Loyal Creatures

by Morris Gleitzman

  Single file, small steps, blind.

  I tried not to think about the poor blighters we’d just seen. But I couldn’t help it. Without Daisy and the other walers, we’d be drinking sand too.

  And what if they’d been Turks in that state?

  Would we have irrigated the desert with them?

  Daisy led us back to camp.

  The storm stayed with us the whole way so we just had to trust her.

  She didn’t let us down.

  When we got there the wind was thrashing through the camp. Place was full of rearing horses and flapping tents and yelling officers, so nobody saw us sneak back in.

  The three of us looked at each other.

  We knew it was a miracle we’d made it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said to Daisy.

  Otton thanked her too.

  So did Johnson.

  ‘Sorry for what I said,’ he muttered. ‘About you being ugly.’

  Daisy snorted and gave him a look.

  Lesney came over, bent against the wind, his hat tied on with rope.

  ‘Where have you idiots been?’ he yelled. ‘The tent blew away half an hour ago.’

  ‘Just popped up to Cairo,’ said Otton. ‘Tea and scones with some nurses.’

  Later that afternoon, an even bigger miracle.

  A Brit search party, which had been out after their lost troop for two days, found three of their blokes still alive.

  Felt like a huge miracle when we heard. But as it turned out, it wasn’t.

  Not for them or us.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said to Otton next morning.

  Brits were camped next to us. You could see their tents from our horse lines. Three of their blokes were blindfolded and tied to posts.

  ‘Ones they brought in yesterday,’ said Otton. ‘Gunna cop it.’

  I stared.

  ‘Court-martialled for cowardice in the face of the enemy,’ said Otton. ‘Instead of marching into battle, they went in the opposite direction.’

  ‘That’s bull,’ I said. ‘They were lost in the sand­storm. Couldn’t have found the battle with guide dogs.’

  Over in the Brit camp, an officer yelled an order. Six infantrymen raised their rifles and took aim.

  A firing squad.

  That wasn’t on.

  Nobody would shoot those blokes if they’d seen what the poor blighters went through out there.

  I took off.

  Running was never my claim to fame, but I got across our campground in double time. Through the wire. Leaping over pommy tent ropes. Throwing myself towards the Brit officer.

  Flatten him first, I thought. Explain after.

  Before I could get to him, somebody flattened me.

  Otton, tackling from behind.

  As we hit the dirt, the officer yelled another order. The squad fired. The blokes at the poles went limp.

  ‘You stupid bastard,’ I yelled at the Brit officer, struggling up and throwing myself at him. ‘They couldn’t help it.’

  The Brit officer pulled his pistol on me.

  I slapped it away. Grabbed him and shook him.

  ‘They were lost,’ I yelled.

  ‘Leave it,’ hissed Otton, tackling me again.

  I wasn’t leaving it. I yelled more things at the Brit officer till Otton clamped his hand over my mouth. I tried to struggle free, but Otton hung onto me till the military police arrived and smashed my face into the dirt for a bit, then dragged us both away.

  The lock-up was an old stone house in a local village.

  I lay on the floor for a while, waiting for my head to stop hurting. Then I opened my eyes.

  Otton was sitting against the wall.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ I mumbled. ‘You didn’t do anything.’

  Otton shrugged.

  ‘Victim of circumstances,’ he said.

  There was a clatter as the cell door opened. The lock-up sergeant burst in, yelling at us to stand to attention.

  We did, slowly.

  An Australian major came in and looked us both up and down like we were something in his garden that needed spraying.

  ‘What the blazes?’ he demanded.

  ‘It was a misunderstanding, sir,’ said Otton.

  ‘No,’ barked the major. ‘Assaulting an officer is not a misunderstanding. It’s an offence that carries a penalty of twelve months hard labour.’

