Megiddo's Shadow (13 page)

I reread the letter. How stupid to end with wrestling!

Then I wrote what I was really thinking:

T
he next letter I received had Reverend Ashford's address on it. My hand shook as I slit the envelope open, worried that Dad had passed on.

Hector had started a final letter? I wanted to read it so much. I wondered what his thoughts had been, what sorts of things had happened to him before he'd died. I wanted to hear his voice again, if only in print.

At least Dad was still alive, but what was going on in his
head? Was he reliving his mad dash for the guns in South Africa? Was he missing Mom? Where was the strength that had helped him cut our farm out of unbroken sod?

Maybe if I had taken his work clothes to him one more time, he would've found that strength. It might be that he just needed to lean on me, and I had abandoned him. I felt as though sand were filling my guts. I had tried for months to get him to walk out that door. I couldn't do everything on my own.

The following day the townspeople of Lincoln were invited to the barracks for Open Day, when we jumped barriers and careened our horses around barrels to the oohs and ahs of ladies and the polite clapping of old men in suits. We even performed a lance charge. Cheevers and I loved every moment of it.

Afterward, I stripped the saddle off Buke's sweating back. “Good boy,” I gushed as I patted his side and brushed him down.

Sergeant Applewhite shoved his way through the stable door. “Inspection! Get a move on! Colonel Wilson is on his way!

Cheevers threw a fork into my stall, nearly pinning my foot. “Quick-sticks, Bathe! Stop your lollin'!”

I rushed down to the pump and back, water splashing from the pail. The colonel must not think I was neglecting Buke. I tossed fresh green hay in the second trough.

I spit-polished my boots and straightened my puttees and my uniform. One middle button sagged, but there was no time to sew it. I dashed to the tiny mirror in the stable,
jostling other troopers, and saw a dirty face, lined with streaks of straw dust and sweat. Oh, Lord! I ran to the trough, pushed Buke aside, splashed my cheeks, and dried myself on my spare horse blanket. Buke snorted angrily at me for the interruption.

“D Squadron! Attention!” Captain Trollope's voice cut through the dm. “Stand to!” I rushed to my position outside the stall, joining a line of troopers, hands at their sides. The captain stood on one side of the stable door and Lieutenant Ranee, the other.

Colonel Wilson strode m, medals arrayed across his chest, his hat under one arm, his gray hair short. He looked each man up and down; ran his fingers across the top of the gate, checking for dust; and moved on to the next stall. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he got closer. He had a reputation for choosing one man and berating him for his mistakes.

He stopped and looked me over, letting out a hiss. Then he stomped into my stall. Buke whickered. The colonel was back a moment later, so we were face to face. Wrinkles surrounded two stone-cold eyes. “Name?”

“Trooper Bathe, sir.”

“Your stall is clean, Bathe, but your third button is loose.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Good God, Trooper, sorry doesn't cut it with me! For the want of a nail the kingdom was lost. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I'll fix it immediately, sir.”

“A
little blot like that could change the course of your whole career. I won't have any shirkers under my command, especially since we'll be shipping out!”

I took a deep breath. The other troopers did, too. Finally, after all this waiting, it was going to happen.

“Are you men ready?” Wilson looked up and down the line.

“Yes, sir!” we replied in unison.

“You'd bloody well better be! There's a spot of trouble in the east and they need a hand cleaning it up. A month or two and everything will be tip-top, then we'll head back to France to show em all how it's done.”

East? And then back to France? But France was east.

“Hard riding! Are you up to it, lads?”

“Yes, sir!”

“They'll be sorry the day they see the Lincolnshire Yeomanry riding down on them. We ship out Thursday. Don't miss the boat.”

Everyone cheered.

“They're yours, Captain Holmes!” Wilson said.

Our regimental chaplain stepped up, a ruddy-faced man, impeccable in his uniform. His white collar seemed to glow. He stopped at a pail of water.

“I'm going to bless you and your mounts. Please bow your heads.” We lowered our chins to our chests. “Almighty God, who didst send thy holy angel unto the pool of Bethesda, hear our prayers and be pleased to stretch out thy hand, and according to thy holy will grant restoration of health and the fulfillment of the good desires of all those men and horses who are about to be blessed with this water. Amen.” He looked at the troopers. “Say Amen.”

We echoed, “Amen.”

The chaplain stood before the ferner's horse, Brush Me,
and dabbed water first on the horse, then on Pitts's forehead. “May it please Almighty God of his great goodness to grant thee health and peace, according to his holy will, and fulfill all thy good desires for his honor and glory The blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be upon thee now and always. Amen.” The horse snorted.

