The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 42

  A man lay on a trestle in front of him, blood pouring from a neck wound. He plunged in his hand. Holding the severed artery together, he fought instinctively for the man’s life, yet he didn’t cease screaming for stretcher-bearers. The tables had to be cleared. If they weren’t, there’d be yet more dead on his conscience.

  ‘Sir, where can I put these?’ A sepoy stood at the front of a stretcher buckling beneath the weight of three men.

  John thrust his hand deeper into the neck of the man whose artery lay exposed. ‘I want bearers to evacuate the wounded, not bring them in. We can’t take any more.’

  ‘All transports to the river are full, sir. The launches won’t take any wounded, not while the battle’s still going on.’

  ‘Someone has to do something,’ John ranted, as if he could bully the world back to sanity.

  ‘All wounded to be evacuated to the forward lines and Baghdad.’

  John looked behind the stretcher-bearers and saw the red collar of a staff officer. ‘All wounded to be taken forward to Baghdad,’ Cleck-Heaton reiterated parrot-like.

  ‘We’ve taken Baghdad?’ Knight could only be recognised by his bloodied apron.

  ‘We will by the time these get there.’

  John looked at the smashed bodies around him. ‘They stay where they are,’ he ordered, forgetting his panic-stricken call for stretcher-bearers a moment before. ‘When we’ve taken the town, I’ll sanction their removal. Not before.’

  ‘You’re not in command, Major.’ Cleck-Heaton turned to the bearers. ‘Drop those, load those onto the carts –’ He pointed to the wounded on the ground, waiting for evacuation.

  ‘Those men have spinal injuries and the carts have no springs,’ Knight protested. ‘You may as well shoot them where they lie.’

  ‘Load them, stretcher-bearer.’

  The man looked to John and Knight. Before he could move, John punched Cleck-Heaton. Cleck-Heaton rubbed his jawbone and glared at him.

  ‘Striking a superior officer during battle is mutiny. A capital offence. I’ll see you shot for this, Mason.’

  John didn’t hear. He was looking at his bloody hand and the neck of the body stretched out on the operating table. The blood had stopped pumping from the severed artery. His loss of temper had cost the man his life. He looked at the face. It was Amey. Stupid, priggish, beautiful Stephen Amey.

  So damned young. And dead.

  The sun set, gunfire tailing into intermittent bursts that did little more than show the flag on both sides. Harry’s Arab irregulars melted into the darkness. When Harry heard the cries of the wounded still on the battlefield, he prayed the stretcher-bearers would get to them before the ghulams.

  Dismounting, he walked over the field. It began to rain, a steady drizzle that soaked him to the skin. The ground was carpeted with bodies but their features were shrouded in darkness.

  ‘Water, please, water. For the love of God, Sahib.’

  Harry bent down and touched the man who’d locked his hands around his leg. ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘No, Sahib.’

  ‘Put your hands around my neck. I’ll lift you on my camel.’

  ‘Bless you, Sahib. May God …’ The man fainted. Harry picked up his body and slumped it, hands one side, legs the other, over the saddle. He walked the camel towards the field ambulances. Long before he reached them, his path was blocked by wounded. The stretcher-bearers had cushioned the heads of the living on the bodies of the dead. Without food, water, medicines or blankets it was the only comfort they could offer. Steadying his camel, he tried to ease the sepoy off the saddle. The man lolled sideways and Harry realised he was dead.

  ‘Dead over there,’ an orderly shouted to a heavily laden party of stretcher-bearers. ‘Indian living to the right. British to the left.’

  Harry recognised the gaunt, blood-covered figure of Matthews.

  ‘Captain Mason,’ Harry shouted. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He soon won’t be,’ was the enigmatic reply.

  Harry stared at the thousands of casualties lying on the cold, bare ground under the lights of flickering torches. An orderly had cleared a space and lit a fire, but most of the men were too weak to crawl to it. He hadn’t seen a water carrier or cook all day but those who were conscious didn’t complain. Some cried out in agony, but there wasn’t one word of reproach.

  He turned his camel and picked his way back to the field, wanting to protest for them. He longed to smash his fist into someone. To shout, to scream at an injustice that forced wounded men who’d fought to the limit of their strength to lie on wet ground to wait for treatment that, if it came at all, would probably come too late.

