We had a terrible trip over. Our ship was attacked by a Hun U-boat, and several men died in front of me. The less said about it, the better. I'm just glad we didn't end up on the bottom of the sea.

  Our general is somebody named Allenby, but they call him the Bull. Wonderful! We hear that a British officer named Lawrence has swayed the Arabs to our side. You may remember that he and his band of ruffians captured the port of Aqaba last year. Quite the surprise for the Turks! I guess they're blowing up railways left and right behind enemy lines, if the reports are to be believed.

  I am exhausted. I do hope all is well.

  Sincerely,

  Edward

  P.S. I wish I were in France, just so I could be closer to you.

  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.

  4

  We 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.”

  5

  Withm 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.

  “We'll be patrolling northeast. They're about three miles away.” Hargreaves pointed. “The Turks'll be looking for us, so keep your cake-holes shut and follow my lead. If we're lucky we'll give the bastards a poke in the eye. Whatever you do, don't get taken prisoner; Abdul will castrate you.”

  I squeezed my legs together, and Cheevers, seeing me, let out a chuckle. An angry glare from Hargreaves silenced him.

  We trotted down a valley and followed a wadi—an extra-large gully—navigating by moonlight. It had rained heavily a few nights earlier, and the bed of the wadi was thick with mud, so that Buke had to struggle with each sucking step.

  Sergeant Hargreaves led us into another valley. The open space between the two armies was too rough for any major attack, but we were patrolling it just to keep their spies at bay. Sometimes the paths were so steep I thought we'd tumble down, head over horse.

  With every step I took away from camp, my hands shook a little harder. I had to conquer my fear. Hector must have been scared, but somehow he had found the strength to say to his major, “Wherever you go, I will go, too.”

  Hargreaves seemed to know exactly where he was going, and knew the Turks inside and out. He had been with the Berkshire Yeomanry at Gallipoli and had the shrapnel scars to prove it. There was a rumor he'd killed eight Turks, three of them with a bayonet. Sticking close to him would be wise.

  Buke snorted, Neddie replied, and Cheevers hissed his horse into silence. I was thankful for the soft ground that muffled their hooves.

  We climbed a hill, and the moonlight glinted off my new buttons.

  Crack!

  Sergeant Hargreaves fell off his horse.

  Crack!

  A bullet whizzed past my head.

  “Dismount!” Hargreaves ordered from the ground, holding his shoulder. Cheevers jumped down and grabbed the reins of the sergeant's horse.

  I whirled Buke around in a circle, wondering if we should gallop back the way we'd come.

  “Dismount, Bathe! Get off your goddamn horse!”

  I slipped down, nearly getting caught in my stirrups. Two more shots whistled over my head.

  “This way!” The sergeant led us into a wadi. “Woodward, you take the horses. Blackburn, tie up this stupid shoulder of mine.” Blackburn pulled the medic pack from his saddlebag and began wrapping gauze around Hargreaves's wound. The sergeant was bleeding badly, but he paid it no mind, clutching his pistol in his left hand. “There can't be many of 'em; only four shots from the northeast. Cheevers, take a look.”

  Slowly Cheevers poked his head over the ridge. Don't! I wanted to yell, expecting a bullet to knock him backward.

  “Somebody's moving about seventy yards away …. I see three of them, Sergeant.”

  Hargreaves motioned with his pistol. “Bathe, Cheevers. Go down the wadi, outflank 'em and pick 'em off or keep 'em pinned down. We'll move a bit to our right, so watch you don't hit us.”

  Cheevers hunched over and scrambled along the wadi. I followed, clutching my rifle so tightly my hands ached. Each step in the ditch created a noisy splash, and the mud sucked at my boots. We climbed a few feet up the ravine and peered over the edge.

  They were Turkish cavalry, with kabalaks wrapped tightly around their heads. One Turk was holding the reins of three skinny ponies in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the red glow a perfect night target. The other two Turks were pointing their Mausers away from us.

  Cheevers motioned with his head at the Turks and winked. I brought up my rifle; it felt twenty pounds heavier. My grip was still too tight, my shoulders corded knots. I worried that they'd see the steel glinting in the moonlight.

  Crack! There was an explosion beside me.

  The Turk with the ponies fell to the ground. “That found a billet!” Cheevers squawked.

  I pulled my trigger but blinked at the last moment and hit the sand in front of the other Turks. They dove behind a ridge.

  I yanked the bolt back, and my second shot hit a pony behind them. It let out a high neigh and ran around kicking, then fell over dead. The other two ponies fled.

  One of the Turks peeped over the ridge, and Cheevers's next round caught him in the forehead. He slumped back down.

  The last Turk stayed hidden.

  The remaining troopers opened fire, and I shot twice toward where I thought the Turk was.

  Pitts and Blackburn charged out of the wadi on their horses, galloping the seventy yards. They drew their swords and yelled, looking as if they were trying to scare rabbits out of a bush. At any moment I expected a bullet to knock one of them off his mount, but they jumped over the ridge.

  I held my fire, waiting for a command or something to shoot at.

  “It's clear!” Blackburn shouted. “The Turk is surrendering!

  We dashed over, rifles loaded and pointed at our enemy. The wounded Turk lay flat on his back, arms over his head. He'd been hit once in the side. His companions lay still on the ground nearby, blood pooling around them. Cheevers rolled one over. “Got him right in the heart!”

  Hargreaves walked up and pointed his pistol at the survivor. “Get up, Turko! Up!” The Turk didn't move. Hargreaves put the muzzle of his gun on the Turk's forehead. “Up, or I'll blow your stinking brains out.”

