The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 38

  Men screamed in agony from the stretchers laid out in rows in the dugout. There wasn’t enough morphine to ease their pain. In fact, there wasn’t enough of anything except wounded. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the operating table to stop himself trembling and looked down at the body in front of him. The boy was from the West Kents. Eighteen years, with splintered stumps for legs.

  ‘Bone saw, sir?’ Mathews offered the instrument.

  John lifted his hands and they began to shake again. ‘Chloroform.’

  Mathews clamped a mask over the boy’s mouth. Turning his back, John reached into his pocket for the flask he still carried. Tipping it into his mouth, he waited for the brandy to take effect.

  ‘Hold him down.’ He picked up the saw. The stumps had to be neatened. Discolouration that might mean infection sawn off. Blood vessels tied and cauterised. He would clean up this body and turn to the next. It was no different from any other job. All he had to do was concentrate on one task at a time.

  Nasiriyeh, morning of Sunday 25th July 1915

  An hour into the occupation, Harry began to wonder what they were doing in the town. The inhabitants from the mayor down had received the British contingent with the same absent-minded courtesy and lack of warmth as the population of Amara in June. He was left with the uneasy feeling that if the Ottomans stopped running and marched back down the main street they’d be accorded the cheers that had been denied the conquerors.

  Allocated to light duties courtesy of his wound, he’d been given two clerks and the task of liaising between the townspeople and the Force. Hedged in by a crowd protesting their houses were too small to lodge soldiers, he was being simultaneously regaled by tales of lost property and relatives killed in the fighting. He dropped all pretence of listening to study the street. A patrol was stopping and searching every able-bodied man.

  One alim, more persistent than the others, grabbed the hem of Harry’s tunic and pulled him into an alley. Harry signalled to a clerk to alert the patrol. They followed. The crowd thinned, and by the time they reached the massive double doors of a mosque, the alim was the only native left.

  A strange buzzing emanated from the building. The alim heaved the door open. Harry stared.

  He had railed often enough against the lack of facilities for their own wounded, but in almost a year of fighting, he had seen nothing to equal this. Men lay three and four deep, covered in vomit and excrement.

  The living and barely living had been heaped indiscriminately among the dead. The stench was horrendous. A forest of hands rose towards the doorway and a cry went up, growing louder and harsher until it echoed against the domed ceiling.

  ‘This is my mosque, Effendi. I am only one man. I have no one to help.’

  ‘There must be young, healthy men among those who use this mosque?’ Harry insisted.

  ‘None know what to do, Effendi.’

  Harry’s temper snapped. ‘Fetch a dozen strong men here. Now!’ He grabbed the old man by the neck of his gumbaz. ‘Or I will kill every elder of this mosque.’

  ‘I will try to find someone, Effendi.’ The Arab backed away.

  ‘Go to the wharf and round up as many able-bodied Turkish prisoners as you can control,’ Harry ordered the lieutenant in charge of the patrol. ‘Bring them here and order them to carry out the dead. Whatever you do, don’t go in there yourself, or send any of our men in. Get the prisoners to heap the corpses in the far corner against that wall. You –’ he pointed to a private ‘– go to the Shushan and ask for petrol. Tell them it’s for burning corpses. These bodies have to be cremated here, or we’ll risk carrying God knows what infection into the town.’

  Harry moved the rest of the patrol down the street. The alim remained conspicuous by his absence, but the lieutenant returned with 15 Turkish prisoners.

  ‘Get these prisoners working, Lieutenant. If any of them show the slightest sign of trouble, shoot them.’

  ‘Sir?’ The lieutenant was an Eton “wet bob”. From sixth form to Mesopotamia in two months.

  ‘Shoot them,’ Harry repeated. ‘You can shoot Turkish prisoners for disobeying orders, Lieutenant. It’s allowed. You’ll create problems if you don’t. If they can get one over on you, you’ll be lying at the bottom of that cremation pile with the corpses.’

  ‘Where will you be if I need you, sir?’ the lieutenant asked when Harry turned his back.

  ‘The quay. I have to find a doctor. This place needs more than I can give it.’

