The Challenging Heights (31 page)

‘My dear chap–’ MacAllister seemed startled that Dicken didn’t panic ‘ – we can’t remove
that
lot by air.’

‘I think we can, sir,’ Dicken said. ‘If five troop-carrying machines come in at a time, we can remove them in bunches of a hundred. It would require several trips but it’ll take less than five days. They’ll work round the clock at Peshawar.’

They were unable to raise Miranshar again. Babington checked the set carefully and Dicken and the Transport officer headed for the garage where the batteries had been recharging, struggling under the weight of the old ones. The night was dark but by the light of a torch, they saw that an unexploded shell had passed through the wall and gone straight through the Minister’s Rolls Royce. It hadn’t damaged the recharger, however, and as they struggled back with the fresh batteries, Babington began the vigil once more, tuning and retuning, patiently tapping out his call sign and that of the Miranshar station.

Almost unnoticed Christmas had crept up on them. Somebody had erected a small tree in the billiard room and hung a few decorations made from coloured paper on the branches.

‘When the firing dies down,’ MacAllister said, ‘we’ll send for the children to come and see it.’

It had started to snow heavily. The sky had darkened rapidly until it looked like lead, and the snow, coming down in huge flakes, whirled through the valleys between the mountains and began to settle. It didn’t stop the fighting, however, and during the evening after a long bombardment the King’s troops stormed a hill to the south of the Legation. The hill dominated the forts held by the Bachi-i-Adab’s men who had also captured forts at a village called Pangam. By diverting the stream which supplied power for the hydro-electric plant in the city, they had plunged Ambul into darkness and the royal arsenal and the other small factories which depended on it had come to a standstill. The Legation was once again hit by shells. Most of the windows were now knocked out, the stables had been destroyed and the horses killed, and the tank in the water tower had been perforated so that they were now reduced to rationing the water. On the credit side, however, a messenger arrived from the Rezhan Foreign Office with the information that the airfield at Arpur would be ready to receive the British when they decided to leave.

It was not until late in the evening when the firing finally died away that they were able to send for the children to see the Christmas tree. Forsythe and his wife had arranged one or two candles round it and everybody had searched through their belongings to find a few small gifts.

With the firing quiet, MacAllister ordered champagne to be served to celebrate Christmas Eve and the Indian servants began to hand round the glasses in the dim glow of the candles. As everybody began to chatter, he drew Dicken aside.

‘Will your operator be able to get through?’ he asked. ‘Because we’ve had still more requests. They include twenty-two women and twenty children from the Turkish Legation, Australians, Swiss, Syrians and several more Rezhans who are in fear of their lives.’

‘We can stuff them in somewhere, sir.’

As they were talking the door opened and the small children were ushered in. Marie-Gabrielle was bending over them, her head down and Dicken was just going to bombard her with questions again when the door opened again and Babington appeared.

‘Sir,’ he yelled. ‘I got through! They got every word of the message. The first machines will arrive tomorrow morning!’

There was immediate confusion as everybody rushed off to pack. The children were whisked away and Marie-Gabrielle vanished, as abruptly and completely as she had the first time.

Dinner was more of a buffet supper with everybody helping themselves in between bouts of packing, but more champagne was opened and a few toasts were given in an atmosphere that was electric and not far from hysteria.

In the early hours of the morning, the women with children began to gather in the billiard room dressed in warm coats and sensible shoes. Some of them, determined to leave nothing behind, wore two coats and were wrapped in long scarves and shawls. Just before daylight a company of the King’s troops arrived outside the gates to escort them to the airfield, swarthy-faced, unshaven men muffled to the eyebrows and wearing Russian-type cloth caps with the flaps down over their ears. They had brought pack animals and as they were loaded with luggage, MacAllister appeared, splendid in a fur-collared overcoat and grey felt hat. He was carrying a gold-topped walking stick and was escorted by an Indian servant.

As they began to move, Dicken brought up the rear, a revolver concealed inside the pocket of his flying suit. Alongside him was Father O’Buhilly carrying a remarkably heavy-looking staff.

Slipping silently through the gates, they began to move quietly through the semi-darkness. At the battle lines, they saw dark faces watching them and more pointed hats among the trees. Desultory firing had started near the Legation and MacAllister hesitated.

