For Kingdom and Country (12 page)

‘What the hell are Bingham-Smith and his men playing at?’

‘It’s not them laughing, sir. It’s the snipers.’

‘Really?’ Ross said. Lock handed him back the binoculars.

The major dared to raise his head up a little out of the water to try and get a better view.

‘You bloody idiots!’ Bingham-Smith was shouting, ‘Look what you’ve done!’

Evidently one of his team had kicked a hole in the bottom of the gufa for it was now listing to one side as it rapidly took on water. The laughter from the snipers carried further on the breeze and Lock could now make out the odd word of Turkish.

‘Marsh Arabs?’ Ross asked.

Lock shook his head. ‘Turks.’

The occupants of the gufa made a clumsy attempt at abandoning their vessel, and then the whole thing tipped onto the side and sank within seconds. The men began to swim towards the eastern bank and haul themselves up out of the water.

Lock saw the Turk snipers, two men wearing distinctive kabalaks, the unique form of Ottoman military headgear that resembled the British topi, emerge from the undergrowth. Their laughter was clearly audible now and, with huge grins across their faces, they let off a couple of shots. But their bullets went harmlessly over Bingham-Smith and his men’s heads. The Turks clearly had no intention of hitting anyone.

Lock was up out of the water now. He glanced over towards the bellum where Elsworth was sheltering. The young sharpshooter was kneeling, his rifle aimed at the snipers, finger on the trigger, ready for the order to fire. He opened his left eye and looked to Lock for a signal. Lock gave a gentle shake of his head and watched as Elsworth raised his aim a fraction. He fired a shot that showered the two Turks with debris from the palm tree above them. Both men quickly darted back into the undergrowth. Their laughter was slow to fade away as they made their retreat.

Ross pulled himself to his feet and brushed his soaked uniform down.

‘See. A laughing stock. Even Johnny’s too amused to pick us off.’

‘They don’t have to, sir, with idiots like Bingham-Smith in command. Look.’

Ross followed Lock’s gaze back over to the eastern bank where the last of Bingham-Smith’s men was scrambling out of the water and up the muddy bank. Out in the water of the creek was the stricken gufa. But there was also a body, half-submerged nearby, floating on the surface.

Ross peered through his binoculars at the scene, then lowered them again.

‘Damn,’ he said. He cupped his hands together. ‘Bingham-Smith, what the hell happened?’

Bingham-Smith passed his hands through his sodden hair and shook the water away. He glanced out to the stricken gufa, then over to Ross.

‘Wasn’t shot, sir,’ he shouted back. ‘Drowned. Got his boot caught—’

‘Right-o. Bad luck, Captain. Retrieve the body and report back to camp,’ Ross called.

‘Bad luck?’ Lock said, raising a questioning eyebrow at Ross.

‘Don’t start, laddie.’

‘How long have we got to get this … shambles right, sir?’ Lock said.

Ross pulled his pipe from his pocket and frowned down into the bowl. He tipped it over and a small amount of muddy water dribbled out.

‘General Townshend wants to start at 5 a.m. on the 31st.’

Lock puffed out his cheeks. ‘Tomorrow?’ He shook his head. These men just weren’t ready.

Ross was in tune with Lock’s thoughts. ‘Oh, most of them are ready, I assure you. Townshend’s had his division in training in bellums since the beginning of the month. It’s only Godwinson’s Mendips, as you can see, that are …’

‘Useless?’ Lock said.

‘Raw,’ Ross smiled thinly. ‘Mostly fresh recruits, that’s the problem.’

They began to walk back up the bank towards Lock’s waiting platoon, their soaked uniforms already steaming as they dried off in the searing afternoon heat.

‘And just where is our esteemed commanding officer? I don’t see him here, offering moral support to his troops.’

‘Godwinson? Oh, he’s somewhere about,’ Ross said with an airy wave of his pipe, ‘keeping out of the heat. Probably on the
Espiegle
taking in the view.’

‘Huh. Well, at least Hayes-Sadler won’t be too obliging towards the fool,’ Lock said.

Ross shook his head. ‘Sadly Hayes-Sadler’s no longer captain of the
Espiegle
. He’s returned to his ship the HMS
Ocean
and taken her to the Dardanelles. Pity. But his replacement, Captain Nunn, is a good man. You’ll like him.’

