For Kingdom and Country

‘Kingdom Lock, that bastard,’ Wilhelm Wassmuss spat, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe this …
Scheißdreck
.’

The German agent was in a dark mood as he trotted along the length of the stinking, sweat-sour and dusty retreating column of Turkish troops and Arab irregulars. Once again he was dressed in the uniform of an Ottoman officer, but now as a cavalry
binbaşi
, a major. The Barjisiyah Woods were behind them and ahead, towards the setting sun, lay the small settlement of Nakheilah nestled on the banks of the fast-flowing and bloated Euphrates River. The soldiers paid little heed to the dishevelled mounted officer as he rode by, most just avoiding contact with the piercing blue eyes that glared down at them. These men were lost in their own thoughts, all glad to be leaving the carnage of the trees and the heat of the British guns behind.

It had been a hasty, panicked retreat. During the late afternoon the Infidel British had suddenly charged forward, smashing into and overrunning the first line. The Turks had waited to see if the British would push on into the woods after seizing their trenches but, to their surprise, the Infidels had halted their advance. Many of the soldiers had worried that their officers would order a return to the woods and a reoccupation of the trenches but, Allah be praised,
Kaymakam
Süleyman Askerî Bey had ordered their complete withdrawal to Nasiriyeh on the far side of Hammar Lake.

The retreat was sounded quickly. Hundreds of white flags were raised by those too tired or too far behind, whilst the main body of troops turned and fled the trees, heading north-west for the river. There was confusion wherever one looked, with officers and soldiers moving as fast as they could without stopping. But it was worse for those stragglers at the rear, the exhausted and the wounded. They were suddenly set upon, not by the British, but from their own allies, the Marsh Arabs. They turned on their Turkish comrades like a pack of wolves, slaughtering any stragglers and stripping them bare, leaving their mutilated corpses for the vultures and flies.

At first the blood-curdling screams of the stragglers being picked off had made the panic all the more chaotic, but the NCOs and some of the more level-headed officers had formed the men into an orderly retreat, keeping them together and therefore less vulnerable to random attacks. The odd shout of anger and an occasional rifle shot could be heard at sporadic intervals until eventually a rhythmic, almost hypnotic state fell over the march. There would be hot food and warm fires waiting for them in the safety of the garrison, and it was those thoughts that kept them moving at a steady pace. Eventually the mud gave way to dry, rocky desert. But not a man shuffled or grumbled on that march back.

Wassmuss whipped his sweat-soaked horse with a crude crop made of reeds, urging it on. He was furious and desperate to catch up with Süleyman Askerî’s litter at the head of the column. As he rode on, his mind was racing with questions. He could not understand why the troops were retreating. The Ottoman Forces outnumbered the British by at least five to one. Yet, why had Süleyman Askerî not used them to smash through to the fort at Shaiba and from there overwhelm Basra as had been planned? But after his run-in with Lock, he himself had been lucky to escape from the city, had been lucky to escape with his life.

‘
Scheiße
,’ Wassmuss spat again.

With his face cut and bleeding, he’d been unable to escape north up
the Tigris to the Turkish lines at Amara and so had made his way to the south of the city. There he had sneaked past the British soldiers who were spread out along the shore, and made his way through the marsh towards Zubair and the fort of old Basra.

Along the way, he came across a Turkish patrol. But they were all dead, stripped naked, mutilated, and left to bloat and rot in the sun. A shifting miasma of flies engulfed most of the bodies, making them barely recognisable as human beings. And when Wassmuss approached, the insects swarmed around him, before settling back to do what they did in the great scheme of nature.

Wassmuss scoured the area, searching for something he could use. After ten minutes of fruitless exploring, he came across a missed corpse, that of an Ottoman cavalry officer, almost invisible and half-submerged in a reed-choked lagoon. He dragged the body on to dry land and was pleased to see that not only was the man not too tall, but that he was fully clothed. Wassmuss stripped the carcass and dressed in its muddy and drenched uniform. The tunic, with its silvery-grey collars, was a little loose across the shoulders, but the breeches, with their distinctive red stripe down the outside of each leg, could have been made for him. The larger than normal kabalak helmet with its upturned brim was a snug fit.

