Megiddo's Shadow (18 page)

“Come, come!” The boy led us down a long set of worn steps. We squeezed between hawkers who shouted, “Good wares … good wares!” “Vases!” “Gems!” “Eggs-a-cook!”

We made several turns through even narrower alleys. The sun was blocked by the sand-colored buildings, and I shivered. The boy took us into a dark room that stank of rotten fruit. I recoiled from the smell; it was too much like the
Mercian
.

“This could be a trap!” I said, keeping my hand on my knife.

“Be brave, Eddie, ol' boy,” Cheevers said. “No one would dare ambush top-notch troopers like us.”

We shuffled down a set of stone stairs and stopped in a lamp-lit hallway. “Here. Go in room. See Mother Mary. Pray.”

The boy held out his hand, and Blackburn dropped the folded bill in his palm. Our guide bowed quickly to us and took the stairs two at a time.

“I always wanted to meet Mother Mary face to face,” Cheevers said as he opened the door.

Candles flickered from chandeliers and hollowed spaces in the wall. Glittering and almost blinding, the Virgin Mary, made of gold, stood on a pedestal. She looked us in the eye, one arm extended in welcome.

I walked toward her, a little dazed. A nun was hunched in the back corner, her face hidden by a veil.

“Dear God,” Cheevers whispered, “she's beautiful, she really is.”

Medals, ribbons, and chain necklaces hung from Mary's hands like Christmas decorations. They were from Turk and German soldiers. Some had left pictures of their loved ones, and there was even a set of spurs. And in the center, hanging over the Virgin's neck, was a familiar medal.

“An Iron Cross,” said Blackburn, touching it as though he couldn't believe it was real. The Iron Cross was the highest award for bravery a Hun could receive, earned on the field killing British soldiers. Some German had traded it for Mother Mary's protection.

Cheevers placed a bullet at her feet. “It's the one meant
for me. If I leave it here, my number won't come up.” I knew he was thinking of his brother. I thought of mine.

“Poppycock!” Blackburn spouted. “It'll do nothing to alter your chances.”

I reached in my pocket and found my mother's handkerchief. I couldn't leave that; Reverend Ashford had said it would bring me luck. I had to leave something, though. If I didn't, Mother Mary wouldn't smile on me and I'd surely die.

I jammed my hand in my breast pocket and found Emily's locket. I took one look at her; she was more beautiful than the statue. I closed the lid and returned it to my pocket. I couldn't survive without being able to look at her.

I reached inside my shirt and snapped off my green identity disk, the one that would be buried with my body. I placed it at Mary's feet, hoping she'd tell her son to watch over me.

“It's nothing but superstition,” Blackburn hissed. “They'll probably sell everything after we're gone.”

The nun turned her head, nodding rhythmically to herself. Her pupils were almost completely white, but she stared straight at us. I shuddered a bit. Was she somehow seeing our souls?

“Let's get out of here,” Blackburn said. We followed him through the door and up into daylight.

A
week of patrols passed. The weather was growing hotter, and both sides appeared to be happy playing one giant staring game. We knew it couldn't last. General Allenby was waiting for the Turks to blink.

One evening, Pitts, horseshoes clinking in a sack, poked his head into our tent. “Bathe, these came for you.” He held out two letters.

“Thanks! Thanks!” My heart raced at the mere sight of them.

Cheevers didn't even lift his head. He just sat on his cot, spinning his saber.

One letter was from Emily and had been sent some time earlier. It had probably been gathering dust in a depot in Cairo. I could have had it weeks earlier! The other was addressed in another woman's handwriting. I panicked for a moment, thinking it might be from the Daughters of the
Empire regarding my father, but it had been stamped in Gnmsby. I couldn't think of anyone I knew there.

I opened the envelope from Emily and caught a whiff of perfume.

“Why the sniffing, Bathe? Did you let one go?” Cheevers asked.

“Shut up, Cheevers!”

I unfolded the letter.

I read the letter again and read the last paragraph three times. I wanted to write her back immediately, to say I was feeling the same way about us. I even considered shelling out the money for a cable. I had hope, too. And love.

Then I remembered the other letter. Still stunned and in bliss from Emily's words, I opened it and read:

I began to shake uncontrollably. The harder I tried to stop it, the more I shook. I tried to wet my throat so that I could cough, but to no avail.

Emily was dead. Dead. One bomb, falling out of the sky, just like that. I knew about explosions now. I knew what they did to the body. I'd seen it on the
Mercian
. Her face torn; her arms shattered. Her beautiful legs. Gone.

Her eyes. Her lips. Her laugh. Gone, forever.

