The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  ‘I will consider the matter.’

  ‘I would like one of your pieces of paper.’

  Harry smiled. The certificates of immunity, subject to good behaviour, the political officers had been dispensing to friendly villages were apparently more highly prized than he’d realised. ‘If you help me I will do better than that. When we have driven the Turks back I will give you our flag to fly from the house of your alim.’

  ‘And the paper?’

  ‘That as well.’

  ‘Then all the men in my village will help you. I swear it on the lives of my sons.’

  Harry took the Arab’s hand and climbed out on to the riverbank. Careful to keep the rifle above water, he emptied the sergeant’s ammunition pouch and reloaded the gun with as much show as he could muster. He’d seen Arabs swear all manner of things on everything that was sacred only to break the oath minutes later if it had been made to an infidel.

  Cocking the rifle, he held it in his left hand, and followed the man. There was no point in caution. The verdure was so thick a platoon could have hidden a foot from his path.

  The corporal and privates lay in a clearing next to the towpath. They’d been stripped of clothes and weapons. All had been shot through the head except the corporal; he’d survived the Turkish ambush only to have his throat slit by the Arabs.

  ‘Men of your tribe?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No, Effendi, I swear it.’

  ‘If I find our weapons or uniforms in your village I will burn it and slaughter every man in it old enough to bear arms.’

  ‘You would be right to do so, Effendi,’ the man cringed.

  ‘I need tools. Something to dig,’ Harry ordered, ‘and blankets to cover the bodies.’

  ‘If you clothe the dead in blankets, Effendi, the living will dig them up to steal the cloth. If you bury them as they came into this world, they will rest in Allah’s grace for all eternity.’

  ‘Blankets.’ Harry pointed the barrel of the rifle at the man’s chest.

  ‘I will get what I can, Effendi.’ Terrified more by the look on Harry’s face than the gun, he scuttled into the bushes.

  Closing the corporal’s eyes, Harry looked at the privates. They were all men he’d known by sight.

  ‘Downe.’ Perry walked into the clearing. ‘What the devil’s gone on here?’

  ‘Arabs finishing what the Turks began. I sent a native to fetch spades and blankets.’

  ‘Bloody wogs,’ Perry cursed. ‘I’d like to kill a dozen of the bastards for every one of our wounded they’ve slaughtered and our dead they’ve dug up.’

  ‘As long as you don’t include the man I sent to fetch tools and blankets. I promised him and his village immunity.’

  ‘Are you mad, Downe?’

  ‘If we don’t cultivate the friendly natives, we’ll never survive this war.’ He straightened the stiffening limbs of the corporal.

  ‘The only good wog is a dead wog.’

  ‘We need their food, their knowledge of the terrain, and the intelligence they can supply of Turkish troop movements.’

  ‘Effendi?’ The native tapped Harry’s arm.

  ‘Where the devil did he spring from?’ Perry asked. ‘I set pickets …’

  ‘He’s the reason we have to make friends and trust those who offer us their services, Colonel Perry. Still want to kill him?’ Harry asked.

  Peter dreamed he was falling over a cliff – falling … He landed with a bump that bruised his back and brought his right leg viciously to life. He opened his eyes. The private at the front of the stretcher lay in a tangle of canvas on the towpath, the back of his head shot away. The private behind him pressed him into the dirt.

  ‘Bloody, murdering Turks.’ Using Peter’s shoulder as a rest for his rifle, he fired to the landward side of the path. ‘You alive, sir?’

  ‘Think so,’ Peter muttered between clenched teeth.

  ‘We’re going to have to take cover, sir.’ Rolling on his back, he grabbed Peter by his sleeve and dragged him into the reeds. They fell into a wet gully. A grinning face looked down on them. Peter watched the smiling Turk force the barrel of his rifle into the private’s mouth.

  An explosion shattered the private’s skull, spattering the greenery with gobs of crimson. Peter flailed, not knowing or caring which way he was crawling as long as it was away from the Turk. He had no thoughts of bravery, no coherent thoughts of any kind. Only an image of the private’s head as it had burst outward.

