The Military Megapack, page 28
* * * *
Ten minutes later he was aloft and headed westward toward the Damascus-Medina Railway fifty miles away. Hussein ibn Zaid, one of the minor sheiks of the Weled Ali, had come into Azrak a month before with soft words and promises. Although the rest of his tribe still adhered to their Turkish allegiance he, by Allah, had come to throw his lot into the keeping of el Auruns (Lawrence). So he said. But Auda had muttered darkly in his beard over the coffee, growling that the Weled Ali were the sons of liars and deceivers. It had taken the whole of Lawrence’s consummate tact to keep the peace, but he had insisted that a Weled Ali repentant was worthy of reception into the Arab cause. For four weeks Hussein had eaten the bread and salt of the Revolt at Azrak, and incidentally used his eyes and ears as only an Arab can. Having drunk to his fill at the well of information, he had slipped away silently in the night, and here was Auda to testify to his treachery. Burke knew full well that if the fellow got to Deraa and poured his story into the ear of Djevid Pasha, the Turkish general there, that not only the advanced Arab force at Azrak, but the whole Revolt itself would be put in jeopardy. For Lawrence, these last few weeks, had been organizing a bold plan of campaign that depended for its success on its secrecy, and which, if the Turks knew about it, they could meet with great peril to the Arab cause.
Burke’s old B.E. airplane winged steadily westward. Even at this altitude of five thousand feet the air was furnace-like in one’s face. Below, the bare, brown earth was an oven, and he marveled at the fortitude of Auda and his men who had ridden through that hell all day to bring their tidings. And presently, far ahead, the rails of the Damascus-Medina line glimmered through the ground haze. Alongside the railway, Burke knew, lay the camel route to Deraa. And northwards, between Nisib and Deraa, he would find his quarry.
He swung the plane’s nose slightly to the right, in a few moments was flying directly above the gleaming rails a thousand feet up. The Turkish garrison at Nisib gave him a nasty five minutes with their anti-aircraft gun, filling the air around him with the white puffs of shrapnel, but he knew that gun and its gunners. They had potted at him so many times without success that now they couldn’t raise his blood pressure one degree. But once out of its range he flew even lower, so that the low hills on each side of the track were level with his wings. Intently he scanned the road below. Odd groups passed—some going north—some south; a detail of Turkish sentries guarding the right of way and on the lookout for one of Lawrence’s devastating dynamiting parties; a few small groups of Bedouins. But so far no sight of the cavalcade of Weled Ali. And then, suddenly, rounding a bend in the hills, he saw them a mile ahead. He looked to his bomb release. It was correct. Rattled a few rounds through his Vickers. Shoved the throttle full on.
They heard him coming. He saw them stop to search the sky, saw the sudden confusion in their ranks as they spotted him so close. But before they could so much as make up their minds what to do he was on them.
He had no bomb sights. Such refinements were beyond the facilities of that old ship, and he had to judge by eye. So he let only one bomb go as a sort of feeler. Splashing the sand up within a dozen yards of the closely huddled camel riders, it sent them flying in all directions. He banked about sharply. He had spotted Hussein ibn Zaid’s flaming red kafieh, and he knew his quarry. He swept even lower, dragged on the makeshift bomb release again. But the wires did not respond quickly enough and the thing crumped at least a hundred feet beyond the flying rider. Cursing, he swung on one wing and came at it again. Hussein was urging his camel up a narrow, precipitously walled ravine in search of shelter. Burke put the plane toward it.
And suddenly, as he did so, he heard something—an ominous chattering noise that came insistently above the ship’s roaring engine. He glanced sharply about. For the moment the blinding light of the sun glared into his eyes so that he could not see. And then he did see! Two Turkish planes—Fokkers—from Deraa, five hundred feet above him and swooping down. Hurriedly he faced front. Below, and a hundred yards or more ahead, the flying, red-topped rider was lashing his hujun toward an overhanging ledge of rock at the head of the ravine. He realized that, come what may, he must drive that last bomb at its target. He must do that before he looked to his own skin.
Something splashed the rail of the cockpit— leaden rain—close. But still he held doggedly to his mark. Another half minute. Suddenly, he drew the release wire again.