‘Yes, but will he like me?’

Ross gave Lock a withering look. ‘But, as I was saying … The rest of the troops are ready. Some 126 men per battalion have been trained in using the bellum, and as many above that number as time has allowed, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘We’ve got sixteen boats per company, some thirty-two trained men being necessary for the task of handling the vessels, and a good few more in case of casualties and such.’

They reached the top of the bank, and Lock nodded towards the bellums parked there.

‘This armour is intriguing,’ he said, running his hand over the rough, thick plates attached to the front and sides of the boats.

‘Well, each battalion has a quarter of its boats armoured in this way.’

‘What about guns? Heavy artillery?’

‘We’ve mounted machine guns on specially constructed rafts, as are the guns of the 30th Mountain Battery.’

‘Quite the armada. Do you think it’ll work?’

Ross shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, laddie. I thought Townshend was a Napoleon enthusiast, not a student of the Duke of Medina Sidonia. But, well, I think you need to see the task before us. I’d value your opinion.’

‘Very well, sir, I’m listening.’

‘No, not here, not in front of this rabble,’ Ross said, peering into his tobacco pouch. ‘Balls, absolutely sodden. Got any pipe tobacco on you, Lock?’

‘No, sir. It’ll dry out soon enough if you lay it flat in the sun.’

Ross grunted. ‘I suppose so, but I have more in my quarters. Get your men settled at camp and then come along to the observation tower at the northern perimeter. I’ll join you shortly.’

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘Whatever makes you say that?’

‘Come on, sir, I’m not stupid.’

Ross frowned back at Lock for a moment. He leant a little closer and lowered his voice. ‘There’s news about the investigation.’

‘Wassmuss?’

Ross leant away and stared back at Lock. There was a touch of surprise in his face, but it quickly vanished. ‘At the observation tower. Dismissed, Captain.’

Lock sighed. Bloody secretive bugger, he thought. ‘Very well, sir. Come on, lads,’ he said, turning to Underhill and the others, ‘let’s go find our bivouac.’

Lock gave the major a casual salute, then taking his haversack back from Singh, turned on his heels and trudged back northwards with his men in tow.

As they made their way back past the dockyards and into the town, joining a road that was busy with ASC lorries trundling by in choking clouds of dust, Lock’s mind was whirring. What news did the major have?

‘Christ and bugger,’ he muttered. Where was that German bastard? Was he behind the shootings or not? He was beginning to doubt it himself. No, the German had a larger plan. He wanted to see Lock humiliated. Like he himself felt Lock had done to him. But then why …?

Lock pulled up and after a moment Singh and Elsworth halted and turned back to wait for him, puzzled. The dog turned and sat down, wagging its tail in the dust. The rest of the platoon carried on.

‘What is it, sir?’ Elsworth asked.

‘Hush,’ Singh said, holding his large, rough palm up to silence the young sharpshooter. His brown eyes were fixed to Lock’s profile. Lock was scowling, staring down at the ground.

After what seemed like a long minute, the dog gave a slight whimper and Lock looked up, noticed his two companions were waiting at his side.

‘He’s a crafty bastard, isn’t he?’

‘Sahib?’

‘Very crafty. All right. I need to head for the observation tower to take a look at our situation.’

Lock stepped out in front of an approaching lorry and held up his hand. The 40hp Wolseley 6-tonner rattled and squealed to a halt. It loomed above Lock, its engine grumbling like an angry beast, and the metal of its bodywork ticking under the hot sun. Lock rummaged in his haversack and pulled out a leather lens case. He handed the pack to Elsworth, and then clambered up into the open cab. He nodded affably to the sweating ASC corporal sat at the wheel, then turned and leant down to say one last thing to Singh and Elsworth.

‘You two catch up with the others and get Jawad to rustle up some food. I’ll be along as soon as I can. Take the dog.’ The pooch barked at the mention of its name. ‘Stay, boy,’ Lock said, then sat back and waved for the driver to carry on. With a crunch of gears the lorry jerked forward. Lock could hear the dog yapping and glancing over his shoulder, he could see the mutt chasing after the lorry, with Elsworth trying to catch him. The lorry picked up speed, passed by Underhill, Pritchard and the others, and soon there was nothing for Lock to see behind him but a cloud of dust.

