The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 14

  ‘You’re going.’ It was a statement, not a plea for him to remain. She followed him into the hall. ‘Don’t forget your topee.’ They reached for it at the same moment and their fingers brushed. Maud thrust her hands behind her back. The scene was terrifyingly familiar. His touch warm, unsettling. She found herself staring at the hard, masculine figure sheathed in uniform. Somehow, the personality, the features, didn’t matter. Only the male presence. An image of John’s body, naked, filled her mind.

  ‘Well, thanks again, for everything.’

  The image dispersed. She glanced into Geoffrey’s eyes. They shifted uneasily under her gaze. She stared guiltily at the floor. Had he read her thoughts?

  ‘Thank you for escorting me home.’ What was happening to her? Was she going mad? All she could think of was making love. First John. Now this boy.

  ‘I’ll be off then.’ He stepped outside.

  ‘Goodnight.’ She slammed the door. Her limbs were trembling. She was liquid with longing, not for John, but for a man. Any man.

  Since they’d returned to India and she’d been welcomed into the inner circle of officers’ wives she’d been a party to enough whispered revelations to discover that when it came to the intimate side of married life she was different from other women. Most of them looked forward to the nights when their husbands visited the Rag.

  ‘Better them than us,’ Marjorie Harrap had sighed. She’d been the only woman present not to nod agreement. The implication was clear. Whores liked the disgusting things men did, ladies didn’t. Did that make her a whore? Was she no better than the women who were passed down the lines of privates’ beds in the barracks on pay nights?

  Even John, who never baulked at discussing any subject with her, had been no help when she’d raised the matter. All he’d said was, ‘I guess we’re luckier than most, darling. Let’s just count our blessings.’

  Our blessings! She switched on the light. The empty bedroom gaped at her. She walked over to the cheval mirror and began to undress. First, the pale pink silk dress. She tossed it in a heap over the chair. Harriet could sort it later. Her petticoats, stockings, their supports, drawers, and last of all, her bust shaper and chemise. She wore no corsets. John had taken one look at the angry red marks where the steel and whalebone stays had constricted her flesh and forbidden her to wear them. He’d told her she didn’t need a corset. That her body was perfect the way it was. But what was the use of having a perfect body when there was no one to admire it?

  She pulled the tortoise-shell pins from her hair. Her blonde curls tumbled to her waist. She closed her eyes and massaged her throbbing flesh, desperately trying to imagine it was John who was caressing her, but the more she tried to concentrate on his face, the more elusive his features became. His uniformed body was easy to recall; it was the same as Geoffrey’s – as any officer. But his face remained shrouded in a mist that refused to clear. She couldn’t remember what he looked like. Three days. Only three days since he’d left and she couldn’t remember what he looked like.

  Maud didn’t realise she’d forgotten to draw her bedroom curtains until the moon shifted and shone through her window, rousing her from a blissful dream of lovemaking. Cursing her thoughtlessness, she rose and closed the drapes, unaware that at that moment Geoffrey Brooke was lying awake in his own bed, gazing at that same moon and blessing her neglect.

  Maud’s naked image, the first he had seen of a woman, outside of a picture postcard, was one he would treasure for the rest of his life.

  Chapter Ten

  Sahil, Wednesday 18th November 1914

  ‘It was a brilliant affair. Quite brilliant.’ Crabbe’s voice, high-pitched, excited, carried down the rows of camp beds to where John was crouched over a lieutenant’s head wound. ‘The Turks were here.’ Crabbe creased the sheet in the centre of his cot. ‘General Delamain’s brigade here.’ Purloining a pair of forceps from an orderly’s tray, he plonked it below the line. ‘The brigade turned in on the Turks’ left.’ He pushed the forceps across the sheet. ‘The Dorsets were here.’ Snatching a bandage, he laid it next to the forceps. ‘Johnny Turk threw all the hardware he had at us. You wouldn’t believe the strength of that fusillade. It was hailing shot and bullets.’ His eyes shone like those of a slum child who’d been shown Christmas. ‘Then slap bang in the middle of the bloodiest, hottest part of the day, Johnny Turk cut and ran. To a man, they crawled out of their trenches and swarmed back over the desert. We tried to go after them, but between the heavy ground and the mirage …’

  ‘And the bullets.’ John lifted Crabbe’s shoulder dressing and peered at his wound.

