Flyaway

'More'n I expected.' Byrne nodded towards Billson. 'I thought he'd hold us up. He still might. I suggest you take some of his water. Do it now before we leave.'

'Leave! You're not going on in the dark?'

'Damn right I am. We're in a hurry. Don't worry; I have a compass and the moon will rise later.'

I put half of Billson's water into my jerrican, reflecting that Byrne was still carrying a full one. He gathered us together. 'We're moving off now. So far you've not done much talking. That's good because you needed your breath. But now you talk because it's dark – you don't lose contact with anyone and you don't let them lose contact with you. It'll be slow going but we need every yard we can make.'

He said something to Konti, probably repeating what he'd told us, then we descended from the top of the dune. It was damned difficult in the dark, and Byrne kept up a constant grunting, 'Ho! Ho! Ho!', sounding like a demented Santa Claus. But it was enough to let us know where he was, and I was encouraged to raise my own voice in song.

At the bottom he rounded us up and we set off across the valley floor under those glittering stars. I sang again; a ditty from my army days:

'Uncle George and Auntie Mabel Fainted at the breakfast table. Let this be an awful warning Not to do it in the morning.'

I paused. 'Billson, are you all right?'

'Yes,' he said wearily. 'I'm all right.' From the left Konti made a whickering noise. He sounded like a horse. Byrne grunted, 'Ho! Ho! Ho!'

'Ovaltine has put them right, Now they do it morn and night; Uncle George is hoping soon To do it in the afternoon. Hark the Herald Angels sing, "Ovaltine is damned good thing."'

Billson made the first attempt at a witticism that I had heard pass his lips. 'Were you a Little Ovaltiney?'

I bumped into Byrne. 'Now we've had the commercial,' he said acidly. 'Let's get climbing.'

So up we went – slowly.

I didn't know then how long we stumbled along in the dark but it seemed like hours. Later Byrne said he'd called a halt just before midnight, so that meant a six-hour night march at probably not more than half a mile an hour. He stopped unexpectedly when we were half-way up a slope, and said, This is it. Dig in.'

Thankfully I eased the jerrican from me and massaged my aching shoulders. In the light of the moon I saw Billson just lying there. I crawled over to him and helped him out of his harness, then made sure his djellaba was wrapped around him, and built up a small rampart of sand on the downhill side of him to prevent him rolling to the bottom in his sleep. Before I left him he had passed out.

I crawled over to Byrne and demanded in an angry whisper, 'What the hell's the flaming hurry? Paul's half dead.'

'He will be dead if we don't get to where we're going by nightfall tomorrow,' said Byrne unemotionally.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, an azelai don't stop at sunset like we've usually been doing. Mokhtar will push on until about eleven every night. 'Course, it's easy for them, they're going along the valley bottoms.'

'How does he navigate?'

'Stars,' said Byrne. 'And experience. Now, I figure to get to where he'll be passing through before sundown, and I also figure that he'll be passing through some time during the night. Camels don't have headlights and tail lights, you know; and an azelai moves along goddamn quiet, like. At night a caravan could pass within two hundred yards of you and you wouldn't know it, even though in daylight it would be in plain sight. That's why I want to get there when I can see.'

'See what?'

'I'll figure that out when I get there. Now go to sleep.'

I was about to turn away when I thought of something. 'What happens if we miss the caravan?'

Then we walk to Bilma – that's why we brought all the water. Konti and I would make it You might. Billson wouldn't.'

That was plain enough. I dug out a trench in the side of the dune to lie in, and hoped it didn't look too much like a grave. Then I pulled the djellaba closer around me, and lay down. I looked up at the pock-marked moon for a long time before I went to sleep. It must have been all of three minutes.

We drank all of Billson's remaining water the following morning and abandoned his jerrican. 'Soak yourselves hi it,' advised Byrne. 'Get as much water into you as you can hold.'

Breakfast in the light of dawn was frugal and soon done with. I cleaned out the last few crumbs from my pocket, hoisted the jerrican on to my back with distaste, and was ready to go.

Billson said, 'Stafford, why don't we put half your water in here?' He kicked the discarded jerrican with a clang. 'I could carry it.'

' I looked at him in surprise. That was the first time he had offered to do anything for anyone so far. Maybe there was hope of reclaiming him for the human race, after all. I said, 'Better put that to Byrne; his can is full.'