The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 24

  He heard Maud’s laughter as he neared the windows. The idea of Maud enjoying herself while John was beleaguered in Ahwaz incensed him. He stopped beneath a lantern that hung from the rafters of a neighbouring bungalow and glanced at his watch. It was just after seven. The Hales wouldn’t have finished dinner. If he called now he’d have to drink brandy with the colonel and make polite small talk.

  He looked behind the bungalows. The cemetery was less than 20 minutes’ walk. He’d asked for directions that morning. The officer had answered his query and moved on. It was bad form to mention death. Fighting, yes – wounds even – but not death. It was too familiar a spectre that stalked everyone.

  Maud wasn’t expecting him until later, if at all. He’d warned her he might be shipped out to the front immediately. Lifting down the lantern, he continued walking. The lights of the town closed around him like stars crammed into a shrunken heaven.

  At the top of a slight rise, gates barred his path. He tugged at the bolt and heaved them open. The metal left streaks of rust on his hands. The damned climate! Everything rotted in it.

  He gazed at the crumbling grave markers and carved angels that glowed white in the darkness. Lifting his lantern, he read the faded lettering.

  In loving memory of Mary Louise died 12th June 1860 aged one year, three months. Beloved daughter of Major Robert and Mary Sanders.

  “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”

  In remembrance of James Brock. Died 14th July 1876 aged seven.

  After a time he saw only the ages. Babies, children, young men and women who had scarcely lived before they’d died.

  Harriet Gould, 19. George Makepeace, 16. Lieutenant William Blair, 20 years 6 months …

  He found the new graves, mounds of earth surmounted by temporary wooden crosses. He was stunned by the size of the area they covered. He read the dates scratched into the wood. October 1914, November 1914, December 1914, January 1915, February, March. Already there was a sprinkling of April’s. Lieutenant – Private – Sergeant – Sergeant Major – Colonel – Major – Captain –

  No rank was spared and High Command had said this campaign wasn’t costly. How many more? How many of those would he know?

  He stumbled into a muddy hole. Clutching his lantern, he regained his footing and found what he was looking for. A stone memorial emblazoned with a cross.

  The weather had been kind so far. He brought the lantern closer and read the Gothic lettering.

  Beneath this stone lie the mortal remains of Emily Maud Perry, dutiful wife of Major George Perry. Died July 1914 aged 36 years.

  “Blessed are those that are undefiled in the way; and walk in the law of the Lord.” Psalm 119

  Had George found out about Emily and him? Blessed are those that are undefiled …

  Had Harry lied? Had Emily really died from a scorpion bite?

  He picked up a clump of damp earth. It stuck to his fingers.

  ‘Leave him, Emily. It’s not as if you’ve ever loved him. We can sail on to England together.’

  ‘My dear boy, I’m old.’

  ‘Barely ten years older than me. What’s ten years?’

  ‘In four years you’ll be a young man of 30, and I’ll be 40 …’

  He flung the mud to the ground. Emily would never be 40 and he’d never feel what he’d felt for her again. Whether Emily had loved him or not, he’d loved her, and every chance of happiness had gone with her.

  Kneeling, he clawed at the sodden earth below her headstone. The air temperature dropped below freezing. The lights went out one by one in the town. As the clumps of sticky earth he tore from her grave piled into a mound, he sank lower into the hollow he’d dug. Suddenly, his fingers hit wood.

  The rotten planking gave way beneath his knees. Unable to tear himself away, he spread his legs. Balancing precariously on the earth banks either side of Emily’s grave, he tore at the hole in her coffin.

  Lifting down the lantern, he saw a shroud, greenish black, decaying at the edges. He ripped up the splintered coffin lid. Emily’s hair, still golden, shimmered in the lamplight, curtaining her mould-blackened shoulders. Reaching out, he stole a strand. It came away easily. He wrapped it around his finger. He couldn’t avoid looking at her face; her teeth larger, naked in death as they had never been in life, grinned back at him.

  Staring at her black, empty eye sockets, he sat back on his heels and wept.