  ‘Damn it all, I’ve not nursed our wounded to sink them into that shit.’ John indicated the steel deck of a launch covered in dried manure. ‘The least you can do is clean it. Horses and mules have stood on it for over a week.’

  ‘We’ve been ordered to evacuate the wounded to Qurna immediately.’ The staff officer emphasised “immediately”. ‘There’s no time for niceties.’

  ‘Niceties be damned. There’s no way I’ll authorise you to put wounded on that deck. They’re going to reach Qurna alive if I have to kill you and every other red-collared moron to do it.’

  ‘That sounds suspiciously like a threat, Mason.’ Perry stood beside the staff officer.

  ‘Damn it all, some of these men have abdomen and stomach wounds. If they come into contact with that filth they won’t survive to see Qurna.’

  ‘But they will survive lying in this sun while you argue?’ Perry turned on his heel. ‘Lieutenant?’

  A subaltern snapped to attention. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Begin the evacuation of the wounded.’

  ‘Take one step, Lieutenant, and I’ll report you.’

  ‘Major Mason is not in command here, Lieutenant.’

  The stretcher-bearers picked up their loads and moved onto the gangplank. John swung his arm wide. Harry stepped in front of him.

  ‘Hit Perry and he’ll have you court martialled.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a damn,’ John cried out of sheer frustration. ‘Look at those decks. They can’t even be swabbed down now the men are lying on them. There are no mattresses, not enough containers for drinking water. If the orderlies redress those wounds, they’ll have to use river water. Stinking water choked with corpses …’

  ‘Over-emotional again,’ Perry sneered. ‘I’ll say what I said before. You’re not fit to be a man, Mason, much less an officer.’

  John dodged past Harry and swung a punch.

  The lieutenant stood open-mouthed, staring at the senior officer sprawled amongst the filth on the wharf.

  ‘Report this, Perry, and I’ll have you up for engineering the deaths of the wounded by neglect,’ Harry warned.

  ‘I obey orders.’ Perry’s face was purple with rage. ‘Which is more than can be said for either of you.’ He brushed rotten fruit from his uniform. ‘You’ve not heard …’

  Harry dragged John away. Leading him around the corner of a warehouse, he pulled out his brandy flask and handed it to his cousin. ‘Do you want to spend the next 20 years in a military prison for striking a senior officer?’

  ‘Someone has to do something. Those men won’t last a day in those conditions.’ John tipped the flask into his mouth.

  ‘Then write a full report. I’ll see it gets to the right man.’

  ‘A report will be too late for those poor bastards.’

  ‘It might do something for the next lot. If there’s any justice, one day Perry and the staff will be on those boats.’

  ‘How in hell are the staff going to get wounded?’ John asked.

  ‘A shell might find its way to HQ.’

  ‘If it does, it will be lobbed there by our own side. The Turks find our staff officers too useful to kill them.’ John handed back the flask. Harry pushed it into his pocket. He could tell by the weight it was empty.

  By nightfall, as many of the 104 British bodies as could be found had been buried. All 429 wounded who could be moved had been loaded on to ships and sent downstream, and by sunset even John was too tired to protest at the conditions they were being shipped in.

&nb
sp; Over 1000 Turkish troops had been captured and the Turkish dead and wounded had been estimated at over 2000. Four Turkish casualties for every British. The Basra Wilyat had been secured.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Qurna, the evening of Wednesday 18th August 1915

  Peter breathed in a lungful of air. It didn’t have higher moisture than oxygen content and his clothes were damp and sticky with sweat, not humidity. The men striding purposefully along the quayside looked fitter and stronger than those he’d left in Nasiriyeh. Without him noticing, somewhere en route between the Euphrates and the Tigris the atmosphere had grown lighter, less laden with flies and mosquitoes.

  ‘Mason’s pissed again,’ Leigh shouted to no one in particular.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Crabbe hissed. ‘Cleck-Heaton’s in the stern.’

  ‘Everyone knows about Mason’s drinking,’ Leigh brayed. ‘Fool can’t hold it.’

  ‘And you can?’ Crabbe snarled when Leigh tried to rise from the corner of the deck where he and John had drunk themselves into a stupor during the voyage.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Smythe joined Crabbe when he struggled to lift John upright.

