Three Turks with bayonets had Cheevers surrounded, so he was swinging madly. I rushed toward him, but he spun Neddie, knocking two Turks to the ground. The third fell to his knees, and Cheevers stabbed at him, stopping an inch from his forehead. Cheevers laughed maliciously and wheeled Neddie away.

  I made it through the second line and turned back to see that the Turks had thrown down their weapons and held up their hands.

  I wiped my saber on my trousers, cleaning off the Turk's blood. I was proud I'd given him a poke, and a little sick about it, too. At least it wasn't my blood. I sheathed my sword and felt a rush of excitement unlike any I'd ever experienced. I was still alive!

  Soon the bugle call rallied the squadron, and I took a moment to survey the land we'd taken. I expected to see lancers and yeomanry scattered across the plain. To my great and pleasant surprise, there were just a few horses on the ground, and one trooper down. He was being helped up by two others.

  I lined up between Blackburn and Cheevers. “Only one man hit,” Cheevers said. “Can you believe it? A full bloody blessed charge at over four hundred Turks and they only hit one of us.”

  “They were aiming too high,” Blackburn said. “They weren't taught how to fight a cavalry charge.”

  We formed squadron and rode toward Afuleh. The Turkish prisoners began singing a happy song; they had wanted to be captured all along. Their war was over.

  Lucky them.

  14

  At the gates of Afuleh there were several Turk soldiers who'd probably just recently given their comrades a terrific send-off. They fired a few shots at us, but when the entire regiment rode into view, they threw down their guns.

  The town itself appeared deserted; the inhabitants were either hiding in their homes or had fled. We spent the next hour rounding up any Turks or Germans we could find. I observed the Huns closely in their gray uniforms. They were in better shape than the Turks; most had even shaved that morning. Several stared back at me, eyes fierce. I did my best to hate them for what they'd done to Hector and Emily and so many others.

  Hargreaves led our troop to a storage camp on the east side of town. We rode right in, surprising a solitary Turk guard as he smoked his cigar. A trooper took the cigar, stuck it in his own mouth, puffed out some smoke, and led the Turk away.

  In the camp we found three trucks with flat tires, and several wagons. One held something that looked like a potbellied stove.

  “A goulash cannon!” Cheevers yelled, excited as a schoolboy. He rushed over and touched the side. “It's warm, boys.” He flipped the lid, and the smell of stew made my mouth water.

  “It could be poisoned,” I said.

  “Bah, the guard wasn't even expecting us.” Cheevers pulled a spoon from his kit bag. “All I need is my pugglmg stick.” He stirred the stew and swallowed a mouthful. “It's goat stew! At least, I think it's goat.”

  Troopers crowded around and filled their plates; one even used his sun helmet. I got my share and followed Cheevers to a hut. He kicked open the door, stomped inside, and plopped down on a crate. I sat next to him, and we spooned the warm, peppery stew into our mouths, eating like pigs. Two bites left on his plate, Cheevers held up his hand.

  “What?”

  “We're missing something!”

  He pried the lid off a crate; his eyes grew large, and, like a magician, he pulled out a bottle of champagne. “Fire in the hole!” He popped the cork and the bottle foamed. “Fizz! We're kings tonight!” He thumbed the cork off a second bottle and tossed it to me. I sipped from the bubbling fountain and coughed half of it back up. I'd never had champagne, but I liked it instantly. I finished the last of my stew, then washed it down with more warm champagne. It went straight to my head.

  “We should tell the others,” I said.

  “Not yet.” Cheevers dug around in a small wooden box and came up with cigars. “Where there's fizz, there's smoke!” He handed me a cigar and struck a match.

  “I wouldn't change places with the King,” I said, feeling full of myself. “Not even with General Allenby himself!”

  Cheevers let out a belch and cloud of smoke. “We're on top of the world, Bathe. What a ride! What a ride!”

  The door opened. Blackburn entered and his eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. “You sods! You dirty sods!

  Cheevers blew him a cloud of smoke. “Finders keepers.”

  More troopers arrived to see what the joyful noises were all about, and soon the hut was jammed with yammering yeomanry grabbing bottles and lighting cigars. You'd have thought it was New Year's Eve.

