The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  ‘Was it very dreadful?’ She tipped antiseptic into a basin.

  ‘What?’ Peter asked absently, unable to stop looking at her. She seemed so beautiful, so neat, so clean after the madness of Sahil.

  ‘The fighting.’ Tearing a ball of cotton wool, she dipped it into the basin before dabbing at his face. More dirt than blood came off on the swab. ‘You’re filthy.’

  ‘Fighting isn’t a clean occupation, my love.’ It was the first time he’d called her that. She looked into his eyes as he locked his arms around her waist.

  ‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry about you.’

  ‘Why? You knew I’d be fine here. We’re …’

  ‘Americans and neutral. Harry kept reminding me.’

  He seemed older, harder, and there was a peculiar excitement in his eyes. She wondered if that was what war and killing did to men. He kissed her. Her first kiss, but she was aware only of his smell – cordite and sharp, acrid, male sweat.

  ‘You found your way back to us, Lieutenant Smythe.’ Theo appeared in the doorway.

  Angela threw the swab she was holding into the bowl. ‘I was just bathing Peter’s cut.’

  ‘I only called for a few minutes to make sure Angela was all right.’ Rising from the chair, Peter offered his hand to Theo. ‘My men are patrolling this sector.’

  ‘I’ll get you some food, Peter.’ Feeling like a coward, Angela retreated to the kitchens.

  ‘You were going to behave like a gentleman,’ Theo admonished him.

  ‘I have and will. Angela is my fiancée, and kissing a fiancée is not only permitted, but expected of a gentleman.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I will marry your sister,’ Peter warned. ‘Just as soon as I get my captaincy, and in wartime that’s likely to come sooner rather than later.’

  Theo stared at Peter. The confident young officer facing him bore little resemblance to the shy, stammering boy who’d asked for Angela’s hand a few short months before. ‘Will the Expeditionary Force remain in Basra?’ Theo enquired.

  ‘Our brief is to secure the oilfields. To do that we need to secure the Basra Wilyat. We’re here to stay.’ Peter smiled at Angela, who reappeared with a packet of bread and chicken legs. The way they looked at one another made Theo feel old and superfluous. For the first time he realised just how much his sister was in love with Peter Smythe. He’d been a fool to underestimate the strength of that love. On both sides.

  Basra , Monday 23rd November 1914

  ‘Read it again, Lieutenant Downe,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Cox ordered.

  Harry mentally cursed the Arabs as he breathed in the wintry air. The doors, windows, and furniture had been looted from every Government building during the 48 hours that had elapsed between the Turkish withdrawal and the British arrival in Basra. As a result, he was freezing.

  ‘Proclamation,’ Harry rasped. ‘ Let it not be hidden from you that the Great British Government has to its great regret been forced into a state of war by the persistent and unprovoked hostility of the Turkish Government instigated by Germany for her own ends. The British Government has therefore been obliged to send a force to the Shatt-al-Arab to protect her commerce and her friends …’

  ‘Good point that,’ Perry broke in. ‘Get home to Sheikh Muhammerah just how important he is to us.’

  ‘Carry on, lieutenant.’ The lieutenant-colonel glared at Perry.

  ‘ And expel the hostile Turkish troops. But let it be known to all, the British Government has no quarrel with the Arab inhabitants on the riverbank; and so long as they show themselves to be friendly and do not harbour Turkish troops, or go about armed they have nothing to fear, and neither they nor their property will be molested. They are clearly warned, however, that they must not carry arms; for it will not be possible to distinguish an armed man from an enemy, and thus any person going armed will be liable to be shot. Dated the 5th November and signed P.Z. Cox. Resident … Sir,’ Harry ventured, ‘does this proclamation apply to the desert tribes?’

  ‘I am aware of the implications, Downe. Copies in Arabic, English, and Turkish to be posted in every public building and street throughout the town, and –’ the lieutenant-colonel studied the faces of the assembled officers ‘– I trust every one of you gentlemen will see that the proclamation’s terms will be discussed – and obeyed by your junior officers. Any outrages against the local population will be severely dealt with. Any questions?’ The silence was punctuated by a few coughs and one sneeze – Harry’s. ‘Thank you for your time and attention. Colonel Perry, Lieutenant Downe, if you’d wait.’