“Damnation take the bloody thing!” he yelled.
For the second time the ratchet had failed to deliver on time, the bomb dropping impotently on the crest of hill above and beyond the flying Arab. He had shot his bolt and lost. These two Turkish planes, the nearest on his very tail, would drive him back irrevocably into the desert. Hussein ibn Zaid would take his news safe to Deraa.
* * * *
Grinding his teeth in annoyance, the airman jerked back the stick and sent the ship climbing. In the next few minutes he would have to fight for his life, for the Germans had not been so stingy with their Turkish allies in the way of airplanes as the British had with the Arabs. The B.E. was antiquated—slow. These planes that snapped at his tail were late model Fokkers.
But a supremacy in machines is not enough to win an aerial combat. Jerry Burke, through force of circumstances, had had to learn the last and utmost possibilities of that old B.E.—and its kind—by long, hard experience. He could, as a flying officer from Allenby’s force in Egypt who once watched him in an aerial combat declared, do more tricks with a dud ship than a monkey could on a yard of grapevine. For ten minutes he dodged those Fokkers, slipping from under their snouts when they seemed to have him cold, leading them into one another so that twice they nearly collided, but all the time climbing. He wanted height. When he had height enough he would give them fight!
But always he kept a weather eye below—saw the Arab cavalcade reassemble beside the railway—saw it move off in a cloud of dust northwards. Was it possible that he might yet slip away from his pursuers sufficiently to drop on Hussein’s gang again and give them the benefit of his Vickers? Not likely—but one never knew. Suddenly, at five thousand feet, he reversed sharply on the nearest Fokker which was trying to come up under his blind spot behind. For ten seconds the Vickers chattered madly.
Surprised at meeting fight at last, the Fokker wobbled out of it and banked. But Number Two was coming at him head-on. Bringing the B.E.’s nose around slightly to get her in his sights, Burke let the gun speak again. For a moment the other ship held its way—until the deadly fire sent her diving out of it.
But Number One was coming up again. Once more the intrepid airman threw the old ship about and let his gun sing. But Number Two had nosed around, was firing at him broadside. The bullets whapped against the fuselage so close that he could hear the sound of them. He held his course, his thumb on the stick trigger, pouring his lead into the plane ahead. Something seared past his shoulder, cutting the cloth of his tunic. The B.E. gave an odd coughing sound. He was about to put her down when suddenly the enemy plane in his path sideslipped dizzily and then went into a spin.
He had no time to watch what happened to her, had to zoom out of the hellish hail that was coming in from the side from the other enemy plane. But two hundred feet higher up, as he eased off the laboring B.E., he glanced down and saw a great streamer of smoke rising from a falling Fokker.
A laugh shot from his lips. He knew it was luck. And yet, if he could drive the surviving Fokker down, or scare her off, there was still a chance that he might get another crack at Hussein ibn Zaid. He banked and dived at her—just as she turned her nose up to meet him. But she had seen what happened to her sister and side-slipped out of it. He had her scared! Jamming on the juice, he swung after her, letting the gun sing as she came into his sights. She put her nose up. He started after her. He was laughing in wild triumph. Another few minutes and he would be—
And then suddenly the old B.E. coughed and went as dead as a brass bull. Some perverse bullet must have got the engine somewhere—the feed-pipe probably—during that last mix-up. A groan escaped him. Ahead, the surviving Fokker was winging swiftly back toward Deraa. Below, and a half mile off to the left, he could still see Hussein ibn Zaid’s cavalcade. It was the irony of fate. By Allah, it was worse than that, for out of the mirage Deraa gleamed scarcely half a dozen miles northward.
He put the plane’s nose down and let her ride earthward. And for the next minute he scanned with anxious eyes the terrain below. East of the railroad, low basalt hills cut the earth up into scarred, uneven surfaces on which no plane could land. It was too far to the level desert for the ship to glide before making ground. He must find a place somewhere in the tortured hills below.
Suddenly Burke caught a gleam of white in the broken black hills—a sandy valley—a tiny, narrow interval in the desolation. A perilous place to land a plane, but he must make the attempt. He spiraled slowly down toward it—couldn’t get into the wind, had to take it with the wind under his tail. God, it looked narrow! He held his breath as the precipitous walls swept up. It seemed his wings brushed them on each side. She bumped— bumped—
He let out a sharp cry. A jagged rock lay fair in the path of the wheels. He let his body go limp.
