It was the third day of the trial and David Whitaker had gone into the witness box immediately after the lunchtime recess. Counsel for the Defence had taken him through the salient points arising from my evidence, with the object of showing his relationship with his father in the best possible light. Now, late in the afternoon, he had arrived at the crucial point—Colonel Whitaker’s visit to Fort Jebel al-Akhbar. The packed Court was very still, every eye on the fair-haired boy standing, neat and tidy, in the box, his arm in a sling and the sun-burnt face looking almost black in contrast with his light tropical suit. “I would like the Court to have a clear picture of your situation on that particular morning.” Counsel glanced down at his papers, his hands resting lightly on the desk in front of him. “By then you had been on the Jebel al-Akhbar seven days. Is that right?” “Yes.” “And there were only two of you left. Salim, Ali, and Hamid were dead; Grant had gone. There was just yourself and bin Suleiman, and you were both wounded.”
