A hatch opened on the submarine's conning tower, and sailors in black uniforms climbed out and sauntered over to their gun. “We're sitting ducks, boys,” the corporal said. “Close this hatch!” We slammed the door and latched it. “To the top deck, and don't forget your life belts!”

  I reached to untie Buke. “Leave your horses!”

  I gave Buke a pat. “Stay put, I'll be back for you.” Cheevers and I ran down the aisle, with Trooper Sloan one step behind.

  The ship's steam whistle screamed three times before we reached the stairs. Troopers were struggling up to the top deck as Sergeant Applewhite stood there shouting, “Orderly now, boys! Use the right side of the stairway because there're lads coming down, so give em room. Orderly, I said! Remember, you're Lincolnshire Yeomanry.”

  I yanked a life vest out of the chest and fumbled with the knots as we climbed. A giant hammer struck the side of the ship, throwing me to my knees. Cheevers helped me up, saying, “That was damn close!”

  We stumbled out of the hold into smoke and screaming men. A shell had struck amidships, blasting the wireless station apart; it'd be impossible to call for help now. A trooper was moaning in pain, and Dr. Purves bent over him.

  We rushed to our boat stations and saw the submarine in the distance, a gray puff floating in front of its gun. The German sailors waved playfully at us.

  “Did they fire a torpedo?” I asked.

  “Why waste a torpedo?” Blackburn was looking paler than usual. “We can't even lob fruit at them.”

  The Mercian had picked up speed and leaned as we turned, making us a zigzagging target. Another shell went howling over the ship, and several men sent up a cheer. I even shook my fist at the Huns.

  “Here we are, you bastards!” a trooper shouted. “Come and get us! Here we are!”

  At first whispering, then louder, I began to sing:

  “Here we are! Here we are! Here we are again!

  There's Pat and Mac and Tommy and jack and Joe.”

  Cheevers joined me; Blackburn, too, followed by Pitts. Several seconds later most of the regiment was singing or shouting the words:

  “When there's trouble brewing,

  When there's something doing

  Are we downhearted?

  NO! Let 'em all cornel

  Here we are! Here we are! Here we are again!”

  At least we were fighting back with our voices. Maybe the Germans had stopped to listen to us.

  The gun roared, and a screeching shell struck only thirty feet away, smacking several troopers off their feet. The heat of the explosion burned us; metal splinters whistled by. We cowered but held our position.

  Many of the singers were moaning now. Dr. Purves, his orderlies, and the chaplain sifted through the wreckage of metal and men.

  The section next to us was already in their boat, ready to be lowered.

  “Did someone order abandon ship?” I asked.

  “We're going too fast,” Blackburn said. “They shouldn't be in the lifeboats.”

  A shell hissed through the air and cut the davit rope, and the lifeboat tipped and dumped the men into the water.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered. “Oh, God, save them. Save them.”

  They were bobbing in the sea, waving their hands, mouths open, but their yelling was drowned out by the noise of the ship. “Cut the davits!” Sergeant Applewhite commanded. “Let the boat drop!” I yanked out my knife and Cheevers and I hung over the edge, Blackburn and Pitts holding our legs. We hacked at the thick ropes until they snapped and the lifeboat fell. It smashed into the side of the ship and rolled in the air, miraculously landing upright. Who knew if the men could even reach it, let alone pull themselves aboard.

  Captain Trollope walked by, his riding stick under his arm. “Hold your positions, and don't lower any more boats! Good lads! Look the Huns in the eye. Sing another song!”

  Look and sing, that was all we could do.

  Trollope carried on. “Hold the line! Hold—”

  A flash filled my vision as something struck my temple and I collapsed. I struggled to open my eyes, but all I saw was blue sky and smoke. There was no sound and I couldn't feel my arms or legs. The sky shifted, and the deck of the ship and a face came into focus. I was being propped up by Blackburn. “Bathe! Bathe! Are you hurt?”

  I could hear again, and see, so I still had eyes and ears. I sucked in a cloud of sooty smoke and coughed so hard I thought my chest would burst. “I'm all right.” I sat up and counted my fingers. Ten. Shrapnel had torn a hole through my uniform and sliced my shoulder. I poked at it and found a trickle of blood. “Just a scratch!” Blackburn nodded and moved on. I was able to stand again on shaky legs.

  Several troopers were facedown on the deck. The tongue of one hung out like a dead calf, and he was missing his lower jaw. Then I noticed his stripes and recognized the top half of his face—Sergeant Applewhite. My sergeant was dead.

  I took a wobbly step and stumbled over a leg, reached down and picked it up. It was light; the puttees fluttered like banners. Whose leg was it? Dr. Purves could sew it back on.

  It could be mine! I looked down, relieved to see both of my legs in their proper places. I searched for the rest of the man because he could be put together again, like Humpty-Dumpty, but soon the leg felt heavy and I dropped it.

  The ship rocked and I nearly stumbled into a broken winch pipe that was hissing steam. I wiped my eyes. Captain Trollope was sleeping on the deck, his orderly kneeling beside him. “Wake up, sir!”

  Trollope opened his eyes, his face black as burned steak. The slightest smile appeared. “It has been a short life ….” He shuddered, and the orderly clung to Trollope's hand. I watched them, waiting for Trollope to move again.