  Charles slowly blinked his way to consciousness and excruciating agony. The pain was so intense it was impossible to determine its source. Pressure was being exerted on his body from a dozen points. He jerked and hit the unyielding surface beneath him. He had difficulty breathing; his head was free, but an enormous weight pressed on his chest. The smell of sweat, blood, and something sickly sweet and putrid cloyed around him. He heard the harsh, guttural sound of an Indian muleteer and realised he was

  travelling in one of the wooden supply carts.

  He recalled the trench – Peter – the sound of the whistle blowing. He’d tried to follow but he’d fallen back, drawn his gun, and waited. Beyond that, nothing. Someone whimpered above him. He didn’t know how much longer his lungs could stand the pressure. It was raining. He felt cold, wet drops on his cheeks.

  Overhead he caught glimpses of blackness slashed occasionally by a short-lived streak of shellfire. A cutting wind chafed his head, freezing it, in raw contrast to the crushing warmth that blanketed his body. The jolting ceased. Moans became screams when the bodies above him were lifted from the cart.

  The weight was taken from him. He breathed in, shuddering, when damp, icy air hit his lungs. His teeth chattered. He was so cold and it was so black that afterwards he couldn’t be sure whether he had remained conscious or not. He heard Matthews, but the voice was distant, remote …

  ‘The doctors can’t cope. Sort out those who aren’t too badly wounded and take them to the steamers.’

  He couldn’t have dreamed the voice, or the order. He had to be awake. Footsteps squelched in mud. Fingers prodded his battered body. He opened his mouth, intending to tell whoever it was to leave him alone, but he was simply incapable of making the effort.

  Crabbe hadn’t slept in 24 hours, but he showed no sign of fatigue as he supervised the loading of the wounded onto the steamers and launches that could be spared. He checked each cart as it arrived. If there were less than six men crammed on the wooden boards, he sent the sepoys back to pick up those with broken limbs or spines, who had flung themselves out of the unsprung transports rather than endure the agony of the trip.

  All around men milled in half-illuminated chaos, bewildered, shocked, most too exhausted to think about what they were doing. A steamer loaded above the water line with over 400 wounded had been tardy in leaving and he was trying to cram 200 more on to its packed decks. He saw bullet wounds that had been hastily dressed by half-trained hands. Men with string tied around bleeding limbs to act as tourniquets. Men half dead from cold, thirst, hunger, and weariness.

  Angered by the incompetence of it all, he shouted at a stretcher-bearer, demanding he return a cart of wounded, who hadn’t received any medical attention, to the field hospital.

  ‘It’s no use screaming at the men. Try the brass.’ Harry stood next to him.

  ‘It’s bloody disgraceful. Look at that man.’ Crabbe pointed to an English officer from the Mahrattas who was bleeding from a head wound. ‘If he’s seen a doctor I’m a monkey’s arse!’ he exclaimed, reverting to sergeants’ language.

  ‘We have four field hospitals; each equipped to deal with a hundred casualties. At the last count, there were 4500. Have you seen Charles or Peter?’

  ‘No.’ Crabbe capitulated and waved the cart with the untended wounded on. ‘But I know there ar
e only nine officers left in the Dorsets.’

  ‘One in the Mahrattas, two in the 104th Rifles, and four in the Gurkhas and Punjabis.’ Grace stepped out of a small boat on to the bank.

  ‘Have you seen Charles, Peter, or Amey?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No, only a stupid staff officer who’s keeping a tally of the casualties. Anyone would think he was talking about cricket scores.’ Grace produced a flask and offered it to Crabbe and Harry. ‘One hundred and thirty British officers have gone down.’

  ‘That’s a third of our strength.’

  ‘All the Indian regiments are below half strength. Men as well as officers.’

  ‘What was it like on the launches?’ Harry drank deeply before returning the flask to Grace.

  ‘Better than here,’ Grace answered cryptically.

  Harry stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m going to look for Charles.’

  ‘I could do with some help here,’ Crabbe said tersely.

  ‘So could the men still lying on the field.’ Harry led his camel away.

