Winds of Eden (35 page)

‘Briefly, sir.'

‘Now's your chance to renew the acquaintance.'

Chapter Thirty-six

Lansing Memorial Hospital, Basra, Wednesday 16th February 1916

Georgiana stepped around the burial party who were headed towards the room Dr Picard had designated temporary mortuary. Fourteen Turkish soldiers had been laid out on the floor in the four hours since her arrival. Testimony to their deplorable condition on arrival.

Already she felt a murderous rage towards the inept British doctors who'd allowed the transfer of dying, wounded, vulnerable POWs in conditions of filth and degradation an animal shouldn't be subjected to.

Theo left the theatre and joined her on the ward. He pulled off his blood-stained gown and took a clean one a volunteer nursing assistant handed him. ‘How are you coping, Dr Downe? You haven't stopped since you walked through the door.'

‘My disgust is sustaining me. Just looked at this man.' She uncovered the arm of the patient she'd been tending. It was black with putrefaction, and covered with large blisters. This man's wound hasn't been dressed in the ten days it took him to reach here.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because his sergeant,' she pointed to the man lying on the makeshift bed on the floor next to him, ‘speaks French, and I understand enough to make out what he's saying. How could British doctors allow Turkish POWs to be treated like this? If this man's wound had been properly cleaned after it was inflicted it would have healed. Instead his arm will have to be amputated …'

Theo interrupted her. ‘Time to take a break. We'll talk about this in the kitchen. Sister Margaret?' Theo called to the senior nursing sister. ‘Put this man on the list for immediate surgery … and before you protest, I know immediate doesn't necessarily mean within twenty-four hours. Angela,' he addressed his sister who'd handed her class over to Mrs Butler, yet again, so she could help out at the hospital. ‘We're having tea.'

‘That means you want me to make it?'

‘Thank you for volunteering. But as you've finished dressing that leg wound I thought you could do with a break.''

He ushered Georgiana into the kitchen and ferreted around the shelves. ‘There should be some cookies here…'

‘Mrs Butler sent down cheese sandwiches. They're in the tin.' Angela joined Georgiana at the sink where she was washing her hands. ‘Hello, Dr Downe, I'm Angela Smythe.'

‘I'm Georgie. Dr Wallace and Dr Picard told me you know my brother.'

‘Your brother? He's with the British Force?'

‘Dr Downe is Harry's twin sister.' Theo set two cheese sandwiches on a plate, sat on the edge of the table and proceeded to eat them. ‘Excuse me for not standing on ceremony, Dr Downe, or may I call you Georgie too?'

‘You may.'

‘I'm ravenous. Twenty-four hour shifts do that to me.'

‘We met your other brother …'

‘Michael?' Georgiana dried her hands and took the plate of sandwiches Theo handed her.

‘He wasn't here long before leaving for upriver to join John Mason's brother Tom. I brought you in here …'

‘Because we both needed a break,' Georgiana suggested to Theo.

‘That, and because I wanted to tell you how much I admire you. You haven't stopped since you walked through the door.'

‘I hate to disappoint you but I took ten minutes to wash my face and cool my temper in the nurses' room an hour ago.'

‘I'm trying to tell you, if you'll allow me to get a word in edgewise, that the abysmal condition of the POWs is not down to the Relief Force Medical Service.'

‘It isn't?' She took the tea Angela handed her. ‘Thank you. If it isn't down to them, whose fault is it?'

‘The India Office. They haven't sent the Expeditionary Force enough supplies of anything. Hospital tents, equipment, dressings, doctors, orderlies, antiseptic, drugs, the list of what they don't have is endless and the little they do receive is invariably sent late, often too late to be of use. Believe me, the Turkish POWs have fared no worse than the British wounded. I'm sure Colonel Allan would be delighted to show you around the British Military Hospital to prove my point.'

Georgiana's temper rose. ‘Are you telling me that our troops are being ordered into battle without medical facilities to care for the wounded?'

‘Yes.'

‘Dear God! No wonder my aunt said John's letters seemed strange.'

‘I'm sorry you've been thrown in the deep end here, but we'll manage if you take a proper break. Mrs Butler has sent down three messages demanding Dr Picard and I send you to the mission so you can unpack and rest.'