  For several minutes we forgot about all we had just seen and laughed like fools. And then there was a sudden hush. Cheevers and I stopped talking and looked up from our crates. There stood Hargreaves, his eyes squmched up in anger. “You useless worms are drinking Turk piss!” He grabbed a bottle from Blackburn. “Oh, it's German champagne.” He took a swig and grinned. “The best hock there is!

  Cheevers jumped up to hand him a cigar and give him a light, and the celebration resumed.

  My bottle was half empty. I knew if I stood up now I'd wobble. We shouldn't have been drinking; we had to be ready to ride at a moment's notice. But we'd survived, hadn't we? We deserved a reward.

  My eyelids grew heavy. I nodded once, twice. I wished I could share the champagne with Emily

  “How big is your farm, Bathe?” Cheevers asked, dropping down next to me again.

  I struggled to remember. “Five hundred acres with fifty head of cattle.”

  “That's a kingdom! When we're done this little scrap, I'll come and wrangle cows. How does that sound? Me and you, chasing steers and chasing skirts. They do have girls there, right?”

  “Of course!” I told him. “And you almost ride well enough to be a cowboy.”

  “I'll work on it!” He let a smoke ring waft to the ceiling. “We should go to 'stralia first, though.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems like a cheery place. Good blokes. We could work on a kangaroo farm.”

  “They don't raise kangaroos.”

  “Edward, Edward, of course they do.”

  “I can't go to Australia.” I took another swig from my bottle. “I have to get back to my farm. I don't know what kind of shape it'll be in. Someone else is looking after it.”

  “We'll go to Canada first, then.” He released another smoke ring. “How many have you gotten?”

  “How many what?”

  “Turks. I'm at five now. Poor buggers keep getting in the way of my bullets. Skewered one with my sword. How many did you say you got?”

  “I—I don't know.”

  His red-rimmed eyes glowed. “It's a marvelous feeling, ain't it? Me against him, and I win. I always win. Edward, we're English gods.”

  My muscles tensed. “I'm not English.”

  “Close enough. I want to pot a Hun next; Turks are too easy.”

  My stomach lurched. Was it the food or the fizz or the look on his face?

  “You sh-shouldn't enjoy k-killmg.” The words came out all jumbled.

  “Speak up, mate. You're mumbling like a miserly mardy-cat.

  “I've got to get out.” I used the crates to pull myself up, knocking one over. Everything whirled.

  “He's dancing, boys!” Hargreaves shouted, and clapped his hands in time with music none of us could hear. “The Canuck's putting on a girlie show.”

  I staggered to the door. Troopers laughed all around me, screeching like a bunch of crazed monkeys. I stumbled out into the endless heat.

  I didn't want the food in my stomach. It had been made for men who were probably dead now. I heaved several times, then wiped my face. Thankfully, no one had followed me.

  At the picket line I found Buke. I fell against him, grabbing his mane for balance.

  Cheevers liked killing. He truly did. He was the perfect trooper.

  Buke made a soft whinnying sound, switching his tail at flies. He was so solid, and he smelled like home. I didn't want to ever let go. “I can lean on you, boy. I can always, always lean on you.”

  15

  Iran my hand along the inside of my sun helmet, wiping sweat and grit from my forehead. I looked back over the Jordan Valley. Eight hours of hard riding had taken us only three-quarters of the way across, the sun watching us closely. A swarm of flies followed us everywhere, landing on the hands of officers trying to read their maps.

  This was an ugly, stupid place. How could the Jews, Arabs, and Turks live here? One moment you could eat an orange or a grape; the next you were caught in a burning desert. Palestine couldn't decide whether it wanted to be heaven or hell.

  Buke trotted along, his mane damp. I explored my cheeks with a dry tongue and reached for my water bottle, then remembered I'd drained it an hour earlier. We didn't stop to rest. It was no wonder we kept losing troopers to malaria.

  We'd spent the last few days rounding up Turks as we rode farther east. Thousands of Turk soldiers were streaming up from the south, herded toward us by the infantry. We had them surrounded and were pulling the noose tighter, cutting off their escape routes. Soon they, too, would be prisoners.

  We'd been assigned to a new CO, but I couldn't remember his name. Our next objective would be to capture the railway station at Deraa. I didn't know where the hell that was.

  Blackburn began to cough, sounding like he was hacking up a lung. He spat a wad of gunk into the sand and waved off our inquiries about his health. I watched him, though, as his head began to bob with the motion of his horse. Asleep in the saddle.