  He dragged himself forward using any part of his body that could gain a purchase on the soggy ground. He was conscious of his own pathetic whimpering and the Turk’s laughter as he followed him. Footsteps squelched in the mud behind him. He dived deeper into the reeds. He hit water but continued rolling into the swamp. Drowning wasn’t so bad. At least your head remained intact when you drowned.

  Akaika dam, the early hours of Wednesday 30th June 1915

  Harry paced the perimeter of the camp, squinting into the darkness, listening for a footfall on the towpath or coming through the reeds. The tug of war teams were hauling up the Shushan, the last vessel in the flotilla to remain below the dam. At first light, the Navy would press on and begin clearing the Euphrates of Turkish mines. He had orders to go with them and interrogate any native who might have knowledge of the location of the mines but he didn’t want to leave the Akaika without discovering Peter’s fate.

  If he’d seen him shot to pieces like the rest of the patrol, he’d have buried him, mourned, and walked away with even more murderous feelings towards the Turks than those he already harboured. A search had uncovered drag marks that ended with the stripped corpse of an identity tagged Turk. A Turk with his throat cut. He’d been left wondering if the Turk had made the drag marks, or Peter. And if Peter had been there – if he still lived.

  ‘Last patrol in.’ Crabbe handed him a mug of tea. ‘No sign of him.’

  ‘Thanks for checking.’

  ‘We old Gulf hands have to stick together.’

  Harry offered a cigarette to Crabbe. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but you’re all right. This time last year you drove me mad.’

  ‘Soldiering in peacetime drives everyone mad.’ Crabbe shied away from emotion. ‘Spit, polish, and parading to no useful end.’

  ‘Are you saying you like this bloody war?’

  ‘Not the killing.’ Crabbe squatted beside a fire and flicked his ash into it. ‘A man would have to be an idiot to like that, but the spirit of the thing, men pulling together. Where I come from, the law was self first and hang the rest. I wanted more, but I never wanted to make officer. I was happier when I was with them.’ He nodded towards the campfire of the non-commissioned officers. ‘It’s not easy to behave like a gentleman when you’ve been brought up a scrubber.’

  ‘My family’s been telling me that I don’t know how to behave like a gentleman since the day I was born.’

  ‘When you want to, you fit in. You know what to drink, the right jokes, the right way to hold your knife and fork.’

  ‘Here, the most important things an officer should know is how to spot a Turk and shoot straight. I’d rather have you at my back than half the officers here.’

  ‘Do you want to send another patrol into that reed bed?’

  ‘I’d like to lead one in there. If I don’t make another effort to find Smythe I won’t be able to sleep nights.’

  ‘He knew the score when he went out with you.’ Crabbe didn’t try to dissuade Harry from going out again. ‘I’ll ask for volunteers. Leave at dawn?’

  Harry spent the rest of the night wandering from campfire to campfire, drinking one cup of lukewarm tea after another with the men and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. The camp was breaking up: tents were being flattened; boxes of supplies handed upstream to the boats. Men stuffed mosquito nets and crumpled, well-read, precious letters and magazines into their kit bags. When dawn broke, it was a relief all round. No one wanted to linger at Akaika, and with the Shushan above the dam, they didn’t need to.
Harry threw the dregs from his last cup over a fire and straightened his back.

  ‘Effendi?’

  He didn’t turn around. ‘You must give me a lesson in infiltrating enemy lines, Akim. If you’ve come for your flag, you’ll have to wait until we’ve searched your village.’

  Akim stepped out. ‘We’ve found one of your men, Effendi, a man with hair like fire.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In my village, Effendi. My neighbour found him in the marsh but he is crazy. He screams and hits things that are not there.’

  Harry grabbed the first man in sergeant’s uniform he saw. ‘I need eight men for a patrol and a stretcher.’

  ‘Jump to it, Sergeant Mills.’ Crabbe barked from behind them.

  Harry and Crabbe heard Peter’s screams before they saw the roofs of Akim’s village.

  ‘As I said, Effendi, a demon has entered his head.’ Kicking aside bleating goats and scavenging children, Akim cleared a path. ‘Perhaps two,’ he qualified as Peter’s voice dropped from a high-pitched screech to a guttural whine. ‘They are fighting for possession of his soul.’

