The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 28

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Basra, Wednesday 12th May 1914

  By 5.30 in the morning Peter had bathed, shaved, and dressed. Restless, conscious of having only a few hours to spend with Angela, he left the house and walked along the waterfront. Abdul’s was open. He went in and ordered coffee. The place was empty. He looked at his watch. The hands hovered at a quarter to six. He sipped his coffee slowly. When his cup was empty, he decided to throw all caution to the wind. After all, what could Theo or anyone do to him for turning up on the doorstep at this hour?

  He walked through the mission gates as Angela opened her bedroom window. She was wearing one of her grey work frocks but her hair was loose. He watched her pick up a hairbrush, then, unable to contain his excitement a moment longer, he snapped a twig from a fig tree and threw it at her. She looked out and saw him.

  Hoisting her skirts to her knees, she climbed out of the window and ran down the path. Scooping her into his arms, he kissed her; a long, satisfying kiss that shocked Theo when he opened the door and saw them locked in one another’s arms a few minutes later. Peter smiled and pointed to the insignia on his collar.

  ‘I have my captaincy, Theo. Would you arrange a wedding for my next leave, please?’

  *……*……*

  The Kerkha River, Wednesday 12th May 1915

  ‘Of course there are maps of this area. I made perfectly decent ones myself this time last year.’ Harry confronted the staff officer who’d ordered him to scout and map out a route from the Kerkha to the Tigris.

  ‘The General says there are no maps. Never have been,’ Cleck-Heaton declared. ‘As soon as we’ve crossed, you ride ahead with the ghulams …’

  ‘Fine, I’ll ride ahead with the Arabs,’ Harry agreed with uncharacteristic meekness. ‘Would you like me to carry a red flag as a marker for the column to follow, or would you prefer a trail of Turkish bodies? I’d try army biscuit, only the birds are very voracious. You know what happened to the trail of bread the woodcutter’s children left in Hansel and Gretel. And that happened in a nice, civilised European country.’

  ‘Normal channels will suffice, Acting Lieutenant-Colonel Downe. When you have directives for the main force you may send them down the line with your orderlies.’

  ‘Without maps they might not find their way back.’

  ‘The general’s orders are explicit.’ Cleck-Heaton’s face appeared to expand in proportion to his heightened colour. ‘You are to scout a route suitable for cavalry, infantry, and artillery carriages.’

  ‘Difficult without maps.’ Harry turned his back on Cleck-Heaton and adjusted his kafieh in the mirror nailed to the tent post.

  ‘Ten guineas the staff officer cracks before Harry,’ Crabbe whispered to John.

  ‘Acting Lieutenant-Colonel Downe …’

  ‘Major Cleck-Heaton?’ Harry interrupted.

  ‘I have the distinct feeling you’re not treating the general’s orders seriously.’

  ‘On the contrary, I am treating them so seriously I am considering whether to make a detour to the stationery stores in Basra to purchase the maps necessary to expedite our removal to Amara.’

  ‘Sir, I find your remarks …’

  ‘Problems, Downe?’ The CO approached John’s tent.

  ‘GHQ appears to have lost the maps the Frontier Force made of this area, sir.’ To Cleck-Heaton’s annoyance, there was a note of respect in Harry’s voice.

  ‘First I’ve heard of any maps, Downe. You sure they exist?’

  ‘I’m certain they do, sir.’

  ‘Well if there are any, we don’t have them, so we’ll have to manage without.’

  ‘This isn’t the best time of year to effect a crossing, sir,’ Harry advised. ‘The river’s in flood, the currents lethal. One of the Arabs rode down to Kut Saiyid Ali this morning. The Turks have destroyed the ferry boat and every other craft along this stretch.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to rely on our canvas boats.’

  ‘And, the animals, sir.’

  ‘We’ll have to swim the horses and mules across.’

  ‘I’ll try swimming the river, but I won’t risk my own horse on the first crossing.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, Downe? That hand of yours …’

  ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll inspect the horses.’ Ignoring Cleck-Heaton, Harry saluted the CO and headed for the canvas stables.