Just north of Qurna, situated in a cluster of date palms, an observation tower had been constructed that offered a magnificent view of the Turk positions astride the Tigris. The tower was a rickety thing constructed of wooden scaffolding and reminded Lock of a lighthouse on sands, not unlike the ones he’d seen at Burnham-on-Sea in Somerset. It was about a hundred feet high and looked out across the top of the trees it had been built amongst for protection. There were three officers already on the observation platform when Lock made the climb up the narrow wooden ladder to the summit. He recognised one as Lieutenant ‘Hazza’ Harrington-Brown, the obnoxious drunken friend of Bingham-Smith that he’d last seen at the brothel in Basra. Hazza caught his eye, then abruptly turned back to his whispered conversation with his fellow officers.

Lock caught snatches of their talk, the odd hostile word carried on the light breeze and whirled around him like taunting spirits. It seemed the rumours of his being accused of murdering that Turkish commander had spread like wildfire and, as was the way with men, they were quick to judge and quick to believe the false accusation. He wasn’t liked by the officer class anyway, Lock was well aware of that, and this just fed the fires of hatred. He heard the words ‘court martial’ and glanced across at the officers. All three were looking over in his
direction now, all with an expression of disapproving disgust clearly written upon their faces. Lock mouthed a curse back at them, then turned his attention back to the vista laid out before him.

‘Bugger you, Wassmuss. It’s not going to work,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’m going to find you and I’m going to drag you back and make you tell the truth.’

But there was still a nagging doubt pricking at his mind. Lock squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to clear his thoughts. His head wound was throbbing. ‘Snap out of it, Kingdom!’ he said.

Lock opened up the lens case and pulled out a used pair of Carl Zeiss DF model 8 x 26 binoculars that he had picked up the previous day in the bazaar at Basra. He lifted the glasses to his eyes, adjusted the focus, and began to study his environment closer.

From such an elevated position it was easy to see just how the floods had overwhelmed the banks of the river. One of the officers on the other side of the platform said that the view brought to mind the Lake District in England, another of Lake Superior in America. Lock disagreed. To him the floodwaters gave the landscape the air of Erçek and Van, two tranquil lakes he knew well from his time in Turkey. But this vista was anything but tranquil. Looking north over the canopy of trees, Lock’s eye followed the river Tigris as it snaked, bloated and milky brown, to the horizon and beyond. To where the enemy lay in wait.

To his immediate left, on the west bank, was a raised portion of land dotted with palms. This was where some of the heavy artillery under Lieutenant Colonel Grier’s command, boasting four 5-inch howitzers, two 4-inch guns and two 5-inch guns, were placed. Beyond this, the sand and trees thinned out until they met and were engulfed by a vast area of unfordable swamps and marshes. Even from where he was standing, Lock could taste its sickly-sweet stench as it caught the back of his throat.

Dotted about this great, putrid sea were a number of small yellow
sand islands, and these were the redoubts occupied by the Turks, named already by the British commanders as Shrapnel Hill, Gun Hill, Norfolk Hill and One Tower Hill. Beyond these formidable obstacles was the settlement of Alloa, the two brick kilns of Jala and the town of Bahran running along the horizon. From where Lock was standing, they looked like a half-moon of sandhills rising out of the water with some houses denoting a village and what looked to be gun embrasures in a redoubt or two.

Even from this distance, it was easy to make out other redoubts there and see the enemy moving about, such was the clarity of light. Lock pulled the binoculars away for a moment to give his eyes a rest. His stomach growled and his mind turned to food. He was hungry and worse, he had a raging thirst on. Hopefully Jawad Saleem had Bombegy’s skill at brewing coffee so that it didn’t just taste of hot mud.

Lock glanced over his shoulder towards the ladder. Still no sign of Major Ross. He turned his attention back to the vista.

There was a trail of smoke on the horizon rising lazily into the heavy atmosphere. Lock put the binoculars back to his face, and after adjusting the focus, he studied the two Turkish ships anchored across the river, the steamer
Marmaris
and the gunboat
Mosul
. They would have to be removed if progress was to be swift. He wondered whether the
Marmaris
was the command ship, the rendezvous for Wassmuss’s spies. It was a long way away.