‘I'm perfectly fine. I'm used to working long shifts in the London hospitals, and that man's arm needs amputating. If it's gas gangrene …'

‘Pity help us if it spreads among the other patients.'

‘I'll operate as soon as I've scrubbed up.' Georgiana ate the last of the cheese sandwich and returned to the sink.'

‘You – operate?' Theo looked at her questioningly.

‘I'm a surgeon, Dr Wallace. Didn't they tell you?'

British staff boat moored on the Tigris outside Umm El-Hannah, Wednesday 16th February 1916

‘What exactly did Sheikh Ibn Shalan ask for?' Cox unscrewed an ink well, pulled a notepad towards him and picked up a pen.

Because Cox had been constantly on the move, it had taken Mitkhal a full month to track the man down. Time he'd used to evaluate the weaknesses and strengths of both the British and Turkish positions.

‘Four hundred new rifles with a corresponding amount of ammunition. A minimum of one hundred horses, and sixteen herds of goats.' Mitkhal had doubled Ibn Shalan's demands on the premise that if the British acquiesced to the full amount, which he doubted, he'd dovetail the extra into his own and Harry's personal holdings. If they beat him down as he expected, it gave him a reasonable margin to bargain with.

The political officer offered no reaction to Mitkhal's demands other than to carry on writing. He finished, read what he'd written, and signed his name at the foot of the page with a flourish. He handed the paper to Mitkhal.

‘This is an order for everything you asked for. Four hundred new rifles with a corresponding amount of ammunition, fifty horses – and frankly you'll be lucky to get those – and sixteen herds of goats, to be given to you on production of this note. No further confirmation needed or to be asked for. Present this at Basra HQ and you should have the goods within twenty-four hours.'

Mitkhal tried not to look surprised as he took the paper and folded it into his saddlebag. ‘Thank you, sir.'

‘No need to thank me. With all that's going on here we can't afford to risk an insurrection at our back. If Ibn Shalan can keep the peace in Ahwaz, the Karun Valley, and the area around the Kerkha river, in return for livestock and guns, it will be a cheaper price to pay than British and Indian blood. I take it you will need assistance to convey the goods from Basra to the Karun Valley?'

‘No, sir. Ibn Shalan is waiting for me in Basra. He and his men will arrange the transportation.'

‘You'll be travelling with them?'

‘I will be returning to the Karun Valley with my wife, our son, and Lieutenant Colonel Downe's wife and children.'

‘You've had enough of war?'

‘Ibn Shalan will keep the Karun Valley peaceful. It's time for me settle down with my family.'

‘I wish you well, Mitkhal, but should we fail to relieve the garrison in Kut in the next two weeks there is one last thing that I would ask you to do for the sake of Harry's friends besieged there.'

‘Which is?' Mitkhal asked warily.

‘If the food runs out completely, we will attempt to send a ship through the Turkish lines with supplies to buy more time for the Relief Force to reach the town. Captain Smythe told me you captained the mahaila you sailed out of Kut.'

‘I did.'

‘Do you think you could sail back in?'

‘The Turkish defences are formidable, Lieutenant Colonel Cox.'

‘Having you on board whichever vessel is chosen to break the blockade could mean the difference between success and failure.'

‘When will the attempt be made?'

‘When supplies in Kut are close to running out and the last attempt to break through by land has failed.'

Mitkhal looked down at the table momentarily before meeting Cox's eye. ‘I will do what I can to help navigate your boat.'

‘Before then …'

‘Yes,' Mitkhal prompted.

‘There are a few errands you could run between here, the Turkish lines and Kut. Do it before you pick up the goods in Basra and I'll pay you a fee, as well as Ibn Shalan. That's if you'd care to volunteer.'

Mitkhal met Cox's steady gaze. 'How much?

British Military Hospital, Amara, Tuesday 29th February 1916

Clarissa carried a box of patients' files into the surgical ward in preparation for the doctors' ward round. To her annoyance Major Chalmers had left his bed – yet again – in direct contradiction of his doctor's orders. Balancing precariously on crutches he'd ‘borrowed' from another patient he was heading for the stove where his fellow patients had congregated.

