Beyond the Horizon by Peter Watt Page B

shepherds grazed their goats and ploughed the fields. He made a quick mental calculation from his last known coordinates and reckoned that he was about forty miles east of the ancient river. Between himself and possible salvation lay a long stretch of rugged hills and ravines. There was always the possibility of Turkish patrols and treacherous bandits who were known to kill and rob Allied servicemen.
    Matthew began to trek west, climbing the crumbling face of a steep hill only to reach the top and find another, more narrow ravine ahead of him. The sun was now on the horizon and Matthew decided to make camp where he had a good view of the region around him. He had no material for a fire, so, using his bowie knife, he dug out a shallow ditch, big enough to allow him a relatively comfortable bed for the night.
    As darkness enveloped the arid land, Matthew could hear the yip of a jackal in the distance. The cold was bitter and he barely slept. At some time in the night he rose to urinate and saw a distinct glow just beyond the next line of ridges. Maybe a camp of Bedouins, he thought; he would head in that direction when the sun rose.
    In the morning Matthew‘s back and neck were still stiff and sore but the bleeding on his arm had congealed. He removed the wax paper from the two sandwiches and took his time eating one of the soggy cheese and cucumber sandwiches before carefully rewrapping the second. He drank two small mouthfuls of water, then removed his flying jacket, placed it over his head as shelter from the sun and began walking.
    By midmorning Matthew had reached the top of the next ridge and he paused to get his breath, swig a mouthful of water and gaze down into the flat, wide ravine below.
    â€˜Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed. There was an Albatros fighter plane down there. Matthew suspected it was the one that had shot down his own aircraft which, in turn, must have been shot down by the other pilot on Matthew’s mission. It must have been the burning plane he’d seen last night, not a Bedouin camp. Matthew scanned the area around the burnt-out German aircraft but could see no signs of the pilot. Satisfied, he made his way down the steep ravine to the wrecked aircraft and walked cautiously towards it.
    â€˜Do not move, Englisher, or I will shoot you,’ said a voice from Matthew’s left. He froze, then slowly turned to see a German pilot propped up against a rock, obviously badly wounded. Matthew stared at the man; both his hands were empty. Matthew had to admire his bravado. He could see that both the man’s legs were badly smashed and his face was covered in blood. Matthew crouched down beside him and realised that he was barely in his twenties.
    â€˜You speak English?’ he asked and the German grimaced. ‘ Ja. A little,’ he gasped.
    â€˜I speak a little German,’ Matthew replied in that language, surprising the wounded German flyer. German had always been spoken in Matthew’s family, they had family in Germany. ‘Can I offer you some water?’ The German pilot nodded once, his face twisted in pain.
    Matthew took out his water canteen and poured a capful into the German’s mouth.
    â€˜Thank you, my friend,’ the pilot said. ‘I am Oberleutnant Christian Lang.’
    â€˜Captain Matthew Duffy, Australian Flying Corps,’ Matthew said. ‘Who shot you down?’
    â€˜Your comrade. There was only two of us left in the air when I was hit,’ Lang answered. ‘Who shot you down?’
    â€˜You did.’
    Lang stared into Matthew’s face with a look of sympathy. ‘It is the way of war that enemies must kill each other. I know that my injuries will kill me and I hope that you will deliver the coup de grâce to release me from this terrible pain.’
    â€˜I suppose, considering I have the only weapon between us, you are officially my prisoner and therefore, under the terms of the Geneva Convention, I cannot execute you