  The Turk's eyes were wide, shining in the moonlight. He stood slowly and kept his hands high, babbling something we couldn't understand.

  “Anyone speak Turk?” Hargreaves asked.

  No one answered.

  “Looks like he's just a trooper, Sergeant,” Blackburn said.

  “So he knows shit-all, just like you bastards.” The sergeant motioned toward the two dead Turks. “Nice shooting, by the way.”

  “I got 'em both,” Cheevers said.

  Hargreaves gave me a squmty glance. “Guess you shot the horse so they couldn't get away.”

  “My sights seem to be off, Sergeant. I intended to hit the Turks.”

  Hargreaves chuckled. “You'll soon get the hang of firing on the fly.” He pointed at the Turk. “We'll have to take him back, but he's got no horse.”

  “I don't want him riding with me,” Cheevers said. “He's crawling with chits.”

  He did look half-starved, and smelled worse than we did. Since I'd shot his horse, I considered offering to take him, but before I could make up my mind Hargreaves said, “There's no point in taking him with us. He won't know anything. Eh, Turko? Speak up!”

  The Turk looked back and forth, blinking slowly. “Huu-zur,” he mumbled. “Yarari.”

  “Well, he's certainly willing to talk now. You boys carry on; I'll interrogate Mr. Turko here.”

  Woodward approached with our horses. We mounted and began trotting south. I looked back at the pony I'd shot. It was much smaller than Buke and was still shuddering away its last moments of life. Poor, poor thing. I wasn't sure how I would have felt if it had been a Turk I'd killed.

  “Now, that was action!” Cheevers whispered. “My heart's still pounding. To see those bullets hit home!”

  I clenched my teeth. Any one of those Turk bullets could have found a home in me. And two of the enemy had died, right before my eyes. They would have killed me, given the chance, but it was still a sickening thing to have witnessed.

  A shot rang out. We reined up and Hargreaves shouted, “Just hold your positions, men.” A moment later he came riding out of the darkness, holding his reins in his good hand. “Stupid bastard tried to escape.”

  All the way back to camp, I wondered if the sergeant was lymg.

  6

  I didn't sleep a wink, even though we were given an extra hour of rest. I'd frozen on patrol; if Cheevers hadn't let loose those two good shots, my chums might have been dead now. I might have been dead.

  But that wasn't the worst of it: the Turks kept me awake, too. I saw the blood spilling out of them, their slack-jawed faces. I'd heard the pleading of the one we'd captured, and I couldn't believe he had tried to run. I wanted to scream at Hargreaves, “We aren't Huns, we take prisoners!”

  I rolled over. Cheevers snored peacefully, but Blackburn was peering at a book called On War.

  “Trouble sleeping?” he asked.

  “I keep thinking about our patrol.”

  “There's a lot to think about.”

  I sat up. Questioning the actions of a sergeant was a quick ticket to field punishment, but I had to speak. “I think Hargreaves shot that Turk in cold blood.”

  Blackburn's face was dour. “I'm sure that has crossed everyone's mind.”

  “But did he do it?”

  “The Turk was already wounded; I doubt he'd have struggled. Not that this is an excuse, but Hargreaves did fight at Gallipoli, and his section was decimated by the Turks. That could lead to a rather virulent hatred.”

  “But we're British! We don't shoot prisoners! That's not how we fight!”

  “It's how some of us fight. You're not responsible for his actions, only your own.”

  “It's bloody simple, Bathe!” said Cheevers from his cot. “If that Turk had taken us prisoner, we'd be castrated and dead right now. Don't think about it any longer, mate. Just stop your yammering and let me sleep.”

  “But it was wrong! We should've brought the Turk back.”

  Cheevers rolled over and glared at me. “Don't be so daft. We wouldn't be talking about this now if you'd shot straight. Next time, don't miss!” He turned his back to me.

  I was furious, mostly because he was right. I had missed. I had.

  I stood up and Blackburn said, “Where are you going?”

  “I have to tell the lieutenant about Hargreaves. Are you coming with me?”

  Blackburn's eyes locked on mine. “Stop and think, Edward. You'll get no promotions, no thanks, and if Hargreaves finds out, he'll ride you into the dirt.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “It's pointless. The deed is done.”

  I pushed open the flap into the cloudy morning. I thought of Reverend Ashford and was sure he'd agree with what I wanted to do. Hector, too. He wouldn't be as callous as Cheevers. That knowledge gave me the strength to walk right up to Lieutenant Ranee's tent and announce myself.

  “The lieutenant doesn't have time to chat,” his orderly said.

  “But I have something to tell him about the patrol last night.”

  “He's not—”

  “Send him in,” Ranee commanded from inside the tent.

  “Yes, sir.” The orderly opened the flap, holding back the mosquito netting.

  The tent was twice as large as ours, decked out with several chairs and a fluffy cot. Ranee sat at a wooden table, leaning over a chessboard.

  I saluted.

  “Don't worry!” He motioned at the chessboard. “I'm not so batty that I've challenged myself to a game. I'm playing a friend through the post. He's got me in a tight corner. Anyway, you have a burning question, Trooper Bathe?”

  “Last night, sir, we … uh … we were out on patrol.”

  “I am aware of that. Sergeant Hargreaves handed his report in promptly after your return. He wrote glowingly of both you and Trooper Cheevers.”

  “That's very kind of him, sir.”

  “What do you want to add?”