The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  ‘Downriver, Farik.’ Harry disappeared beneath the canvas, changed into Bedouin robes, sat on his haunches, and waited.

  ‘No one in sight, Ubbatan.’

  Harry crawled into the open. Both banks stretched flat, barren and deserted either side. The river itself was void of shipping.

  ‘Everyone’s at Qurna, Ubbatan.’

  ‘Get some sleep, Farik, I’ll steer.’

  Wrapping himself in his robes, Farik lay on the boards beneath the canvas. Harry crouched next to the tiller, arm outstretched, holding a downstream course. He mulled over the identity that had been concocted for him by the Political Office.

  He was Hasan Mahmoud, a stock dealer of Druse origin, who’d been bankrupted by the war. Hopefully the story and his appearance would stand scrutiny. Many Arabs had grey eyes and fair skin, but he needed to concentrate on his accent.

  His attention drifted from Hasan to Furja – was she thinking of him as he was of her? Was she well? Happy without him? Alive –

  *……*……*

  North of Basra, Friday December 11th 1914

  Mansour met them at dawn. He’d brought the horses Harry had asked for to a palm grove a few miles upstream from Basra. They were hardly magnificent beasts but they were dependable and, Harry hoped, too unattractive to attract the interest of any wandering Bedouin. Harry sent the slave, Farik, and the bundle containing his uniform and identity discs downstream to Shalan’s house. He’d hated making use of Shalan’s slaves but he couldn’t think of any other way of disappearing from Qurna without his superiors knowing which way he was headed.

  He stood on the bank, watching the red and black sail on the dhow grow smaller as the sun rose. When it was no more than a speck he mounted his horse, picked up the rein of the packhorse, and turned east, towards the Karun.

  Days and nights merged as Harry rode from one group of black tents to another. Bedouin and Bakhtairi Khan greeted him with polite, occasionally cold deference as they granted him the traditional hospitality of the desert – a share of the evening meal, and a sleeping place next to the fire. He accepted the comforts graciously and restricted his conversation to an innocuous minimum, except when it was necessary to praise Allah or his host.

  If pressed, he repeated the story invented by the Political Office. He, Hasan Mahmoud, had prospered in Basra until the day the retreating Turkish army (Allah curse their souls!) had taken his entire stock of horses. Disheartened and bankrupt, he was travelling to Ahwaz to beg charity in his brother’s house.

  The story appeared to satisfy the curiosity of those ill-mannered enough to breach the desert law that a man’s business was his own affair. It was plausible. The desert was full of refugees and renegades, men who had lost everything, and those who had never owned anything and were looking to make their fortunes at the expense of the warring armies.

  The first thing he discovered was the fate of the British and Turkish Empires held little interest for the natives. He picked up rumours, hints of gold being paid out by the Turks, the Germans, the British – it didn’t matter who was paying because the money had always been handed over to a distant tribe. One related to a friend’s cousin’s cousin – the rumours were invariably fourth- or fifth-hand. The Sheikhs were engrossed in more practical and mercurial matters. The war had brought bounty; uniforms, rations, rifles and handguns that the more enterprising warriors scavenged from stragglers or the battlefields the minute the bullets stopped flying.

  He concluded the tribes were solely and selfishly concerned with the state of their armouries, the comfort of themselves and their families, and, longer term, the question of self-government of their lands. The only problem he foresaw was High Command might not accept his report to that effect. As one of the Sheikhs of the Bakhtairi Khans announced before retiring for the night,

  ‘British or Turk, both are interlopers. The land is ours and, in the end, Allah will call upon us to fight for it.’

  Harry travelled out early the next morning, but only after pushing the gold he carried a little deeper into the belt concealed beneath his shirt. It was just as well. He was stopped twice that day by groups of bandits who took a cursory look at his rusty rifle and thin saddlebags before sending him on his way. Blessing Mitkhal’s advice that “the safest man in the desert is a poor one”, he huddled into his robes, fought the cold, and rode steadily northeast.

