Free Loyal Creatures by Morris Gleitzman Page B

could I lifted the Turkish blokes down and buried them.
    I stood by the graves. Wasn’t sure what to say.
    Stayed there anyway.
    After a while, I felt Daisy’s head on my shoulder.
    Truth was I didn’t know those blokes at all. But thinking about them made me think about Dad, and soon my whole body was shaking with tears.

In war you never knew what was up ahead. Sure as tinned meat I didn’t.
    Starting with Joan’s parcel.
    It arrived six months after Beersheba.
    I’d had a pretty low Christmas on account of Otton. Pretty low start to 1918, too. Bosworth and Lesney were posted further north. After Beersheba they’d wanted to go back into the water deployment unit with me, but the brass made them stay with the fighting.
    Daisy came with me of course. The army had abandoned the pipeline and we were foraging water on the run as we pushed the Turks back towards their joint.
    I saw Johnson one night in April, heading off on one of his solo hunting trips. He told me how a really crook thing had happened the week before.
    Bosworth and Lesney had been killed by snipers. One careless campfire, six blokes gone.
    â€˜Tonight’s for them,’ said Johnson.
    His face and his bayonet both had boot polish on them. But I could still see the gleaming teeth. His and the bayonet’s.
    I didn’t go. My place was with Daisy.
    I was knocked hard by the news. Very sad I’d missed both their funerals. So me and Daisy had our own. Just a few words into an old well and a cup of water each in their memory.
    Few weeks later Joan’s parcel arrived. Day after my nineteenth birthday.
    Nearly three years I’d been waiting to hear from her and now, out of the blue, a hefty parcel tied up with eight miles of string.
    Couldn’t hardly get it open, I was so excited.
    Finally did, and everything fell out. Two pairs of socks. Four tins of meat. Sugar lumps for Daisy. Cough lozenges for me. Half a page from the local paper with a mention of my medal. More socks.
    And a letter.
    Dear Francis
    I read in the newspaper recently about your medal. Congratulations on your wonderful contribution to our war effort.
    Last year I also read about the loss of your father. Please accept my condolences. My father was killed in France, so I know how you feel.
    They were both men of great bravery and patriotism, and so I wish to apologise for the white feather my mother and her friends sent to your father. At the time they thought it was the right thing to do, but now they know it was wrong.
    Please accept this apology, dear Francis.
    I must also ask you something very difficult. I must ask that you stop writing to me. I am engaged to be married, and at the request of my fiancée I have been disposing of your letters unread for the last year.
    Yours warmly, but in future sincerely,
    Joan.
    p.s. Happy birthday. Say g’day to Daisy for me.
    I disposed of her letter too.
    But not unread.
    I read it about a hundred times. Then I went out into the desert and built a small fire, inside a billy so no enemy sniper would spot the burning letter and get me through the heart like it had.
    I stared at the flames, and then the embers, and then the cold ashes.
    After a long time, I realised Daisy was looking at me. Sympathy on her face.
    Some wouldn’t have reckoned that was possible, but I saw it. Daisy knew about heartache.
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said to her. ‘A bloke with half a brain would probably have spotted this coming.’
    Daisy didn’t comment.
    Just chewed a sugar lump.
    â€˜Some of us creatures might think we’re smarter than other creatures,’ I said to her. ‘But we’re not. We get an idea in our head and we hang onto it even when a six-year-old could tell us it’s a dopey one.’
    Daisy gently blew sugary air into my face.
    I wasn’t just talking about me and Joan.
    Otton had tried to explain to me how this war started. I didn’t grasp all the details, but when he