The day after the battle of Kirbekan an outpost was being sent forward. Moving to its position, it espied a wounded dervish making signs for water. One of the soldiers slipped off his camel to give him some, and his comrades moved on. As time went on, and their chum did not catch them up, they came back to see what had happened. There he was, still attending to the wounded dervish, his hand resting on his shoulder, but there was no movement from either. Approaching—this was the tale plainly written. The lines on the ground showed that “Tommy” had taken the wounded man in his arms, and half supporting and half dragging him, had placed him in a sitting posture in the shade, with his back against a rock; then, taking his water-bottle, he began to pour the life-giving drops down the throat of the dervish, for he still grasped the empty water-bottle. With returning life came, of course, returning strength—sufficient |287| strength for the dervish to slip off his knife, poise his hand for a second of time behind “Tommy’s” back, while he was occupied with his mission of mercy, and then, plunging it in with sufficient force to divide the spinal column, the dervish died happy as “Tommy” fell dead across his shoulder. That dervish was glorified in the Soudan, and thousands of others were awaiting the opportunity of dying as gloriously. Do you like the picture now? These are the sort of people you howl for the protection of. If you wish the wounded dervishes to be attended to against their will, then institute some special decoration for those who return alive from their mission of mercy, and when you have discovered that for each decoration given, a few hundred valuable lives have been sacrificed, perhaps you will agree to the issue of orders which I, knowing what I do know, should issue now.