'Wherever possible, troops should regard poison gas as simply another battlefield hazard. Given thorough training and constant vigilance, there is no reason why casualties from gas attack cannot be kept to an absolute minimum. Vernacular use of phrases like 'Old Chokey' and 'The Devil's Breath' should be actively discouraged.'
War Office directive - November 1917

Page One.....

An Israeli agent comes to the house. here, in Ramallah. His name is Shlomo. He's young. He looks European. He's a handsome man. Always he wants to know about the moharebbin, the terrorists. Always, he asks about them. He wants me to tell him what I know. In return, my son will be released from the prison. One day I tell him some things. Not much. I don't know very much. But I give him some names and he goes away. I never see him again. And, yes, my son is released. Two weeks later my son is killed. By the moharebbin. They come for him in the evening, and they tie him up, and they drag him through the streets behind a car until he is dead. I go to the moharebbin. I demand to know the truth. Why have they killed my son? They say the Israelis have told them that my son has betrayed the Intifada, that my son has given them information. I say, which Israelis? Shlomo, they say. The blond one..."

The old man, Abu Yussuf, looked up, exhausted by his story, by the memories interred beneath the short, bitter sentences, by the image of his dead son, encrusted with blood, sprawled amongst the refuse in an alley behind the city's market. The dogs had been at him overnight. Part of his leg below the knee was missing.

The stranger across the table said nothing for a moment. He'd arrived in Ramallah the previous evening. He said he came from the Gulf but he spoke the harsh, accented Arabic of Damascus. He'd stayed barely half an hour, just long enough to sip sweet tea, and share the old man's grief, and make the offer.

"Well?" he said at last, "Will you take it? Will you do the job?" The old man looked at him. The job. The offer. The chance to make it right again. He'd thought of nothing else since the stranger had risen from his table, thanked him for the tea and held him briefly by the shoulders before walking out into the night. His wife said he'd be mad to take it, to get involved. Life was hard. You grew to expect such things. And anyway, as she'd pointed out, they had two other sons.

Now the old man studied his hands. They were still dirty from the garage and they shook slightly as he accepted another cigarette. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke spread inside him, calm again. He'd loved his son. He'd loved his smile and his quickness. When the Israelis let the place stay open, when they gave the kids a chance, he'd tried to study at Bir Zeit University. One day he might have made something of himself, got away from this place. Now, though, he was dead. Another grave in the dusty field beyond the hill. Another curling photograph on the bare concrete of the living room wall.

The old man looked up. Outside, in the narrow street, kids were selling lemons they'd stolen from the market. After a while he began to nod, his hand reaching out for the table, holding onto it for reassurance and support.

"OK," he said at last, "I'll do it."