Crash!
The old B.E. leaped into the air like a startled hen—one of her wing tips struck the ravine wall. She turned about. And bang, she put her nose crashing into the basalt. For a matter of some minutes Burke sat in the cockpit seat trying to get his wind. He had put his weight against the safety belt to let it take the strain—a trick he had learned from previous crashes—but in spite of that the impetus had all but knocked him out.
Unfastening the belt, he climbed dazedly out of the plane, gazed at her ruefully. She was a hopeless wreck.
“And, by God,” he growled, “I’m in a hopeless mess.”
* * * *
From where he stood it was a matter of seventy miles to Azrak oasis, with the burning Sirhan between. To attempt that on foot was suicide. But Jerry Burke had long ago planned what he would do if he were ever brought down in these parts. In the fuselage behind the flying seat were stored certain articles after which he now went. Item, one cotton cloak; item, one camel-hair kaftan; item, one brown kafieh with agals.
Having dragged these out, he proceeded to divest himself of his uniform and array himself in them. Then he took off his shoes and stockings. His feet and legs were as brown as an Arab’s, for he had followed Lawrence in training to live exactly the Arab life. Having flung his uniform into the cockpit of the ship, he took his revolver, glasses, water bottle and iron rations from her, and having wet his tunic sleeve in gasoline, struck a match to it. Before he was clear of the valley the old B.E. was in flames.
He struck up over the hills in the direction of the railway, looking for all the world a son of Ishmael. His intention was to return to Minifer and, in the guise of a native, steal or purchase a camel on which to make Azrak. He had also the hopes of running into Colonel Oldfield, who, with Abdulla el Zaagi, the captain of Lawrence’s bodyguard, had gone off the night before on a raid against Amman, which town lay ten miles south of Minifer.
He was still a quarter of a mile from the line, and not yet in sight of it, when he heard far to the south the whistle of a locomotive. The daily train moving north. Evidently Oldfield’s party hadn’t been able to detain her. He pressed on. Finally, from the top of the hill overlooking the railway, he could see smoke some distance below. He clambered down the long, steep bank to the line, started southward along it. There was quite a stiff south to north grade here and he was not surprised when he finally caught sight of the oncoming train to see that she was laboring badly. He stood aside and watched her as she panted up and past. Two engines drew a long line of empty box and flat cars with three passenger cars away down at the end.
As the second engine passed the driver yelled something at him—the Turk’s insult to the Bedu. Burke grinned back at him. His disguise was evidently good. But suddenly, as car after empty car went crawling by a thought leaped full-born into his brain. This train was going to Deraa. Once clear of the rise ahead the line ran downhill all the way. She would get there before Hussein ibn Zaid!
He leaped suddenly forward, grabbed the iron handrail on the rear of a passing truck and swung himself aboard. A few minutes later, between two cars, he was hanging on for dear life as the long train rattled and clanged down the grade toward Deraa. There was a wide grin on his dust-grimed face. He knew Deraa. He’d been in Deraa more than once. Hussein ibn Zaid hadn’t got clear of him yet!
* * * *
But though the scene from Deraa Station had all the familiarity of an old haunt, Burke could feel his nerves tingling as he dropped from the now stationary train and started across the wide, munition-piled square to the town. In spite of the fact that he had done all this before and had passed many a time for a native because of his familiarity with the Arab speech, it remained in the back of his head that if he were recognized his fate would be swift and certain. Every sense wary, he entered the crowded streets of the busy Trans-Jordanian town and pressed through the mob of Turkish soldiers and bawling natives that surged in every direction. All the time he moved toward the southern suburbs of the town, and at last found himself in the long rue behind whose high stone walls lived the more prosperous merchants.
Finally he stopped in front of a gate and knocked. It swung open presently, and the gate man, recognizing him with a start, stepped back quickly and let him in. The door clanged to abruptly.
“Is Ali Bender within?”
“Yes, Sidi.”
