Loyal Creatures by Morris Gleitzman Read Free Book Online

recognised me.
    â€˜Permission granted,’ he said.
    I swallowed the second last swig of water from my canteen. Gave the last mouthful to Daisy.
    We set off. Filthy country. Sand, rock, nothing growing. Even the scorpions looked thirsty. We pushed on, hoping for a change in geography.
    All we got was dusk.
    Then darkness.
    Then a desert fog.
    â€˜Dad’d have a smile if he saw this,’ I said to Daisy. ‘Hundreds of us back there dehydrating to death and now here’s you and me blinded by very small drops of water.’
    Daisy wasn’t smiling. Nor was I. You couldn’t drink mist. And just because you couldn’t see the enemy, didn’t mean they couldn’t see you.
    One sniper’s bullet and Joan would never know what had happened to me. Never know what I really felt about her. The sort of feelings you can’t put in a letter. Only in a whisper.
    Me and Daisy headed slowly on through the swirling dark.
    â€˜Go easy,’ I murmured, but Daisy knew what she was doing.
    Suddenly she stopped.
    I held my breath. Listening for the clink of Turkish rifle straps.
    Nothing.
    Then the fog drifted and in the moonlight I saw why Daisy had stopped. We were on the edge of a wadi. Sort of a deep, dry creek bed.
    Sheer hundred-foot drop. Two more steps and we’d have been history.
    â€˜Thanks,’ I whispered to her.
    In filthy country a hundred-foot drop is a gift. If you can get down there without breaking your neck, you’re a hundred feet closer to water.

    There was water buried deep in that wadi, plenty for the whole column. Thanks to it, we got to the enemy late afternoon the next day.
    Timing was good.
    Through the binocs we could see the Turks having a water stop themselves. Clustered round a couple of old wells. Hundreds of the mongrels, so it was taking them a while.
    â€˜Jeez,’ said Otton, staring at their artillery units. ‘They’ve got some inordinately big guns.’
    â€˜Look at the gunners, but,’ I said. ‘All got their heads in the trough.’
    Perfect time to charge. Every trooper knew it.
    Stay mounted, gallop at them, do ’em before they even saw us coming.
    I had my bayonet wrapped in a sock in my saddlebag, waiting.
    The order came.
    Dismount.
    We couldn’t believe it. We stayed mounted. I saw Johnson up the line, scowling and cursing.
    The lieutenant glared at us.
    â€˜Dismount,’ he repeated.
    We didn’t have any choice. Mounted infantry we were officially. Ride to the point of engagement, our orders said, then dismount and go at the enemy on foot.
    Johnson wasn’t the only bloke who was ropeable. And the horses weren’t that happy either.
    It got worse.
    Some mug had to hold the horses. Each section of four blokes, one of us had to be the horse-holder. Stay back from the action. Keep the horses safe. So the other blokes could mount up when the fighting was over.
    Our troop sergeant pointed at me.
    â€˜No,’ I pleaded.
    I looked at the other blokes in my section, begging.
    They were a sorry mob that day. Lesney had the squirts. Bosworth had saddle rash. Otton was limping from all the times he’d parted company from his horse. I was the fittest bloke in the section.
    None of them saw my pleading look. Couldn’t take their eyes off the enemy.
    I didn’t blame them. I had it too. Turk-hunger.
    â€˜Ballantyne,’ said the troop sergeant, jamming four sets of reins into my hands. ‘You’re the horse-holder.’
    I shook my head.
    Troop sergeant blew out his cheeks.
    â€˜You don’t get it, do you sonny?’ he said. ‘This is orders from above.’
    â€˜What orders?’ I said.
    â€˜On account of your nose for water,’ said the troop sergeant. ‘Orders are, it has to stay on your face at all times.’
    The order to charge sounded.
    Otton gave a sympathetic shrug. He and the others sprinted towards the Turks, bayonets drawn, yelling the war cries