  ‘We got them on the run. And took two of their guns. Fine mountain guns. They’ll be missing those.’

  ‘And your company’s going to be missing you for a while, Major.’ John signalled to the orderly. Singh scooped the forceps from Crabbe’s bed.

  ‘Brilliant, I tell you. Quite brilliant.’ Crabbe turned to the subaltern in the next cot. ‘You were lucky to be part of it, Amey. I’ve been in the army 30 years …’

  Lucky! John looked down the rows of cots. And this was only one tent. The 125th Field Ambulance had set up another for officers and six more for other ranks, and those were just to house the British wounded. The Indians were crammed into nine tents of their own. ‘Lucky!’

  He couldn’t forget the pile of shrouded corpses, including what was left of Billy Miles, that had been lowered into pits dug below the new British stronghold of Sahil the same time a message had been sent out on the radio transmitter,

  Abadan oilfields secured. Oil company staff safe and well. Saniyeh and Sahil objectives achieved. Casualties light. Moving on to Basra at dawn .

  ‘Mason?’ Colonel Hale, his CO in Force D Field Hospital, stuck his head around the tent flap.

  ‘Sir.’ John hadn’t realised how exhausted he was until he tried to move.

  ‘What in hell are you doing, boy?’ Hale demanded when John left the tent. ‘Three hours after you complete an 18-hour operating stint I find you on the ward.’

  ‘Knight discovered two cases of gas gangrene, sir. I’m checking this ward for signs.’

  Hale frowned. ‘Knight’s certain?’

  ‘I saw them myself, sir. Knight and I amputated one leg and an arm an hour ago.’

  ‘British or Indian tent?’

  ‘British ranks, sir.’

  ‘Have you checked the Indians?’

  ‘Knight’s doing it now, sir.’

  ‘All we need is an outbreak of gangrene with Delamain and Fry hell-bent on taking Basra in the morning. We’ve got off lightly so far.’ He shook his bald head. ‘But it’s my guess Johnny Turk’s going to hit back hard in the next offensive. And with this number of casualties … How’s the supply situation?’

  ‘Holding up, sir.’

  ‘Total casualties?’

  ‘Ten officers seriously wounded, twenty lightly. Sixty ranks, fifteen seriously, and two hundred and fifteen Indians, including officers.’ John’s face was ashen in the light of the lantern.

  ‘You’ve finished checking your quota.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Get some rest. I doubt any of us will be able to do much of that tomorrow.’

  John saluted and made his way to his tent. He was lucky to be working under Hale. The colonel’s first consideration was the welfare of his patients, the next, his staff; a long way after that came the army, and last of all himself.

  He breathed in the night air, fresh and free from the tainted odours of the hospital stations. As far as he could see, campfires blazed between the shadowy outlines of tents. Soldiers’ laughter, accompanied by the clang of billycans and the clinking of knives, echoed. From his right came the whinny of animals and the curses of the Indian muleteers who were shifting supplies closer to the front. A shadow leapt out in front of him.

  ‘Damn you, Harry. You scared the living daylights out of me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Harry held out a hip flask. ‘I thought you’d appreciate some
brandy.’

  John took the flask. The liquor slid easily down his throat. His legs weakened as his head lightened. ‘I’m bone weary.’ He ducked into his tent, leaving the flap open for Harry. ‘Take Knight’s bed. He’s on duty until morning.’ Striking a match, John lit the lamp. ‘You’re wounded.’

  ‘More dirty than hurt.’ Harry fingered the bandage above his right eye.

  John shook his head at Harry’s torn and muddy uniform. ‘I suppose you were in the front line.’

  ‘I was seconded as adjutant to the 18th, Fry’s Brigade. I tried to keep my head down.’ Harry grinned, and John recalled his conversation with Furja. She was right. Harry was enjoying every minute of the mess and upheaval, treating the war as an adventure.

  ‘I heard you’ve volunteered for every skirmish since we rescued you.’

  Harry retrieved his flask. ‘We were doing all right until you disembarked.’