It took a long time to bless us all, but when the water dribbled onto my forehead I felt as if God had placed an invisible suit of armor over me. Buke looked even stronger than before.

“Tomorrow we're going on an adventure, pal,” I said, once the chaplain had moved on. I scratched Buke's ears. “We're going to see the world.”

Will ye go to Flanders, my Molly-O?

And see the chief commanders, my Mally-O?

You'll see the bullets fly
,

And the soldiers how they die

And the ladies loudly cry, oh, my Mally-O!

“Will Ye Go to Flanders”

                 (Traditional)

O
ur horses were stuffed into cattle cars, we soldiers were jammed into passenger cars, and then our tram rattled south to Southampton. Within a few hours we stood before the HMT
Mercian
. One smokestack jutted above a deck cluttered with cargo booms, derrick masts, and piles of supplies.

“So that's our brave and valiant vessel,” Cheevers said. “The perfect ship for a trip to hell.”

“It's built to haul fruit, and it's not even armed,” said Blackburn, frowning. “If we're spotted, we'll just pretend we're apples and oranges.”

“Blackburn!” Cheevers clapped him on the back. “You made a joke—the end of the world is nigh!”

Blackburn snorted. “This ‘fruit ship’ ruse is the real laugh! The Germans tend to sink all ships, military or not. I wish we were part of a nice, safe convoy. They must want us out of here quick.”

“Any idea where we're going?” I asked.

“Salonika!” Cheevers shouted. “That's what I heard from Pitts.”

“The Italian front, is my guess.” Blackburn thoughtfully scratched his chin, trying his best to look like officer material. “My brother said things are rough there.”

I didn't know much about either place. I began to hum “I Don't Know Where I'm Going, but I'm on My Way.” Cheevers laughed.

Soon we'd shuffled up the gangway to the deck and were led down a set of stairs to our sleeping quarters—a dimly lit cargo hold with several old, ugly tables and benches fixed to the floor. Hammock hooks stuck out of every post and along the walls. The room stank of rotting fruit and dead fish.

“Whoa!” Cheevers sniffed.

We were issued a printed card that read:

“Don't write anything else on the cards or I'll use them as bum wipe!” Sergeant Applewhite yelled.

I found an open spot at a table, addressed the card to Emily, and filled in the blanks. I wished I could add
I miss you
.

After six days of rough seas we docked in Gibraltar. The entire regiment crouched in the hold, either playing cards or Crown and Anchors or waiting in line to gawk out a porthole at the rockbound city No soldier was to be spotted by the locals, since the Huns had spies everywhere.

Three hours after leaving port we were allowed on deck. We washed our uniforms and hung them on every open wire or post, where they flapped like a thousand khaki flags.

Dr. Purves had injected each of us with anticholera shots. I rubbed my aching shoulder, then checked my right front pocket; Mother's handkerchief and the locket from Emily were both safely buttoned inside. I also felt for the identification disks around my neck—still there. Patting for them had become a nervous habit.

“Any tinned fish?” Cheevers asked, looking out at the water.

“What?”

“Hun submarines. They're out there, mate, hiding in the water, watching with their beady little rat eyes. Cowards!”

“Don't we have submarines, too?”

“Of course! Sometimes you have to sink to their level.” He paused. “Catch on? Sink to their level?”

“Funny,” I said without smiling. “Very. Funny.”

He chuckled. “Let's check the horses.”

We walked toward the mam stairwell, saluting Captain Trollope. “You troopers keeping out of mischief?” he said.

“Yes, sir!” I replied.

“Carry on, lads.”

The moment we were out of earshot Cheevers whispered, “Officers! Eating steak and kidney pie with the ship's captain; sticking us with bully beef, tinned jam, and hardtack.”

“Trollope is a fair man,” I said.

“Well, if you like him so much, maybe you should kiss his lordship's bum next time you see him.”

“You're a loudmouth rotter.”

“I'll take that as a compliment!”

We clomped down into the hold, horse stink and flies clouding the humid air. Buke's ears perked up the moment I approached his timber stall and squeezed between him and the nearest horse. He snorted and rubbed against me as I backed him out into the aisle.

He looked thinner but was healthy and alert. We'd lost three horses in the first few days. One had slipped and choked on its halter; the other two had grown septic, perhaps from moldy hay.

We rounded the corner and nearly stepped on three men kneeling around a dead horse. I yanked Buke to a stop and he whickered his frustration.

“She was a good one.” A trooper patted the horse's head. Her long pink tongue hung out, unblinking eyes glazed over.