  “Hey, Blackburn,” I said.

  As if in answer, he fell off Cromwell without putting his arms out, smacked into the ground, and lay there like a broken doll. Cromwell stopped and sniffed his master.

  I jumped down and knelt beside Blackburn. “Victor, can you hear me?” I rolled him over. His face was shockingly pale, one eye open and rolled back, the other closed.

  Cheevers was off his horse in a flash. “Hey, no sleeping on duty, Blackburn.”

  “T-t-tell Hannibal to mind the trumpets,” Blackburn mumbled. “Obtain superiority of fire and enfilade!”

  His forehead was cool; malaria had conquered another one of us.

  “Medic carts are several hours behind.” Hargreaves was looking down from his horse, no pity on his face. “You play mommy, Bathe. Prop up a blanket so he's out of the sun and whisper sweet nothings in his ear.”

  A few troopers rasped with laughter.

  “I'll look after him, Sergeant!” Chaplain Holmes dismounted. “No sense being one gun short.”

  “Good, then, sir.” Hargreaves spat. “We're always happy to have the colonial along. He's such a good shot. Mount up, Bathe.”

  “I'll take good care of your friend,” Holmes promised. “I'll quote the Bible to him.”

  I coughed out a chuckle. “That'll keep him awake.”

  “I know, son. I know. I'm sure he and I will have plenty to discuss.”

  As if to answer, Blackburn groaned.

  Getting back on Buke was like climbing a mountain. I finally pulled myself over and kicked his side, urging him to catch up.

  “Blackburn didn't even complain,” Cheevers said. “He's tougher than he looks.” He thought a moment. “At least we'll be spared his lectures.”

  “Frankly, Cheevers,” I said coldly, “he was the only one who knew what was really going on.”

  Cheevers tapped the chevron on his left arm. “You forget I'm a lance corporal. The major consults with me before he farts.”

  I didn't laugh. “You're a piece of work,” I said. He actually liked to kill. I couldn't get that out of my head.

  Cheevers pointed east. “As we speak, Colonel Lawrence and his Arabs are somewhere out there giving the Turks a good beating. He's six feet tall and can ride a camel a thousand miles through the desert. Jolly good English pluck, if you ask me, outplaying the Arabs at their own game.”

  “Do you think we'll join him?”

  “Ah, that's classified information, mate. Now who knows what's really going on? Hmmm?”

  We halted at a deep gorge and looked across it toward several huts guarded by three pitiful date palms. Goats wandered about, but otherwise, the place seemed deserted.

  Two shots rang out and our major dropped his map. He stared angrily toward the village as his orderly dismounted to retrieve it.

  “Bloody Turks!” The major snatched the map from his orderly, raised it in the air as if it were a flag, and charged.

  We followed him down a narrow path into the gorge, the way so steep that I jabbed my feet into my stirrups and leaned forward on Buke's neck. On the other side of the gorge we climbed an equally treacherous path to the top and then galloped to the huts. We found three Turks crouching behind a well, holding rifles. When our regiment thundered down on them, they dropped their guns and raised their arms.

  The well was so small it would take days to water the regiment. An old Arab man in dirty white robes sat near it, a goat rubbing against his knees. He patted its head and grinned.

  “Bring that Arab here,” the major said, pointing to Cheevers and me. We rode over and tried to speak to the man in English, but he only shook his head.

  “Aasif. Aasif.”

  We motioned for him to come and he followed, the goat bumping the back of his legs.

  “Does he speak English?” the major asked.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  The major looked down at his orderly, a short man with round-lensed glasses. “Ask him how many Turks are at Irbid.”

  The orderly spoke in Arabic and the old man appeared confused, but kept nodding. “Aasif.”

  The orderly repeated his questions and the Arab yammered, pointing several times.

  “What's he say, Gibbons?”

  “That's Irbid over there, sir. There are about two thousand Turks, exhausted and ready to surrender.”

  “He said that?”

  “Well, he said they lacked will. So I believe that's what he means.”

  “Good show. Give him a couple piastres. We can't wait for our field guns and the rest of the battalion. We'll need the water in Irbid before dark.”

  We formed squadron. Our regiment had lost more than a hundred men to malaria during the previous few days, which left us with about four hundred riders to fight against two thousand Turks.

  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.