  ‘You’re the first Frontier Force officer I’ve heard complain about Force D’s help.’

  ‘OldGulf hands are too generous to begrudge a fellow soldier a share of the fun.’ Harry upended the flask in his mouth.

  ‘You’ve volunteered for the show tomorrow.’

  Harry swallowed a mouthful of brandy before returning the flask to John. ‘The Espiegle, the Odin, and a couple of armed launches are going up river to take a look at the Turks. They asked for Arabic-speaking officers.’

  ‘You put up your hand?’

  ‘I was looking for a chance to take a look around on my own account. Maybe even as far as the KarunValley.’

  ‘You’ve no need to worry about Furja. The Turks are too busy trying to kill us to bother the natives.’

  ‘I wish I had your faith.’ Harry unlaced his boots and kicked his feet up on the cot.

  John followed Harry’s example. The thin pallet on the camp bed felt miraculously soft and comforting. He closed his eyes.

  ‘The Turks hanged Furja’s brothers …’ Harry looked across. John was already asleep; he rescued the flask as it slid from John’s fingers and took one last mouthful. He was tired and incredibly filthy. He spent a moment debating whether to wash, or sleep. He simply didn’t have the energy to search for water and soap. Tomorrow …

  The Shatt-el-Arab, Saturday November 21st 1914 5.00 p.m.

  ‘Downe, you know Basra. What’s burning?’ Captain Bullock pointed to smoke spiralling from the bank.

  Harry squinted at the horizon. ‘Looks like the Customs House and warehouses, sir.’

  ‘The European quarter?’

  ‘If it was burning, we’d see it, sir. It appears the Turks fired the public buildings before retreating.’ Leaning over the rail, he stared at the flat roofs of the Arab quarter. If Ibn Shalan had returned to Basra Furja could be in the hands of the retreating Turks. Imprisoned – tortured – dead …

  ‘What say you, Langdon?’ Bullock asked his second in command.

  ‘I agree with Downe, sir. The Turks have pulled out. It would explain why we’ve met no opposition since Sahil. There are no launches on the river and although there’s activity close to the fire, no one’s wearing uniform.’

  Bullock lifted his field glasses. ‘Looters?’

  ‘Could be,’ Langdon agreed. ‘Want us to ram a couple of shots into them from the bow guns?’

  ‘No!’ Harry protested in alarm. ‘The fact they’re still in Basra and not retreating means they’re friendly natives, sir.’

  ‘If they’re well disposed towards us, Lieutenant Downe, why aren’t they out in their dhows greeting us as liberators?’

  ‘Possibly because the Turks fired their boats along with the warehouses, sir,’ Harry suggested.

  A rating appeared at the top of ladder that led to the lower deck. ‘Message from the Odin, sir. There are native looters on the bank. The Odin has them in their gun sights. They’re asking what action you wish to take.’

  ‘Our Arab advisor thinks we should keep our shot to ourselves in case they’re allies.’

  ‘We have few, if any, allies among the natives, sir,’ Langdon said.

  ‘We have few, if any, who are downright hostile to us,’ Harry broke in. ‘If the tribes remain neutral we stand a chance. There’s little love lost between Turk and Arab. We haven’t seen any Arabs fighting on the Turkish side.’

  ‘Or ours,’ Bullock commented.

  ‘If we shoot them, they’ll never join our forces.’

  ‘Very well, Downe. You’re the expert on Arab affairs; we’ll try it your way,’ Bullock conceded. ‘Pass on the order, Langdon, to the Odin as well as our chaps. They shoot at the first sign of hostility. From Turk or Arab. If we have to fight the entire population of this damned country to secure our oilfields, so be it.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘As the expert, Downe, you can lead the shore party. Leaving in ten minutes.’

  Harry left the bridge. So much for his idea of sneaking off and reconnoitring the Arab quarter. Officialdom had dug its claws in. It could be days before he had a free moment to find out if Furja was in Basra. Let alone alive.

  *……*……*

  Basra, late evening, Saturday November 21st 1914

  Peter Smythe picked his way through the mass of soldiers, boxes of supplies, and half-erected tents only to be faced with a crowd of subalterns and officers awaiting orders in the corridor outside what had been Perry’s office.