  Lost in thoughts of Furja, he failed to notice the sudden onset of night. The darkness that took him unawares found him in a part of the KarunValley he’d never visited before. On his left, the fringe of the vast wastes of the desert loomed, an enormous black shadow, ostensibly as solid and tangible as a high wall. On his right, the yellow, muddied waters of the Karun had been transformed into a glittering ribbon that reflected the stars and a cold sliver of new moon. He urged his horses on, hoping to glimpse the glow of a campfire, but after two hours blindly fumbling in the wasteland, he resigned himself to the prospect of a freezing and solitary night.

  Dismounting close to the river, he fed each of his

  horses a handful of grain before leading them to the water. Once they’d drunk their fill, he tethered them in the shelter of a thorn copse. Lighting a small fire, he crouched before the pathetic flame and ate half his ration of dates and bread flaps. Another of Mitkhal’s maxims: “Never gorge yourself on all your food. Only Allah knows when the next meal will appear”.

  He took stock of what remained when he rewrapped his rations in palm leaves. Four dried dates and one shrivelled bread flap. His first priority was to find another group of black tents. He drank the last of the sour camel’s milk from his bag, squeezing the hairy leather in an effort to drain the dregs. If he didn’t reach humanity soon he’d have to boil river water in a skin. He played with the idea. Boiled or not, Karun water wasn’t an appetising prospect, but perhaps it wouldn’t come to that. He could ride around the next bend and find Furja curled on a rug in a corner of her father’s tent, looking up and laughing when she saw him.

  He shivered and looked around. No Furja, only freezing darkness. The flame died to an ember of skeletal thorn. Tearing another branch from the bush, he heaped twigs on the smouldering ashes, tucked his robes around his body, and rested his head on his saddlebags. The final image he saw was the vast sky. Stars dotted like pinpricks in decaying velvet that was being held to the light.

  Where had he seen that? Clyneswood, when the housekeeper had taken down the worn old blue-black curtains in the library. Deep, bone-penetrating iciness ached through his limbs and battered ribs, then a warm, tantalizing image of Furja, before dreamless oblivion.

  Harry woke with a start when he felt the ground reverberate beneath him. Opening his eyes, he tensed his muscles. He was surrounded by a forest of brown boots that blossomed into the plumped-out bottoms of khaki breeches. A kick brought excruciating pain that drove the breath from his lungs.

  ‘Bedawi!’ He was hauled to his feet.

  ‘I speak no Turkish,’ he pleaded in Arabic, opening his arms to show he carried no weapons. A second kick aimed at his shins felled him to his knees. ‘I am alone, a poor horse dealer from Basra …’

  A man sporting an officer’s insignia looked down at him. Dark eyes peered suspiciously into his. ‘Basra?’

  Harry nodded, praying the officer wouldn’t see further than his Bedouin robes. He’d scraped his chin every day with the knife strapped to his saddle but the blade had lost its edge, and without soap or mirror, the exercise had become little more than a useless morning ritual. He sensed the officer staring at his stubble. His beard was so damned fair. If it were only his grey eyes he might stand a chance. Perhaps if he told them his mother was a Druse …

  The cold barrel of a rifle pressed into his back and fear superseded panic. This was it! The end. He’d wasted time living for a tomorrow that would never come. He’d done nothing worthwhile … made no mark that would live beyond him.

  He gazed into the face of the short, thickset Turk. Saw the bushy eyebrows beetling toge
ther, the syphilitic pockmark on the greasy chin. Watched the cavernous mouth open, displaying brown, broken teeth. Unintelligible orders were being shouted somewhere outside his paralysed consciousness. Grinning, the soldier raised a gun until the barrel glinted hollowly into his right eye. Harry held his breath and waited. Someone said you never heard the bullet that hit you.

  Furja! She’d never know what had happened to him.

  His hands were heaved behind his back and secured with a leather thong that ripped the skin from his wrists. He was thrown across a horse. The collision with saddle leather stung his chest; his face crashed into a metal stirrup. He’d been a fool. He knew the limits of the British line yet he’d ridden up the KarunValley like a lovesick calf. And now he was going to be killed. Or tortured, or both.

