Leon Uris (49 page)

“Why must we have two paddocks?” Modi asked his students, and answered himself before anyone could speak. “I’ll tell you. One major problem is more major than any other problem. That problem is biting flies. Add in mosquitoes and vermin, and we are dealing with a pot full of bloodsuckers.”

Modi’s students had quickly gotten the drift that Dr. Mordechai Pearlman, late of the Czar’s army, knew his animals. The men he had selected from the battalion for the Mule Medic Platoon would own corporal’s chevrons, if they cut it. The next day he would test them. If a soldier failed he was immediately dismissed from the medics and replaced. They hung on his every word and engaged in no horseplay unless he instigated it.

“So, we are two paddocks and our big problem is flies. Each night we will have confined several hundred mules eating twenty pounds of feed that day. Gentlemen, that is a lot of mule shit.”

Controlled laughter.

“So,” he went on, “each night we bring our trains into Paddock A, which has been spotless cleaned and has new hay spread for the animals.

“Alternative,” Modi said. “The mule comes to a dirty paddock. The mules must stand in muleshit. Millions of biting flies attack. They attack ears, the genital areas, and open
sores. I have seen jacks and janets attacked so bad, half their ears are chewed off. I have seen mules attacked so viciously, they go insane and have to be destroyed. The mule does not want to stand up all night. It uses his strength. But he cannot lie down and sleep in muleshit. What you will have the next morning is a weak animal, half-crazy, with not enough stamina to go on the trail. In this battalion the mule comes home to a clean paddock. We have been collecting bacon grease from the mess halls. Each night you will rub ears, sores, and genital areas with grease. It will give animals some relief from bites. Questions?”

“Is there anything we can use to drive off flies?” he was asked.

“Pine tar,” Modi answered. “No trees in Egypt, no pine tar. I am trying mixtures, citronella, petrol torches, and such. Pine tar is best if we can find any.

“So,” Modi went on, “when trains leave Paddock A for trail, it is then cleaned. However, Paddock B is already clean and mules return to Paddock B. Get it?”

They got it.

“Anybody don’t get it?”

“We’ve got it!”

“How do we get rid of the muleshit, Dr. Modi?”

“With shovel. With luck, we can capture prisoners. Is good healthy work for prisoners. Better to guard prisoners than clean muleshit yourself. Otherwise, anyone in battalion who fucks off goes to muleshit detail.

“As soon as you muleteers return for day, you will go over every animal with his packers. You check for rope burns, skin bunches, watery places, swellings, sore withers, sore loins. You must check for constipation. A constipated mule is an unhappy mule. Later, you will check piss for kidney problems and muleshit for stomach parasites. Check for screw worms…use crysilic ointment. Look for snake bites. Ammonia is in everyone’s kit. Every man in battalion will get some lecture, but you are specialist. I depend on you. You are my corporals.”

*  *  *

First Serjeant Landers spoke to Company C in the stadium ring.

“If your animal needs new shoes, take him to the blacksmith the night before. After you have seen to the welfare of your mule and have bedded him down with praise, you may then get yourselves cleaned up and fed. No one goes to sleep, however, before cleaning and repairing your mule’s leather, lashes, slings, and liar ropes. You will clean down your animal’s saddle and reins, and polish all brass. I will personally inspect all mules and their equipment before they go to load. In this battalion, mules will not be pulled out of the line because of sloppy equipment. Sloppy equipment breaks and puts an added burden on your animal. Now, you think about it…suppose your mule is pulled out of the train and some ammunition doesn’t reach the front lines because of it…”

Serjeant Yurlob Singh stood in a circle of fifty sawhorses representing fifty mules. He was speaking to fifty men he had selected as lead packers and trail masters, who would be promoted to corporals and serjeants when…and if…they could pass the bloody raghead’s course.

His eyes were forever reflecting some sort of disdain. Before and after every lecture, Yurlob repeated the same invocation.

“The basic reason for a mule’s failure is almost always the packer’s stupidity in preparing and loading his animal.”

