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the locals.’
    â€˜Will Mr Brissel succeed in getting the Turks to accept the carts?’
    â€˜He’s hopeful.’
    â€˜We need more than hope.’
    Mitkhal slipped his hand inside his abba and unclipped his belt. He glanced around to make sure they weren’t being watched, but most of the men around them were lying on the ground, their eyes closed.
    Mitkhal rolled up the belt and handed it over. ‘Keep this hidden. There’s a hundred gold sovereigns stitched into the lining.’
    â€˜That’s too much.’
    â€˜Not for the number of men who’ll be marching with you. You’ll come across tribes along the way, Kurds, Bedouin, Yazidi … Armenian, if there are any of them left alive. The Turks are killing them faster than they’re wiping out the British. Some of the tribes will hate the British, all will hate the Turks, but all love money and most will be prepared to sell you food if you offer them gold.’
    â€˜Thank you. I’ll take care to see you’re repaid when the war is over.’
    â€˜No need. As Harry would say, it’s only money.’
    â€˜As Harry would have said,’ Crabbe corrected. ‘I pay my debts, Mitkhal.’
    Mitkhal looked across to the gate where sappers’ bodies were being piled on a cart. ‘The best way you can repay me is by surviving until the end of the war. How many have died here?’
    â€˜Around twenty a day for the last week and the Turks don’t give a damn. We’ve two medics with us but they have nothing. No drugs, no dressings, nothing.’ Crabbe buckled the belt Mitkhal had given him around his waist. ‘Only this morning I sent six men down to the gate to wait for a cart to take them to hospital. Two died before it arrived.’ Crabbe finished fastening the belt and closed his hands into fists. ‘Damn the bloody Turks. Doesn’t anyone in the Indian Office or War Office know what’s happening to us? Or don’t they care?’
    â€˜They know,’ Mitkhal assured him. ‘Mr Brissel has sent telegrams to Washington with instructions to pass the information on to London and the War Office and the Indian Office.’
    â€˜Too damned late for some men,’ Crabbe cursed.
    â€˜Mr Brissel is also filling the carts I told you about with blankets, disinfectant, food, and clothing to be sent into Turkey with you, but,’ Mitkhal glanced around. ‘Even if he persuades the Turks to allow you to take them, the supplies won’t be enough once they’re divided among so many.’
    â€˜But they’ll help.’ Crabbe’s anger had been short lived. Weariness and resignation had again taken control.
    Mitkhal didn’t blame Crabbe. The more he gazed at the surroundings the more he found it difficult to believe that men could live in such foul conditions and remain sane.
    The cart arrived to take away the dead and the guard was looking back into the camp, probably for him. A fistful of silver didn’t buy more than a few minutes.
    â€˜I have to go.’
    Crabbe nodded.
    â€˜I’ll follow you after you march out and bring you more food and money if I can. Don’t look for me. I’ll turn up when you least expect me, and always with the natives so as not to arouse your guards’ suspicions.’
    Crabbe clasped Mitkhal’s arm. ‘Don’t risk your life on our account. We’re all dead men, Mitkhal.’
    â€˜Not if I have a say in the matter. Besides, I’m an Arab, I risk nothing.’
    â€˜Harry could pass as an Arab, and the Turks killed him,’ Crabbe reminded him.
    â€˜I could still get you and perhaps one or two others out of here and back to Basra.’
    Crabbe gave Mitkhal the same reply he’d given him the first time Mitkhal had made the offer. ‘I can’t leave the men. Coming up through the ranks I understand them better than any other officer.’ He lifted the bundle and beckoned