  Dorset and Devon pawed restlessly in a roped-off stall. Ignoring their whinnies, he walked down the lines, searching for a likely-looking mare. This was a decision he would have entrusted to Mitkhal. Every day, he missed the Arab more.

  ‘Ubbatan?’ Jabal, one of Muhammerah’s ghulams, greeted him.

  ‘Can any of your horses swim, Jabal?’

  ‘All, Ubbatan. But only a fool would try to swim the Kerkha when the snow melts in the Luristan Mountains. The waters can freeze a man who remains in them too long.’

  The man confirmed what Harry already knew. He pointed to a mount. ‘I’ll take the brown mare, Jabal.’

  By forcing the mare on a direct course, Harry managed to reach the centre of the river. He signalled with his right hand. Soon afterwards, he heard the yells and shouts of the Punjabis as they drove the mules into the water in the hope they’d follow his mare.

  Downstream, a canvas boat loaded with sepoys was fighting a current. He was wondering what they could use as ballast to make a flying bridge when he hit the current that was making the crossing difficult for the sepoys. It carried him back to the centre of the river. He kicked the mare’s flanks, but 20 minutes of hard work only carried them further downstream. He glanced behind. The mules were gaining, and his frozen muscles were on the point of seizing.

  Braying, the mules panicked when they hit the current and the weakest were swept downstream. Despite his predicament, Harry laughed when he saw the animals trying to climb into the boat. The sepoys, under orders of a furious Cleck-Heaton, were making heroic endeavours to keep them at bay without success. Two mules were tipping the boat with their hooves when a shout from the bank made him look to his own back.

  A blow between his shoulder blades sent him reeling. He was caught in a maelstrom of threshing, terrified mules. Striving to keep his head above water, he kept a grip on the reins. The mules kept coming, stampeding over the bodies of those in front; forcing them beneath the surface. Harry glimpsed Jabal mounting a black mare and plunging into the water. It would take the Arab too long to reach him. He had to help himself.

  His mare screamed from the blows a dozen hooves were inflicting on her back. He shouted the curses he’d heard Indian muleteers use. The animals backed off for an instant. Sinking his hands into his horse’s mane, he half-swam, half-fought every inch of water that lay between him and the opposite bank. A blow to his head from a hoof spattered coloured lights across the horizon. He fixed his sights on a rock. When he reached it, he’d sit on it. Wait for John to come with a brandy flask.

  After an eternity of swallowing icy water and dodging mules, his feet sank into something soft. He kicked down – nothing. Holding his breath, he kicked again. His head was below the level of the water, but only just. It was mud. He hauled himself forward. The earth wavered before his eyes, but it was wavering closer.

  Ten minutes later, he lay in the shallows, panting on his horse’s neck. It wasn’t until the sepoys reached him that he realised the mare was dead.

  John entered their tent and laid his hand on Harry’s forehead.

  ‘I haven’t a fever,’ Harry snapped.

  ‘Yet. But you have concussion and bruising and your ribs are now as cracked in the back as they are in the front.’

  ‘I like to even things up.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Harry. That pasting you received from that damned sergeant damaged your back muscles. Pick up a heavy load and you’ll tear the scar tissue wide open.’

  ‘Political officers don’t pick up heavy loads. They …’

  ‘Sit around shooting snakes, talking to natives a
nd gambling in bazaars. I’ve seen what political officers do. I’ve recommended your removal to base hospital at Basra. You’re unfit for duty.’

  ‘I’m a bloody sight fitter than you. There are only two political officers with this force and …’

  ‘With you gone, we’ll be down to one.’ John made a note in his diary. ‘Wilson’s a sound man.’

  ‘He won’t be if he has to do everything on his own.’

  ‘We’ve crossed the river. The worst is over.’

  ‘There’s a lot of desert between here and Amara and I’m no sicker than anyone else. We all got a soaking today, and a few more ribs were cracked besides mine.’

  ‘If you continue to push yourself I won’t be held responsible for your health.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to. You will lose that report,’ Harry coaxed.

  ‘No.’ John opened a packet of cigarettes and Harry filched one.

  ‘It won’t do any good. There won’t be any transports leaving for Basra until we hit the Tigris.’

