Megiddo's Shadow (23 page)

Don't think of the number
, I told myself.
They've been weakened. The Turks have been bombed by aeroplanes, harassed by Lawrence and his Arabs, and marched double time for days on empty stomachs. They'll probably beg to surrender
.

We rode in formation toward the enemy. C and B Squadrons broke off and galloped past us, planning to attack from the flanks, while A Squadron dismounted to give covering
fire. Our squadron wheeled about, aiming straight at Irbid. The village had been built partly on a ridge, the huts and stone houses spilling onto the flat ground below it.

The major had somehow decided that our squadron would be the ones to charge. I looked across our ranks. There were only about fifty of us, half yeomanry and half Indian lancers, riding on thirsty horses. Captain Davison, who had lead the whole regiment for the last few days, was our squadron commander now.

The Turks began to shoot, their bullets hitting the ground in front of us, spraying dirt as they found their range. The setting sun was to our right, lighting us perfectly for their target practice.

“D Squadron, form ranks!” Davison commanded. Several troopers kicked their tired horses, trying to get them into position. “Form ranks, I said!” He raised his sword and directed us to move ahead at a trot. After a couple of hundred feet he signaled us to gallop. Heavy stones were scattered across the plain, and Buke stumbled on them several times. I kept my eye on Cheevers, the troop leader, trying to keep the line straight. Twice I had to break formation just to get around a large stone.

It wasn't long before the trooper beside me was hit and thrown from his saddle. “Close up that section!” Hargreaves roared a few feet away. A moment later his horse took a bullet to the head and the blood spattered across me. Hargreaves managed to jump clear of the beast as it fell to the ground. I glanced back to catch Hargreaves swearing as he kicked his mount.

Captain Davison swung his sword in an arc and I dug in my spurs. It took all my strength to hold on to Buke and aim, arrow straight, for the village.

To my left another man fell. Then a third. A high-pitched
Vipl Vipl Vipl
filled the air. The entrenched ridge was higher than it had appeared from a distance; I couldn't even see the Turks, only the smoke from their guns. They had probably set their sights long before our arrival. Fear twisted in my guts.

An Indian trooper fell and was crushed under his rolling horse. We broke through the outskirts of the village, past a few small sandstone houses and down several narrow streets. The Turks above us no longer bothered to hide their heads. They leaned over the sandbags, found their marks, and shot.

Davison raised his sword and pointed left. The remains of the squadron wheeled in that direction, but the advance troops didn't see the signal or hear the captain's whistle. All twelve of them climbed the steep hill of the ridge straight into the enemy guns, riderless horses following. Three sowars fell over at once; then another, and a fifth, rolling back down the ridge. Their leader made it right to the top and raised his sword to strike, but a bullet knocked his head back and he fell out of the saddle onto the sandbags.

I followed Cheevers into the village, our flanks open— making us perfect targets. Ahead of us Davison screamed out in pain, dropping his whistle. We halted behind a building in the town square, breathing hard.

The captain's horse slipped down onto its front knees as
if bowing, then fell over. Davison tumbled to the ground and got to his knees to inspect his horse. It was breathing slowly, blood bubbling from its nostrils, its white chest crimson.

“Oh, dear.” He looked as rough as his horse, his puttees stained a dark red. He struggled to get to his feet, but when he put weight on his right leg it collapsed. His Indian orderly rushed to his side and helped him stand up again. “Thank you,” he said, fumbling for his pistol.

When he had shot his horse, Davison let out a loud, sad sigh, then turned to the eight of us. Cheevers and I were the only ones with horses.

Davison looked us up and down. “You two will have to ride—”

Neddie collapsed and Cheevers somehow landed on his feet. “Aw, Neddie, Christ almighty!” His horse was bleeding from a wound in his neck. “They got you! Goddamn Turk bastards.” He yanked his rifle out of its bucket, stuck his head around the corner of the building, and let off three quick shots toward the ridge. “Bastards!” They returned fire, knocking chunks of stone off the walls. Cheevers kept pulling the trigger and recycling the bolt.

“Lance corporal!” the captain snapped. “Hold your fire!”

Cheevers shot once more. “They got my horse, Captain!”