  Harry ducked into Akim’s hut, blinking to stop his eyes streaming in the smoky interior. Peter lay on a reed mat, thrashing wildly, his eyes rolling. Harry pulled aside a poultice of leaves that covered his leg. The skin was raw, but there was no infection. Peter sat up and lashed out, hitting him to the floor. Harry shouted for Crabbe. The major entered, took one look at Peter, and slammed him soundly on the jaw.

  ‘Sorry, Smythe,’ he apologised when Peter fell back, unconscious.

  Harry laid his hand on Peter’s head. ‘He’s hot, but not feverishly so, and his leg wound looks clean enough.’

  ‘I’ve seen men like this in Africa after they were cut off from the rest of the troops. God alone knows what happened out there. Perhaps he saw the Turks kill the privates. From what you said, there wasn’t much left of them. He might come around in a day or so.’

  ‘If he doesn’t?’

  ‘He will. The only question is to what. I’ve seen men who’ve gone through much the same experience lead suicide charges into enemy lines. I’ve also seen them cowering in trenches refusing to move even with an officer’s gun in their back. Either way, they died with a bullet in their guts. I’ll call the stretcher-bearers.’

  ‘You will search my village and give us your flag to fly over the hut of our alim?’

  ‘So you can alternate it with the Turkish wasm?’ Harry had spotted the flag half hidden in the rafters.

  ‘It’s there to keep the water from the roof, Effendi.’

  ‘With our flotilla on the Euphrates you’ll need more than that to keep your heads dry, Akim. But for this –’ he looked at Peter ‘– you’ll get your wasm.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Basra, Thursday 8th July 1915

  ‘Major Mason, I’m not happy.’ Colonel Allan, Hale’s replacement as commander of the Indian Medical Service, handed John his orders. ‘You’ve just recovered from fever and you’re heading into an area where it’s endemic. I’ve seen Gorringe’s dispatches. A quarter of his men are sick. The natives are stabbing our men in the back while the Turks attack from the front. There are no pack animals on his boats and won’t be until reinforcements reach him. That means every case of supplies has to be manhandled into any area away from the river, and by the officers as well as the men because the natives refuse to co-operate. The temperature’s 110 and the mosquitoes and flies even more vicious than the Tigris variety.’

  ‘All of which makes me think I could be more use on the Euphrates than here, sir.’

  ‘GHQ welcomed your request because no other medical officer has volunteered for that swamp hole. A steamer leaves for Suq-ash-Shuyukh tonight. Cox took the town two days ago and they’re using it as a base to mount our operations on Nasiriyeh. As you insist on going, I suppose I’d better wish you luck.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, Major. If it had been my decision, you’d be sailing for India. This war is Scutari all over again, with the sick nursing the sick and no Florence Nightingale to take charge. If you won’t think of your own health, think of the service. I need all the doctors I can get. Too many are falling by the wayside.’

  ‘I’ll try not to fall again, sir.’

  ‘My compliments to your wife. I understand she’s in Basra. One more reason I can’t understand your request. Perhaps I should talk to her.’

  ‘Please, don’t,’ John said. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  John had hated applying for a transfer to the Euphrates behind the colonel’s back, but Allan had recommended him for a three-month leave. He couldn’t face India, with or without Maud. And he couldn’t stay in Basra. Too many officers were congratulating him on managing to get stationed in the same town as his wife and people were beginning to notice he never visited the mission. Particularly since he’d been moved to the convalescent ward and allowed to leave the hospital for short periods during the day.

  He’d visited the mess and Basra Club and, ignoring the advice of his doctors who had a greater regard for his liver than he did, drank. For the last three nights, his fellow patients had helped him out of the club into a cab and into his bed. This morning he’d swung his feet to the floor, clenched his aching head, and realised he had a problem. But that didn’t stop him from reaching for his brandy.

  He promised himself it would be different on the Euphrates. He’d have work to keep him occupied. With nothing to do and Maud a short walk away, it was only natural he’d turned to drink.