There were no horses, but he did find a saddlebag that contained a hunk of stale black bread and some dates, along with a battered brass telescope, a crude map of the surrounding area and some personal letters, which, when the need arose, he later used to wipe himself.

Wasting no time, Wassmuss moved on towards the old fort, now little more than a scattering of broken rocks and the remnants of walls, but was bitterly disappointed to find nothing but a group of Marsh Arabs camped there. He avoided contact with those natives, knowing that he would be set upon and killed as soon as they laid eyes upon him. So again he lay low, sheltering from the heat of the day and enduring the incessant pestering of
flies, all the while listening to the guns shelling Shaiba with hope in his heart.

At nightfall he crept to the edge of the Arab camp and, with not so much as a second’s hesitation, slit the throat of the young boy watching over the horses, and made off with the best mount, a tan mare with a frisky temper. The boy also had in his possession a gun tucked into his belt, a Mauser M.1910/14 pistol, with a full clip.

Wassmuss kept riding south and eventually hooked round to the west, where he planned to meet up with Askerî’s army that was facing Shaiba. But instead, he was horrified to see a large British force marching on Barjisiyah Woods. Settling upon a mound within a copse of trees, he observed the battle through the battered telescope he’d found and watched as both sides pounded each other to the point of exhaustion. He saw with horror the British lightning strike on the Ottoman trenches, and cursed as the Turks fled into the woods.

The German stayed hidden on that mound in the copse, and cried bitter tears of anger when Askerî’s troops abandoned their own positions and began to flee back towards Hammar Lake. But his disgust was multiplied when the British gave up their advantage and returned to the safety of their fort.

Wassmuss pushed his horse on towards the distant rooftops of the garrison town of Nasiriyeh. The beast’s eyes rolled white as its heart pumped harder and harder, legs pounding past the line of troops. There was no sign of Askerî’s litter and so Wassmuss cantered on, until the rocky desert gave way to scrub grass and then, passing through clusters of date palms, he finally hit a more established road that ran parallel to the nearby Euphrates River. At the end of a small row of mud-brick hovels was a checkpoint, its wooden barrier pole raised. Wassmuss passed by the sentry hut and rode on into the town following the string of telegraph poles and lamps that lined the street.

Wassmuss cantered by busy cafes, shopfronts and stalls, until he came
to a junction. He turned left down a narrow side street, his horse’s hooves echoing back from the surrounding buildings, and then right to emerge out onto a tree-lined square. The white-brick, flat-roofed buildings on two sides were of two storeys, with the ground floor being a series of open archways and the floor above one long, open terrace. The larger building over to the left was a grander affair of three storeys. Jutting out from the top of the latticed balcony on the second floor was a flagpole from which, flapping limply in the breeze, hung the red and white crescent moon and star of the Ottoman Empire. This marked out the building as Command Headquarters. The entrance was at the top of some stone steps. An ancient fig tree stood to one side, its canopy of leaves rustling in the warm breeze.

Wassmuss whipped his horse forward, crossing the square, until he reached the stone steps. He jumped from the saddle, threw the reins at the
Mehmetçik
on guard duty outside and bounded up the steps. Throwing open the large studded wooden doors, Wassmuss marched along the dark, cool inner corridor, his footsteps click-clicking a rhythmic, determined hatred. He had no idea where he was heading, but his anger drove him onwards. He must have made a terrifying sight to the young military clerks he passed, a thickset, stocky, short ball of fury, looking as ragged and enraged as he did, with a five-day beard, a face lacerated by tiny cuts, and his uniform crumpled and caked in mud and dust.

‘Where is the lieutenant colonel? Where is
Kaymakam
Süleyman Askerî?’ he growled at an alarmed-looking sergeant.

‘The end of the corridor … turn right,
effendim
,’ the
çavuş
offered, as Wassmuss stormed by without breaking stride.

Around the corner, the dapper naval lieutenant acting as Askerî’s adjutant was not so intimidated, though. He stood, arms folded across the chest of his dark-blue uniform, blocking the way.

‘
Effendim
, you cannot enter … Süleyman Askerî Bey is not at home to anyone today,’ the
yüzbaşi
protested strongly.

But Wassmuss was in no mood for protocol. He roughly shoved the adjutant aside and forced himself into Askerî’s office.