  The lantern burned out and dawn broke before he replaced the planks and the earth he’d removed. Finally, he rose from his knees. He took one last look before walking away. He felt as though he’d left his heart and everything he’d lived for in the mud behind him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Shaiba, 2 a.m. Wednesday April 14th 1915

  Harry’s spirits were high despite the water that swirled, cold and clammy, to his waist. His arms ached from heaving on his horse’s reins, his head swam with undigested information, but one fact shone above all others. The rumours were true. The Turks were pulling out. The first of their large-bore guns was already being hauled upstream through the Hammar marshes.

  We’ve won! The thought blazed triumphantly. They’d done it. One more push, one more battle, and Amara would be theirs. That’s all they needed – the territory as far as Amara …

  A bullet whistled overhead. He slid from the saddle, only just managing to keep a grip on the reins. The bullet was followed by another – and another.

  ‘Snipers,’ Mitkhal groaned.

  ‘From our own bloody side.’ Harry whispered, wary of drawing the attention of Turkish snipers as well as their own. Clinging to his horse’s neck, he urged it on.

  ‘Another 20 yards and we’ll be out of range of the Turks.’

  ‘I’ve marked the spot.’ Harry fought against the waterlogged weight of his robes. ‘I’ll shout to the bloody idiots when we reach it.’

  The bullets continued to hit the water around them. Harry ducked below the surface. Lungs at bursting point, he rose to the screams of an animal in agony. Bullets were flying from both directions. Mitkhal’s horse thrashed beside him; the saddle empty, the reins dangling loose.

  ‘Mitkhal!’ he shouted, not caring who heard him. Thrashing wildly, he glimpsed pale cloth floating behind him. He reached out. When his horse refused to go with him, he released the reins and sank beneath the weight of his robes. Another flash rent the sky from the direction of British lines.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop!’ he yelled in English. ‘We’re on your bloody side.’

  The white patch was drifting downstream. He tried to swim but his right hand was numb. Another flash was followed by the crack of a bullet. Voices carried over the water from the bank. A sepoy swam out to him.

  ‘Colonel Downe, there’s a rope around my waist. My platoon is holding it. Haul yourself back to the bank.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘I can see your companion, Colonel. With respect, I’m not as tired as you. Go back before you delay me further.’

  Harry couldn’t argue against logic. Fumbling below the water, he found the rope. Keeping his arm hooked around it, he half swam, half dragged himself towards land. When his feet sank into mud, sepoys waded out to him. He looked back. The sepoy in the water had reached Mitkhal. The men began to haul in the rope. The sepoy was struggling to keep Mitkhal’s head above water. Harry dived forward when they reached the shallow. The Arab was spluttering, sweetly, beautifully alive.

  ‘Don’t you ever do anything like that to me again.’

  Mitkhal gave a wan smile. A medical orderly ran towards them, first aid box banging at his side. Harry and the sepoy lifted Mitkhal and, between them, helped him to the bank.

  ‘Leave him to me, Colonel Downe.’ The medical orderly gasped. ‘The stretcher-bearers are on their way.’

  Harry peeled back Mitkhal’s sodden robes. Clots of dark blood on his left shoulder were interspersed with white bone splinters. He’d learnt enough during his wasted year in medical college to recognise a shattered colla
rbone. He glared at the men milling on the bank.

  ‘What bloody idiot started the shooting?’

  The young lieutenant who’d carried Harrap’s orders to them earlier hopped from one foot to the other. ‘An officer up the line sent down information the Turks were about to attack our flank, sir. He ordered us to fire on anything suspicious.’

  ‘What bloody officer?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  Harry closed his left hand around the lieutenant’s throat and slammed him to the ground. ‘What bloody officer?’

  The boy uttered a strangled cry. The sepoy who’d dragged Mitkhal from the water dared to speak.

  ‘You’re holding the wrong man, Colonel Downe.’

  Harry released his grip. The lieutenant scrambled upright and backed away. Major Harrap, red-faced, agitated, ran towards them.

  ‘You all right, Downe?’

  ‘No thanks to whoever gave the order to shoot.’

  ‘It came from up the line. Some Johnny who didn’t know about your operation.’

  ‘We saw Arab robes, sir,’ a sergeant ventured. ‘Assumed it was Turkish irregulars.’