  Harry shivered while the room emptied. Perry ignored him.

  ‘Colonel Perry tells me you are married to the daughter of a local Sheikh, Lieutenant Downe.’ Lieutenant-Colonel Cox flipped through the papers on his desk until he found the relevant memo. ‘Sheikh Aziz Ibn Shalan, who has influence and holdings in the KarunValley.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Harry glanced uneasily from the lieutenant-colonel to Perry.

  ‘Are you happily married, Lieutenant Downe?’

  ‘The marriage was a regrettable necessity,’ Perry interrupted before Harry could answer. ‘I negotiated a treaty with Ibn Shalan whereby he agreed to police the pipeline of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company, saving us considerable resources and manpower, in return for arms and livestock. We could hardly hand the goods over openly. The Turks were in control at the time, so Downe paid out the goods in the form of a bride price for Shalan’s daughter. But one of the implicit terms agreed between Shalan and myself was the speedy termination of the marriage.’ Perry strayed into the realms of fantasy. ‘I gave Lieutenant Downe orders to divorce his wife months ago. Under local law such a divorce would have been instant.’

  ‘It was a marriage of necessity only.’ Cox looked directly at Harry.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Perry answered swiftly.

  ‘Have you divorced the lady, Lieutenant Downe?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘May I enquire why you chose to ignore a direct order from a superior officer?’

  ‘I felt it was a personal not military matter, sir, and neither myself nor my wife wished to divorce.’ Harry met Cox’s gaze head on.

  ‘Have you lived with the lady?’

  ‘Yes. In her father’s camp in the KarunValley and in Basra.’

  ‘In the European compound?’ Cox enquired.

  ‘No, sir, in Ibn Shalan’s house in the Arab sector. My wife will not live in British quarters, sir.’

  ‘Are Ibn Shalan’s men aware you are a British officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘They treat you as such.’

  ‘As far as I can tell they treated me the same as every other man in Shalan’s camp. When I was with them I wore native dress, ate their food, and lived as they did.’

  Perry reddened. ‘I never gave Lieutenant Downe permission to …’

  The lieutenant-colonel held up his hand. ‘And in Basra, your neighbours know you are British.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, sir. I’ve always worn Arab dress when travelling to and from my wife’s home.’

  ‘And into barracks, or so I see from this report.’ Cox raised an eyebrow. Harry said nothing. ‘So you have on occasion passed as an Arab?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Harry replied quickly, reading the political officer’s train of thought.

  ‘One of the problems we face is the gathering of accurate intelligence from the local tribes. We have no aeroplanes, but should they arrive tomorrow, aerial reconnaissance will only detail Turkish troop movements and the position of the various tribal camps. It will tell us nothing about the loyalty of the natives. It would be naïve to suppose they are all well-disposed towards us. The Turks have controlled the Gulf for centuries. I’m convinced they have many allies living under our flag. We need to identify them. You have demonstrated that you read and speak excellent Arabic. On your own admission, you have lived with the natives as a native. A person with those qualities could prove invaluable to m
y department.’

  Harry could scarcely believe his luck. Cox was offering him a legitimate excuse to leave the irksome side of soldiering and work on his own, possibly even steal enough time to see Furja. ‘I would regard it as an honour to work for your department, sir.’

  ‘Colonel Perry, would you be prepared to release Lieutenant Downe from the Frontier Force?’

  ‘We have been declared an integral part of the Expeditionary Force, sir,’ Perry demurred.

  ‘I’ll see to your immediate transfer, Lieutenant Downe. You can begin right away. I need to ascertain the mood of the natives in the town. In a day or two you’ll leave for the desert to try to gauge what we can expect from the tribes in this area.’ He sketched a rough outline on the map. ‘At the same time you will make them aware of the details contained in the proclamation. Particularly the sections on carrying arms.’

  ‘I’ll discuss the matter with them, sir, but the desert tribes have carried arms for centuries. They value their freedom.’