I shook and sobbed as quietly as I could. Flies landed on me, sucking my sweat. She had died weeks earlier and I hadn't felt it in my heart. How could that be?

“Edward.” A whisper. I couldn't tell if it was Blackburn or Cheevers. Tears stained my cheeks. I didn't want to face them.

“Edward, are you all right?”

A hand touched my shoulder. I turned to find Blackburn looking down at me. I lowered the letter.

Blackburn sat back down on his cot. Cheevers looked over
at me. I rubbed my arm across my eyes; my mother's face flashed inside my eyelids. How I longed for her to hold me.

“What is it?” Blackburn's voice was surprisingly gentle. “News from home?”

“She's dead. My girl.”

“That's hard news.” Cheevers reached out and patted my arm. “Really tough to hear. How'd it happen?”

“A
bomb. A Hun bomb.” It was so difficult to spit it out.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Blackburn said. “I know … I know you were very enamored of her. She must've been a fine girl.”

I folded the letter.

“If you need anything,” Blackburn said, “just ask, Edward. Anything.” I had never seen him so concerned. He always had his disdainful nose in a book. Not now.

“We'll get our revenge!” Cheevers promised.

The tent was too small. I rushed outside, not bothering to close the netting properly. The pitiless sun was finally setting. Some troopers were shoveling holes; others were hauling water. I walked to the picket line, my head down. When I found Buke, I wrapped my arms around his neck and sobbed, hoping no one would hear. He stood still, his heart beating, his neck warm, his familiar smell a comfort. “She's dead, Buke, she's dead.”

I dabbed my eyes with my mother's handkerchief. I would never see Emily again; God had taken her, claimed her for his own. It was the crudest thing I could imagine.

A
month later, in July, I was sent to hell. Somewhere high above us General Allenby had uttered a command, and next thing we knew we were riding through the Judean hills toward the Jordan Valley.

“I ear no white man has ever made it through a summer there!” said Pitts, giving Brush Me a kick. His horse was already wasted in the sun.

“If we're there, it'll spread out the Turks' right flank,” Blackburn explained, as though he were talking to schoolchildren.

“It'll roast our flanks,” Cheevers said, trying to sound lighthearted. I couldn't even find the strength to chuckle.

We passed a Roman aqueduct that hadn't seen water in centuries. The sun blazed closer, brighter, and hotter. Heavy air hung over us like a shroud, forcing the sweat from
our backs. Chaplain Holmes pointed toward Jericho, excited to see the city, but all I saw were waves of heat.

As the sun set, we trotted down a long ravine that led to the bottom of the valley. The air became chokingly hot. My uniform was a sweat rag. The trail became so narrow that we moved off the road, waiting by the rums of a solitary stone house for the regiment we were replacing to pass. There was no sign of them in the darkness.

“Someone was jolter-headed enough to build a home here,” Cheevers scoffed.

Blackburn laughed. “Wonder if they all died of sunstroke?”

I sat on one of the stones, holding Buke's reins. A mosquito landed on my arm and I watched it suck my blood. I was too tired to give it a swat. How many had bitten me by then? A thousand?

Blackburn waved his hand at the swarm. “Our little winged pests will dictate our battle tactics.”

Cheevers nudged me. “Ears up, Bathe! Blackburn is giving us another lecture.”

“Don't get smart! I'm just saying it takes ten days or so for a trooper to succumb to malaria. Once we cross into the Turk trenches, hordes of mosquitoes will be waiting for us with new strains of malaria.”

“Mosquitoes?” Cheevers gave me another nudge. “Oh, no!”

“Allenby is thinking about them. He's probably calculated he'll only have ten days or so to bust up the Turk lines because by that time, half his force will have malaria.”

Watching several mosquitoes suck at my hand, I said, “Unless we all get it before the big push starts.”

“He spoke!” Cheevers gave me another nudge, and I nearly smacked him. “Did you hear that, Blackburn? Bathe actually squeaked! He's been silent as a worm for weeks.”

Before I could say anything the cloppmg of hundreds of hooves echoed from the trail. Riders in slouch hats appeared—Aussie Light Horsemen.

“What news from the Valley of Death?” Cheevers called out as they passed.

The Aussies stared ahead as though they might teeter off their horses if they took their eyes off the path. Their Walers, which stood taller than our mounts, were thin, the men even thinner. I'd never seen so many Aussies in such a dour mood.

“What outfit are you?” another trooper shouted.

Again, no reply. At the tail end of the column was a line of twelve ambulance wagons with three men per wagon laying squashed together, eyes closed. I couldn't tell if they were sick or dead. Finally, from the back of the last wagon, one lone voice could be heard, singing so terribly out of tune I nearly covered my ears: