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.

  16

  In 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.

  I stopped shooting. No one had ordered me to, but I couldn't do it anymore. The Germans weren't surrendering, nor were the Turks, even though they had no hope of escape. The ram of bullets poured into the valley from both sides. Why didn't anyone wave a white flag? It had become a massacre.

  Cheevers was firing with what seemed like a smile. He pulled a clip from his bandolier and slid it into place. Hargreaves was next to him, a cruel grimace on his gob. If he had been made in God's image, then God was a twisted, blood-lustmg animal.

  Our machine guns opened up, and cries of anguish filled the hot air, a confused chorus of voices and neighing horses.

  Stop it, God. Stop it.

  A German tried to ram his truck through the bodies, flames, and wagons, but the windshield was shattered by bullets and he slumped out the window. Turks dove for cover under the truck, and it exploded a moment later. I couldn't even begin to count the number of dead.

  Without any signal from an officer, the gunfire petered out. Everyone peered over the edge of the cliff at the hell we had created. The Turks and Germans who were still alive had their hands up. All around them were countless bodies and wounded men, twisted together in agony, blood and guts painting the bottom of the gorge.

  I closed my eyes but could still hear the screams; I would never hear the end of them.

  17

  At dusk, we stumbled down the hill; my rifle was still warm in my hand. Hargreaves seemed to be in a hurry now. We mounted up and struck out to join our division. No one spoke until Hargreaves said, “It's the luck of the draw, ain't it? I actually felt sorry for the damn Turks.”

  There was no response from those within earshot. Perhaps, like me, their brains were numb. Buke struck a stone and stumbled, then corrected himself, but he trotted with a bit of a limp for a while. An hour passed. My ear ached with each heartbeat.

  “Cheevers,” Sergeant Hargreaves said. “You and the Canuck scout ahead. Give Bathe a smack in the head if he lags behind.”

  I was glad to oblige. Anything to put more distance between me and the sergeant. Cheevers and I trotted on ahead, with me in the lead. We rode silently, alert, watching for the enemy.

  After a while Cheevers rode up next to me. “You seem pensive, Eddie ol' boy.”

  “I'm tired.”

  “Aren't we all?” He paused. “You worried about that tiff in the gorge?”

  My hands tightened on the reins. “Why didn't someone stop it?”

  “Stupid Turks didn't raise a white flag, did they, now?”

  “We could've stopped. What's the bloody difference between us and the Huns?”

  He chuckled. “We've got bigger balls.” When I didn't laugh, he said, “And we're just … well … better.” The tone of his voice had changed. He was dead serious.

  “Better? We're no better. And you … you enjoy shooting them.”

  Cheevers yanked his horse to the left so it bashed against Buke. We were riding knee to knee. “You spoiled weak runt!” His spit hit my face. “They started it! Remember? Get that through your thick head! They started it! And now we have to do the dirty work to fix everything, so toughen up! If we weren't here, they'd be burning down our homes and raping our women.” He took several deep breaths. “Every day I think of the lads who died on the Mercian. My pals! The Huns and the Turks killed them. And my brother. Wouldn't you like to shoot the bastard who murdered your girl?”

  “Don't mention her!”

  Cheevers slumped a bit in the saddle. We rode silently, and it occurred to me how foolish we were being, taking our eyes off the terrain. “I … I'm sorry I got so miserly, mate,” he said. “I'm sorry. I hate Palestine just as much as you. And I don't like killing. Really, I don't. I just have to make it a game or I'll go all moffled.”

  But he'd been grinning as he fired down into that gorge. Grinning.

  He patted my shoulder. “Cheer up! Tonight we'll find a nice patch of ground, clear out the snakes and scorpions, and sleep like babies.”

  As the sun was setting, we rode to the top of a rise and looked down on the road to Damascus. We could just make out a column of men on horseback. The yeomanry regiment trotted slowly, horse heads lolling, troopers asleep in the saddle. “It looks like the Dorsets!” said Cheevers. “I can taste the tea already.”

  Just then, on another low hill a distance from us, I caught a flash of silver. “Look over there,” I whispered. Several soldiers were moving down into a small gulley. The shape of their helmets was unmistakable.

  “Germans!” Cheevers hissed. “At least four of them, with machine guns. They're setting up right under our noses! They'll have the Dorsets dead to rights.”

  The Germans were already partly hidden, but I saw another flash as they began setting up their guns.

  Cheevers glanced over his shoulder. “Hargreaves is dillydallying—I can't even see him and the rest of our troop.” He drew his sword. “We'll have to gallop the Huns down ourselves.”

  “What?”

  “If we come at them from the flank, they won't be able to turn their machine guns on us. They've been running for days. They'll put up their hands like good little Huns.”

  “But—”

  He waved his sword. “We go! That's an order, Trooper Bathe. Now!”

  With that he kicked his horse and didn't look back. Cursing, I spurred Buke into a gallop, drew my sword, and gained on Cheevers.

  A Hun turned, shouted, and jumped behind a boulder, positioning his rifle. Two others joined him. I expected Cheevers to stop—it was obvious they weren't going to surrender—but he kept riding. Bullets hissed past us. Cheevers's horse was hit and it crumpled, throwing him from the saddle. He rolled along the ground, his sword flying into the shrubs.

  I sheathed my sword, yanked on Buke's reins, wheeled around, and turned back to get Cheevers. He was struggling to pull his rifle out of its bucket, but it was pinned under his horse.

  I galloped up to him. “Get on! Get on!” I shouted, staying low to Buke's back to avoid bullets. Cheevers gave a frustrated yank, retrieved the gun, and grabbed my hand. As I pulled him onto Buke, he shouted, “The daft bastards have more guts than I thought!”

  I gave Buke a good kick, but before he could take a step he let out a soft whinny and fell to his knees. “Buke!” I yelled as we jumped to the ground. Blood was running down his side and he let out a long wheezing breath. His eyes were wide with pain and fear, reflecting the moon. Blood bubbled in his nostrils. “Oh, Jesus. Don't die, Buke.”

  Then another bullet hit his chest and we crouched behind him. His eyes closed and he stopped breathing. I grabbed his mane and pulled on it as if it would somehow keep him from leaving this world. “Get up, boy, get up! You're the king! C'mon, get up!” I slapped his side hard, but to no avail.

  Now he was just another carcass, like all the carcasses I'd seen over the last few months. The flies were already landing on him, planting their maggoty eggs. I waved my hands at them. “Get away!”

  “Pipe down!” Cheevers said. “Have you gone daft?”

  Bullets struck the ground near us. My chest flared with pain, but I ignored it. Cheevers let off a few rounds, only attracting more gunfire.

  “We have to move,” he shouted. “There's a wadi right over there. Let's go!” I got my gun and fired back, standing in the open, daring them to hit me.

  Cheevers grabbed my shoulder and pulled me into the wadi, where we splashed through the runny muck. Water! I hadn't seen this much water in weeks.

  “We have to circle around them.” Cheevers dragged me about twenty more feet. There were shots, but nowhere near us. Perhaps they were still shooting at Buke.

  Finally Cheevers leaned me up against the wall of the wadi. Buke was dead. My horse was dead.

  Cheevers patted my shoulder. “Sit tight! I'm just going to take a quick look-see.”

  He peered over the edge of the wadi. “They're just over—”