  Harry joined the stretcher-bearers and uninjured officers who were scouring the plain in search of anyone alive. He met Perry, who grudgingly told him he’d seen Peter in the forward trenches, but he found no one who’d seen Charles. At dawn, he carried two more bodies to the pile of dead awaiting burial. Lying to the side of the mound was a smaller heap of officers. He recognised Alex Day and, below him, the blood-soaked face of Stephen Amey.

  He rested his head against his camel’s neck and looked to the new light dawning grey and cold in the sky. He felt none of the elation he had experienced at Sahil; only a miserable sense of waste, and loss.

  If this was war, the generals could keep it.

  ‘This boat is full.’

  ‘The doctors say this officer has to go downstream, Sahib.’ Chatta Ram bowed and scraped, as only the sepoys knew how.

  ‘I couldn’t give a hang what the doctors say.’ Cleck-Heaton pushed his lamp in Ram’s face. ‘I’ve seen you skulking round the camp. Took me a while to work out why you look familiar; you’re the spitting image of your father. Your skin’s lighter, but then you’d get that from your whore mother.’

  Ram stared Cleck-Heaton in the eye. ‘I have to get this man on board.’ He dropped his subservience along with his Indian accent. ‘If you’d allow me to pass, sir.’

  ‘Not until I’ve seen who’s so hellfire important.’ Cleck-Heaton pulled the blanket from the figure Ram held in his arms. ‘I might have guessed,’ he jeered, still smarting from the punch John had given him. ‘Downe and Mason’s chum. Well, your bloody half-brother can wait for treatment like everyone else, Ram. That is your name isn’t it? Or is it Reid like your mother, you wog bastard?’

  Charles tried to focus on Cleck-Heaton. Half-brother? The man was mad.

  ‘Major Reid is badly wounded. Please, let me pass so I can take him on board.’

  ‘I said this ship is full, you, half-breed bastard. If I had my way, you Anglos wouldn’t be allowed into the Army as sweepers, much less given commissions. Ought to be shot, the lot of you. Fucking mongrel misfits. Now move on before I have you arrested.’

  ‘Cleck-Heaton!’ Perry walked towards them, a thunderous look darkening his face.

  ‘Sir.’ Cleck-Heaton snapped to attention, deferring to Perry’s rank. Taking advantage of the interruption, Ram ran up the gangplank, but not before Charles overheard Perry admonishing Cleck-Heaton.

  ‘How dare you! Reid’s father was a general. The rank alone entitles him to our loyalty, not to mention regimental honour as a past officer. No one has mentioned the subject for over 20 years and you bring up it up here, of all places. Shouting it out for the ranks and wogs to hear. Christ, man, have you no sense of propriety?’

  Charles looked into Ram’s face. It was long and thin, like his own. His father’s was round. He’d never seen a photograph of his mother. He’d asked Harry’s mother if he could have one once. He’d been 14, on his way back to school after the summer recess. He’d packed his picture of his father and he’d wanted one of his mother, like the other boys, but his aunt had told him it would upset his father. He’d never asked her about his mother again.

  He’d learnt at an early age not to talk about the dead. But the lack of photographs hadn’t erased an image he’d carried for years. Of a beautiful, fair, young woman walking into his nursery in India. A woman with an oval face and bright blue eyes who’d smelled of roses and wept when she’d held him close.

  Chatta Ram prised the packed bodies roughly apart. It was still raining, but he knew Charles would be better off on deck than below. Here he’d breathe fresh air, and river water was within reach. He ran his fingers over Charles’s leg. The wound was clean – for the moment. The bullet had passed through, but Charles hadn’t recovered from the fever. He had no strength left to fight infection …

  ‘Are you my half-brother?’

  ‘Major Cleck-Heaton mistook me for someone else.’

  Charles was sick, but not sick enough to believe the lie. ‘Is our mother still alive?’

  ‘Yes, she’s alive.’

  The engines started. The sepoy laid his hand on Charles’s forehead but he jerked free. The movement brought pain. He laid his head on the bare deck and listened to the groans of the wounded shut in below. Regimental honour! How could his father have allowed him to take a commission in India without giving him a single word of explanation or warning?