“Well, mine, too.” A resolute grin lit Davison's face. “And they even shot me. No sense just firing back wildly, though. Khen, Basti, check those streets.” The two sowars went to the opposite end of the building and peered around it, only to be met with a hail of machine-gun fire.

Davison was now leaning on his orderly. “The attack has failed, and the other squadrons obviously haven't made any
progress. We'll have to retreat.” He pointed at me. “Trooper Bathe, you've got the only good horse now. You ride hell bent for leather down that alley—use the buildings for cover— then head west. Circle back to the regiment and let them know what happened.”

“But I can't just leave you here!”

“Not your problem, Trooper Bathe. Now, prepare to mount.”

“Ride hard!” Cheevers said, rubbing his hand through Neddie's mane. “In the morning we'll kill every Turk rat up there.”

I tightened my saddle and climbed onto Buke. I almost said a prayer but caught myself in time. What would be the use? I dug my spurs into Buke and yelled,
“Heeyah!”
We charged straight down the street, the
Rap! Rap! Rap!
of the machine guns following us. We galloped behind another building before the Turks could adjust their sights, then turned sharply, racing out of the village. “Go! Go!” I shouted, and Buke found the strength to speed up. The stones in front of me chipped as bullets struck them.

If I'm meant to be hit, I hope it'll be in the head
, I thought, remembering Hector's long, painful death. I passed the last building of the village and burst into the open, feeling the Turks' sights trained on my back. I clung tightly as Buke jumped a boulder. Then we were across the stony plain and over a rise. We'd finally made it!

Pain flashed across the right side of my head and blood spattered my arm. I reached up and fingered what was left of my ear. A bullet had come that close! I rode down into the ravine, out of the Turks' sight.

A man popped up in front of me and I tugged at my sword just as he waved. I noticed his turban; he was an Indian. I yanked on the reins and Buke stopped, snorting hard.

“That was an excellent ride!” the sowar said, grinning. “Really quite marvelously excellent!”

He led me to his captain so I could report what had happened. Then, as night fell, he took me to a medical cart. A rotund, tired doctor jammed a metal cup into my hand, saying, “Drink this.” I gulped the rum, then lay down on the back of the cart, where he splashed iodine onto the wound. It might as well have been acid, it hurt so much. He stitched the dangling pieces of my ear together. Lines of fire crisscrossed my head. “You're missing most of your lower ear.” It felt as if he was trying to yank the rest of it off, too. “Close shave, though. Lady Luck was with you today.” He applied the dressing.

An inch. That was how close I'd come to having my brains splattered all over the sand. I thought about Cheevers and the others. How could they possibly survive?

I stumbled out of the tent, one side of my head still on fire. The sowar handed Buke's reins to me and offered his water bottle. I took it gratefully, poured a handful, and let Buke lick it up with his dry tongue.

“You really love your horse,” the sowar said, smiling broadly. “What a fine horseman you are.”

I nodded and gave Buke a few more handfuls. The Turks were sitting on the wells in Irbid, so we wouldn't get any more tonight. I handed the bottle back to the Indian, but he refused it until I'd had a drink.

I tied Buke to a wagon and collapsed on the dead grass. A
few minutes later our field guns roared. They'd finally arrived. I closed my eyes and prayed that they'd blast the Turks to hell.

No sooner had I dropped off than I was shaken awake again. The sowar was standing over me.

“Rejoice! Praise Almighty God! Your captain lives!”

“What about the others?” I absently brushed my wounded ear and grimaced.

“Yes! Yes! Come please!”

I followed him to the medical cart.

“Hey, Bathe!” Cheevers sauntered up as though he'd just been to the opera.

“Look at you, not a scratch!” I said as we hugged. It was so great to see him alive and well.

“Actually, I thought my number was up several times. Had my hair parted twice by bullets.”

“How'd you get out?”

“Over the rooftops and down through the buildings. Sit, sit.” I sat down. “There were bullets flying everywhere, so we ran like hell. The captain was hit in the arm and the leg, so his orderly carried him the rest of the way. These bloody Indians got guts, I tell you! I've never been so happy to hear our guns. You must've had a nailing good gallop!” He stopped. “What happened to your head?”

“I was winged. Lost half my ear. It hurts like hell.”