  ‘Are you sober?’

  ‘Not as a judge, but A1 compared to these two.’ Peter kept serious drinking for the late evenings. During the day, he found it comparatively easy to hide behind the mask of bravado that had sustained him during the battle at Nasiriyeh.

  ‘Let’s get him on the quayside. If anyone asks, he’s succumbed to another bout of fever.’

  ‘What about my fever?’ Leigh giggled.

  John’s bearer, Dira, found a carriage. He helped Peter lift John in and they managed to get Leigh into the opposite corner. It was a short drive to the house Peter recalled being requisitioned for the use of senior officers after the first battle of Qurna. A sepoy was on the veranda.

  ‘Billeting officer said I was to expect six officers. He said nothing about a lady. These quarters are for officers only. No ladies,’ he complained to Crabbe, who was the senior officer present.

  Leigh grinned lecherously. ‘That’s what we need. Ladies.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know what to do with one.’

  ‘Would and all, Crabbe, I’ve a son,’ Leigh retorted with a smirk.

  ‘I don’t see any ladies.’ Crabbe relinquished John to Dira.

  ‘That’s because I’m inside the house, Major Crabbe.’

  Angela walked out of one of the rooms. She was wearing a smart blue travelling outfit that seemed vaguely familiar. If Peter had had a better memory, he might have recognised it as Maud’s.

  ‘Seems you’re fixed up, old boy,’ Leigh leered.

  Crabbe pushed Leigh towards the orderly. ‘Show Lieutenant Leigh to his quarters.’ The orderly left, still muttering about ladies. ‘It’s nice to see you, Mrs Smythe.’

  ‘And you, Major Crabbe.’

  Dira returned after laying John on his bed. Picking up Peter’s kit, he carried it past Angela into the bedroom behind her. Crabbe looked from Angela to Peter.

  ‘Smythe, say hello to your wife.’

  Peter followed Angela into the room. He waited until Dira dropped his kit, then closed the door. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’ Angela was as taken aback by his anger as she was by his appearance. He looked thinner, older, and harder than she remembered.

  Stung by the reproach, he forced a smile. ‘I am. I just didn’t expect you.’ He looked around. There was a single camp bed, a case he presumed was Angela’s, and a table and chair.

  ‘Harry wrote.’ She omitted to mention that she’d written to Harry first asking why Peter’s letters had changed since he’d been wounded. ‘He said you’d be passing through Qurna on your way to Amara. He gave me the date and this address.’

  ‘Harry’s too damned romantic. I’ve only a few hours …’

  ‘Two days.’

  ‘I’m leaving first light tomorrow.’

  ‘All troop movements up the Tigris have been delayed for 48 hours.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Does the army need a reason for doing anything?’

  Peter sat on the chair. His head ached from the sun. He was tired and filthy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Angela; he simply didn’t want to see her, here, with Leigh and the others waiting outside the door. He’d separated his life into compartments, professional and private, and he didn’t want her straying out of the one she belonged in.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go.’ She pinned on her hat and picked up her case.

  He blocked the door. Taking the case from her, he pulled her head down onto his chest. ‘I smell like a camel. I haven’t had a bath in months. I’m worn out …’

  ‘I can put up with your smell if you can.’

  ‘The orderly doesn’t like ladies.’ He kissed the top of her head with cracked lips.

  ‘And your fellow officers are smirking.’

  ‘They’re jealous.’ He pulled her close. He had forgotten what it felt like to hold her.

  She smelled sour wine on his breath, his clothes, impregnated with dirt and sweat. His hands went to the buttons on her bodice. He undid them quickly, tugging at them when they wouldn’t give way.

  She’d imagined their reunion a thousand times during the past few weeks. It hadn’t been like this. She’d envisaged Peter telling her about the fighting, touching her tenderly, taking time to get to know her again after so many weeks apart.

