Bible, I thought it'd be bigger.”

We rode through Megiddo's shadow and a chill ran up my spine. Maybe it was the ghosts of all the dead armies, their bodies buried beneath this soft soil. It was here that Satan would climb out of hell and gather his armies.

We rode down into a green valley, the mist still thick and
cold. The land we were trotting across was fertile; I could see it had been tilled recently. All the farmers were probably crouching in the hills waiting for us to leave. Funny, to think that many of us troopers were farmers, too. Shouldn't we all have just been growing things?

Vipl Vipl
Bullets whined through the air, looking for a billet.

Captain Davison shouted orders, and the armored cars charged into the mist, returning fire. I was shocked to see a line of Turkish soldiers four hundred yards in front of us, their guns flaring. Where had they come from?

Lieutenant Ranee shouted, “D Squadron, dismount! Form line!”

I was quickly down on one knee, firing back, surprised at how calmly and automatically I pulled the clips from my bandolier. I aimed wherever I saw a flash of light or a white dot—a Turkish head—never knowing for sure if my bullets were hitting home. The other squadrons were galloping to one side, hoping to outflank the enemy.

We kept up our volleys of fire for several minutes; then Ranee barked out an order: “D Squadron! Stand to your horses!”

I stood and holstered my gun.

“Mount!”

I jumped onto Buke. We were going to charge into all that gunfire?

“Speed is armor!” Cheevers shouted. “The faster we ride, the harder it'll be for them to hit us.”

Ranee lifted his sword, his horse reared up, and he charged forward. From a canter we sped up to a gallop, riding knee to
knee, excitement and fear threatening to make my heart explode. We broke through the mist. The soil was wet and soft; mud flicked off our horses' hooves, hitting us everywhere. Ranee swung his sword again and again: charge!

Once again all I could hear was the pounding of hooves and Buke's labored breath. The flashes of rifle fire and the Turks behind the guns became clear. I drew my saber. This was insane! We were charging guns with swords in our hands. Guns!

A horse was hit and it rolled across the ground, legs splayed skyward, the rider thrown right in front of me. At the last second Buke jumped over him, but I didn't look back. We'd been trained to keep our eyes on the enemy. A few feet away another trooper let out a horrific scream and tumbled from his saddle.

The enemy's left flank became a chaotic mess of fleeing men as the lancer squadrons charged them, riding through the ranks, skewering anything that moved. The Turks didn't know where to turn. Many ran away, but a few kept shooting at us. I galloped into them, crashing through their first line and passing Ranjeet, who was dragging a dead Turk along the ground, trying to shake him off his lance. I charged straight for the second line of Turks, who were still manning their machine guns. Buke reared up. A Turk aimed his Mauser straight at my chest and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. As I rode by, I thrust my sword into his shoulder, jarring my arm and knocking him to his knees.