Loyal Creatures by Morris Gleitzman Page B

growled a voice.
    Johnson had come up behind us.
    â€˜Hear that?’ he said.
    Faintly, through the hissing wind, the sound of voices. Yelling, hysterical, panicked voices. You couldn’t make out what they were saying. But then none of us spoke Turkish.
    Johnson grinned.
    â€˜Good,’ he said. ‘They’re in a state. They won’t be expecting us.’

    We heaved ourselves over a sand-blown ridge on our stomachs.
    I gripped my rifle hard. This was it. I wasn’t going to pike out this time.
    Then we saw them.
    Johnson was right, they weren’t expecting us. And we weren’t expecting them.
    The three of us stared.
    â€˜Jesus Christ,’ said Johnson.
    They weren’t Turks. They were British infantry from their uniforms. Those that were still wearing them. Normally I could have had a guess at the regiment from their accents. But they weren’t saying anything. Just screaming. Mad with thirst. Staggering around half-naked.
    Drinking sand, some of them.
    I’d seen tragic things in battles, but nothing like this.
    I tried to think straight. There were twenty or thirty of them and we were almost out of water. No water in these dunes.
    We had to get them back to camp.
    I grabbed Otton and Johnson. The three of us scrambled back to the horses, mounted up and headed down the slope towards the crazed Poms.
    Closer we got, the more it felt like a dud idea. Some of the Brits saw us. Ran towards us waving weapons. Faces like you see in an abattoir.
    They weren’t going to be led anywhere.
    I glanced at Otton and Johnson. Otton was rigid with terror. Johnson, who I’d never seen show a flicker of fear, was gob-open with it.
    â€˜Come on,’ I yelled.
    I tried to turn Daisy back up the slope. Before I could, the wind smashed into us and the darkness of swirling sand was on us again.
    Daisy staggered but stayed on her feet. I slid off and got her head wrapped again, then mine. I waved to the others to do the same.
    We remounted and set off. Daisy and me in front. Me holding Otton’s reins behind my back. Otton doing the same with Johnson’s.
    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.
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said to Daisy.
    Otton thanked her too.
    So did Johnson.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Where have you idiots been?’ he yelled. ‘The tent blew away half an hour ago.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Ones they brought in yesterday,’ said Otton. ‘Gunna cop it.’
    I stared.
    â€˜Court-martialled for cowardice in the face of the enemy,’ said Otton. ‘Instead of marching into battle, they went in the opposite