As he was an officer of
the old regime, I entered boldly, squatted beside him and told him my
troubles. The answer came with an enormous shrug of the shoulders.
"You are serving the Sultan. Hardship should be sweet!"
"I should be more fit to serve him if I got more sleep and rest."
He waved a fat hand about the tent.
"Look at me! Here I am, an officer of rank and"--shooting a knowing
look at me--"I have not even a nice blanket."
"A crime! A crime!" I interrupted. "To think of it, when I, a humble
soldier, have dozens of them at home! I should be honored if you would
allow me--" My voice trailed off suggestively.
"How could you get one?" he asked.
"Oh, I have friends here in Saffed but I _must_ be able to sleep in a
nice place."
"Of course; certainly. What would you suggest?"
"That hotel kept by the Jewish widow might do," I replied.
More amenities were exchanged, the upshot of which was that my four
friends and I were given permission to sleep at the inn--a humble place,
but infinitely better than the mosque. It was all perfectly simple.
[ILLUSTRATION: SOLDIERS' TENTS IN SAMARIA]
CHAPTER III
THE GERMAN PROPAGANDA
So passed the days of our training, swiftly, monotonously, until the
fateful December morning when the news came like a thunderbolt that
Turkey was about to join hands with Germany.
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