Yurlob described the mixture of mud and straw that was blended into a featherbed blanket to lay over the mule’s back. As it hardened, it retained a claylike consistency to protect the peculiar bone structure of the individual animal, a jell-like shock absorber between skin and saddle.

He held up wooden crossbars. “These are ribbings. Likewise, they must fit the contours of the mule’s body to
perfection. You must work these ribbings, bending them, carving them until they form perfectly.”

Yurlob had examples of each type box and load the mule would pack to the front lines, ammunition boxes of all sizes and weights, rifle ammo, light and heavy machinegun ammo, mortars, water cans, ration boxes, medical packs, communications gear, dynamite, grenades, barbed wire, and all those things that sustained the horror of life on the edge.

Hands behind his back, Yurlob walked up and down beside a long table where his students sat. He made terse comments as they struggled with the square knot, the double sling, the diamond hitch, the double diamond hitch, cross sling, clove hitch, short splice, long splice, liar knot, overhand granny, single and double sheet bend, fisherman’s bend, timber hitch towline, barrel sling horizontal, barrel sling vertical, sheepshank, and cat’s paw.

“You must get this right because you will be given a test blindfolded.

“Each mule must be prepared to carry down a stretcher on each trip from the front lines. First will come the most seriously wounded, then the more lightly wounded, and finally, the dead. The litter rides high on the cross of the ribbings making the journey perilous in hilly terrain. This is your most important cargo. You will not be stupid.”

Serjeant Major Johnny Tarbox and Corporal Chester Goodwood spent their days in Pig Island making up tactical tables.

Modi: “Today we speak of calluses. If not softened and removed, they will ulcerate to cancer.”

Yurlob: “You are stupid.”

Chester Goodwood to Johnny Tarbox: “On a static front, how many mules can supply basic requirements as in table B, four miles from base camp on a line 2,000 yards long containing two companies of infantry and a heavy weapon squad in 3-to-8 terrain?”

Yurlob: “All correctly made ties will release by pulling two ropes, freeing the pack.”

Rory: “It is forbidden to park your mule before a public house.” Jaysus! We have to be coming to the end.

It was dark before dawn, still an hour before reveille. Chester Goodwood ran down the hallway of the gaffers’ quarters pounding on every door. “Mules have arrived! They’re bringing twenty mules into the paddock!”

“Get the lieutenant!”

They dressed like firemen answering an alarm but with a little less grace, pitching, stumbling, and falling as they did.

In ten minutes Lieutenant Jeremy joined them at the hitching rail as the first crack of light shone on the mules. There stood, or wavered, mules in various degrees of infirmity—cowed, swayed, broken, bony, beaten, ears chewed, teeth missing, hooves split, sore-covered.

They could not believe what they saw.

“Jaysus.”

“Good God.”

“Who sent us these poor beasts?” Modi asked. “I was visiting yesterday comrades in Zion Mule Corps. They got some decent animals.”

“The Zion Mule Corps got the best animals because they are servicing British troops,” Jeremy said angrily. “I told the Major to let me send a couple of you people to the auction. Colonel Sattersfield at quartermaster buggered me.”

“Every peasant in Egypt is trying to pass off his dying mule to the British Army.”

They looked for some sort of salvation as Serjeant Yurlob entered the scene. Yurlob studied the animals and maintained an uncommitted expression. Urged, he refused to join the cries of dismay.

Well, here we have it, Jeremy thought. The good servant. These animals were British Army issue so they must be accepted according to the Yurlobs in the colonials.

“For Christ sake, or Buddha’s sake,” Johnny snapped, “try to put three hundred pounds on any of these creatures and they will collapse.”

Yurlob said nothing.

“Damnit, which one can we use for training?” Johnny continued. “Just one…one.”

Yurlob, always ramrod straight, became straighter.

Modi threw up his hands in futility. Mordechai Pearlman was officially a non-vet, non-soldier, non-person, and if he wasn’t a person, he couldn’t object. It looked to him like a cruel prank but he knew British officers were not into playing pranks.