Burke strode across the flagged court and into the house. In the makad he found the corn merchant seated on the floor smoking an afternoon pipe. Ali leaped to his feet and greeted the airman cordially, yet with an uneasiness, realizing that danger had come to roost on his hearth again. In brief, terse sentences Burke explained the reason for his coming, and said in the end:
“We must prevent Hussein ibn Zaid from getting to Djevid Pasha. Hussein and his followers will be close to Deraa by this time.”
Ali flung out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Who am I, el Bourque, to cope with the jackals of the desert? I am a corn merchant—a man of peace.”
Burke repeated grimly: “He must not get to Djevid with his information.”
Suddenly the merchant’s face cleared: “Wellah, Djevid is in Damascus today and will not return until the train arrives at midnight.”
“That won’t present Hussein spilling his soul to the Turkish staff in the meantime,” growled Burke.
Ali Bender shrugged his shoulders again. If it was the will of Allah that the jackal was to talk he, Ali, could do nothing.
“Can’t you get a crowd of your friends together and go out armed to meet him? He has only twenty men. You could seize him and bring him here,” cried the airman.
But again Ali Bender shrugged. The peaceful citizens of Deraa were not of a kidney to go on such an expedition against lean Arab fighters from the desert.
From pacing the floor anxiously Burke let out an oath and said brusquely: “I will go up to the roof and watch for his coming.”
“Go with Allah,” said Ali piously.
Leaning against the parapet of the flat-topped roof the airman gazed southward along the road. But though he stayed there an hour there came no sign of the Weled Ali. Finally, realizing that they must already have gotten into the town, he went below, growled at the still smoking merchant:
“They have slipped in while we were talking. Go, Ali, and get the talk of the bazaars. Find out where the devils are.”
Not without reluctance the corn merchant rose and waddled away. Burke began to pace the makad again like a caged lion, fretting at the delay. From time to time he took a dried date from the bowl on the stand and munched it. Somehow, someway he must put a spoke in Hussein ibn Zaid’s wheels, but how he did not know. After an hour Ali Bender returned.
“The dog entered from the west, el Bourque,” he said, “and came alone, leaving his men encamped beyond the railway in the hills. Rahail, the contractor, was at headquarters when he arrived there and heard his encounter with the chief of staff. ‘Ho, fellow,’ the dog cried, ‘where is thy master, Djevid?’ And when the Turk answered, ‘In es Shem,’ Hussein cursed into his beard. ‘I have information from el Auruns,’ he bellowed, ‘all that is in el Auruns’ mind I know.’ The Turk said: ‘Speak, O sheik!’ But Hussein cried: ‘I speak only to Djevid. And I speak only when Djevid lays gold at my feet.’ They have given him lodging in the palace of Abd el Kader until Djevid returns. Verily, el Bourque, there remain four hours in which a man may work to stop his tongue.”
Burke’s eyes gleamed. Four hours! In that time he must find some way to stave off this disaster that faced the Arab Revolt. He swung sharply on Ali.
“Where is the palace of Abd el Kader?”
“Beyond the bazaars, to the north, el Bourque. A large house with lions at the gate.”
“Come,” said the airman, “show me the way.”
* * * *
They went out. Darkness had fallen by this time and with muffled heads they made their way through a maze of narrow, twisted lanes that were practically deserted save for mendicants already settling down for the night in the more sheltering doorways. At length they were through the bazaar, beyond which stretched an open square, and beyond this again a row of pretentious native mansions surrounded by the inevitable high walls.
Halfway across the open space Ali Bender stopped, pointed with his staff and said: “That is Abd el Kader’s palace.” It was plain that Ali considered he had now done his bit.
Burke turned on him. “If I do not come back by dawn make inquiries of me in the morning and send whatever tidings there are to el Auruns.”
“May Allah grant it that you return to el Auruns yourself with such tidings, el Bourque.”
They shook hands. Ali Bender slipped away, wraith-like, into the darkness. Burke moved on toward the wall of the house that had been pointed out to him. He had still no plan in his head, was simply moving on toward some crisis which he would have to meet as best he could when it arose. But in the grim set of his jaw was evidence that he had made up his mind to tie Hussein ibn Zaid’s tongue or perish in the attempt.