‘Major Chalmers! What do you think you're doing?' she demanded in her most authoritative matron imitation.

He gave her a wry smile. ‘Racing to the teapot before it's emptied.'

‘If Matron sees you “racing” it will be my head, not yours, on the chopping block. Clarissa saw Richard sway and slipped her arm around his waist. She walked him back to his bed.

‘How am I ever going to get fighting fit and back to the Relief Force if you keep me in bed? I'm as weak as a baby.'

‘Your weakness has everything to do with your wound and the infection that set in on your voyage down here. Your fever only abated yesterday and your temperature was still higher than normal this morning.' Clarissa folded back the bedclothes and Richard slumped down on the mattress, accidentally dropping his purloined crutches. Clarissa lifted his legs up on to the bed and pulled off his slippers.

‘You make me feel like a two-year-old,' Richard complained.

‘You behave like a two-year-old.' She ignored the laughter of the men gathered around the stove.

She placed his hospital issue slippers in his locker, pulled up the sheet and blanket and tucked them firmly around him.

Richard would never have admitted it but the only emotion he felt was relief as he sank back on his thin mattress. The pieces of shrapnel embedded in his thigh and pelvis were causing him excruciating pain. The doctors had warned it might not be possible to remove all of them and they wouldn't even attempt to until he'd built up his strength, which was why they'd ordered complete bed rest. Bored, furious at his weakness, he sneaked out of bed whenever the nurses' backs were turned to test his walking ability.

Clarissa pulled up the sheet and blanket covered him to the chin and tucked him firmly in.

‘I can't move,' he protested.

‘That's the idea. Leave your bed again and I'll look for shackles. I believe the Turks may have left some behind.'

‘The doctors wouldn't allow you to use them.'

‘This doctor would.' Dr Evans, a short, round, middle-aged Welshman said from the doorway. ‘Another batch of wounded are coming down from upriver, Nurse Amey. Matron has ordered all doctors and nurses to meet the convoy.'

‘On my way, Dr Evans.'

‘Not before you've set the largest orderly available to guard Major Chalmers, I hope.'

Clarissa instructed the orderlies to watch the ward, went to the nurses' cloakroom and slipped on an all-enveloping canvas overall that completely covered her uniform. She'd only been working in Amara a few days but this would be her fourth hospital ship, and if it was anything like as grim and unsanitary as the others she'd need protection.

‘You ready, Amey?' Molly Gallivan called from the hallway.

‘Coming.' She pushed open the ward door one last time. Richard Chalmers was still lying almost to attention in his bed, just as she'd left him.

‘Make sure no patient does anything he's not supposed to,' she warned the Indian orderlies. ‘If Major Chalmers tries to move, there's a set of surgical restraining straps in the supplies' cupboard. You have my permission to use them.'

‘I pity your husband, Nurse Amey, whoever he'll be,' Richard shouted as she closed the door.

Clarissa lined up with the other nurses and they walked alongside the carts that had been harnessed the moment the hospital ship had been sighted.

‘Holy Mary, mother of God.' Molly Gallivan, Clarissa's cubicle mate in the nurses' quarters crossed herself as a ship drew close to the wharf. ‘The smell is enough to knock out a hogman. This is going to be every bit as bad as the last ship.'

Clarissa reached out and grabbed Molly's hand as the engine cut and the gangplank was dropped.

The decks and sides were festooned with a thick dense brown layer of faeces.

‘Damn them, why don't they put the dysentery cases on the lower decks?' Dr Evans demanded.

‘We do, sir.' An exhausted medic stumbled down the gangplank. ‘Dysentery only started spreading on our second day out.'

‘Cut off the field dressings and soiled clothes; leave them on deck to be burned.' Dr Evans ran on board the ship. ‘Nurses! Stretcher-bearers! Orderlies.'

Clarissa followed him. He handed her a soft-leaded pencil.

‘You know what to do?'

‘Place a cross on the forehead of those most likely to survive, sir.'

‘Good girl.'

‘Major?' A man slumped against the door of a cabin called weakly to Major Evans. ‘Captain Price, Indian Medical Service, sir. We're just the first.'

‘The first what?'

‘The first boat, sir. There are three behind us.'