‘This is where I must leave you,’ he told the women. ‘Because I must remain at my post. The Italian Legation’s just over there, safely away from the fighting, and the Italians have promised to accord you every facility for rest until the arrival of the aeroplanes.’

A second company of soldiers materialised among the misty trees and as the Minister kissed his wife and began to head back towards the Legation, the party set off again with Dicken and Father O’Buhilly carrying two of the smallest children. The villages were the same ones Dicken and Babington had passed through not so long before, but the bodies had been cleared from the pathways and a lot of the litter of battle had been removed.

The Italian Legation provided coffee and rolls, and the women, many of them laden with treasures and tired after the long walk, sank down in the armchairs. Arranging to send a messenger back, Dicken set off alone for the airfield.

After the snow, the skies had cleared and it had become intensely cold and he could see the King’s Russian pilots having difficulty starting their engines. Two hours later he heard the sound of the first aeroplane arriving. It was a Westland Wapiti, roaring over the field. All its guns had been removed and it swept overhead, the black spider of its Jupiter radial rumbling and poppling, to touch down bang on the stroke of nine o’clock.

As it swung, its engine ticking over, the propeller turning gently, Dicken climbed on to the wing.

‘Keep your engine going,’ he warned. ‘Or you might never get it started again.’

Ten minutes later three DH9s touched down and lined up alongside the Wapiti. Following them came the reassuring bulk of a Victoria.

The Italian Legation had placed a car at Dicken’s disposal and as the last machine rolled to a stop, he ordered it off with a message for the evacuees to be sent on. His pilots were pleased to see him and advanced on him, grinning.

‘Thought they’d got you, sir,’ one of them said. ‘We were jolly glad to hear young Babington on the air. Your wife’s arrived in India. Did you know?’

They were still talking when Hatto appeared and shooed them away. ‘Push off, you lot,’ he said. ‘We have things to discuss.’

‘Thanks, Willie,’ Dicken said. ‘Is she really here?’

‘Arrived in Karachi two days ago and preparing now to fly on to Calcutta. She’s resting there a couple of days before starting the last leg of the flight to Bangkok and down to Singapore where she stays a day before going on to Australia. It looks as though she’s going to make it.’

He gestured at the Victoria. The cabin had been stripped of everything except the canvas seats and there was a pile of blankets to protect the passengers against the intense cold of the journey over the mountains. Hatto had also brought short wave radios for easier communication, a propeller, wheels, radiator and sump for Dicken’s machine, blocks and tackles to hoist them into position, a corporal fitter and a rigger to do the work, a spare pilot to fly it back when they’d finished, and Flight Sergeant Handiside and a wireless operator to handle the radio traffic from the airfield.

‘No orders for me to return?’

Hatto laughed. ‘That was Parasol Percy. We were picking up your radio even though we couldn’t get through, and you were being mentioned too many times in MacAllister’s messages. Diplock didn’t like it. When this is over, old son, the AOC’s determined there are going to be a few gongs flying around, if only to show the army and the navy that the RAF has its uses. After all they’ve said, he’s determined to rub it in, and Diplock was afraid you’d get a gong and he wouldn’t. Orr was livid when he heard.’

As the cars began to arrive, the sandbag ballast was removed from the rear cockpits of the DH9s and people and luggage stuffed in its place. As the Victoria lumbered slowly round to face the wind, the airfield was a blinding sheet of snow. The tail came up and it lifted into the air, climbing slowly but steadily for the hills. The DH9s began to take off after it, followed finally by the Wapiti. As they vanished the snow began to fall again.

It was harder getting back into the Legation than it had been getting out. At the Italian Legation, where they were also now considering evacuation, a company of the King’s troops were waiting to escort them to the lines but, as they reached them, the rebels started firing heavily and they learned it was because Bachi-i-Adab had been wounded the previous evening and was losing control of his men.

The snow was falling heavily now but the blizzard conditions were a help because the firing dwindled and eventually stopped, and they made their way through the outposts until they reached the hole in the Legation wall.

MacAllister was there to greet them. ‘We saw the aircraft leave. Is all well?’

‘They should be landing in Peshawar about now, sir,’ Dicken said. ‘If they haven’t already landed.’