Lock could see a number of other masts beyond the two enemy vessels, but they looked to be little more than dhows. Probably anchored at Maziblah where the Turks were known to have heavy gun emplacements, he thought. Further east on the right bank of the river, Lock could see Rotah camp and two others, and then closest to the British lines was the final speck of land named One Tree Hill, appropriate as it was little more than an island with a hill and one solitary gnarled tree, and not a
palm tree at that. Running from that Turk position right to the foot of where Lock was standing was more flooded plain. A simple boat bridge connected the two banks.

It looked to be an impossible task, to push the Turks out. There was no way to march towards the enemy and there was no way to outflank them either. It appeared to be a stalemate and Lock wondered just what General Townshend had in mind. He knew the planned attack involved bellums, but he couldn’t quite fathom the method beyond the madness.

A meeting had been called for six o’clock that evening involving all the company commanders, including Lock, and he wondered if that was to be his punishment. He lowered the binoculars and checked his watch. Five-thirty. He gave a wry half-smile to himself, what he meant by punishment was ‘reward’, for the success at Barjisiyah Woods: promotion in rank and in standing within the Mendip Light Infantry. Was he now to have more than just a platoon to look out for? A whole company amounting to some seventy-five men under his wing? As Singh had predicted? He knew Ross would push for this, perhaps Townshend as well. But he couldn’t imagine for a moment that his immediate commander, Lieutenant Colonel Godwinson, would agree to such a travesty without substantial pressure, perhaps even a little blackmail or double-dealing, from behind the scenes. After all, Godwinson was all but disgraced for his vast incompetence after sending his half of an entire regiment to their almost complete doom at Shaiba, and against direct orders, too.

If the 1st Battalion of the Mendip Light Infantry hadn’t been back in England, and earmarked for France, the colonel probably would’ve sacrificed them as well. With the death of so many men at Shaiba, the Mendips had practically been rebuilt, for the second time in less than six months, too, the colonel having lost them all in the battle for Qurna back in November the previous year. But Godwinson had somehow not only managed to secure his regiment’s future, recruiting new men from
India, Egypt and even England, but he had also secured a full colonelship. Friends in very high places, Lock snorted with a shake of his head.

The structure of the Mendips had changed, too, with a number of other promotions. Major Janion, the former commander of C-Company, was now Lieutenant Colonel of the entire 2nd Battalion. B-Company was under the wing of a Major Reginald Isles-Buck and a Captain Sharp, both men Lock had never met or heard of before but whom he took to be, naturally, cut from the same arrogant cloth as the rest of the officer class. A-Company was under the command of Janion’s former second, Captain Carver, newly promoted to major. And as for C-Company itself … Well, Lock still hadn’t had confirmation, but Ross had told him it was his. However, Lock had learnt very quickly that until he was told so from the horse’s mouth, the horse in this case being Godwinson, he didn’t believe anything. Not that it would really matter, as Lock was still his own boss with his own platoon to use for those special White Tab assignments. However, if he was to be given command of an entire company then perhaps it was a turning point in the attitude of his fellow officers towards him.

Lock felt a brief flicker of happiness wash over him. Then he shook his head. ‘Don’t be a naïve fool, Kingdom.’

He lifted the binoculars back up again and scanned the vista from left to right, slower this time. How in the hell were they going to push past this lot? he thought. The 2nd Mendip Light Infantry overall was a small force, albeit now at full strength again and ready to be thrown back into action. But … Lock scoffed. Thrown to the wolves, more like. Still, he was glad of the problem, at least it would take his mind off Amy.

‘Bugger,’ he said under his breath. There she was again. No matter what, she always rose to the surface when least expected.

Was she really going to go through with the pretence and let Bingham-Smith think the child was his? Lock knew it wouldn’t be the first time
in history that a woman had hidden a past liaison behind a marriage and given the impression that the child was her husband’s. It would be presumed, no doubt, that it was a product of their lustful and passionate consummation on their wedding night. Lock swore foully. Why the hell was he torturing himself like this? But what if the child … had his eyes, had heterochromia? There could be no denying who the real father was then. And there would be no way of hiding the fact. Ever. From anyone. Yes, his heterochromia was from a childhood ‘accident’, but the defect could be hereditary, couldn’t it? He sighed, a wave of sadness flowing over him. The girl was heading for a world of trouble. He’d have to try to talk to her again. Calmly this time, but he knew he had to make her see sense.

‘What do you think?’

