The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 23

  She looked from Charles to the posed photograph of John, a frozen smile on his face, his eyes dead, cold. Had she ever really loved him?

  ‘I’ll bring a carriage at 10.30. Harriet can come or not, as she wishes. I’ll keep the tickets. If you have any ideas of running to D’Arbez with stories of my brutality, forget them. What I said earlier about closed doors encompasses even Portuguese society. They don’t like whores who service natives any more than the British. Those jewels you’re wearing were obviously designed for Indian royalty.’

  ‘I bought them …’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt you paid for them, Maud. But not with money. I’ve heard enough about your exploits to fill the columns of half a dozen yellow press newspapers.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare …’

  ‘I wouldn’t do it to the wife of a friend. But an ex-wife who’d run off with another man? Try me. If John needs grounds for divorce, I’ll supply him with the names of men who attended dinner parties where the female guests were naked. And picnics where ladies were passed around instead of dessert. Under those circumstances I think he’d consider himself better off without you.’

  ‘You bastard. You couldn’t possibly know …’

  ‘D’Arbez teaching you English, Maud?’ Charles walked to the door. ‘Ten-thirty tomorrow. Be packed and ready.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The British camp, Ahwaz. Evening of Tuesday 16th March 1915

  ‘Is that it, Captain Mason?’

  John looked up from the casualty list he was updating. ‘For now; come back in a couple of hours.’

  The sergeant ordered the stretcher-bearers to pick up the last corpse and marched them out. John continued to scrawl notes against names.

  Died from wounds. Died from frostbite. Died from dysentery. Discharged fit for duty.

  He looked down the rows of pallets in the tent. There were two more he didn’t expect to last the night. At this rate there’d be no one left for the Turks to capture when they overran the post. He, along with the other officers, had no idea why the Turks were waiting.

  Harry stole into the tent, his eyes glazed with exhaustion, stubble darkening his unwashed face.

  ‘You look as though you need a cot in the officers’ hospital tent.’ John offered him a canvas chair.

  Harry sat down. ‘I’ll settle for a bath and a meal.’

  ‘While it’s quiet?’

  ‘It will remain that way while our gunboat is in the river. The Turks credit it with powers I wish it possessed.’

  ‘They’re not planning an offensive?’

  ‘Mitkhal was in their camp four hours ago.’ Harry pulled off his kafieh and ran a hand through his hair. ‘They’re sending half their force to the Euphrates. The next show will be there. If we lose that, it will only be a matter of time before they overrun the Wilyat, including this base. If we win, they’ll retreat upstream, leaving the Shatt, the Karun, and the oilfields to us.’

  ‘The locals?’ John pressed him.

  ‘The Arab auxiliaries fighting alongside the Turks will desert or switch allegiance to us if they think there’s something in it for them.’

  ‘It’s reassuring to know there’s nothing personal in their slaughter of our troops.’

  ‘The only personal feelings the Arab have is self-preservation for themselves and their families. See to these for me.’ Harry dumped a bundle and a packet on the table John was using as a desk. ‘Mitkhal took the Dorset lieutenant’s tunic off one of Sheikh Ghadban’s warriors. It’s wrapped around the ID tags we found on the field. The tags were about all the scavengers left.’

  ‘Then it’s true, the Arabs are mutilating bodies.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Harry picked up the packet of papers, ‘This, I found next to what was left of Brooke. I thought you’d want to write the letter home. You knew him better than anyone else here.’

  ‘I hoped he’d made it.’

  ‘There’s no one left to hope for outside this camp.’

  ‘Drink?’ John reached for the bottle that had become his inseparable companion.

  ‘No, thanks, mornings after take on new meaning in the desert.’

  ‘You can’t travel out now. You look like death.’

  ‘I have to get through to Basra.’

  ‘In God’s name, we’re surrounded.’

  ‘The Turks don’t kill Arabs. At least, not neutral ones, and Mitkhal and I make credible neutral Arabs.’ Harry stretched his arms above his head.

  John moved his chair.