The room beyond the threshold looked more like a study belonging to some English stately home than the office of the leader of the Mesopotamian Area Command, such was the splendour of its heavy, dark decor and fine, plush furnishings. Süleyman Askerî was standing at the open French window at the far end, his back to the room, staring out onto the lengthening shadows in the gardens beyond. Beside him was a sparse desk, with nothing more than a single candlestick telephone and a cut-glass ashtray on the polished surface. There was a strong smell of jasmine wafting in from outside and the sound of the gentle chatter of songbirds bidding the day adieu. The distant clatter from the traffic on the river beyond was barely audible.

‘
Effendim
, effendim
, I protest!’ the adjutant spluttered, chasing Wassmuss into the room.

Askerî slowly turned his head. His slim, studious face looked ashen and defeated. Even his large, carefully cultivated moustache drooped like a house plant deprived of water, and the usual sparkle of self-gratification was absent from the hazel eyes that peered back at Wassmuss through thin circular lenses.

‘It is all right,
Yüzbaşi
,’ Askerî said, his voice deflated. ‘Fetch coffee, if you please. Welcome
Herr Doktor
? Or is it
Binbaşi
?’ He frowned at Wassmuss’s uniform. ‘In the cavalry now? Well, no matter, it is good to see that you have survived.’

The adjutant glanced uneasily at Wassmuss, who remained motionless, standing in the middle of the room, then nodded and closed the door after him.

‘Come, sit!’ Askerî said affably, as he indicated to the chair opposite his desk.

But Wassmuss did not move. He just continued to glare back at
Askerî. ‘Did you order
Miralay
Daghistani to hold at Ahwaz?’ he said.

The question clearly took Askerî by surprise. He blinked behind his glasses, and hesitated. And it was that hesitation that told Wassmuss all he needed to know. He knew then that Askerî had betrayed him. He knew then that Askerî was a coward.

In one swift movement he drew the Mauser pistol he had taken from the Marsh Arab boy, and pointed it at Askerî’s head. Süleyman Askerî’s eyes widened in horror and, as his hand fluttered up instinctively to protect his face, Wassmuss pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed round the room and out into the garden. The birds exploded from the trees, startled into flight.

Wassmuss quickly kicked over the chair Askerî had offered him a moment earlier, then turned the pistol and shot himself in the arm. He cried out in pain, fired two more shots towards the French window, dropped the gun, and collapsed heavily upon Askerî’s desk.

‘Assassin!’ he screamed, just as the adjutant, with a pistol in his hand and two sentries close behind, burst into the room. There was a cloud of gunsmoke hanging in the air above the desk.

‘Assassin!’ Wassmuss gasped again, feebly indicating towards the French window. He then feigned blacking out and crumpled to the floor. It was a touch theatrical, but he hoped the confusion would mask his ruse.

‘Quick, after him!’ the adjutant shouted. ‘Search the grounds!’ The two sentries ran towards the open French window and burst out into the garden.

Wassmuss watched through hooded eyelids as the adjutant looked about the room. He spotted the bullet holes by the edge of the French window. Blood and matter were splattered up the wall and across the austere portrait of Enver Pasha that was hanging behind Askerî’s desk. The adjutant stepped over Wassmuss’s seemingly unconscious body and moved over to the desk. Wassmuss knew what he would see
there. Süleyman Askerî was slumped like a broken doll behind it. The
kaymakam
’s left eye was half-open, and a look of shocked surprise was frozen upon his face. His right eye was no longer there. The lens of his glasses was pierced and splintered, the wound behind it small and black.

Wassmuss groaned as if coming to. The adjutant pulled the chair upright and helped Wassmuss into it. The German’s arm was bleeding quite badly.

‘What happened,
effendim
?’ the adjutant asked. There was suspicion in his voice.

Wassmuss winced as he cradled his injured arm.

‘An assassin … from the garden,’ he gasped. ‘I tried to warn Süleyman Askerî Bey … that is why I was in such a hurry … to get to his office … But I was too late.’ He shook his head dejectedly and looked up at the adjutant. ‘I fired a couple of shots … but he got me …’

The adjutant frowned. ‘How did you know of this?’ he asked.