  ‘It is your job to convince them that we alone can guarantee that freedom. Pay particular attention to the Bakhtairi Khans. Intelligence suggests they’re pro-German and Turkish. I believe they’d be massing with the Turks north of here at this moment if it weren’t for their interest in our oilfield. Financial concerns dictate loyalties more often than men’s principles, Lieutenant Downe.’ He returned to the papers on his desk. ‘I’ll leave the matter of dress to your discretion. Report back to me tonight.’

  Harry saluted Cox and Perry, walked through the gap that had recently been a door, and headed for the European compound. Staff officers had requisitioned his bungalow, but he found a sepoy and sent him to the Espiegle to pick up his kit and deliver it to Abdul’s coffee shop on the quay. He’d rent a room there. It wouldn’t take long for the officers to find out about Abdul’s dancing girls, or the extras they were prepared to offer. In a day or two, no one would notice one lieutenant amongst many walking out of the place, or an Arab going in to drink coffee with his fellows. He’d arrange it with Abdul, set up his base, change, and visit Shalan’s house. If he were lucky, Furja would be there, and then …

  Chapter Eleven

  India , Sunday November 22nd 1914

  ‘Would you like more tea?’ Maud waited for the inevitable blush to colour Lieutenant Brooke’s cheek.

  ‘Yes, please. It’s a terrific tea party. You ladies put us to shame, you work so hard for the war effort, and we …’

  ‘Maud,’ Marjorie interrupted, ‘be an angel, go into the conservatory and track down the flower basket I made for Mrs Hale. I’d ask the Khitmagar but he can’t read and he’s bound to bring out the more elaborate arrangement I made for the general’s wife.’

  ‘I’ll go, Mrs Harrap.’ Geoffrey rushed to the door.

  Marjorie pursed her lips. ‘You really must do something to put that wretched boy out of his misery, Maud.’

  ‘He’s getting to be a nuisance. I can’t move an inch without him dogging my heels.’

  ‘Be gentle with him. He’s a sweet child,’ Marjorie advised.

  ‘Who should be in the nursery.’

  ‘Unfortunately, all we’re left with are infants and bath-chair cases.’ Marjorie sighed as an elderly major smirked at her. ‘Count yourself lucky for attracting a child, darling. I’m surrounded by grandfathers.’

  ‘I say.’ Geoffrey came blundering back. ‘There are hundreds of baskets, and they all seem to have cards to colonels’ wives.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Maud left her chair.

  ‘It’s the one with the blue irises, darling. Mrs Hale adores them. Oh dear, she’s making her way towards me. That means she wants to get away early.’

  Maud entered the enormous greenhouse Marjorie inaccurately referred to as her “conservatory”.

  ‘I’ll carry the basket for you, Mrs Mason.’ Geoffrey was at her shoulder.

  ‘First, we must find the right basket.’

  ‘Most of the ones with cards to colonels’ wives were over here.’ Geoffrey led the way to the far end of the greenhouse. Maud followed, searching the green-filtered gloom for a splash of blue.

  ‘I think that’s the basket intended for Mrs Hale.’ She pointed to an arrangement on a table close to the door but, instead of retracing his steps, Geoffrey grabbed her, and kissed her full and clumsily on the lips.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that but I’m not sorry,’ he said defiantly. ‘I love you, Mrs Mason. I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, you’re …’ His eloquence dissipated along with his courage.

  Maud looked at him. His face was misty in the humidity of the greenhouse but she felt his body, unyielding, pressed against hers. The rough, khaki cloth of his uniform scratched her skin. She could smell the metal polish on his buttons, the linseed oil on his leather belt. The same scents as John … Standing on tiptoe, she returned Geoffrey’s kiss.

  His nervousness vanished as passion overcame the inhibitions that had been drilled into him since childhood. His hands caressed her breasts; his tongue probed her mouth.

  Feelings Maud had fought to suppress since John had left rose to the surface. What she was doing was wrong, but John was hundreds of miles away; it could be years before she saw him again. She would be old and ugly – perhaps even dead. Geoffrey loved her, would stay with her. And John wouldn’t return to India. She wouldn’t see him again until they were both in England. He’d never find out – her mother had been happy with Charles …

  A door slammed shut somewhere in the house. She pushed Geoffrey away. ‘Not here. Later. You’ll have to find somewhere.’