  He opened her dress and tried to push it over her shoulders. Turning her back, she took it off. Shy and a little afraid of the rough stranger he’d become, she went to the bed and untied her petticoats. He was on top of her before she finished. His stubble scraped her face. He didn’t bother to remove his clothes. His filthy drawers chafed the skin she had so carefully washed and perfumed. Closing her eyes, she steeled herself to take his brutal thrusting.

  She’d seen the dark scar at his temple, noticed the limp when he put weight on his right leg, and realised there were other scars that couldn’t be seen, every bit as real as the visible ones. She was angry with herself for being insensitive. Peter had a right to her understanding, and it was her duty as his wife to give it to him.

  Images of war flashed through Peter’s mind when he used his wife. Blackened mounds of dead in dugouts; the faces of the soldiers he’d blown away; rotting, month-old corpses dug up and discarded by Arabs searching for loot –

  He gripped Angela’s arms and tried to obliterate the memories by losing himself in her body. Not once did he look at her face, or consider her feelings.

  When he’d done, he rose, kicked the chamber pot out from beneath the bed, and relieved himself.

  He’d long since acquired the trench habit of urinating indiscriminatingly. It never entered his head to consider Angela’s feelings. Buttoning his fly, he glanced at the washstand with its basin and jug of water. He was too filthy for that.

  ‘I’m going to find a bathroom.’ He picked up his kit. ‘When I’ve finished we’ll eat, but it might be difficult to turn up anything decent. I can hardly take you into the mess.’

  She managed to hold her tears in check until he’d left the room.

  When Peter emerged, clean and shaved, from the makeshift bathroom in the cellar, he ran into Crabbe and Grace, who’d arrived from Amara. They were setting off for the mess in company with a fragile-looking Leigh, and John, who was dressed in a uniform as immaculate as only Dira could make it. But his starched collar and pressed trousers couldn’t conceal his trembling hands and bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Smythe, you rogue, join us?’ Grace invited.

  ‘He can’t. He has a wife in tow,’ Leigh crowed, still tipsy.

  ‘Do any of you fellows know where I can take Angela to eat?’

  ‘Why don’t you send Dira out to forage?’ John suggested. ‘He has a nose for a good cook shop and I’ve a couple of bottles of wine in my bag you can have.’

  Peter nodded. If he’d w
anted a romantic dinner with Angela, it would have been a good idea, but he was strangely reluctant to spend the evening with her. He envied the others the noise and company of the mess. ‘Join us?’ he pleaded. ‘Angela’s bound to have news of Maud.’

  ‘I’ll have a drink with you later,’ John promised.

  ‘Tell you what, old boy.’ Leigh slapped Peter’s back. ‘We’ll all have a drink with you later. How’s that?’

  ‘You weren’t invited.’ Peter went in search of Dira.

  Feeling slightly ridiculous, Angela sat opposite Peter on a camp chair while Dira poured John’s wine, and served hors d’oeuvres of rice, eggs, and nuts. After he’d piled their plates high, he disappeared down the street to fetch the main course. Peter wolfed down the

  food while Angela stared at her plate.

  ‘What have you been living on?’

  ‘Blown tins of bully beef and rancid butter, and there wasn’t enough of those.’

  ‘So that’s why you all look half-starved.’ She pushed her plate away.

  ‘Can’t you eat any more?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  He finished what was left on his plate and pulled hers towards him. She refilled their glasses. It would have been easier to make conversation with a stranger. Then, she could have talked about the mission and her husband fighting on the Euphrates.

  ‘Will you stay long in Amara?’ she asked.

  ‘Doubt it. The force has moved out to Kumait and Ali Gharbi to set up front buffers to consolidate our position. We’ll probably be sent there as a relief column.’

  ‘I can’t see that the troops up river need relieving more than you. You all look dreadful. Particularly John Mason.’

  ‘That’s what John looks like these days. He drinks too much,’ Peter revealed.

  Dira walked through the door, carrying a smoking pot. ‘Roast chicken and rice, Sahib.’ The bearer laid the dish in the centre of the table.

  ‘Thank you, Dira,’ Angela smiled. ‘You’ve done us proud.’

  ‘For dessert, Mem Sahib, I have found light pastries stuffed with apricots and custard. They will go well with Major Mason’s brandy.’ Dira served the chicken and left.