When the Arab Revolt gets news from the Western Front, someone will always make it into a story to tell by the fire at night. The accounts of the battles in France are given with dramatic leaps and the clash of swords, the deeds of such as ibn Suleiman and al-Akhùd shadow-plays on the sand.
Lawrence does not speak to them of the trenches. Let them have their heroes - Private Evan Solomon and Lieutenant Lockwood, if they want - himself, even. Sometimes he cannot sleep for fear of waking up in the mud, six feet under and six feet from the Germans.
Ali finds him, one night, wandering around outside the camp. "Go to sleep, Aurens," he tells him. Lawrence obeys him without a word, turning to walk back. Ali goes beside him. "The Howeitat are deserting again. Jackals, skulking off with their piece of carcass," he says contemptuously, gesturing toward the fringe of the camp, where shadows pack up and ride away; he was awoken by the ticking of a Swiss grandfather clock, taken from a Turkish train.
"They'll come back."
A sharp sigh. "You think they will come for you, that they will follow you. They want money, Aurens." He is almost angry now; his voice is rough around the edges.
"Wouldn't you follow me, Ali?" Lawrence fairly skips; it does not look so strange, with the robe and sandals.
"I would." There is a challenge in it. "'Over the top' and into 'no man's land'" - and it drops into the same bitter tone he used when accusing Lawrence of being ready to put off his "funny clothes" in Cairo and laugh at the Arabs' expense. Ali does know about the war in Europe, the trenches, gas, and shells. He could not believe anymore in the sort of heroes the others did, and Lawrence told him everything, the whole dirty business. (This is part of the reason he will go into politics - politicians have no ideals, no illusions of perfection or glory.)
The idea of Ali in uniform is impossible, absurd. For one thing, he cannot imagine Ali not wearing black. There is a pause. "Thank you," says Lawrence, sincerely.
