Megiddo's Shadow (24 page)

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.

A
t 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—”

Vip!

Cheevers slumped down in front of me, kneeling silently. He had a small hole in the middle of his forehead. He fell to one side, and I could see that the back of his skull had been shattered like an egg. Blood and brains glistened in the moonlight.

Just like that, he was gone.

I crossed his arms over his chest and tried to close his eyelids, but they wouldn't stay shut. His eyes were dull, his face emotionless. It took everything I had not to vomit, to find the will to get on with my job.

I crawled through the mud another twenty yards, then lifted my head above the edge of the wadi, praying that a bullet wouldn't find me. The Hun machine gun was now firing, and the Dorsets returned fire. The Huns had their backs to me, but I didn't have a clear shot, so I crawled across the ground, now in danger of taking a bullet from my own troops. Covered in mud, I dragged myself over the sharp rocks, getting close enough to hear the Hun commander growling orders. Either they expected reinforcements, or they were fools for having launched the attack with so few men.

I crawled to the top of the gulley and saw three Huns below me. I fired. A dark spot appeared in the back of one man, and he fell over. I shot again and another collapsed. The third, a stocky hulk of an officer, turned, and I got him in the throat. He slumped over the ammunition boxes, his life gurgling out of him.

There!
I thought.
That's for Hector! For Cheevers! For Buke!

I dropped into the gulley and turned. A German, no
older than I was, cowered near some brush. He showed me his empty hands.

“Don't move!” I shouted.

He was shaking.
“Eesh capeetuleeruh.”

“Shut up! Shut up!”

Rifle fire hit the lip of the gulley, spraying dirt over us. I reached in my pocket, fastened my mother's handkerchief to the top of my gun, and waved it in the air. A bullet shot through the cloth. I held it higher, keeping my hands below the line of fire.

The shooting stopped.

I turned to see that the German was reaching into his belt.

“Don't!” I yelled, but the German mumbled,
“Eesh haba shocolahdah.”
He looked at me, earnestly.
“Shocolahda,”
he repeated softly; then something metallic flashed in his hand.

I fired. A red rose formed on his chest. He staggered back, his helmet tumbling to the ground. Without it he looked younger, so young that I doubted he had ever shaved.

The silver thing had fallen to the sandy earth. It was a piece of chocolate, wrapped in foil. He had been offering me candy, for heaven's sake.

Somehow the boy was still upright, gawking at his chest. There was so much blood gushing out of a hole near his heart.

“Ess
toot meervay.”
His hand clutched the wound and he collapsed.
“Mutuh.”

I felt as though I were floating over us both, looking down, watching him and watching me.

“Mutuh. Mutuh.”

He was going to die. All he wanted to do was share a piece of chocolate, and now he would die.

He shivered, his face pale. He reached for me in a daze, as if greeting an old friend. “Ess
toot meer vay.”

“You'll live.” I tore the ragged handkerchief from my gun and held it against the wound and felt his heart beating.

“Mutuh,”
he whispered.

“Mother,” I echoed. “You want your mother.”

“Mutuh.”

I held him up against me and began to weep for the terrible thing I'd done. Like Hector in his last moments, this boy was calling for his mother. “She's here, my friend. She's with you now. Can you hear her?” I hummed a lullaby my mother used to sing.

The boy's face dripped with tears. I'd forgotten how to sing; my voice was husky, my throat dry. His eyes glazed over. The bullet was working its evil, threatening to take him from this world. And then I felt a presence, as though my mother were with me as I sang, her lilting tone in my ears, the lyrics transforming me. Us.

This boy could have grown up on a farm, been issued a gun, and sent down here to the Holy Land.
“Got. Mutuh.”
He had probably prayed a thousand times, and now God
wouldn't lift a finger to save him. “You won't die,” I promised.

My right shoulder felt broken, but somehow I carried him to the top of the ridge. Several yeomanry approached with their rifles pointed at me. I stumbled down the embankment.

“Bloody good job!” a trooper shouted. “You'll get the VC for this.” I staggered on. The Victoria Cross. That wasn't what I wanted. I was looking for a different cross. Someone had to live. I lugged the boy past the first line of yeomanry. Several troopers spoke to me, one getting in my way, so I pushed by him, cradling the German. He seemed to be growing lighter.

The medical carts were next to a tent. I pushed through the flaps and laid the boy on the only empty cot. There were wounded men on the others.

“Fix him,” I said to an orderly.

“Are you mad! You carried a Hun in here?” I blinked. Perhaps I was mad. I had no idea what I looked like anymore; my head was dirty, bleeding from cuts.

“Save him.” My voice was still hoarse.

“He's dead. Look at him. He's dead, mate.”

“Heal him,” I said, pulling out my knife. “Do it now.”

Someone touched my shoulder and I whirled to face Dr. Purves. “Stand down, Trooper Bathe,” he said softly. My muscles tightened for a moment; then I dropped the knife. He gently pushed me aside and leaned over the German. “He's still breathing.” I couldn't see any sign of life, but then the boy let out the softest wheeze.

“You better lie down, too, trooper,” Purves said.

“No. I must go. My horse, Cheevers, I …”

“You've been wounded.”

“It's not my blood.”

But then, as though his words had somehow given me permission, I felt the pain shooting through my lower chest and right shoulder. I looked down. There were two holes in my uniform.