keep in condition by gymnastics and fencing. Paul had worked for fifteen years in the same dreary office in Luton and, from what I had gathered during the course of investigating his life he hadn't done much to keep fit. But the odd thing was that during this time he didn't complain once. He stolidly climbed and just as stolidly picked himself up when he slipped and fell, and kept up the same speed as the rest of us, which wasn't all that slow with Byrne setting the pace.
I was slowly coming to a conclusion about Paul. Some men may be sprinters, good in the short haul and competent in a crisis. Paul might prove to be the reverse. While not handling crises particularly well he was tenacious and stubborn, as proved by his lifelong obsession about his father, and this stroll across the Tenere was bringing out his best qualities. Be that as it may, he did as well as anyone on that journey, ill-conditioned though his body was for it We stopped on top of a dune just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, and Byrne said, 'Okay; you can take off your packs.'
It was a great relief to get rid of that jerrican which had seemed to increase in weight with every step I took. Billson slumped down and in the red light of the setting sun his face was grey. I remembered that he had been shot in the shoulder not many weeks before, and said gently, 'Here, Paul; let me help you.' I helped him divest himself of his back pack, and said, 'How's your shoulder?'
'All right,' he said dully.
'Let me look at it.' His chest was heaving as he drew panting breaths after that last climb and he made no move, so I unbuttoned the front of his shirt and looked at his shoulder before it became too dark to see. The wound, which had been healing well, was now inflamed and red. It would seem that the pull of the jerrican on the improvised harness was chafing him. I said, 'Luke, look at this.'
Byrne came over and inspected Paul He said, 'We drink the water out of his can first.'
'And perhaps we can transfer some into my can.'
'Maybe,' he said noncommittally. 'Let's eat.'
Our dinner that night was cold and unappetizing. The stars came out as the light ebbed away in the west and the temperature dropped. Byrne said, 'Better wear djellabas.'
As I put mine on I asked, 'How far have we come?'
'Mile and a half – maybe two miles.'
'Is that all?' I was shattered. It seemed more like five or six.
'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.'
Byrne stepped over to Billson. 'Let's see your shoulder.' He examined it and shook his head. 'You couldn't do it, Paul. More abrasion and more sand in there and you'll get gangrene. Keep it wrapped up. Let's move.'
And so we set off again – Tip the airy mountain, down the rushy glen' – the mountain bit was real enough and it was certainly airy on that cold morning, but there were no rushes and the valleys were anything but glen-like, although welcome enough because they gave a brief respite for level walking.
I pictured us as four ants toiling across a sand-box in a children's playground. At mid-morning, when we stopped to take on water, I said, 'To think I liked building sand castles when I was a kid.'
Byrne chuckled. 'I remember a drawing I once saw, a cartoon, you know. It was in a magazine Daisy Wakefield had up in Tarn. There was a detachment of the Foreign Legion doing a march across country like this, and one guy is saying to the other, 'I joined the Legion to forget her, but her name is Sandra.' I thought that was real funny.'
'I'm glad you're keeping your sense of humour.'