  ‘Sorry, I smell like a camel. It’s time to organise that bath, supplies, and a couple of fresh horses. Dorset’s exhausted. Take care of her for me.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s ironic that you’re driving yourself harder than your horse?’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Night is kind to travellers; they, like the jackals, are grey. Do me another favour when this show is over; and I don’t mean this battle, I mean the whole bloody war. Look up Furja and the child if I’m not around. Make sure they’re all right. I’ve left them everything I own but I’ve a feeling Shalan will be too proud to draw on my account. Check she has what she needs and the child knows about me.’

  ‘Harry, you’re going to survive this mess.’

  ‘Just promise.’

  John looked at him. ‘You know I will.’

  John downed half a bottle of brandy before examining the parcels. When he unwrapped the tunic a stream of ID tags fell out. He pushed them aside. The camp clerk could check the names off against the missing in the morning. He pulled the smaller package towards him. A set of tags was wrapped around it, a sheet of paper tucked under the string. It was difficult to read Harry’s scrawl; the paper was dirty, the pencil markings faint.

  The personal effects of Sub-Lieutenant Geoffrey Brooke.

  He unfolded a pile of letters from the muddy outer covering. They’d obviously been soaked at some time; now dry, they fell apart in his hands. He removed the thickest wad, hoping to find a name or address. The clerk would have Geoffrey’s home address but he wondered if there was someone else, a girl perhaps. A lock of golden hair fell on the table. Tied with a strand of red ribbon, it shimmered in the lamplight, reminding him of Maud and a world where men and women moved in circles where there was no thought or mention of death. Holding the hair, he pieced together the largest sheet of paper.

  My Darling,

  I’m writing this on my cot in my tent. It’s late and the camp is quiet. Knight is on duty, I’m alone, the lamp is lit and I have placed your photograph beneath it. If I close my eyes and hold your lock of hair, I can almost imagine myself back in the Star of India. The steps of the sentries are those of the waiter bringing us champagne, the night air, your breath, the wind, your voice whispering your love. I miss you and those wonderful afternoons we shared so very much. Wherever I go, whatever I do, my darling, my every thought is of you. When this war is over, I will never let you out of my sight again.

  We’ll find a way to be together no matter what. I’ve seen your husband, but I remembered what you said and didn’t tell him about us. I wanted to. You can’t ever go back to him. I can’t bear the thought of him or any other man touching you. You’re mine now. And always will be.

  One more push. That’s what everyone is saying; one more push and the Gulf will be ours. The minute it’s over, please come to Basra. I’ll rent a house for us. There’ll be gossip, but what will that matter? We’ll live quietly and for one another. God, I love you so much it hurts. Goodnight. My love now and for ever, your Geoffrey.

  John laid the lock of hair on the letter and refolded the paper around it. There was an address on the back. He stared at it, then fumbled through the remaining papers. He shook them. A photograph fell out. A woman smiled up at him from the creased and muddied print. There were beads on her dress. He recognised them. It was the evening gown she’d worn that last night on the Egra. The first night they’d spent together. He turned the photograph over.

  Written in a sloping hand he
knew only too well was To Darling Geoffrey. All my love, Maud.

  Basra , Saturday April 10th 1915

  The political officer laid Harry’s report and a map on his desk. At the first rap on the door, he shouted, ‘Enter.’

  Harry walked in, wearing a colonel’s uniform that hung loose on his slender frame.

  ‘Lost weight, Downe?’

  ‘Desert travel, sir.’

  ‘Glad to see you back in one piece, even if there is less of you. Sit down. I presume you’ve heard the news?’

  ‘That General Nixon’s relieved Lieutenant-General Barrett? Yes, sir.’

  ‘Nixon’s a very different man to Barrett.’ Cox chewed his pen thoughtfully, then changed the subject. ‘I’ve read your reports. The oilfields are surrounded?’

  ‘Completely. Sheikh Muhammerah’s lost control, and the tribes are fighting amongst themselves over the spoils of the battlefields. There are more guns in the hands of the natives now than there’ve ever been. When I left, the Bawi happened to have the most firepower but the situation could have changed since then.’

  ‘You think the Bawi cut the pipeline?’

  ‘I know the Bawi cut the line. And the telegraph wires, sir. They’re camped in the fields now, murdering anyone who ventures in.’