  ‘Those pommy blokes were innocent,’ I said. ‘That was murder.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ growled the major. ‘You’re out of your depth, son. The Brits shoot their deserters, we don’t. So that’s a powder keg between us and them for starters. Without you mouthing off about murder.’

  ‘I know what I saw,’ I said.

  ‘What you saw doesn’t matter, trooper,’ said the major. ‘Here’s what you’re going to see. In the morning you’re going to see a court-martial. Which will sentence you both to twelve months in a military prison. And when you finally get home, in disgrace, you’ll spend the rest of your life seeing the faces of folks who know you’re a snivelling cowardly termite who white-anted our war effort.’

  ‘Permission to display a relevant artefact, sir,’ said Otton.

  The major turned to him angrily.

  ‘It had better be extremely relevant,’ he snapped.

  ‘It is, sir,’ said Otton.

  The lock-up sergeant was sent over to the camp and came back with Daisy’s saddlebags.

  Otton took out my special bayonet. Held it out to the major. The red glow of the major’s cigarette gleamed off each of the jagged teeth.

  ‘This belongs to Trooper Ballantyne, sir,’ said Otton. ‘Thought you should see it. On account of how you might want to reassess him, sir. On account of how a snivelling cowardly termite probably wouldn’t have a superbly-engineered killing device such as this.’

  The major was silent for a long time.

  He stubbed his cigarette out.

  ‘I was wrong when I said twelve months hard labour,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t know we would also be charging you with possession of an illegal and criminal weapon, for which you will both receive an extra six months.’

  He glanced at the lock-up sergeant, nodded towards the bayonet, and walked out.

  The lock-up sergeant took the bayonet from Otton, walked to the doorway and paused.

  ‘What you tried to do for them poor Poms,’ he said to me, ‘I take my hat off to you for that.’

  He held up the bayonet.

  ‘But this, you mongrel. For this you deserve everything you’re gunna get.’

  Otton slept that night, I didn’t know how.

  Sick of the sound of me saying sorry to him, probably.

  I sat on the floor of the cell, trying to write a letter to Joan in my head.

  Gave up. What was the point?

  Tried to sleep. Couldn’t.

  But being awake didn’t stop me having a nightmare.

  Not about hard labour. I’d done hard labour all my life. Not even about the sneers on the faces of the folks back home. Sneers only hurt you if you go back home.

  My nightmare was about Daisy.

  She’d have to stay behind when I was taken away.

  Some officer who could spot a top horse would grab her for himself. Have a first ride on her. Get thrown off, which is what she did to everyone who wasn’t me.

  Others would try. Same result.

  Unrideable horse, they’d say.

  Dangerous creature.

  The army didn’t have feed, or space, for a dangerous creature.

  The court-martial next morning wasn’t like I’d expected.

  No lawyers, no military police, no handcuffs. Just a tent with the sides rolled up and the major sitting at a table.

  ‘At ease,’ he said.

  Me and Otton tried to stand at ease. But I could see from the major’s face we didn’t have much reason to.

  The major spent a few minutes reading papers in a folder.

  Then he gave me a long hard
look.

  ‘Trooper Ballantyne,’ he said. ‘Before we go to the trouble and expense of a full court-martial, I want to give you a choice.’

  He paused.

  I wasn’t sure if I should say anything.

  I didn’t.

  ‘Your choice is this,’ said the major. ‘Eighteen months in the military prison in Cairo. Where you will be starved, beaten and worked to within a worm’s whisker of your life.’

  He paused again. I had a wild thought.

  Run for it.

  Grab Otton and Daisy.

  Ride off into the desert.

  I glanced towards the horse lines. And saw I’d been wrong about no military police.

  A couple of them, the jacks who’d jumped on my head, were sitting in an armoured car, watching us, rifles on their laps.

  ‘Or,’ said the major, ‘you can spend the next eighteen months using your special abilities.’

  I stared at him.

  Special abilities? That could only mean one thing.

  Water.

