Turkish aeroplanes occasionally tried to "lay eggs," a by no means easy
affair with a moving train as a target. Whatever the reason was, and I
never succeeded in discovering it, the trains invariably left Baghdad in
the wee small hours, and as the station was on the right bank across the
river from the main town, and the boat bridges were cut during the night,
we used generally, when returning to the front, to spend the first part of
the night sleeping on the station platform. Generals or exalted staff
officers could usually succeed in having a car assigned to them, and
hauled up from the yard in time for them to go straight to bed in it.
Frequently their trip was postponed, and an omniscient sergeant-major
would indicate the car to the judiciously friendly, who could then enjoy a
solid night's sleep. The run took anywhere from eight to twelve hours; but
when sitting among the grain-bags on an open car, or comfortably ensconced
in a chair in a "covered goods," with _Vingt Ans Après_, the time passed
pleasantly enough in spite of the withering heat.

While still a good number of miles away from Samarra we would catch sight
of the sun glinting on the golden dome of the mosque, built over the cleft
where the twelfth Imam, the Imam Mahdi, is supposed to have disappeared,
and from which he is one day to reappear to establish the true faith upon
earth. Many Arabs have appeared claiming to be the Mahdi, and caused
trouble in a greater or less degree according to the extent of their
following. The most troublous one in our day was the man who besieged
Kharthoum and captured General "Chinese" Gordon and his men. Twenty-five
years later, when I passed through the Sudan, there were scarcely any men
of middle age left, for they had been wiped out almost to a man under the
fearful rule of the Mahdi, a rule which might have served as prototype to
the Germans in Belgium.

[Illustration: Golden Dome of Samarra]