  ‘Our force at Ahwaz?’ Cox asked.

  ‘Isn’t cut off because the river access is, or rather was, clear when I left. But they’re surrounded, by hostile tribes as well as the Turks.’

  ‘Yet you think this Armenian clerk, without an armed escort, can get the wages in gold through to the oil company.’

  Cox didn’t conceal his scepticism.

  ‘One of our allies is married to the sister of Ibn Shalan. He persuaded Shalan to guarantee the party’s safety. Shalan agreed, not because he has any love for us but because he has a hatred of the Turks. I paid Shalan and his tribe to monitor the party’s progress.’

  ‘In guns?’

  ‘He gave his word he won’t use them against us.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  ‘I believe him,’ Harry repeated. ‘You did say paying the oil company’s native staff was a priority.’

  ‘There’s little point in us having an oilfield if we can’t pipe out the oil. You don’t think we should send reinforcements to Ahwaz?’

  Harry set aside personal thoughts of John and the beleaguered troops. ‘No, sir, the Turks orchestrated this Bawi rebellion in the hope we’d split our force to deal with it. Qurna is as vulnerable as Ahwaz and no one’s suggesting we send reinforcements up river. If my intelligence is correct, the Turks don’t know the numbers and strength of our incoming reinforcements from India, and that’s one card in our favour.’

  ‘I only wish I knew them. Apart from extra staff officers, HQ either ignores our demands, or divides them by ten.’

  ‘The Turkish force is concentrating outside Basra at Shaiba. And we’ve more than the Turks to contend with. I’ve spoken to natives who’ve seen German spies moving along the Euphrates and the Karun.’

  ‘Wassmuss?’ Cox questioned.

  ‘And Meyer. Both have gold and both are playing up to this holy war against the infidel. The Jihad is being preached in every mosque in Mesopotamia and the tribes are responding. They’re gathering on the Turkish flanks at Shaiba; but I don’t think they’ll play an active part until they’re sure who is going to win. Then they’ll harass the loser and take what pickings they can.’

  ‘I value your opinion, Downe. Tell me, truthfully, is it worth us courting Arab loyalties?’

  ‘It’s worth courting them, sir. It would be foolish to rely on them.’

  ‘Even Shalan and your tame Arabs?’

  ‘Our brief is to secure the oilfields, sir.’ Harry avoided answering Cox’s question. ‘I think we should concentrate on Shaiba. If we succeed in driving the Turks back there, they’ll be forced to retreat up river from the Basra Wilyat. That route will take them through the Hammar marshes and the Marsh Arabs will finish the job we began.’

  ‘The Marsh Arabs will turn?’

  ‘Not enough to switch allegiance to us, but they’ll take every gun, box of supplies, and shred of uniform from the Turks. If the Turks resist, they’ll be killed. Not en masse, the Arabs don’t go in for that kind of fighting, but they’ll harry the stragglers and wipe out any small parties that become detached from the main force.’

  ‘If we win at Shaiba, we secure the KarunValley and the ground we took on the Tigris last December.’ Cox looked at the map. ‘The Turks will be forced to retreat to the next point. Which is …’

  Harry rammed his finger on the map, ‘Amara, sir.’

  ‘The town would be a good front-line buffer to Basra. We’d have the Shatt, the Gulf, and the Karun. It shouldn’t be too difficult to keep control of an area that size. We could even reduce our force here and release men for the Western Front.’

  ‘But first we have to win at Shaiba, sir.’

  ‘That’s correct, Lieutenant-Colonel Downe. First we have to win at Shaiba.’

  Shaiba, evening of Thursday April 14th 1915

  Darkness had fallen, but it was a darkness punctuated by sunbursts of shellfire and the staccato pinpricks of rifle shot.

  Harry and Mitkhal stood with their horses alongside the British flank. The guns of the Royal Horse Artillery thundered intermittently on their far left; ahead of them boomed the answering sallies of the Turks.

  ‘No sign of the Turks letting up,’ Mitkhal whispered. ‘Who told you they were pulling out? An officer who hasn’t left Basra since this started?’

  ‘Ibn Muba.’