  How long would it be before he started screaming in English, not Arabic? He recalled the bodies on the banks of the Shatt. The claw marks in the sacks. Not long. Not long at all.

  A Turkish outpost on the Karun, Saturday December 26th 1914

  Heaved from his horse, Harry was dragged into a wooden shack and kicked to his knees. A hand locked into his hair, pulling his head upwards until he faced a man who sat behind a desk. A soldier dumped his saddlebags on the desk. The officer fired a question – in Turkish. Harry answered in Arabic.

  ‘I am a poor horse dealer …’

  The grip on his hair tightened. He screamed when a clump was torn free. The soldier behind him stepped forward and waved it in front of the officer.

  Scalp smarting, Harry stared at the bloodied roots of strands that had been bleached by the summers he’d spent in the East. He could never remember his hair being that fair before, not even as a child. It was as blond as that of Georgiana’s German governess. The governess he and Mikey had christened the Hun – Hun!

  The Germans were allies of the Turks …

  He cleared his throat. ‘Ich heiße Manfred Untern.’ His voice was cracked. He wished he’d paid more attention to the German lessons his parents had insisted he take. ‘Untern aus Berlin.’

  The Turkish officer called to the man who was holding him. Harry felt a tugging on the bonds on his wrists, then a marvellous sense of relief as his hands fell free to his sides.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Turkish camp, KarunValley, Tuesday December 29th 1914

  ‘Why do you ask the obvious, Commander?’ Ibn Shalan gazed at the officer. ‘You can see where my own and my companion’s –’ he gestured to Mitkhal, who stood behind him ‘– guns have come from.’

  ‘They are British.’

  Ibn Shalan turned his hands out, palm uppermost. ‘We poor, desert tribesmen scavenge where we can. Our guns may have had the misfortune to belong to the Ferenghi, but they have no memories. We, who now wield them, have no more love for the invaders of this land than you.’

  ‘Our prison compound is full of Arabs who scream their loyalty to the Ottoman Empire but whose actions tell a different story.’

  ‘If I could but take one look into that compound, Effendi.’

  ‘We are holding many dangerous criminals.’ The officer focused on Shalan while spitting on the floor. ‘If you went in, you would not come out alive.’

  ‘Yet you placed my kinsman who is innocent of any crime among them.’

  The commander left his canvas chair and walked to the small square of mesh that had been let into the wall of the shack. ‘How can you be sure your kinsman is in our prison compound?’

  ‘Ten days ago, one of my tribe saw him ride into this camp escorted by your soldiers.’

  ‘Many soldiers ride in and out of this camp.’ The commander narrowed his eyes. ‘Do your tribesmen sit by our gate watching all our comings and goings?’

  ‘No,’ Shalan replied. If the commander suspected the extent of Bedouin surveillance neither he nor Mitkhal, let alone Harry, would leave the camp alive.

  ‘If your kinsman was here, and I’m not saying he was, he could have left. He could be in your tent now, while you waste your time and mine.’

  Shalan knew when to retreat. He salaamed. Before he reached the door, the commander called him back.

  ‘Your name?’ He picked up a pencil.

  ‘Aziz Ibn Mohammed.’ In the eyes of Allah, Shalan told no lie. Was not every one of the faithful a spiritual descendant of the prophet?

  ‘And you.’ The commander pointed his pencil at Mitkhal.

  ‘Faris Ibn Mohammed.’ Unlike Shalan, Mitkhal had no compunction about lying to a Turk.

  ‘Should you forget where your loyalty lies, Sheikh, you will see our prison compound from the inside.’

  Shalan thought of Furja. Her reaction when she’d listened to the report of Harry’s capture, five days after it had occurred. Her pleading, when she’d begged him to save her husband. How could he return to her bereft of hope?

  Mitkhal opened the door. Shalan glanced at him and read his thoughts. They had tried to get Harry out through the front gate and failed. Mitkhal was already plotting to enter the camp under cover of darkness. Two thousand Turks guarding one open wire compound. It was suicidal lunacy, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

  A sentry marched past Mitkhal. He snapped to attention. ‘Herr Untern, commander.’ His tongue stumbled over the alien name.