  Basra , Tuesday November 24th 1914

  Harry’s sandals flapped, soles rebounding off the compacted dirt road. His robes fluttered in the gale that whipped through the town. Clutching his abba, he wondered how women coped with their skirts in a wind. He made a mental note to ask Furja, or Georgiana in his next letter. Despite the cold that heralded the onset of winter, the commercial quarter was teeming. Believing a strong British presence to be the best way of introducing the town’s population to their new governing body, General Fry had ordered all available troops be given a day’s leave.

  Soldiers mingled with Arabic, Armenian, and Jewish locals, the officers fingering the fine Persian carpets and brass bowls on sale, the ranks ogling the Druse Christian and Jewish girls whose families were either destitute or greedy enough to allow them to work in the shops.

  There was a great deal of sign language and good-natured laughter, but traces of the looting remained, and not just in the desecrated public buildings. The Turkish-owned booths had been smashed, their battered brass ornaments and sweetmeats trodden into the dirt, their owners absent, presumably fleeing with the retreating Turkish Army.

  Harry bought a handful of dates from a Bedouin who’d set up his basket in front of one of the broken booths, but no information came with the purchase. The old man fixed his toothless mouth into a grin, kept his eyes on the British soldiers and repeated, ‘Business is good. Business is very good.’

  Harry went on his way, peeling dates, wondering at the resilience of commerce. A week ago, the bazaar must have been witness to the same scenes, the only difference being the uniform of the soldiers.

  Leaving the shops, he walked along the wharf. The ashes of the Custom House were scattered on the quayside. A few small boats plied their nets in the shallows of the Shatt, a row of swollen sacks by the remains of a warehouse representative of their catch. Black-veiled women huddled in wailing groups, their heads strewn with ashes from the wreckage. Sepoys, working under the direction of a thick-necked, bullet-headed British sergeant, were slitting the sacks open. Rock weights and water-distended limbs burst out. The stench of death hung in the cold air despite the high wind.

  Harry recalled the tales of atrocities he’d heard in Abdul’s. Evidently they weren’t all propaganda. The Turkish governor, Fakhri Pasha, had sewn the prisoners he’d taken during his reign in Basra into sacks before retreating from the town; judgi
ng from the claw marks in the hessian, most had been alive when they’d been thrown into the river.

  A spray of dark hair plastered into weed-like tendrils spilt out of the sack closest to him. He saw a woman’s face and his blood ran cold. Ibn Shalan had taken British guns. One malcontent’s whisper to the Turks could …

  He clenched his fists against an image of Furja pleading, begging for her life as they dragged her from Shalan’s house. Her screams as they tied her into the sack, her fight against the dead weight of the stones as they carried her down to the riverbed.

  Pushing aside a sepoy, he widened the slit. The body was too short, too old to be Furja.

  ‘Someone you know, Abdul? Someone you put there?’ the sergeant taunted.

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘You sure?’ The sergeant flashed a broad-bladed knife. ‘You use something like this to cut off this poor bitch’s ears, Abdul?’ Grabbing Harry’s shoulder, he pushed him down close to a mutilated stump, all that was left of the woman’s right ear. ‘Take a good look at your handiwork, Abdul.’

  Lifting his head, Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawled away from the corpse and stared at the sergeant. The sergeant lashed out with his boot.

  ‘Wog bastard.’ He sent Harry sprawling. ‘You’re all the bloody same. Murdering, sodding …’

  Harry grabbed the sergeant’s foot, sending him crashing. Red-faced, fighting for breath, the sergeant called out to the sepoys. All Harry could do was lie helplessly as the quayside, the bodies, the sergeant whirled in a kaleidoscope of fragmented images and high-pitched sounds. Harry saw the sergeant laugh as the sepoys’ hobnail boots smashed into his ribcage. Perry was on the quay, smiling. Why in God’s name was the man smiling?

  ‘Perry,’ he croaked. A foot obscured his vision. He curled into a ball in an attempt to shield his head. The sepoys chanted in their exaggerated Welsh accents.

  ‘Kill Abdul. Kill Abdul. Kill Abdul …’

  ‘What’s going on here, Sergeant?’ Peter Smythe stood over him, topee pushed back at a rakish angle exposing his red hair, a swagger stick under his arm.