  ‘Where are you going, Lieutenant?’ Major Harrap demanded from behind a desk. A bundle of forms lay in front of him, his revolver was at his elbow.

  ‘Reporting for duty, sir.’ Peter saluted.

  ‘All subalterns are detailed to camp duties.’

  ‘I’m surplus to requirements, sir,’ Peter lied. ‘As I’m familiar with the town, the duty officer thought I’d be better employed on curfew duty.’

  ‘You were with the Frontier Force?’ Harrap asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Peter confirmed.

  ‘Take ten sepoys and check out the area to the …’ Harrap peered indecisively at the map of Basra pinned to the wall behind him.

  ‘There’s an American mission south-east of the European quarter, sir.’

  ‘Check it out and patrol every street as thoroughly and frequently as time and manpower allow. You’ll be relieved at dawn.’ Harrap scribbled a note and handed it to Peter.

  Peter walked away elated. The town was quiet; the advent of British gunboats in the Shatt and the sight of British and Indian troops marching through the streets had dispersed the looters. Thrusting the order into his pocket, he pushed his way out of the building. Less than an hour ago, Harry had assured him the American mission and its staff had survived the Turkish withdrawal unscathed. But he wouldn’t rest until he’d seen Angela for himself.

  *……*……*

  Angela sat in her schoolroom ostensibly preparing lessons, but she was unable to concentrate. The street was silent. Last night, Theo, Doctor Picard, Reverend Butler, and the mission’s native servants had barricaded the doors and windows of the school and staff quarters and taken it in turns to man the doors. They’d expected marauding Arabs to attack. But, much to everyone’s relief, the looting had remained confined to the wharf.

  No pupils had arrived for school that morning so she and the other teachers had volunteered to help in the hospital. Doctor Picard and Theo had worked round the clock for three days and nights and were exhausted. The Turks hadn’t set up medical facilities and the wards were carpeted with Turkish wounded. She’d spent the day washing and dressing gunshot wounds, and ladling water into the mouths of feverish and dying men.

  The minute news filtered through that a British Force had landed, Theo left to beg medical supplies. He’d seen Harry and Harry had assured him Peter Smythe was fine, but when she discovered Harry was part of an advance party and the bulk of the troops were still travelling upriver from Sahil she began to worry. What if Harry had seen Peter before the fighting, not afterwards? Anything could have happened in a few hours. It was rumoured the Turks had left snipers
…

  The silence closed in. She heard the creak of floorboards, the tick of the clock. But silence, even this uneasy silence, was preferable to the nightmarish cries the wind had carried from the banks of the Shatt for two days and nights before the Turks withdrew. Furious at her own impotence, she dropped her pencil and went to the window forgetting that the Reverend had boarded it up. Had she really heard horses’ hooves?

  Picking up the lamp, she ran to the front of the building. She reached the door but her brother’s cautionary warnings stayed her hand.

  ‘Angela.’

  It was a voice she knew. Heaving back the bolts, she wrenched open the wooden door. Peter stood bathed in the glow from her lamp.

  ‘You’re hurt!’

  ‘This.’ Lifting his hand to his face, he laughed. ‘It’s nothing. I tripped over a rope on one of the boats and fell against the side.’

  Tears welled in her eyes as he stepped inside and closed the door. Taking the lamp, he set it on the hall table before gathering her in his arms. She buried her face in his tunic and wept before remembering practicalities.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter admitted, without relinquishing his hold on her. ‘But I can’t stay. I’m in charge of the curfew patrol for this sector. If I don’t turn up in 20 minutes my men will send out search parties.’

  ‘Twenty minutes …’

  He stroked her hair. ‘The last three months have been the longest in my life.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  ‘The good thing about war is the chance of promotion.’ He closed his mind to the bodies they’d left in Sahil. Strange how he’d never associated promotions in war with the dead.

  ‘I’ll see to that –’ she touched his cut cheek ‘– then get you something to eat.’ He followed her into the school’s first aid room. ‘Are you in the same bungalow?’

  ‘I’m sharing a tent on the parade ground with Amey. The bungalows have been requisitioned by senior officers.’

  ‘But they were yours.’

  ‘That’s the army for you.’