  I was spun around to face Lieutenant Ranee. “Snap out of it, lad!” he shouted at me, spittle hitting my face. “Go give the machine gunners a hand. Now!”

  I lurched my way over to three men unloading two Vick-ers machine guns from broken crates. “Bring those bullets!” a lance corporal commanded. I carried a belt box to the rear of the ship. This was work; something to keep my mind occupied.

  Another blow rocked the deck and I nearly lost my footing.

  “Quick, break it open!” the lance corporal said. Two troopers had set up the tripod and mounted the gun. I flipped the tin lid and pulled out a line of bullets.

  “Let's give em hell!” the gunner said. He pulled the trigger, and then, about thirty yards from the submarine, water splashed up. The Germans shook their fists, but the submarine slowed until they were out of our range. Another shell screamed through the air overhead.

  “We might as well be spitting wads of paper,” a trooper hissed.

  “At least we threw their aim off,” the gunner said.

  As I went back for another belt box I saw several of the ship's crew in a lifeboat, lowering themselves over the side. “Run for it, boys!” a seaman cried. “We're outgunned.” He jumped over the side.

  “Stick to your posts, men,” Lieutenant Ranee shouted. “A thousand tons of British guns and horses are not going to be sitting on the bottom of the ocean. Let the civvies go.”

  But who was running the ship? I hadn't seen the Mercian's captain among the crewmen, so he must still be on board, but who was down in the stokehold?

  A shell hit the water tank, splashing a wave across the deck. Men were blown to the side by the explosion; one fell down, down into the sea.

  I struggled back to the machine guns, the deck now a mess of mangled metal and bodies. A shell tore through the staircase behind me but didn't explode.

  Chaplain Holmes charged forward, grabbed the smoking shell, and threw it overboard toward the sub, yelling, “Get thee hence, Satan!” Several men clapped. Holmes examined his burned hands, then returned to the wounded.

  I lowered the box. “Here's your bullets.”

  “You a Canuck?” the gunner asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Me too.” The man sounded British. His voice was calm, as though we were just sitting down for tea. “My name's Here—short for Hercules. I worked in the auto factories at Oshawa. Good money. Okay, Pile, adjust the sights—let's give em another shot.”

  The gun rattled, spewing fire, smoke, and hot lead. Bullets sprayed three or four hundred feet from the sub. “They're still too far,” Here said.

  I blocked the sun with my hand. “There's something else out there!” I said.

  A shadow had appeared on the far horizon that was large enough to be one of our destroyers. The Huns saw it, too. The men stood around the gun, staring toward the ship. Then a German officer shouted from the conning tower and the Huns ran to it and climbed in. A few moments later the submarine dove.

  We were silent, counting each second, staring out at the open sea. The ship on the horizon was gone, but so was the submarine. Muttering soon turned to jeering, and after about five minutes we began to cheer as if we'd just won a football match.

  2

  The Mercian raced over the waves as we gathered around our dead pals. All twenty-three of them had been wrapped in sheets and laid across the deck, glowing white in the dawn. They rocked with the ship, and it was hard not to imagine one or two standing up and saying, “See, I'm not hurt at all.” But most of the sheets were stained red. It was just as well we couldn't see their faces.

  Chaplain Holmes, his long robe snapping in the wind, said a few words about their bravery, their commitment to God and their country. Then several troopers carried the bodies one by one on stretchers and tipped the dead overboard as our bugler played “Last Post,” followed by “The Dead March in Saul.”

  I shivered, wondering which bodies belonged to men I'd known. None of them would have dreamed they'd be buried at sea. When the last man was gone, the chaplain began a hymn:

  “O God, our help in ages past,

  Our hope for years to come,

  Our shelter from the stormy blast,

  And our eternal home.”

  I sang along, the familiar words a small comfort. When the song was over, we scrubbed the deck and cleaned up the destruction as well as we could. It was a blessing to have such a huge task; otherwise, I might have collapsed thinking of what I'd just witnessed.

  Men had died, right in front of me. Captain Trollope. Sergeant Applewhite. Dead. They were gone. It wasn't like at home, watching an animal die. These men had had wives, children, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers—and now their families would get letters telling them their boys had died bravely. There'd be no markers for their graves. No one would ever visit them.

  Only one thought eased my grief, and I clung to it. Buke was safe in part because he'd been tied up alone. God had been kind enough to grant me that piece of luck. Nineteen horses had been crippled or killed just by falling onto one another. My injuries were scratches, a ringing in my ears, and an aching skull.

  Cheevers leaned on his mop. “This is what happened down below. The crew had abandoned us, so good ol' Trooper Thompson grabbed the wheel and shouted to the ship's captain, ‘You just tell me when to pull it right and left.’ The Huns were aiming for him, but he stood tall. Meanwhile, our boys in the boiler room kept up the steam!”

  “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.

  3

  We 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.

  March 10, 1918

  Dear Emily,

  1 am in Palestine now, only a short distance from the Mediterranean. It's a very romantic spot, except for the burning, boiling beast of a sun. Despite the heat, both Cheevers and Blackburn are sipping tea. You English and your tea! I'd do anything for lemonade. Or a new uniform. We are still in our heavy woolen khaki and Tommy helmets, so our travel has been quite a chore. Our lances were all left on the dock in Southampton. Army transport!