“I don’t see how we can accept these animals,” Johnny said.

“You’re the beach master,” said Rory protectively. “It’s out of your bailiwick. Modi can’t say anything and our bold fierce, and loyal Sikh friend here wouldn’t break the fucking code under torture. I reject these animals as unfit,” Rory said shakily.

“I’ll support your rejection,” Jeremy said.

“Stay out of it, Lieutenant. You don’t know doodly-shit about mules.”

“I said, Serjeant Landers, that I’ll support your rejection. I know a crippled mule when I see one.”

“Fuck regulations,” Modi said, “I also object to this business gone crazy!”

“And—” Chester said.

“Shut up, Chester,” Rory commanded. “You keep out of it.”

“I have my—”

“Shut up, Chester,” Rory repeated. He turned to Jeremy. “Do you want me to go in to see the Major with you, Lieutenant?”

Jeremy looked to the offices. Good, the lights were on.
Christopher usually came before reveille so he could go over just who needed shaping up at roll call, and to be certain he looked shiny and bright, even at this devil’s hour.

“He’s in. You lads stand fast.”

Christopher had heard the commotion outside and opened the big wooden shutters. He could see the Jew laughing and every one else either scratching or shaking their heads. Ah there, here comes Jeremy at a trot.

“What’s going on out there?” Chris snapped as Jeremy entered.

“Colonel Sattersfield sent you twenty dead mules who don’t even have the strength to fall down. I warned you to send a couple of my gaffers to the auction.”

“I’m afraid,” Christopher answered, “all the best mules went to the Jews.”

“To the British troops as in contrast to the Anzac troops. Those mules out there are not acceptable.”

“Who says they are unacceptable?”

“I do.”

“You are not qualified to make that judgment. Who else said so? Tarbox? Corporal Goodwood? The Jew? Yurlob? Did Serjeant Yurlob say they were unacceptable?”

“No.”

“So it was Landers.”

“Instead of taking this out on your men, why don’t you climb all over Sattersfield’s ass!”

“This is the British Army. We take what we are issued. Now get the devil out of my way,” Chris said, bolting past his brother to the outside. He took a shortcut through the paddock, storming up behind the picket line of mules.

“Ten-shun!” Yurlob cracked out upon sighting the major.

The men froze at attention as he continued toward them in a rage. “Damnit! Serjeant Yurlob! Call up your trail leaders! We are loading and marching within the hour!”

“Major! Stop!” Rory shouted. “Stop, goddamnit, freeze!”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Landers!”

“Major, stop! Hit the dirt!”

As Christopher reached the back of the mule line, Rory leapt over the hitching rail, tackled the major, and sent him down with a thud, lay atop him till he was immobile…then dragged him back.

The others ran over and untangled them. Christopher Hubble brushed off his uniform, too livid to speak.

Rory came to his feet clutching a shoulder and reeling from a mule kick. Half a dozen of the animals were lashing out with their hind legs.

“Quickly, get back to Pig Island before anyone gets wind of this. Modi, calm these mules down. Go on, lads. I’ll take the Major back to his office.” Jeremy jerked Chris to his feet and ran him back to the headquarters building and closed them in.

“Blast! That does it! Landers will not get away with the sweatbox. He struck an officer! It is going to be the whipping post. I’ll see to it he has lashes.”

“Shut up, you asshole!”

“How dare you, Jeremy. You…you can put in your request for a transfer, immediately. As for Landers, it is within my purview to issue him five lashes before battalion parade.” Chris cranked his phone handle. “Put me through to military police.”

Jeremy snatched the phone. “Cancel that. The request was made in error.”

“All right, let’s have at it, Jeremy. This gaffer squad of yours think they command this battalion. They take leave every night in Cairo. They have their own quarters. And your fraternization with them is nothing short of disgusting. Where are you on your free hours? Whoring around with enlisted men? Landers has just been waiting like a snake in the grass for an opportunity to strike me. I’m certain he’s planning to kill me in battle.”