  ‘Anyone could make a mistake like that, sir,’ the lieutenant squeaked.

  ‘Downe, you’ve been hit, your hand …’

  ‘Can wait, Harrap,’ Harry replied. Someone threw a blanket around him. Until its warmth lay heavy on his shoulders he hadn’t realised he was cold. ‘I have to find command.’

  ‘Shot of this before you go.’ Harrap handed him a flask. ‘Lieutenant, escort Colonel Downe and make sure no one else mistakes him for a Turkish irregular.’

  Harry found the sepoy who’d rescued Mitkhal and stopped him from throttling the lieutenant sitting on an ammunition box, huddled under a greatcoat. ‘Thank you …’

  ‘Chatta Ram, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Chatta Ram. My companion and I would be dead if it wasn’t for you. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, look me up.’

  ‘I’ll remember your offer, sir.’

  ‘Please do.’ Harry glanced back as he walked away. There was something familiar in the set of the sepoy’s head.

  He looked at his hand. Blood was pouring from the back and he couldn’t move his fingers, but it would have to wait. First, he’d go to command, then check on Mitkhal; afterwards, he’d track down a certain officer and discuss the orders that had been sent down the line about an imminent Turkish attack.

  Shaiba, evening of Thursday 15th April 1915

  ‘Harry, what’s this?’ Amey held up a bottle. ‘One of my sepoys found it in a Turkish trench.’

  Harry squinted at the label before taking the bottle into his left hand. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll tell you.’ He stumbled to the door of the coffee house that housed the officers’ mess.

  ‘Damn it, that’s German brandy Downe’s walking off with, not Turkish piss.’ Crabbe made a play for the bottle.

  ‘Could be poisoned,’ Harry declared, breaking the seal.

  ‘As we’re in this together, we take equal risks.’ Crabbe retrieved the bottle. ‘Orderly, more glasses.’

  Head swimming, Harry staggered to a chair.

  Amey grabbed two glasses of the brandy Crabbe was dispensing and sat on the floor alongside Harry. ‘Here’s to us.’ He handed Harry one.

  Crabbe climbed onto a table. ‘To the King, victory, and the invincible Expeditionary Force. To us, gentlemen.’

  ‘To us.’ Harry and Stephen lifted their glasses but, wary of falling over, remained seated.

  ‘Strange how Crabbe is almost human now. Must be the war,’ Stephen slurred.

  ‘It’s brought out the best in Crabbe,’ Harry agreed. He would have agreed with almost anything at that moment.

  ‘Hasn’t brought out the best in Perry.’ Stephen looked to the corner where the colonel was sinking his share of the alcoholic spoils.

  ‘I don’t want to think about Perry.’

  ‘You’re too drunk to think about anything,’ Stephen mocked.

  ‘I’m no drunker than you.’

  ‘If you want a neutral opinion, there’s not much between it,’ a sober voice declared.

  Harry tried to focus. ‘Charles?’

  ‘If the Turks came back now they’d have a field day.’

  ‘They’re too busy retreating through the marches. Seen them myself.’

  ‘Riding pink elephants?’ Charles sat alongside them. ‘Any brandy for a tired soldier after a long journey?’

  ‘You’re on the Western Front,’ Harry said.

  ‘I was on the Western Front. The brass said you couldn’t win this sideshow without my help.’

  ‘Should never believe the brass. We did all right. Admit it. You just want in on the glory.’ Harry waved at the orderly. ‘A glass of your finest for Captain …’

  ‘Major.’

  ‘Major Reid.’ Harry smiled. ‘I outrank you.’

  ‘You must tell me about that some time, and that.’ Charles pointed to Harry’s hand.

  ‘How is the Western Front?’ Amey asked.

  ‘Holding when I left.’

  ‘Have you been home?’ Harry sipped his brandy.

  ‘Yes. I saw your parents, Michael, and Georgiana.’

  ‘I’ll push off.’ Stephen rose unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Please don’t go on my account,’ Charles called after him.

  ‘I’ve an appointment with a lady. And a gentleman never keeps a lady waiting. Especially on victory night when there are dozens of others prepared to take his place.’