  I jumped in too quick. Dad would have gone at me with a bucket.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

  The major frowned. He was probably wishing he had a bucket himself.

  ‘On two conditions,’ I said.

  The major gave me a look that said I was lucky to have the use of my head, forget conditions.

  ‘You don’t even know what I’m offering,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘As long as I can do it with my horse.’ I glanced at Otton. ‘And my mate.’

  The major sighed.

  ‘Oh, how I wish,’ he murmured, ‘the army still allowed flogging.’

  He closed the folder.

  ‘You start tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not plumbers,’ I said bitterly. ‘We’re troopers.’

  Otton groaned and pushed up his welding mask.

  ‘Will you stop saying that,’ he said. ‘You’ve been saying that for a month. If I have to spend the next fifteen months listening to you whingeing I will weld you inside this infernal thing and that’s a non-revisable promise.’

  I pushed my own welding mask up and squinted at the pipeline snaking across the desert. And at the Egyptian workers toiling on it, supervised by engineers from about six countries.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ I said, ‘is these blokes don’t need our help. The blokes on the front line are the ones who need our help.’

  Otton dropped his welding gear, grabbed the front of my shirt and dragged me over to where Daisy and his horse were standing in the shade of a pile of pipe sections.

  ‘Tell him,’ Otton said to Daisy. ‘Tell him how this work is just as important as fighting the Turks. Tell him how if the army wasn’t putting this pipeline in, our blokes wouldn’t be fighting any Turks on account of they wouldn’t have any water.’

  Daisy gave me a look.

  I knew she didn’t get all the nuances of Otton’s argument, but I also knew she was a big fan of the pipeline. Fresh water every day, no drilling.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ I said, ‘is that back home the volunteers have dried up, the chooks are naked from so many white feathers being chucked around, and the government’s talking about forcing blokes into the army. And here we are, two able-bodied fighting men, turning eighteen and legal in a few months, stuck here being plumbers.’

  Otton sighed.

  ‘Allow me to paraphrase,’ he said. ‘What you’re saying is, you got us into this mess, you take full responsibility for your nong behaviour, and you’re terrified the war will end and leave you with an unavenged father and a plumber’s medal.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quietly.

  I hadn’t mentioned Dad or Joan for weeks. But Otton knew they were eating at my guts.

  ‘Right-o,’ said Otton. ‘Why don’t we make a deal. A bilateral treaty. You pull your head in and don’t do anything stupid that ends us in the Cairo clink. And I’ll use my talents to get us time off for good behaviour. So we can get back to the front line.’

  I thought about this.

  ‘You’re on,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So,’ said Otton. ‘That’s a lot of sang-froid and patience from you, and a lot of ingratiating and bum-licking from me.’

  Daisy helped me keep my side of the bargain.

  As the months went by, and our blokes fought their way into Palestine, we were behind them with the pipeline all the way.

  I kept my mind active, thinking about what I’d do when I got back into battle.

  At night, in my swag, I’d stare up at the stars, waiting for my brain to follow my tuckered-out body into sleep.

  Daisy would lie down next to me sometimes, on the really cold nights.

  I’d feel her heart next to my ear, slow and steady.

  The most loyal heart in the world it felt like.

  Otton kept his half of the deal.

  Took him a year, but he did it.

  Friday and Saturday nights he sang in our Officers’ Mess. Other officers from fighting units were there sometimes, and Otton ended up mates with a few.

  Finally, he got some strings pulled.

  ‘Big battle coming up,’ said Otton excitedly. ‘All the Light Horse for yonks around are in it. Us included.’

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I didn’t hug blokes as a rule, but I hugged Otton.

  ‘We’re back with our troop tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Back in the thick of it.’

  My brain was spinning.

  ‘Where’s the battle?’ I said.

  Otton frowned.

  ‘Place in Palestine I haven’t heard of,’ he said. ‘Beersheba.’

  It was grand to see the old faces.

