Megiddo's Shadow (17 page)

I sent it off, knowing she wouldn't get it for weeks. I might as well have been living in Antarctica!

I checked for mail every day but got nothing. We kept up our patrols and were moved up and down the line. At one point we were stationed so close to the Mediterranean we could actually glimpse it from the top of the hills.

One day at the beginning of April, Colonel Wilson climbed onto a large rock and the regiment gathered around.
This could have been one of the places where Jesus had preached.

“There's been some trouble in France!” Wilson shouted. Thankfully, it was a calm day and his words carried easily through the air. “The spineless, useless, turncoat Russians have signed a peace treaty! The Huns have turned all their guns and men toward the Eastern front. It will be a decisive battle; a true test of British mettle.”

We're going to go to France!
Colonel Wilson continued, but I was so excited I didn't even hear what he was saying. I'd have to survive another ship, but I'd gladly take that chance to see Emily Maybe I could just pop by on leave and sweep her up in my arms! She'd be bowled over.

Perhaps I would take something … a ring … no, not a ring, it was too soon for that. I would buy her a fancy, glittering necklace from the hawkers in Jerusalem.

“Several regiments are going to be sent back to teach the Germans a lesson!” Wilson was shaking his riding crop. I paid attention again. “This is where we come m, boys! I know how desperately you would like to tour the French countryside, but we're staying put and finishing our job here. Someone has to look after the Turks! When we're done, we'll follow the others home.”

I slumped. I was ready to go. I needed to see Emily and hold her again.

Within days, many of the original regiments broke camp and climbed onto the coastal trains. They would retrace the routes they'd spent the last eighteen months fighting to take. We heard that Indian regiments from France and Mesopotamia would soon arrive as replacements.

We were sent to the same part of the line where we'd killed the Turk patrol. The ram had let up, but the soil was so drenched it was hard to peg our tents. Several times I spotted British survey parties saddled with the task of measuring every inch of the mess. All was quiet on the front; the Turks could have been asleep in their trenches.

I wished we'd been moved to another sector altogether. I wondered if the Turks we had killed had chums who were itching for revenge.

I thought of Emily every day, mostly while I was brushing Buke, the only time I spent alone. I talked to him so much about her that he now looked bored whenever I mentioned her name.

Every night I closed my eyes and remembered her in that blue dress, then pictured what she would be like underneath it, her ivory skin, her breasts. It would be glorious to touch one. Every morning, I was ashamed of my lustful thoughts. I really did miss her, and my feelings for her kept growing stronger. If only there were some magical way to leap across all the miles between us and see her again. She wouldn't even recognize me now, my skin was so dark.

As the days passed, my legs and hips began to ache. I couldn't figure out the cause, until one morning it dawned on me: I needed to lengthen my stirrups. I'd grown! I dropped them an inch and the pain went away.

One evening, Pitts stuck his head into our tent. “Mail up! This un's for you, Bathe.” He flipped a letter onto the table.

I reached out, but Cheevers snatched it and danced
around the hut, stirring dust and flies. He sniffed loudly at the envelope. “Ah, sacre bleu! Perfume! The scent of a smitten heart.” He raised one eyebrow, pretending to read through the envelope. “Oh, Eddie! Oh, boy! How I miss your hairless chest and pine for your privates, Private!” He made as if to open the envelope.

“Cheevers!” I tried to keep my voice gruff. “It's mine.”

“Just a peek.”

“Give it to me!” I thrust out my hand.

“Don't be a toad, Cheevers,” Blackburn said. “The joke's over. Open your own mail when it comes—if your mummy even knows how to write, that is.”

Cheevers rolled his eyes and lowered himself to his knees. “You'll read us the naughty bits, won't you?”

I grabbed the letter. Emily's handwriting! I retreated to my bivvy blankets.

I folded the letter. I wanted to read it all over again, but I was shaking with emotion as it was. She'd worried about me; obviously she cared deeply. If she had appeared before me at that moment I would have dropped to one knee and proposed.

“Did your skirt send any biscuits?” Cheevers asked.

“Not a one!”

“What good is she, then?” He laid down on his blanket and covered his eyes with his sun helmet. “When you write
back to her don't forget to mention how the lice are makin' your balls itch.”