Ten minutes later he was aloft and headed westward toward the Damascus-Medina Railway fifty miles away. Hussein ibn Zaid, one of the minor sheiks of the Weled Ali, had come into Azrak a month before with soft words and promises. Although the rest of his tribe still adhered to their Turkish allegiance he, by Allah, had come to throw his lot into the keeping of el Auruns (Lawrence). So he said. But Auda had muttered darkly in his beard over the coffee, growling that the Weled Ali were the sons of liars and deceivers. It had taken the whole of Lawrence’s consummate tact to keep the peace, but he had insisted that a Weled Ali repentant was worthy of reception into the Arab cause. For four weeks Hussein had eaten the bread and salt of the Revolt at Azrak, and incidentally used his eyes and ears as only an Arab can. Having drunk to his fill at the well of information, he had slipped away silently in the night, and here was Auda to testify to his treachery. Burke knew full well that if the fellow got to Deraa and poured his story into the ear of Djevid Pasha, the Turkish general there, that not only the advanced Arab force at Azrak, but the whole Revolt itself would be put in jeopardy. For Lawrence, these last few weeks, had been organizing a bold plan of campaign that depended for its success on its secrecy, and which, if the Turks knew about it, they could meet with great peril to the Arab cause.
Burke’s old B.E. airplane winged steadily westward. Even at this altitude of five thousand feet the air was furnace-like in one’s face. Below, the bare, brown earth was an oven, and he marveled at the fortitude of Auda and his men who had ridden through that hell all day to bring their tidings. And presently, far ahead, the rails of the Damascus-Medina line glimmered through the ground haze. Alongside the railway, Burke knew, lay the camel route to Deraa. And northwards, between Nisib and Deraa, he would find his quarry.
He swung the plane’s nose slightly to the right, in a few moments was flying directly above the gleaming rails a thousand feet up. The Turkish garrison at Nisib gave him a nasty five minutes with their anti-aircraft gun, filling the air around him with the white puffs of shrapnel, but he knew that gun and its gunners. They had potted at him so many times without success that now they couldn’t raise his blood pressure one degree. But once out of its range he flew even lower, so that the low hills on each side of the track were level with his wings. Intently he scanned the road below. Odd groups passed—some going north—some south; a detail of Turkish sentries guarding the right of way and on the lookout for one of Lawrence’s devastating dynamiting parties; a few small groups of Bedouins. But so far no sight of the cavalcade of Weled Ali. And then, suddenly, rounding a bend in the hills, he saw them a mile ahead. He looked to his bomb release. It was correct. Rattled a few rounds through his Vickers. Shoved the throttle full on.
They heard him coming. He saw them stop to search the sky, saw the sudden confusion in their ranks as they spotted him so close. But before they could so much as make up their minds what to do he was on them.
He had no bomb sights. Such refinements were beyond the facilities of that old ship, and he had to judge by eye. So he let only one bomb go as a sort of feeler. Splashing the sand up within a dozen yards of the closely huddled camel riders, it sent them flying in all directions. He banked about sharply. He had spotted Hussein ibn Zaid’s flaming red kafieh, and he knew his quarry. He swept even lower, dragged on the makeshift bomb release again. But the wires did not respond quickly enough and the thing crumped at least a hundred feet beyond the flying rider. Cursing, he swung on one wing and came at it again. Hussein was urging his camel up a narrow, precipitously walled ravine in search of shelter. Burke put the plane toward it.
And suddenly, as he did so, he heard something—an ominous chattering noise that came insistently above the ship’s roaring engine. He glanced sharply about. For the moment the blinding light of the sun glared into his eyes so that he could not see. And then he did see! Two Turkish planes—Fokkers—from Deraa, five hundred feet above him and swooping down. Hurriedly he faced front. Below, and a hundred yards or more ahead, the flying, red-topped rider was lashing his hujun toward an overhanging ledge of rock at the head of the ravine. He realized that, come what may, he must drive that last bomb at its target. He must do that before he looked to his own skin.
Something splashed the rail of the cockpit— leaden rain—close. But still he held doggedly to his mark. Another half minute. Suddenly, he drew the release wire again.