  ‘You’re right, as usual.’ John unlaced his boots.

  ‘You wouldn’t be in such a foul mood if you had a drink.’

  ‘I can’t. There are too many sick who might need me.’ John stripped off his shorts and climbed into his cot.

  ‘Then let’s talk about happy things.’

  ‘What are they?’ John enquired.

  ‘I have twin daughters.’

  John smiled for the first time in days. ‘Well done.’ He lit Harry’s cigarette. ‘This should be a cigar.’

  ‘They’ve blue eyes and fair hair, but their skin is a golden biscuit colour.’

  ‘Babies’ eyes are always blue and their hair will probably turn dark.’

  ‘So Gutne said.’

  ‘Did you see Furja?’

  ‘Briefly. This divorce business is foul. I’ve been trying to think of a way to keep in touch with Furja and the girls. They’re my children and I don’t know what to do about them.’

  ‘Surely they’ll stay with Furja?’

  ‘Not if she remarries. If this war wasn’t in the way, I could find a nurse for them and take them home.’

  ‘To Clyneswood!’

  ‘I don’t want them growing up in Shalan’s tent.’

  ‘You’ve always done whatever you’ve wanted without giving a damn for other people or their opinions. But native children …’

  ‘Half-native,’ Harry countered.

  ‘They’d be social outcasts.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling etiquette and society aren’t going to be so important after the war. After the war,’ Harry reiterated. ‘Now that’s a phrase to conjure with. When the killing stops we’re all going to have to make decisions. Even you.’

  John drew on his cigarette. Harry was right. After the war, he’d have to face Maud. But he didn’t have to think about her. Not now. First Amara had to be taken. But when he closed his eyes, images flooded his mind. Maud in bed with Brooke – Maud writing letters; not the brief epistles he’d received, but long, loving letters to Brooke. Brooke! Brooke! Brooke!

  He damned the bastard for being dead, when all he wanted to do was kill him.

  Basra, Saturday May 15th 1915

  ‘It’s good of you and Mrs Hale to help our benefit for the Lansing Memorial.’ Mrs Van Ess led Maud along the stalls that had been set up in the school hall. ‘We need every penny. The Expeditionary Force has been supportive with gifts of drugs and dressings, but the number of patients has soared with the war. Not just the Turkish prisoners the British send us, but the natives. There are so many refugees. And all of them sick and hungry.’

  ‘Every convalescent officer who can walk intends to call in.’ Maud smiled at two walking wounded patients from the army hospital who were wrapping parcels for a bran tub.

  ‘They’ll be most welcome.’ Mrs Van Ess hustled Maud behind a stall garlanded with palm leaves and heaped with sweetmeats in paper cornets. ‘Angela, here’s Maud.’

  ‘Thanks for coming, Maud, I appreciate the help.’

  ‘If you two will excuse me, I’ll check on the other ladies.’

  ‘Apron –’ Angela offered Maud a calico overall. ‘The sweets are sticky,’ she warned, with an admiring glance at Maud’s lilac silk dress.

  ‘Thank you.’ Maud tied the apron around her waist. ‘And congratulations. I saw Peter on the dock when I gave him letters for John. He told me you are getting married on his next leave.’

  Angela glowed at the mention of Peter. ‘I hoped he’d get his captaincy but I never dreamed it would be so soon.’

  ‘Have you made any wedding preparations?’

  ‘Not really, other than it will be small, and held in the church here. The Reverend Butler has agreed to officiate and Mrs Butler has offered to make a meal for the guests. Given the recent rise in food prices, I felt guilty about accepting.’

  ‘If a bride can’t accept gifts graciously, who can? Have you a wedding dress?’

  ‘I’m going to look at silks in the bazaar as soon as Theo can find the time to accompany me.’

  ‘I have a wedding dress and veil. I had it made in India.’ Maud eyed Angela’s diminutive figure. ‘It will be too long for you, but you could have it shortened if you like it.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly …’

  ‘It’s new. I never had a chance to wear it.’

