Loyal Creatures by Morris Gleitzman

was the worry that when it came to killing Turks maybe I was.

    Back at camp I gave Daisy a proper wash-down.
    Big relief. She was fine. But she let me know she wasn’t crazy about wearing somebody else’s blood and guts.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said. ‘Putting you in it like that.’
    She flicked her ears and kicked at my shins a bit, then calmed down and forgave me.
    I dried her off and gave her a feed.
    â€˜Back in a tick,’ I said.
    Went to see how Lesney was.
    â€˜Came out clean,’ said Lesney, patting the bandage on his leg. ‘I’ve had worse from a news editor.’
    â€˜He’s being stoic,’ said Otton. ‘It went close to something critical.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Boswell. ‘His wallet.’
    I didn’t really feel like socialising, so I went back to Daisy.
    Brushed her carefully, every inch. Just to be sure. Shrapnel could sit under the skin and go septic if you didn’t spot it.
    â€˜Can I ask you something?’ I said to her. ‘Do you reckon I let Dad down today?’
    She didn’t understand all the words, but it felt good to get them out. Mum taught me it was easier to think about things when the words were out.
    Daisy just kept chewing her feed. Egyptian straw was like that, lot of chewing, not much to swallow.
    I knew how she felt.
    â€˜I’ll go for a walk,’ I said. ‘Find you something better.’
    â€˜Jeez,’ said a voice. ‘I think I’ve cracked a knuckle.’
    Johnson was heading towards us along the horse lines, grimacing and rubbing his fist.
    I looked at him, startled.
    We’d hardly spoken for months. Not since I’d cracked my knuckles on him.
    â€˜Couple of Taffys needed a talking to,’ said Johnson. ‘About who they call a coward.’
    I stared at him.
    â€˜You didn’t have to . . .’ I said.
    â€˜No worries,’ he said. ‘You’re a mad bugger, but you’re not a coward.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said doubtfully.
    I still wasn’t sure what he was doing here.
    â€˜I explained it to ’em,’ said Johnson. ‘How a coward’s a bloke with an inability to kill anyone cause he was brought up wrong. Whereas you’re just a choosy individual who’s saving his first kill for a special occasion.’
    I looked at him.
    â€˜Special occasion?’ I said.
    â€˜Later tonight,’ he said.
    I still didn’t understand.
    â€˜I can see you’re disappointed by how things turned out today,’ said Johnson. ‘So I’m inviting you on a little hunting expedition.’

All us troopers were meant to get leave, regular.
    Didn’t happen.
    When regiments were on the move, fighting a tough desert campaign, setting up a series of field camps, each one further north as we pushed the mongrel Turks back towards Turkey, there wasn’t any leave.
    Not official.
    But field camps didn’t have much in the way of fences and gates, so if you were up for it and gung-ho and desperate to avenge your dad, a bit of leave was possible.
    Otton wasn’t all that gung-ho. Plus he didn’t need revenge. His dad died in a sheep-drenching accident that was entirely the fault of the sheep.
    â€˜If we’re caught, we’ll be shot,’ said Otton, as me and him and Johnson rode out into the moonlit desert on our hunting expedition. ‘It’s as simple and categorical as that.’
    â€˜Shut it,’ growled Johnson.
    Johnson hadn’t wanted Otton to come.
    Otton had insisted.
    â€˜When a mate goes on a suicide mission,’ Otton had said, ‘you go with him.’
    Johnson had scowled at that.
    He was scowling even more now.
    â€˜If you haven’t got the ticker,’ he said to Otton, ‘this is where you leave us. We’re here to kill Turks. Face-to-face. Like men.’
    â€˜Why face-to-face?’ said Otton nervously.
    Johnson licked his lips.
    In the moonlight his