“Damnation take the bloody thing!” he yelled.
For the second time the ratchet had failed to deliver on time, the bomb dropping impotently on the crest of hill above and beyond the flying Arab. He had shot his bolt and lost. These two Turkish planes, the nearest on his very tail, would drive him back irrevocably into the desert. Hussein ibn Zaid would take his news safe to Deraa.
* * * *
Grinding his teeth in annoyance, the airman jerked back the stick and sent the ship climbing. In the next few minutes he would have to fight for his life, for the Germans had not been so stingy with their Turkish allies in the way of airplanes as the British had with the Arabs. The B.E. was antiquated—slow. These planes that snapped at his tail were late model Fokkers.
But a supremacy in machines is not enough to win an aerial combat. Jerry Burke, through force of circumstances, had had to learn the last and utmost possibilities of that old B.E.—and its kind—by long, hard experience. He could, as a flying officer from Allenby’s force in Egypt who once watched him in an aerial combat declared, do more tricks with a dud ship than a monkey could on a yard of grapevine. For ten minutes he dodged those Fokkers, slipping from under their snouts when they seemed to have him cold, leading them into one another so that twice they nearly collided, but all the time climbing. He wanted height. When he had height enough he would give them fight!
But always he kept a weather eye below—saw the Arab cavalcade reassemble beside the railway—saw it move off in a cloud of dust northwards. Was it possible that he might yet slip away from his pursuers sufficiently to drop on Hussein’s gang again and give them the benefit of his Vickers? Not likely—but one never knew. Suddenly, at five thousand feet, he reversed sharply on the nearest Fokker which was trying to come up under his blind spot behind. For ten seconds the Vickers chattered madly.
Surprised at meeting fight at last, the Fokker wobbled out of it and banked. But Number Two was coming at him head-on. Bringing the B.E.’s nose around slightly to get her in his sights, Burke let the gun speak again. For a moment the other ship held its way—until the deadly fire sent her diving out of it.
But Number One was coming up again. Once more the intrepid airman threw the old ship about and let his gun sing. But Number Two had nosed around, was firing at him broadside. The bullets whapped against the fuselage so close that he could hear the sound of them. He held his course, his thumb on the stick trigger, pouring his lead into the plane ahead. Something seared past his shoulder, cutting the cloth of his tunic. The B.E. gave an odd coughing sound. He was about to put her down when suddenly the enemy plane in his path sideslipped dizzily and then went into a spin.
He had no time to watch what happened to her, had to zoom out of the hellish hail that was coming in from the side from the other enemy plane. But two hundred feet higher up, as he eased off the laboring B.E., he glanced down and saw a great streamer of smoke rising from a falling Fokker.
A laugh shot from his lips. He knew it was luck. And yet, if he could drive the surviving Fokker down, or scare her off, there was still a chance that he might get another crack at Hussein ibn Zaid. He banked and dived at her—just as she turned her nose up to meet him. But she had seen what happened to her sister and side-slipped out of it. He had her scared! Jamming on the juice, he swung after her, letting the gun sing as she came into his sights. She put her nose up. He started after her. He was laughing in wild triumph. Another few minutes and he would be—
And then suddenly the old B.E. coughed and went as dead as a brass bull. Some perverse bullet must have got the engine somewhere—the feed-pipe probably—during that last mix-up. A groan escaped him. Ahead, the surviving Fokker was winging swiftly back toward Deraa. Below, and a half mile off to the left, he could still see Hussein ibn Zaid’s cavalcade. It was the irony of fate. By Allah, it was worse than that, for out of the mirage Deraa gleamed scarcely half a dozen miles northward.
He put the plane’s nose down and let her ride earthward. And for the next minute he scanned with anxious eyes the terrain below. East of the railroad, low basalt hills cut the earth up into scarred, uneven surfaces on which no plane could land. It was too far to the level desert for the ship to glide before making ground. He must find a place somewhere in the tortured hills below.
Suddenly Burke caught a gleam of white in the broken black hills—a sandy valley—a tiny, narrow interval in the desolation. A perilous place to land a plane, but he must make the attempt. He spiraled slowly down toward it—couldn’t get into the wind, had to take it with the wind under his tail. God, it looked narrow! He held his breath as the precipitous walls swept up. It seemed his wings brushed them on each side. She bumped— bumped—
He let out a sharp cry. A jagged rock lay fair in the path of the wheels. He let his body go limp.