I kicked his foot. Then, as he began to snore, I wrote my reply.

I folded the letter and slid it into an envelope. Then, having ensured that no one was looking, I kissed it.

A
week later we were sent to a rest camp outside Jerusalem, which meant more drills and parades to keep us in tip-top shape. At least we didn't have to go on patrol.

There was no mail for me, but Cheevers got a letter.

“See!” He waved it in front of Blackburn. “My mam can write!”

“It's a miracle!” Blackburn said.

Cheevers ripped open the letter. “She probably misses me. I am her favorite, after all.” He read the first bit and his face went pale. “Oh, Lord.”

“What is it?” I asked.

He was quiet for several seconds, still reading. “Nothing. Just a sick uncle … and my brother pegged out.”

“What?” I said. “No!”

“That's terrible news,” Blackburn said.

“Sniper got him. James always did have a big head.” He chuckled a little too long.

“I'm so sorry. So sorry.” I couldn't think of anything else to say.

Cheevers slumped down on his cot. After a moment he waved his hand, saying, “He wouldn't want mopin'. Least he took eight Huns with him. That's what his count was last time he wrote. God, I'll miss the bugger.”

“Where did it happen?” I asked.

“I don't want to talk about it anymore.” Cheevers's face was still pale. “It's done. I'm going to check on Neddie.” He grabbed his sun helmet and left.

Blackburn tapped his fingers on a book. “You can't just shove these things under the carpet.”

“No.” I pictured Hector with his legs all shot up, calling out for Mom. The images were always there, waiting to pounce.

Cheevers returned an hour later, smiling, no sign of tears or anger. He cajoled us until we played a hand of poker, and later he slept like a log. It was as though nothing had happened.

The following afternoon when we were given leave he was his usual cheery self. It was our first chance to tour Jerusalem, despite having been camped outside for days now. I walked around with my eyes wide open, trying to keep my jaw from hitting the ground. Everything seemed so old and beautiful, especially the Dome of the Rock, a Mohammedan shrine. While gawking at it, we pitched a few rupees to a beggar with twelve toes and a gimp arm; then we
went to the Wailing Wall, which was once part of Solomon's temple.

“That's a little odd!” I said, pointing at the old Jewish men with black coats, black felt hats, and long gray beards. They chanted and kissed the wall. It was as if a thousand years of kissing had chipped at the stones.

“Odd?” Cheevers tapped his skull. “Kissing walls is completely batty! God's our chum, he watches out for us Christians—he doesn't want us kissing walls.”

I almost said that God hadn't watched out for his brother, but I bit my tongue. God didn't save everyone; Hector was proof of that.

As we walked under the heat of the sun, a few lines of a popular hymn came to me, and I sang them.

“It's a stirring song,” Blackburn said. “01' Blake was certainly sentimental, but I'm not sure we want Jerusalem back home.” He motioned at a row of beggars, some of them missing limbs. “It isn't so pretty up close.”

Blackburn led us to a bazaar, its merchants packed into a thin lane. Stone walls were hung with red carpets, and shelves were lined with trinkets and multicolored plates. I stopped by a stall full of colorful silk. There was a beautiful green scarf for thirty piastres. I considered buying it for Emily but worried it would be stolen from the mail.

Several customers nudged me, and I kept my hand on my
wallet, fearing pickpockets. Next thing I knew, an Arab boy in a pillbox hat and a mud-stained robe grabbed my sleeve. “You Tommy! Tommies! I show you Mary.” He had fawn eyes and looked half starved.

Cheevers was testing the sharpness of a curved sword with his thumb. “We're not looking for any blinkin' whorehouse.”

“Shoo!” Blackburn waved his hand.

“No! I show you Mother Mary, mother of Jesus. Bring very, very much luck. Good luck! You live through war. Five piastres.”

“That's almost a shilling!” Blackburn exclaimed. “I'm not sure if Cheevers's life is worth it. I am curious as to how you'll show us Mother Mary, though.”

“Maybe seeing her would cure your godlessness,” I said.

“You're the one who needs curing. But I do want to see the Virgin Mary—I find religion an immensely interesting subject.” He held out a bill and the boy grabbed for it, but Blackburn snapped it away before he touched it. “You'll get it when we've seen this Mary of yours.”