Carry On! A Story of the Fight for BagdadStrang, Herbert
General
Carry On! A Story of the Fight for Bagdad
Strang, Herbert
World War, 1914-1918 -- Campaigns -- Iraq -- Juvenile fiction
Descending to the foot of the _tell_, he made his way to a wady that
bordered it on one side. A sluggish current of muddy water flowed
through the channel, whose banks were thickly overgrown with reeds. A
number of these he cut with his pocket-knife, binding the stalks with
tendrils of a trailing plant. With this faggot of reeds in one hand
and the bundle he had taken from the aeroplane in the other, he
returned to the ruins on the tell. There he stuck the former in the
grinning mouth of one of the grotesque animals at the porch; then he
passed inside, and once more descended into the underground room, this
time, however, letting the stone slab drop into its place above.
A few seconds later the bundle of reeds hanging out of the monster's
mouth disappeared. The animal, so far from being a solid block, as it
appeared, was hollow, and Burnet had climbed into it by means of
notches in the wall at one corner of the cellar. He withdrew the
reeds: next moment they reappeared at a similar orifice on the other
side of the figure, which, like Janus, was double-faced, and with this
roughly extemporised broom he swept a quantity of sand over the slab,
until it was hidden sufficiently to pass unnoticed except by a careful
observer acquainted with its position. This done, he drew the broom
back and took it down with him to the dark and airless chamber below.
If any watching Arab had seen the young British officer disappear into
the earth, he would have been somewhat startled, some twenty minutes
later, when the slab was lifted again and an Arab lad cautiously
emerged. His head was swathed in a strip of parti-coloured cloth held
in position by two thick rings of camel's hair; a dirty, shapeless,
yellowish robe descended to his knees; his legs, remarkably brown, were
bare; his feet were encased in leather-thonged sandals. He carried a
small bundle; across his shoulder was slung a British regulation
water-bottle--the only article by which he could have been
distinguished from the boatmen who might be seen any day on the Tigris.
He lowered the slab, swept sand over it, obliterated the footprints
around, and having thrust his reed-broom into the mouth of the stone
animal, picked his way through the ruins to the north-west corner of
the _tell_, where an uninterrupted view of the country could be
obtained.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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