Crash!
The old B.E. leaped into the air like a startled hen—one of her wing tips struck the ravine wall. She turned about. And bang, she put her nose crashing into the basalt. For a matter of some minutes Burke sat in the cockpit seat trying to get his wind. He had put his weight against the safety belt to let it take the strain—a trick he had learned from previous crashes—but in spite of that the impetus had all but knocked him out.
Unfastening the belt, he climbed dazedly out of the plane, gazed at her ruefully. She was a hopeless wreck.
“And, by God,” he growled, “I’m in a hopeless mess.”
* * * *
From where he stood it was a matter of seventy miles to Azrak oasis, with the burning Sirhan between. To attempt that on foot was suicide. But Jerry Burke had long ago planned what he would do if he were ever brought down in these parts. In the fuselage behind the flying seat were stored certain articles after which he now went. Item, one cotton cloak; item, one camel-hair kaftan; item, one brown kafieh with agals.
Having dragged these out, he proceeded to divest himself of his uniform and array himself in them. Then he took off his shoes and stockings. His feet and legs were as brown as an Arab’s, for he had followed Lawrence in training to live exactly the Arab life. Having flung his uniform into the cockpit of the ship, he took his revolver, glasses, water bottle and iron rations from her, and having wet his tunic sleeve in gasoline, struck a match to it. Before he was clear of the valley the old B.E. was in flames.
He struck up over the hills in the direction of the railway, looking for all the world a son of Ishmael. His intention was to return to Minifer and, in the guise of a native, steal or purchase a camel on which to make Azrak. He had also the hopes of running into Colonel Oldfield, who, with Abdulla el Zaagi, the captain of Lawrence’s bodyguard, had gone off the night before on a raid against Amman, which town lay ten miles south of Minifer.
He was still a quarter of a mile from the line, and not yet in sight of it, when he heard far to the south the whistle of a locomotive. The daily train moving north. Evidently Oldfield’s party hadn’t been able to detain her. He pressed on. Finally, from the top of the hill overlooking the railway, he could see smoke some distance below. He clambered down the long, steep bank to the line, started southward along it. There was quite a stiff south to north grade here and he was not surprised when he finally caught sight of the oncoming train to see that she was laboring badly. He stood aside and watched her as she panted up and past. Two engines drew a long line of empty box and flat cars with three passenger cars away down at the end.
As the second engine passed the driver yelled something at him—the Turk’s insult to the Bedu. Burke grinned back at him. His disguise was evidently good. But suddenly, as car after empty car went crawling by a thought leaped full-born into his brain. This train was going to Deraa. Once clear of the rise ahead the line ran downhill all the way. She would get there before Hussein ibn Zaid!
He leaped suddenly forward, grabbed the iron handrail on the rear of a passing truck and swung himself aboard. A few minutes later, between two cars, he was hanging on for dear life as the long train rattled and clanged down the grade toward Deraa. There was a wide grin on his dust-grimed face. He knew Deraa. He’d been in Deraa more than once. Hussein ibn Zaid hadn’t got clear of him yet!
* * * *
But though the scene from Deraa Station had all the familiarity of an old haunt, Burke could feel his nerves tingling as he dropped from the now stationary train and started across the wide, munition-piled square to the town. In spite of the fact that he had done all this before and had passed many a time for a native because of his familiarity with the Arab speech, it remained in the back of his head that if he were recognized his fate would be swift and certain. Every sense wary, he entered the crowded streets of the busy Trans-Jordanian town and pressed through the mob of Turkish soldiers and bawling natives that surged in every direction. All the time he moved toward the southern suburbs of the town, and at last found himself in the long rue behind whose high stone walls lived the more prosperous merchants.
Finally he stopped in front of a gate and knocked. It swung open presently, and the gate man, recognizing him with a start, stepped back quickly and let him in. The door clanged to abruptly.
“Is Ali Bender within?”
“Yes, Sidi.”