  He glanced at his watch when he left the building. He had four hours to kill before boarding the steamboat. He might as well spend it in the cool of the mess. He whistled for a cab. He’d find someone to talk to, read the Basra Times, catch up on the latest gossip, refill his flask. And have a drink. Just one – for the road.

  Atabiya Canal, the Euphrates Monday 12th July 1915

  Harry sat with his back to a trench wall and sketched a rough plan in his notebook. He closed his eyes, visualising the Turkish position he’d viewed from the back of a mule he’d borrowed from Akim. Opening his eyes, he squinted at his draft. It resembled one of the impossible battle positions the military history tutors used to pin on the board at Sandhurst. He could almost hear the tutor.

  “Gentlemen, if you’d care to pinpoint the weak points in the enemy’s troop deployment.”

  Only there were no bloody weak points. He pulled his head cloth over his temples, trying to concentrate. The Turks were flanked by marsh, fronted by an open plain broken by a canal … He drew the dotted outline of canoes in the centre of canal. An hour ago, he’d watched a party of Turkish infantry load three native mahailas with stones and sink them, presumably in the hope they’d foul the keels of any hostile craft. He sketched in a few clumps of camel thorn in the no man’s land that stretched between their own and the Turkish trenches and took his time outlining the only vegetation: a clump of 16 date palms that shaded a stretch of the river.

  At length, he studied the finished map. It wasn’t comprehensive enough to use as the base for an attack but it would have to do. The generals were set on trying to take the Turkish mounds that night by bellum, just as they’d done at Qurna. He and the other field officers had tried to tell the staff that in Qurna they’d had accurate maps that had been refined by air surveillance. They’d known the depth of the water, the position of the Turkish posts, the sites of the Turkish machine guns, the strength of their forces – here, all they had was his pathetic sketch.

  Smythe sat on a sandbag alongside him. Harry closed his notebook. Peter was no longer the happy-go-lucky officer who’d volunteered to accompany him on patrol at Akaika. He’d come out of his hysteria in an acute nervous state. He jumped if someone rattled a tobacco tin. The sound of flying bullets sent him screaming. An animal or man crying out in pain brought tears to his eyes. His unease, like most undesirable emotions, proved infectious, and officers and men were giving him the cold shoulder.
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  Living on the edge, as they all were in these trenches, it was hard to sympathise with what Cleck-Heaton termed a “damned malingering coward”. The Force doctor was no help. All he dispensed were Beechams pills to calm Peter’s “nerves” along with “pep talks” designed to drive him back into a military frame of mind.

  ‘We’re going in tonight?’ Peter’s hand shook as he drew on a cigarette.

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Command’s assigned me to the 24th Punjabis. They know I led one of the bellum attacks at Qurna.’

  ‘Your leg hasn’t healed. I’ll put in a word.’

  ‘Don’t. I know what everyone’s saying about me. I have to go in. If I funk this, I’ll be finished. I may as well shoot myself, before the Turks get to me.’

  ‘You’re sick. Any fool can see that.’

  ‘It’s not just what they’re saying, Harry.’ Peter’s hand trembled so much he dropped his cigarette.

  Harry took another from his packet, lit it, and pushed it into Peter’s mouth.

  ‘I have to do it to prove I still can cut it. That I’m not the coward everyone believes I am.’

  ‘A coward wouldn’t have followed me at Akaika.’

  ‘A coward came back.’

  Peter rose from the sandbag. Harry watched him walk away. Twice Peter stumbled and fell. Damn the staff. He’d warned it would be suicide to attack the Turks when they knew so little about their defences. And they were sending out sick men. Including one in the throes of a nervous breakdown.

  The Euphrates front, night of 12th July 1915

  Four hundred men waited in the bellums drawn up alongside the Shushan. In the next bellum, Harry could hear Peter’s breath coming in quick gasps. He wished there was time to reassure him, but orders to advance were already being whispered down the lines of boats.

  They hit problems at once. Every few minutes, Harry or his lieutenant had to step into the shallows to push their bellum out of the reed banks. All sense of perspective was lost in the darkness. Boats bumped into one another and men cursed, the noise carrying over the water.