  ‘Since when do you listen to Marsh Arabs?’

  ‘Since the war moved into the marshes.’

  A lieutenant slid through the quagmire towards them. ‘Artillery and naval units on the river are due to start a major bombardment in four minutes, sir. Major Harrap’s asking if you can be ready to leave by then.’

  ‘We’ll be ready.’ Harry tugged at his horse’s reins.

  ‘You’re sure these two can swim?’ Mitkhal asked.

  ‘You’ve never worried about our mounts before.’

  ‘We’ve never ridden army horses before.’

  ‘These aren’t army horses, they’re Perry’s polo ponies.’ Harry shuddered as a gun belched forth from one of the naval units. Too far away to do any damage to the Turks, it merely sounded impressive. He mounted and lay low along the horse’s neck.

  Knowing Mitkhal would follow, he plunged into the floodwater that had burst the banks of the Shatt. His robes billowed, dragging him down when they became saturated with freezing, rank liquid. His horse’s hooves slipped, then came a sensation of weightless insecurity when the animal lunged into deeper water and began to swim. The lights of the British forces grew dim. Ahead he could see the glow of the Turkish Army’s torches. He heard Mitkhal curse behind him.

  An ominous feeling stole through his senses. He remembered Brooke. The stones he and Mitkhal had heaped over his pathetic remains. Would anyone bother to do the same for him?

  He shook off the emasculating fear, concentrating on a ridge that rose out of the black waters ahead. Ibn Muba should – would – be waiting on that island.

  He had to be positive. Forget everything except the task in hand. Ibn Muba had an insatiable appetite for gold. The Marsh Arab would have made it his business to discover the Turkish losses, their current position and, most important of all, whether rumours of an imminent Turkish withdrawal were true.

  A quick discussion with Muba and he and Mitkhal would be back behind British lines, relieved of the gold they carried. But what if they weren’t? What if they were caught …?

  The current dragged him from the mound. His heart thundered erratically for the few minutes it took to guide his horse back on course. Thank God this was the last time he’d have to do this. Planes were on their way from India. Aerial reconnaissance would serve command better than the information he gathered from the natives.

  Mitkhal’s whisper rose a
bove the sound of the river. ‘To the right. A torch flashed.’

  Harry watched, counting. One – two – three – darkness. He whistled a snatch of native folksong. The answering whistle was louder, a different tune. The cold and griping fear of death diminished.

  Ibn Muba was waiting.

  *……*……*

  Basra, evening of April 14th 1915

  Charles walked across the parade ground towards the officers’ bungalows, stopping outside the one that had been Perry’s. He visualised Emily walking through the French windows, her blue silk dress and ash blonde hair gleaming in the moonlight. Her warm smile when she saw him waiting – waiting for what? Death to take him as it had taken her.

  A cloud obscured the moon. He shivered from more than cold. Emily was a ghost that chained his emotions and prevented him from living in the present. Wracked by regret and guilt at his failure to persuade her to leave for England with him, he measured the distance between the bungalow and the veranda of the one that had been Harry’s.

  If only – but there were no “ifs”. Emily had left her bungalow after he’d gone. Harry had found her when he’d returned from the quay.

  If he’d stayed in Basra for John’s wedding, he might have heard her cry. Then he could have run out, killed the scorpion, saved her – but not for him. For George Perry. Emily had made her choice. Duty, not love. Or had it been duty? Perhaps she’d fallen in love with India, not him. The tropical beauty of perfumed nights, the heat of sensual, closeted afternoons.

  She’d told him she led a miserable, loveless life with her husband but she could have lied. George, like John, had been in Basra and she, like Maud, had been in India – five days’ journey from sexual gratification. Like mother like daughter. Had he and John both been played for fools?

  Tormented by the thought, he headed for Colonel Hale’s bungalow. It hadn’t been easy to find Maud accommodation, for the town was ridiculously overcrowded. He’d crawled to every officer he had a nodding acquaintance with, until John’s colonel had offered her a room. When he’d accepted the invitation on Maud’s behalf, he’d hoped that Basra and the Hales hadn’t heard the rumours. After he was waylaid by several fellow officers, he’d realised it was a forlorn hope.