Billson was doing all right. He didn't say much, but kept up with us just in front of Konti. I had the idea that Byrne had detailed Konti as rearguard to keep an eye on Paul. Although he kept up with us I doubt if he'd have been able to if he still had water to carry. His wound was troubling him; not that he complained about it, but I noticed he favoured his right arm when he took a tumble and fell.

There wasn't much point in stopping long at midday because we had nothing to eat and only needed to drink water. Byrne said, 'Okay, Max; take off your pack.'

'We had drunk from my jerrican at the mid-morning stop, so I said, 'No; you take off yours.'

The wrinkles about his eyes deepened as he stared at me, but then he said obligingly, 'Okay.' So we lightened his load by a few pounds between us.

That day I found I was glad to be wearing the Tuareg veil and the rest of the fancy dress. I could see that Paul, apart from anything else, was beginning to suffer from exposure whereas I was protected.

The rest of the day until sunset passed in a blur of exhaustion. Up one side, down the other, and still another one to come. Against the grain of the land, Byrne had said. It was a good descriptive phrase and I was now really beginning to find how good it was.

I fell into a blind, mindless rhythm and a chant was created in my mind – what the Germans call an 'earworm' – something that goes round and round in your head and you can't get rid of it. One bloody foot before the next bloody foot.

One bloody dune after the next bloody dune. One bloody foot before the next bloody foot. One bloody dune after the next bloody dune. One bloody… It went on and on and on…

Maybe it helped me.

And so it went on for hour after hour until I staggered into Byrne who had stopped. So did my bloody foot. 'We made it just in time.' He looked at the sun. 'Three-quarters of an hour to nightfall.'

'We're there?' I said thickly, and looked down the side of the dune. The valley bottom didn't look much different than any of the others we'd crossed.

'Yeah. Mokhtar will be coming along there.'

I looked around. 'Where's Billson?'

'Maybe a quarter-mile back. Konti's looking after him. Let's go down.'

When we got to the bottom I looked up and saw Paul and Konti silhouetted against the sky at the top of the dune. 'You mean we can rest now?'

'No,' said Byrne relentlessly. He started to walk up the valley so I followed. I was tired but at least this was reasonably level ground and I didn't have to go up and down. The dunes began to close in on either side and then the valley widened. Byrne stopped. This is the place. How wide would you say this valley is?'

'Quarter of a mile.'

'More. Six hundred yards. I want three trenches dug going up and down the valley. Each maybe ten yards long but I'd like more.'

That sounded like work and I wasn't in the mood for it 'How deep?'

'Not much; just so that your feet can recognize it in the dark. We're all going to stand sentry tonight.'

The idea was simple and good. The trenches divided the width of the valley into four equal parts and the four of us would patrol back and forth, each on our 150-yard stretch. When our feet encountered a trench we'd know it was time to turn around smartly and go back, just like a sentry in front of Buck House. If the caravan was coming through, then statistically it was highly likely that one of us was going to run into a camel. And the walking would keep us awake.

I began to dig where Byrne indicated, heaping the soft sand aside with my hands because I had nothing else to dig with. But first I unloaded the jerrican and had some water.

Billson and Konti came down and were put to work, and by nightfall we had done all we could do, not to Byrne's satisfaction but that couldn't be helped.

Then came the patrolling back and forth across the width of the valley, each in our own sector. I was weary and the slow trudge in the thick sand didn't help. Every so often my feet encountered the edge of the trench and I turned to go back. Say three hundred yards for the round trip, about six to the mile. I wondered how many miles I was going to walk that night. Still, it was better than the bloody dunes.

On a couple of occasions at a trench I met Byrne and we exchanged a word before we turned and went our opposite ways. If we could have synchronized our speeds we could have met every time, but there was no way of doing that in the darkness.

The night wore on and my pace became slower. I was desperately tired and it was only because I had to walk that I kept awake, although sometimes I wonder if at times I wasn't walking in my sleep. But the walking and a few hunger pangs kept me going.

I encountered Byrne again, and he said, 'Have you seen Konti?'

'We met a couple of patrols ago. He's awake, if that's what's worrying you.'

'It's not I should be finding Billson, and I'm not.'

I sighed. 'He's had a harder day than most of us. He's clapped out.'

'It leaves a hole in the line. I'll feel better when the moon comes up.'

We didn't have to wait that long. There was a yell from Konti and a startled cry of 'Hoi! Hoi! Hoi!' as someone strove to quieten a plunging camel. Then a couple of Tuareg came up from behind us, from up the valley. Half of that caravan had got past us without anyone knowing until Konti had bumped into someone.

I sat down, exactly where I was. 'Luke,' I said. 'I'm going to sleep.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

And so I went into Bilma by camel. Paul did, too, but Byrne walked after the first day. Konti walked all the time. These men were seemingly indestructible. Mokhtar had camped where he found us, but we continued the next day and, as Byrne had said, well into the darkness before we camped again.

Then Byrne began to walk, as did all the Tuareg, and I noted his feet were bare. He walked lithely by the side of the camel I rode. I said, 'Is it normal to walk?'

'Yeah.'

'All the way from Agadez to Bilma?'

'And back.' He looked up. 'We're all humble camel drivers – like the Prophet.'

I thought about it, thinking how quickly we had traversed that fastness in the Toyota. 'I would have thought it would be more efficient to use trucks.'

'Oh, sure.' He pointed ahead. 'Bilma produces 4000 tons of salt a year. The whole export job could be done with twenty 20-tonners. If this was Algeria they'd use trucks. The bastards in the Maghreb are nuts on efficiency when it's profitable.'

'Then why not here?'

'Because the Niger government is sensible. A camel can carry a seventh of a ton so, to shift a year's salt you need 28,000 camels. Like I said, a camel is a fragile animal – for every day's work it must have a day's rest. So – three months on the salt trail means another three months' resting-up time and feeding. That's six months, which takes care of the winter season. No one comes across here in summer. So you do have to have 28,000 camels because each makes but one journey. At $180 each that's a capital investment of better than five million dollars. Add harness, wrappings, drivers' pay and all that and you can make it six million.'

'God!' I said. 'It would certainly pay to use trucks.'

'I haven't finished,' said Byrne. 'A camel can last four years in the business, so that means 7000 new animals needed every year. Somebody has to breed them; guys like me, but more usually like Hamiada. What with one thing and another there's two million dollars going to the breeders from the Bilma salt trade. And Bilma's not the only source of salt. In the Western Sahara there's Taoudenni which supplies Timbouctou and the whole Niger Bend a rea – that's much bigger than the Bilma trade.' He looked up at me. 'So it's illegal to carry salt on trucks. It would ruin the traditional economy and destroy the structure of the desert tribes if trucks were allowed.'

'I see,' I said thoughtfully. 'Humanitarianism versus efficiency.' It made sense, but I doubt if a hard-headed City businessman would have agreed.

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