‘That she’s a bloody fool.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Lock glanced to his right. Ross had climbed up to the observation tower platform and was now at his side. The major was a little out of breath, but that didn’t stop him from beginning his usual routine of filling his pipe.

‘The bloke who ordered this attack,’ Lock said, lying.

‘Come, laddie, it’s a challenge, I grant you, but not an impossible one,’ Ross said.

‘A frontal attack? With no flank support? Suicide.’

Ross nodded. ‘Maybe. But you’ll get us through.’

‘Me?’

‘Of course,’ Ross beamed, lighting his pipe and gazing out at the enemy positions.

‘And what exactly is the objective here, if I may ask. Sir.’

Ross glanced over at the three officers to their right, then took a step closer to Lock and lowered his voice.

‘Sir John has told Townshend to drive the enemy from his present
positions between the Pear Drop Bend, that’s north of Bahran, and Qurna and capture his guns.’

‘Yes? Is that all?’

‘But also,’ Ross continued, ‘to push him upriver and occupy Amara, without stopping.’

Lock fell into silence, contemplating the task ahead. The major was right, of course, it wasn’t impossible, but it could be a bloodbath, depending on the strength and attitude of the Turks.

‘What exactly are we up against?’

Ross, using his pipe as an indicator, turned to face the scene stretching out below them. ‘Right, well, the main line of Turkish resistance is Bahran, what, six miles away?

Lock grunted. He’d guessed the distance at near enough the same.

‘The Rotah and Maziblah positions are just about visible, but in front of them we have a curtain of redoubts. Norfolk Hill is about 4,000 yards from us, beyond which is One Tower Hill and Two Gun Hill. Nearest to us, opposite Norfolk Hill, rising on that spit of sand, which is actually the east bank of the Tigris, is One Tree Hill. All are supported by the artillery we know to be a further 5,000 yards away at Bahran. Add to this that that position is being supported by the artillery fire from Rotah and Maziblah.’

Lock nodded sagely. This knowledge still didn’t help. It still seemed like a thankless task and one that was going to be getting in the way. He was just itching to set off and pick up Wassmuss’s trail again.

‘I know who Feyzi is,’ he said.

But the major wasn’t finished with his rundown of the Turk positions yet.

‘Then, of course, there’s Sakricha, that’s a further 4,500 yards from Maziblah. However, before our main force can even begin to attack, there’s the matter of the mines. They’re strewn across the Tigris channel
north of the boom at Fort Snipe down there,’ Ross indicated at the raised position below them, to the left, where the heavy artillery was based. ‘Our most northerly point of the Qurna defences.’

‘Did you hear what I said, sir?’

Ross fixed him with his hazel eyes. ‘According to the intelligence I’ve gathered,’ he continued unperturbed, ‘the Turkish force comprises a small division of some six battalions, ten guns and around six hundred Mujahidin. Then there’s the other name written down in Grössburger’s notebook,
Marmaris
. Is it the ship out there?’ he said with a jerk of his chin over to the smoke trails on the horizon. ‘Maybe. Is it their command ship? Possibly. Then there’s the river gunboat
Mosul
, not to mention our dear friends, the Marsh Arabs. There’s over a thousand of the blighters installed in the marshes and thick reeds on the west flank of Norfolk Hill and Gun Hill.’

Lock sighed and moved his binoculars to that part of the landscape. The major wasn’t going to engage in any other conversation for the time being until he had gone through what lay before them.

‘Yes, I can see movement down there, all right,’ Lock said. ‘If our military advances against the Turk positions, they’ll counter-attack or delay any flanking movement we make from the west.’ He paused, thinking, adjusting the focus. ‘How many guns did you say the Turks have?’

‘Two a piece on Gun Hill and on One Tower Hill, as well as at Rotah. Plus four at Bahran.’

‘Jesus, sir. That’s a bloody strong position they’ve got.’

‘Aye, it is, and all this water doesn’t help, either,’ Ross said. ‘The floods are a good two feet above the level of our camp. I know. I’ve been out there. Still, the Turks are no better off. In fact, they are spread out and in a worse state really, cut off from one another on those four sand islands, particularly the solitary outpost of One Tree Hill on the east bank. That’s
what we will take first. Although it’s technically behind enemy lines. Norfolk Hill is closer to our positions, on the west bank. However, if we can take the east bank we will have at least some flanking capability.’