  They were chuffed to see us, Bosworth and Lesney specially.

  ‘What kept you?’ said Bosworth. ‘Afternoon tea in Cairo again? Did the nurses make you wash the dishes?’

  Lots of chiacking, but I could see how tense the blokes were underneath. They knew this was a big one. Most important battle we’d fronted up for.Do-or-die effort.

  Daisy must have known it was serious too. Muster and decampment in the dark. Usual long hot ride to the battle pozzie. Got there dusty and tired. Not a complaint from her.

  On the battlefield we saw straight off this was a different class of stoush.

  Our infantry had been going at it for hours.

  Big Turkish defence lines. Miles of trenches. Infantry stopped whingeing for a change. Almost broke through.

  But they didn’t. Poor blighters were getting mowed down.

  Then the order came.

  We’d waited two years for this.

  Gallop at the Turks. Break through the mongrels on horseback. No horse-holding here. We were all in it. Well and truly in it.

  Charge!

  Galloping hard across four miles of open desert. Hundreds of us but we were soon spread.

  Couldn’t even see the Turkish trenches through our own dust. But they could see us. Machine-guns, artillery, they let us know they could see us.

  Otton was next to me. His usual style of riding. Hang on and pray. Harder for him today because we had bayonets in hand.

  Regulation ones, but they’d do the job.

  I should have been yelling with excitement like the other blokes. This was my chance. Give the mongrels a big serve for Dad. Rack up some corpses to impress Joan’s folks. I should have been happier than a wagtail in a wheat field.

  But I wasn’t.

  I kept seeing the face of the Turk I’d let go. Would it be the same this time? Would I pike out at the last minute?

  Horses started going down. Men screaming. Horses screaming.

  Suddenly I could see the trenches.

  Blokes were diving off their horses onto the Turks. Vicious fighting. Chaotic.

  Johnson in the thick of it.

  I went in after them. And saw what the Turks were doing. Targetting the horses. Bayonets into their bellies as they reached the trenches. Bullets into their throats.

>   The horses without riders were trying to get away.

  Machine-gunned. Blown to pieces.

  Two Turks in weird camouflage jackets rose up out of a trench, guns aimed at Daisy.

  No time to turn her away.

  I swung my rifle round from my back, clamped it tight against my side and pulled the trigger. Trained for this, but it still nearly kicked me out of the saddle.

  One of the Turks went down. So did my rifle, out of my grasp.

  Daisy didn’t stop. Straight at the other Turk.

  I gave him my bayonet.

  In deep.

  Daisy leaped over the trench.

  I took her reins in both hands. Urged her on and we flew. Soared over trench after trench. She never faltered, never wavered.

  Otton was doing the same I hoped. But I couldn’t see him.

  Next thing, we were behind the trenches.

  In the town. It was almost deserted. Few Turks running. Couple of our scouts yelled at me.

  ‘Stop the mongrels duffing the wells.’

  I saw what they meant.

  Turks in the town square were trying to blow up the wells. So we’d have no water after the battle. Pipeline was hours away. We’d never have made it.

  The scouts dealt with the Turks. I dealt with the explosives. When you knew wells, you knew where the charges’d be.

  They did a top job, those scouts. I was down deep, dragging detonator wire out of the rock crevices. Desperate Turk tried to lob a grenade down onto me. Scouts showed him the error of his ways.

  I saw his body by the well-mouth when I came up. And the crater the grenade had made over the other side of the square.

  Then I saw that Daisy was bleeding.

  She was standing where I’d left her, trembling.

  Her chest and flanks were red.

  At first I thought she’d copped shrapnel from the grenade. But I looked closer and it wasn’t that. It was bayonet wounds. Turks must have got her as we jumped the trenches.

  I grabbed water from one of the wells and tore my shirt into pieces and wiped away the blood, gentle as I could.

  They’d got her five times. But not deep. She must have been flying too fast.