Burke strode across the flagged court and into the house. In the makad he found the corn merchant seated on the floor smoking an afternoon pipe. Ali leaped to his feet and greeted the airman cordially, yet with an uneasiness, realizing that danger had come to roost on his hearth again. In brief, terse sentences Burke explained the reason for his coming, and said in the end:
“We must prevent Hussein ibn Zaid from getting to Djevid Pasha. Hussein and his followers will be close to Deraa by this time.”
Ali flung out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Who am I, el Bourque, to cope with the jackals of the desert? I am a corn merchant—a man of peace.”
Burke repeated grimly: “He must not get to Djevid with his information.”
Suddenly the merchant’s face cleared: “Wellah, Djevid is in Damascus today and will not return until the train arrives at midnight.”
“That won’t present Hussein spilling his soul to the Turkish staff in the meantime,” growled Burke.
Ali Bender shrugged his shoulders again. If it was the will of Allah that the jackal was to talk he, Ali, could do nothing.
“Can’t you get a crowd of your friends together and go out armed to meet him? He has only twenty men. You could seize him and bring him here,” cried the airman.
But again Ali Bender shrugged. The peaceful citizens of Deraa were not of a kidney to go on such an expedition against lean Arab fighters from the desert.
From pacing the floor anxiously Burke let out an oath and said brusquely: “I will go up to the roof and watch for his coming.”
“Go with Allah,” said Ali piously.
Leaning against the parapet of the flat-topped roof the airman gazed southward along the road. But though he stayed there an hour there came no sign of the Weled Ali. Finally, realizing that they must already have gotten into the town, he went below, growled at the still smoking merchant:
“They have slipped in while we were talking. Go, Ali, and get the talk of the bazaars. Find out where the devils are.”
Not without reluctance the corn merchant rose and waddled away. Burke began to pace the makad again like a caged lion, fretting at the delay. From time to time he took a dried date from the bowl on the stand and munched it. Somehow, someway he must put a spoke in Hussein ibn Zaid’s wheels, but how he did not know. After an hour Ali Bender returned.
“The dog entered from the west, el Bourque,” he said, “and came alone, leaving his men encamped beyond the railway in the hills. Rahail, the contractor, was at headquarters when he arrived there and heard his encounter with the chief of staff. ‘Ho, fellow,’ the dog cried, ‘where is thy master, Djevid?’ And when the Turk answered, ‘In es Shem,’ Hussein cursed into his beard. ‘I have information from el Auruns,’ he bellowed, ‘all that is in el Auruns’ mind I know.’ The Turk said: ‘Speak, O sheik!’ But Hussein cried: ‘I speak only to Djevid. And I speak only when Djevid lays gold at my feet.’ They have given him lodging in the palace of Abd el Kader until Djevid returns. Verily, el Bourque, there remain four hours in which a man may work to stop his tongue.”
Burke’s eyes gleamed. Four hours! In that time he must find some way to stave off this disaster that faced the Arab Revolt. He swung sharply on Ali.
“Where is the palace of Abd el Kader?”
“Beyond the bazaars, to the north, el Bourque. A large house with lions at the gate.”
“Come,” said the airman, “show me the way.”
* * * *
They went out. Darkness had fallen by this time and with muffled heads they made their way through a maze of narrow, twisted lanes that were practically deserted save for mendicants already settling down for the night in the more sheltering doorways. At length they were through the bazaar, beyond which stretched an open square, and beyond this again a row of pretentious native mansions surrounded by the inevitable high walls.
Halfway across the open space Ali Bender stopped, pointed with his staff and said: “That is Abd el Kader’s palace.” It was plain that Ali considered he had now done his bit.
Burke turned on him. “If I do not come back by dawn make inquiries of me in the morning and send whatever tidings there are to el Auruns.”
“May Allah grant it that you return to el Auruns yourself with such tidings, el Bourque.”
They shook hands. Ali Bender slipped away, wraith-like, into the darkness. Burke moved on toward the wall of the house that had been pointed out to him. He had still no plan in his head, was simply moving on toward some crisis which he would have to meet as best he could when it arose. But in the grim set of his jaw was evidence that he had made up his mind to tie Hussein ibn Zaid’s tongue or perish in the attempt.