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Ctesiphon, 4 a.m. 24th November 1915

  ‘Downe!’ Perry called into the trench where Harry was sheltering from the hurricane force wind that was driving clouds of dust over the plain and into the crevices where the troops had taken refuge. Harry pulled his kafieh higher and crawled towards the command officers.

  ‘Reconnaissance,’ Perry barked. ‘We need to find out what the Turks are up to.’

  Harrap looked at Harry’s slight figure swathed in Arab robes with something akin to pity. ‘We won’t withstand another attack like the last.’ He pitched his voice below the wind. ‘This line has had six attacks in the last six hours.’

  ‘I’ve been with General Hoghton,’ Harry said. ‘He only just managed to hold on to his line. He’s almost out of ammunition.’

  ‘We all have our problems,’ Perry refused to look further than his own command. ‘There’s no time to lose. We need that information.’

  ‘I know this is hard on you, Downe,’ Harrap sympathised.

  ‘If I see anything further than my nose up there, I’ll try to live long enough to let you know.’ Harry crawled back to Peter. Belting his robe, he put his foot on a sandbag.

  ‘Go over the top and you’re a dead man, Harry,’ Peter warned.

  ‘Refuse and I’ll give Perry an excuse to shoot me in the back.’ Thrusting his knife into his belt, he took his gun in his left hand and vaulted out of the trench.

  Harry could see only a few inches ahead as he wriggled over the plain. Once or twice, when the dust cleared for an instant, he thought he glimpsed the flicker of Turkish torches but he couldn’t be sure. He inched forward; taking cover behind the bodies littering the field. One groaned. He drew the knife from his belt, clamping it between his teeth. A knife was silent and he couldn’t afford to alert the Turks.

  His eyes stung from dust and peering too hard for things that weren’t there. Just as he was becoming accustomed to the spasms of fear that trickled down his spine, the Turkish guns crashed into life again. He pressed his face into the dirt and clamped his hands over his head. The guns continued to boom, shattering his eardrums, but reason stole through his fear. They were too far away to be of any immediate danger. Lifting his head, he saw the faint but definite glimmer of lights dancing in the swirling dust.

  Digging in his fingers and toes, he pulled himself on. He hit the coarse cloth of a sandbag. Gripping his cocked gun, he lifted his head and peered down over the edge of a parapet, half-expecting to see a Turk looking up at him. Sticks wrapped with oily rags burned r
aggedly in improvised holders on the wall. An ammunition box lay ripped apart on the floor; bodies were piled in a corner. Crouching low, he ran back towards the home trench.

  He lost his footing when he hit the British line and fell into a dugout. A man jumped on him and he cursed his Arab robes as he belted out his name, rank, and number. The private stepped back and Harry looked at the ragbag of insignia around him. Regimental pride had disappeared on the casualty transports. The survivors had been lumped together: signallers, Mahrattas, Dorsets … The veteran British troops looked exhausted, the Indians incredibly young. Most of the experienced sepoys had been sent to the Western Front.

  ‘We winning, sir?’ a corporal from the Dorsets ventured.

  ‘No one’s winning against this damned dust.’ He tried to sound cheerful. ‘Where’s Colonel Perry?’

  ‘Ahead, sir. A messenger’s just come from HQ. Johnny Turk’s shelling the road our wounded are taking to the river.’

  ‘They’re shelling our hospital ships too, sir,’ a private added. ‘Damn their eyes.’

  ‘We’re still going to push through to Baghdad aren’t we, sir?’ Harry recognised the plea behind the question. There were so many dead, so many wounded, so many missing – he felt the same way about Charles and Amey. All this suffering had to have some purpose. If it didn’t, if it was for nothing, there was no point in struggling to carry on. They may as well shoot themselves.

  ‘Yes, corporal, we’ll reach Baghdad. It may take us longer than we anticipated, but we’ll get there. I promise you that.’

  Ctesiphon, 25th November 1915

  ‘Order to retreat, sir.’

  Peter stared at the messenger as though he were insane. ‘We can hold the line. Damn it, we can …’

  Crabbe laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘Word has come from HQ. The Turks have reinforcements and are regrouping. We can’t keep this up. It’s costing too much.’

  Peter looked across at the Roman arch. He’d taken it. Him and the regiment, and now they were going to hand it back to Johnny Turk. Why had they bothered to fight?