Redemption - Leon Uris [257]
“I’ll get over to the paddock,” I said.
Modi once had weight to spare. The Gallipoli diet took care of that. His embrace still had a good sharp bang to it. We went about the paddock. A gang of Turkish prisoners were chained together with ankle bracelets, shoveling up the dung into a big wagon to be dumped into a nearby pit with the executed animals. Not too bad. We had over four hundred mules in service and the replacement packers were excellent
Nasty green flies were getting the best of the mules’ ears. Leather, hay, feed, medication, and water were all in good stead.
“They are a hell of a lot better off than the two-legged troops,” I said.
“They’ve really held up under the heat. It can’t get too hot for them,” Modi said, “but we’re still losing twenty to forty animals a week.”
“Where’s Yurlob?”
Modi shook his head. “He and a couple hundred other men sleep by the latrines. All most of them can do is pass their own blood and stomach linings. One lad fell into the trench and drowned before they could get to him.”
Yurlob was inspecting a train. Whew! He was barely able to walk. He lit up when he saw me.
“I always thought English soldiers exaggerated when they said they shit their guts out. It is no exaggeration. I think, worse than cholera. To answer your questions. Modi keeps me stuffed with rice and tea. No, I will not go back to Lemnos. Did you have a good time at Quinn’s?”
“Fantastic.”
Yurlob broke off and became martial. “You, number four.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your name?”
“Private Shannon, sir.”
“You and your mate better work together. Line up the right side better or the pack will start sliding. Are both sides equal in weight?”
“I suppose not, sir.”
“Wake up, Shannon.”
“Yes, sir.”
When the packer took the train out, Yurlob watched intently. “What I have tried to do is give the same train the same set of trails. The mules adapt quickly. Rotation was putting too many over the side in strange places. We’re saving quite a few animals.”
“How about Sikhs?” I said. “Let me explain something to you. You’re going to be dead in a week if you don’t get out of here. What I mean is, go to Lemnos and get off your feet for a fortnight. Deal? Just a fortnight?”
“Ah Rory, you are like a rapier with your words. I like you.” He started to walk away. I turned him around.
We went into a starting contest which I lost. He put an extremely weak hand on my shoulder. I could not bear to look. The man was all but rotting away before my eyes.
“There are certain things in my culture more important. For me, things are in good order. With my years of service, my family will receive a fine pension. Landers, my old battalion is up in the hills here doing the real fighting. My family and the people of my village must know I died on Gallipoli and not in a hospital bed. Are we clear?”
“Clear,” I said, “but off your feet. You schedule the loads at the office. I’ll send the trains out. And one more thing, you move in with Jeremy, Goodwood, and me.”
“I prefer here…it’s closer to the latrine. Be of good cheer, the Sikh religion makes all kinds of convenient delusions for the moment of death.”
* * *
Days and night passed. Nothing got better. Wounded filled up Widow’s Gully every night. We shelled, they shelled. Feints, patrols, small probes, ambushes, broken piers, trains going out, mules executed, bully beef, lice, flies, teeth falling out from the biscuits.
Jeremy came in early one evening. Lovely. We hadn’t had much time to talk since I’d come down. He started at his boots. “To take off or not to take off,” he recited. “haven’t had a swim for six nights.”
“Let’s go. We’ll leave one shoe off and one shoe on.”
“Isn’t there an old nursery rhyme about that?”
Oh…the water felt good…oh, center of the universe…
“Ohhhhh.”
“Ahhhhh.”
“Ohhhhh.”
“Ahhhhh.”
Blast! The Turks were firing Farting Ferdinand. Good, Farting Ferdinand was firing way up to Taylor’s Hollow.
We crawled into our hovel.
“Where’s Chester?”
“Chewing