  Harry turned his bleary eyes to Charles. ‘So, you’re here.’

  ‘I’m here. But I’m not too sure about you.’

  ‘I’ve plenty more of this –’ Harry held up his glass‘– in my quarters. Want to help me drink it?’

  ‘Might be quieter. Sure you can walk?’

  ‘It’s not far.’ Harry staggered. ‘Follow me.’

  Charles opened his eyes to a thundering hangover. His head ached before he attempted to lift it, and his mouth tasted the way he’d imagined Ganges delta water would. Harry’s uniform was laid out on a chair and there were two empty brandy bottles between his bed and a cot pushed against the wall.

  Sitting up slowly, he groped for his trousers. He found them on the floor. Pulling them over his drawers and vest, he opened the door. Two Arabs were sitting on the floor, maps and papers spread around them. It wasn’t until the smaller of the two looked up that he realised it was Harry.

  ‘Good afternoon. Sleep well?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Charles creased his eyes against the light. ‘What did we drink?’

  ‘German brandy and, when that ran out, Turkish.’

  ‘Remind me to never drink it again.’

  ‘There’s a bathroom through there. Why don’t you put your head in cold water?’

  When Charles returned, Harry was alone.

  ‘Coffee?’ Harry lifted a pot from a stove in the corner.

  ‘Anything that will make me feel alive.’

  Harry poured the coffee into tin mugs. ‘Food? I’ve bread, dates, and disgusting Mesopotamian eggs.’

  ‘Why disgusting?

  ‘You’ll see when you see the chickens. They strut around with their heads held high because they live off flies.’

  ‘Coffee will do.’ Charles sat on a stool. ‘Did we talk last night?’

  ‘Possibly, my memory’s vague.’

  ‘You look disgustingly well.’

  ‘I’ve had more practice with Turkish brandy.’

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Charles blurted sincerely.

  ‘It’s good to see you. But it won’t be for long. I have to leave for the Hammar Marshes.’

  ‘That’s held by the Turks.’

  ‘I’m a political officer, and that’s where political officers go.’

  ‘You’ve left the regiment?’

  ‘I’ve been seconded to Cox’s tribe.’

  ‘What is it that drives you into trouble? No one in their rig
ht mind volunteers for that kind of job.’

  ‘How’s Georgiana?’ Harry changed the subject.

  ‘Bearing up.’

  ‘Really?’ Harry looked at Charles.

  Charles relented. ‘You know Georgiana; she was always stronger than any of us.’

  ‘Did you meet her husband?’

  ‘Yes. Once you got over the shock of his accent, he was likeable enough. Good-looking, I suppose, in a dark, broken-nosed way. He worshipped Georgiana and she adored him. I saw her a week after she received the news. She’s hurt but she’s a survivor. She has her work, and God knows the war is giving her plenty of it. Georgiana will come through, but I’m not sure about Michael. Lucy’s crippling him.’

  ‘He made his bed,’ Harry commented.

  ‘Lucy almost caught you and you’re more slippery than Michael. The poor lad managed to steal away from her for an afternoon and tried to enlist. There was hell to play when she found out.’

  ‘They wouldn’t take him?’

  ‘His leg never healed properly after that fall from the apple tree. You remember?’

  ‘The tree you, John, Tom, and I climbed and he wouldn’t. He waited until dark …’

  ‘Climbed it and fell from the top,’ Charles finished for him.

  ‘Idiot,’ Harry muttered fondly.

  ‘He went to the Press Association and badgered them until they gave him a card on the strength of his English degree. Then he nagged my father into pulling a few strings. He’s an official eyewitness on the Western Front.’

  ‘Michael’s in the trenches?’

  ‘More often than behind the lines. Lucy doesn’t like it and gives him hell whenever he visits his office in London. Which, from what I gather, is as seldom as he can make it.’

  ‘Poor Michael.’ Harry reached for the coffee pot. ‘How are my parents?’

  ‘Your mother has her committees, and the recruiting drives have given my father and yours new leases of life. Uncle John’s not so good. He’s aged. I think he was looking forward to John coming home. Speaking of John, I’ve left Maud in Basra.’