“Ah, buck up! Your ears were too big, anyway.”

I lay back on the dry grass and laughed.

I
n the morning the village of Irbid was silent. The first rays of the rising sun cast long shadows over the fallen troopers and their horses, strewn across the ground. Scouts returned to us with the news that the Turks had fled.

Twelve men had been killed in our charge, and twenty-nine wounded. Lieutenant Ranee and Frank Pitts were among the dead. I didn't want to see their bodies; there wasn't time to mourn anyway. Hargreaves had survived, proof that God really did work in mysterious ways.

Cheevers was given a dead trooper's horse; others got ragged remounts, and we watered and pushed on. What was left of our regiment was kept in reserve, so we were at the back of the column when our brigade reached our objective: the tram station at Deraa.

The town was already burning. We stood a distance away,
watching plumes of smoke rise from the station. Rifle shots echoed through the hills. We sat listening for an hour before news trickled back that Lawrence and his Arabs had already taken the town and forced a column of Turk troops to flee down the road to Damascus. A few of the Dorset Yeomanry were quite excited that they'd seen the man Lawrence himself but didn't have a kind word for his Arabs. Apparently they'd slit the throats of every Turk they'd gotten their hands on, even the ones who were loaded on a hospital tram. I was relieved not to have witnessed any of that, but I would have liked to glimpse Lawrence with my own eyes.

Our brigade went after the column of Turks, speeding up now that we had their scent. Hargreaves had our troop leave the road and ride into the open land, in case there were smaller groups of devious Turks trying to hide from us.

The land was just more rock and tamarisk bush. Each step made my helmet rub against the dressing on my ear, so that drops of blood slowly stained my neck curtain red. The flies loved feasting on my blood. I'd given up slapping at them. Eventually the dressing fell off and they had full access to my wound.

Cheevers rode up to me. “You look wretched, Bathe! You should've had Purves give it another go.”

“He didn't have time.” I shrugged, not really caring.

Two hours later Hargreaves stopped to consult his map.

“We might be a little lost,” Cheevers whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. “We should have been back with the regiment by now.”

The sun stared down from the middle of the sky. We had
twisted through several wadis, and I no longer knew which way was which. Hargreaves cleared his throat, then drank from his water bottle and replaced the stopper with a flourish. The bass
Thump! Wumpl
of field guns echoed through the hills. The sound could have come from any direction.

“This way!” Hargreaves turned his horse. “Give your nags a kick, boys!”

We rode faster, the thunder of battle growing louder.

“There's someone over there!” Cheevers yelled, pointing at several troops of men climbing a hill, feathers bobbing in their slouch hats.

“Aussies,” Hargreaves said. A moment later an Aussie scout popped up out of the bush.

“'Oo are you?” he asked, his dusty face covered with several days' growth.

“Lincolnshire Yeomanry,” Hargreaves replied. “With Fourth Cavalry Division.”

“Well, you're in time for a spot of action, then. The Barada Gorge is just over that ridge. And so are the Turks.”

“I assumed that.” Hargreaves pulled on his reins. We dismounted and tied our horses in twos, head to tail. I yanked my rifle out of its bucket and followed the Aussies up the hillside, climbing through brush, the way sometimes so steep that I had to use my hands to crawl. A clump of French soldiers were above us, their blue uniforms stained with sweat. Behind us teams of New Zealanders lugged up their machine guns.

An Aussie captain commanded, “Fire at will!”

I peered over the edge of the hill. The gorge was only a hundred yards wide, split by a shallow river. The engine of a
tram had been blown off its tracks, and the cars were burning. A mass of Turkish troops struggled to get through the mess and run to Damascus, but the head of their column had been devastated by gunfire from both sides of the valley. They were trapped like pigs in a slaughterhouse.

“You heard the man, lads,” Hargreaves said. Cheevers shot into the mass of Turks. Then I fired. The man I aimed at fell, followed by another. Some Turks dove into the shallow river and were hit, and their bodies floated to the surface.

Horses keeled over, wagons flipping to further block the gorge. A German troop quickly set up their machine guns and let a blast go from the top of a truck, but the height of the cliffs made it impossible for them to see us. Only once did a bullet strike anywhere near me. In no time, the Germans were all dead.