  ‘Your mother’s death was such a tragedy …’

  ‘Thank you,’ Maud interrupted. ‘Please, don’t feel obliged to take the dress but it’s not doing anything but gathering dust in my trunk.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything until you’ve seen it. Tell me when you’re free and I’ll bring it to the mission.’

  ‘I’m free tomorrow afternoon, but if you’re busy I could see you virtually any evening after seven. I teach all day.’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon is fine. I’ll be glad of something to do,’ Maud confided. ‘Time is the one thing I have plenty of. I help at the hospital most days, but not Sundays, and even when I’m there I’m restricted to arranging flowers and distributing library books. My lack of training prevents me from doing anything useful.’

  ‘If it’s training you’re after, Mrs Mason, the Lansing Memorial can offer you that.’ Theo picked up a bag of Turkish Delight and tossed a coin to his sister. ‘We’re short of nurses and willing to train anyone prepared to put in a 12-hour day. Unlike the British, we have no compunction about employing women. We can’t afford to be choosy.’

  ‘Theo, that’s a dreadful way of putting it,’ Angela protested.

  Maud considered the idea. Perhaps that’s what she needed: 12-hour days that wouldn’t leave time to brood about John – or miss the pleasures Miguel had introduced her to. Theo brushed his thick, black hair back from his face, and Maud looked at him. No one could accuse Theo of being handsome. Thin, lanky, his sallow skin was pitted with smallpox scars, and he wore a habitual dour expression. Only his eyes were friendly. Soft, brown, they shone with the compassion that had led him into his profession.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve insulted you, Mrs Mason. We Americans tend to say what we mean without consideration for social niceties. Doctor Picard and I are desperate for nurses. If we weren’t, I wouldn’t have mentioned the training to a lady like yourself.’

  Stung by the “lady like yourself”, she gave him the answer he wanted. ‘When can I start?’

  ‘Theo,’ Angela broke in, loath to criticise her beloved brother, ‘I know you’re short-staffed, but it isn’t fair to browbeat Maud.’

  ‘The decision is hers. I’ll give you a tour of the wards tomorrow, Mrs Mason, so you can make up your own mind. But if you take the post, you won’t be soothing the fevered brows of gentlemen heroes. We have no time for flowers or books at the Lansing. There are three wards chock-full of natives. One for men, one for women, and one for children and mothers and babies. We also have four wards packed with Turkish prisoners, and the British send us more every day. Abandoned by the
ir own forces as soon as they’re too weak to walk, most are suffering from combinations of wounds, disease, sores, scars, and maggot infestation. I suggest you use your tour to study the sights and smells. If you survive without fainting, we’ll talk business.’

  ‘What time would you like me there?’ Maud asked.

  ‘Eight o’clock suit you?’

  ‘You start early in the Lansing.’

  ‘That’s when I take my coffee break. I begin work at five.’ He tipped his hat and left.

  ‘Theo has no manners,’ Angela apologised. ‘I’m sure neither he nor Dr Picard intends to be rude, but they’re worked to a frazzle. I help out sometimes in the hospital after school, and I’m afraid what Theo said is true. You do need a strong stomach.’

  The doors opened and people flooded into the hall. Maud was kept busy for the next two hours serving soldiers and officers. She only caught sight of Theo once. He was talking to Colonel Hale; no doubt begging more supplies for his hospital. The last thing she’d allow herself to do tomorrow was faint.

  Khafajiya, Sunday May 16th 1915

  ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Downe, is that a white flag on the pole above that hut?’ Major Cleck-Heaton glared at Harry with the pent-up fury and frustration that a week of bickering and mutual contempt had brought to a head.

  ‘A white flag is always hung above the house of an alim – religious leader,’ Harry informed him.

  ‘They’ve stopped firing.’

  ‘They have.’ Harry surveyed the village of mud and reed houses huddled behind a palisade of palm trunks. ‘It’s probably a ploy to encourage us to drop our guard.’

  ‘It’s more likely they’ve run out of ammunition. Lieutenant Day, take a platoon and white flag and parley with the enemy.’

  ‘No.’ Harry’s contradiction rang sharply in the hot, still air. ‘Expose yourself, Day, and you and your platoon will be shot to pieces.’