  ‘Usher him in, man.’

  A slim, fair man of middle height picked his way across the planks in the muddy compound. He held a battered umbrella over his head and leant on a stick. His face was in shadow but Shalan saw his Turkish dress uniform was cleaner than the commander’s.

  Herr Untern entered the office and looked at Shalan. ‘Have we met, Sheikh …?’

  ‘Aziz.’ Shalan replied. ‘I scarcely recognised you in your present dress.’

  ‘You are dismissed, Sheikh Aziz,’ the commander interrupted.

  ‘Commander, this is one of the desert contacts I spoke to you about. He has done sterling work for both our Empires. May I enquire why you are here, Sheikh Aziz?’

  ‘He came to look for a relative in our prison compound,’ the commander answered.

  ‘In that case we must do all we can to help.’ Herr Untern pulled a notebook from his pocket. ‘If you give me the name of your relative, Sheikh Aziz, I will endeavour to find him.’

  ‘It is a trifling matter. Nothing to concern someone of your importance.’

  ‘Nevertheless I will ensure all the prisoners are questioned. If one should prove to be your kinsman, I will oversee his return to your tent.’

  ‘The commander believes the man I am looking for has left.’

  ‘In that case, he could be lost in the desert, Sheikh Aziz. Have you looked for him there?’

  ‘He is unused to desert life. Perhaps I would be better employed preparing his wife for widowhood.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that until we have searched the compound.’

  ‘I will wait a few days, no more. His wife is sick with worry. In such a case bad news is preferable to no news.’

  ‘Please, assure the man’s wife that all that can be done to find her husband will be.’

  Shalan bowed and left the office with Mitkhal.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Herr Untern?’ The commander asked in the same Arab dialect he had used when speaking to the Sheikh.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for all your hospitality, commander. My stay here has been a pleasant interlude, but duty calls. I must leave for my embassy in Baghdad.’

  ‘I understand, Herr Untern, but you will need supplies. While my men prepare for your journey you will have time to share a meal with me.’

  ‘While we eat we could look over the maps one last time?’ Herr Untern suggested.

  ‘The more conversant we are with one another’s plans, the greater our chances of bringing this war to a quick and righteous conclusion.’ The Turk repeated the argument the German had used when he had asked to look over the Turkish battle plans.

  ‘I see I am going to have to take your name to high places, commander.’

  ‘An officer
tries to do his duty.’ The commander unlocked a case that stood on his desk. ‘Shall we begin?’

  The desert, December 1914

  No crimson-streaked desert sunset ushered in the darkness that night. The pewter skies grew gradually colder and heavier until the man standing on the ground could no longer make out the outline of his feet. Even the river could only be distinguished by the sound of rain falling on water.

  Mitkhal retreated beneath his single-poled tent and pulled his sodden robes closer to his body. He’d been waiting for five hours, his senses stretched to their utmost; but it was too dark for anyone to come now. Resting his head on the flank of the camel that lay alongside him, he closed his eyes. The warmth of the beast went some way to dispelling the chill from his body. He would sleep, and tomorrow …

  Out of the torrential streaming came the sound he’d been waiting for. The squelch of camel hoofs in mud. Pushing his hand out from under the goat hair blanket, he stroked the muzzle of his camel to steady her.

  ‘Kush!’ shouted a familiar voice. ‘Kush, you cursed creature.’

  Mitkhal peered into the gloom. ‘Herr Untern.’

  ‘Mitkhal.’

  ‘You alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mitkhal confirmed.

  ‘Where are you? I can’t see a blessed thing and this wretched animal won’t move in the direction I want to take.’

  ‘You should have let me teach you to ride a camel months ago.’

  ‘Months ago I hoped I’d never need to climb on the back of one.’

  ‘I warned you if you ever had to travel the desert during the rains you’d have to. Stay where you are. I’ll find you.’ Mitkhal advanced and crashed into Harry’s camel. The beast moved backwards; Mitkhal caught its neck, heaving it to a halt.