MacAllister indicated the weather. ‘Thank God we got the children away,’ he said. ‘This will end the evacuation.’

‘Don’t let’s shout “Abandon ship” till she starts sinking,’ Father O’Buhilly boomed. ‘I’m more than willin’ to try to get the Foreign Minister to lend us troops to clear the landing area.’

They passed on the news of the Italians’ decision to evacuate and the danger of the Bachi losing control of his troops.

‘There were a lot in the outskirts of the city,’ Father O’Buhilly pointed out. ‘And there were flames. If they set it on fire, it will not be possible to remain here. They’re still comin’ in and the Italians have identified Shinwaris, Bohmands, Khogianis and Waziris, and they’re wanting to take over the airfield.’

It was decided the evacuation should continue, despite the snow, and messages were sent off to the other Legations to make ready. The Italian Legation, the closest to the airfield, would be the last to close.

During the evening, a Tin Lizzie Ford carrying a white flag wobbled along the stony road past the gates, but as it did so the rebels opened fire on it and the flag fell. Several figures toppled out of the car, which clattered to a stop, leaking steam, and a horde of black figures burst from among the trees brandishing knives and swords. There were a few screams and then silence.

‘I think we’d better get away the rest of the women,’ MacAllister said.

‘Together with the Secretary’s governess,’ Dicken pointed out. ‘She wasn’t among the first party.’

MacAllister frowned. ‘A very determined young woman, my boy,’ he said. ‘She speaks excellent Italian, it seems, and she insists on staying behind in case she’s needed.’

Marie-Gabrielle was in the cellar with the remaining wives and children and she put Dicken straight at once. ‘I’ll go when you go,’ she said.

There was an intensity in her manner that troubled him. ‘Marie-Gabrielle,’ he said, looking at her young serious face, ‘I’m married. My wife’s Zoë Toshack, the airwoman. At this moment, she’s probably taking off from Calcutta to fly to Darwin.’

She became silent. The news was clearly unexpected. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. I didn’t know.’

‘In other circumstances I might have given your suggestion careful consideration.’

‘Now
you’re
joking.’ She stared at her fingers for a moment. ‘Do you love her?’ she asked quietly. ‘Your wife, I mean. Some men don’t love their wives.’

He paused before answering, and found he honestly didn’t know the answer. Between himself and Zoë there was undoubtedly something, but over the years it had become like a thread stretched taut which could be broken without much heartache to either of them.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘Not any more.’

‘Did you once?’ She seemed earnest and very concerned.

‘Yes. But she’s gone her own way and she’s crazy about flying. She fell in love with it the same day I did.’ He shrugged. ‘I think if I’d known in 1919 where your family were, I’d have
demanded
that Nicola married me. But you were the only one who wrote, and you didn’t send an address.’

She looked up at him, her face sombre. ‘Poor Dicken,’ she said. ‘Poor me. Why don’t you divorce her?’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘You don’t love her.’

He managed a smile. ‘Things aren’t always very clear-cut. I think she needs me a little – in the background.’ He could see that in her youth she was finding it difficult to understand. ‘I expect when she arrives in Australia she’ll be famous and she’ll turn up on the doorstep again. She’s very beautiful, Marie-Gabrielle.’

‘As attractive as me?’

She sounded very young and Dicken smiled. ‘About the same,’ he said.

‘
Would
you divorce her, if you found someone else?’

‘I never have.’

There was a long pause. ‘There’s me,’ she said quietly.

He looked at her, still unable to believe she was serious.

‘When I first saw you, with all your medal ribbons,’ she went on slowly, ‘I felt I’d never met anybody like you ever before in my life. I hadn’t, of course. I wasn’t old enough. But, somehow, the impression remained. Every boy I met seemed so inadequate by comparison.’

‘I’m not really all that exciting.’

‘You always were to me. After you disappeared I kept your photograph on my dressing table and when I went home to school it was in my Bible. I always thought I’d meet you again and, knowing that Nicola was married to her American, that it would be all right.’ She sighed. ‘Girls think like that when they’re young, you see.’ She managed a smile. ‘And here you are at last. You haven’t changed much. Just a bit older, a bit more self-assured. But that’s all.’ She looked at him with her frank young eyes. ‘I still think I was right.’