The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  He switched off his emotions, adopted clinical mode, and began estimating men’s strength, deciding who would survive surgery, and who would not.

  Those with the best chance, he sent to the hospital. The dead he ordered piled against the cabin wall. He commanded his men to hose a portion of the deck for the third category: men who still lived, but probably weren’t going to make it. He gave them a shot of morphine, a smile, and told them they’d have to wait a while longer. If any survived, they’d be carried off the ship last.

  Like all military doctors in Mesopotamia, he’d learnt to make unpleasant decisions swiftly and put the consequences out of his mind – during working hours.

  The pile of dead mounted as he progressed along the deck. A stench of decay and gangrene emanated from the hold and he steeled himself, knowing he’d have to go down there as soon as the decks were cleared. He came across an Indian sergeant crouching over the body of a major from the Dorsets. The Indian watched mutely as he made a cursory examination. High fever, maggots in a gaping leg wound … He hesitated. The major hadn’t regained consciousness during the examination – a bad sign. He’d lost a great deal of blood …

  ‘Over there,’ he shouted to the bearers, pointing to the stern.

  ‘I’ll carry him to the ambulance, sir.’ Chatta Ram lifted Charles from the deck before the orderlies could reach them.

  ‘He’s not strong enough to withstand the journey, Sergeant.’ Allan pulled out his syringe and filled it with morphine. When he looked up, he saw the sergeant marching erect in his soiled uniform down the gangplank. He turned his back. Perhaps the Indian was right. After all, who was he to play God with men’s lives?

  ‘Reckon it must have been hell upstream, sir.’ A corporal from the Hampshires tugged a handkerchief over his nose.

  ‘It must have been, Corporal.’ Allan watched the first ambulance move off. The Indian followed behind it with a straggle of walking wounded. It wasn’t until the man turned a corner that he realised that the back of his tunic was blood-stained. He’d been wounded himself.

  Kut, Monday 6th December 1915

  John Mason stood in front of the building that had been requisitioned as a hospital. Armoured cars were thundering their cumbersome, noisy way out of Kut, cavalry following in their wake. John recognised Gerard Leachman riding amongst them, the last political officer with the force besides Harry.

  Knight joined him. ‘Leachman’s the only man I’ve ever met who gets on with everyone.’

  ‘Harry does pretty well,’ John countered.

  ‘Harry isn’t astute enough to avoid idiots like Cleck-Heaton.’

  The cavalry halted at the newly dug trenches on the outskirts of the town and saluted the watching men.

  ‘We’ll be back.’ The cry resounded around the cold, dreary streets.

  Harry walked out of HQ with Crabbe. ‘I’ll be back too.’ He helped himself to one of Knight’s cigarettes. ‘And sooner than you think, so don’t go drinking all the whisky and smoking all the cigarettes that arrived in the last delivery.’

  John looked at Harry’s Arab robes; saw the two gulhams waiting.

  ‘Do you want any cigarettes now? I’ve a few packs I can spare.’

  ‘I’ll make this my last. It wouldn’t be wise to take British cigarettes where I’m going.’

  Crabbe shook his head. ‘There has to be a better way of collecting intelligence.’

  ‘If you come up with any ideas, let me know.’ Harry gripped John by the shoulders. ‘Don’t go hitting any more staff officers. Wait for me to do it for you. Everyone knows the POs are mad, so they let us get away with murder.’

  ‘We can handle Cleck-Heaton’s charges,’ Crabbe said. ‘And we’ll be fine. Living in the lap of luxury while you rough it out there.’

  Harry thought of the Turks closing in on Kut and said nothing.

  ‘Reinforcements will come before it gets too bloody.’ Crabbe read Harry’s thoughts.

  Harry studied the curve of the river, empty except for the Sumana and a few native mahailas Townsend had retained to use as ferries. The briefing he’d attended had been short and to the point. The Force had 39 guns, ammunition, which hadn’t been counted or collected, and 10,000 men, 7500 bayonet carriers and 1500 sabre carriers, every last one exhausted. The most favourable estimate of the Turks bearing down on them was 20,000. And they wouldn’t be exhausted, or short of supplies.

  The staff had crowed over the recent arrival of winter uniforms and supplies, including whisky and cigarettes for the officers’ mess, as though the goods would turn the tide in their favour. Harry knew better. It was all very well for the staff to chant that one British sapper was worth ten Turks. Maybe it had even been true in the early stages of the war when they’d faced the tail end of the Turkish army, but it wasn’t true of Khalil Pasha or Nur-ud-Din’s men. If the reinforcements Crabbe had spoken about were coming, he would like to know from where. There weren’t any seasoned troops left in India and the Western Front needed every man it could get.

  Meanwhile, he had to ride up river, count the Turks, and return with a figure that would be more acceptable to the brass – if he lived. He trod his cigarette under foot.

  ‘I’ve left a parcel on your bed; look after it for me,’ he said to John.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Take care, the lot of you.’ Checking his milk skin and date bag were strapped to his saddle, he climbed on and kicked the beast. ‘Kush, you stupid brute. Kush.’

  The camel swayed to its feet. The Arabs spurred their mounts. Soon, the three of them were no more than distant silhouettes on the road. One more group of Bedouin searching for loot on the abandoned battlefields.

  John had seen Harry ride off before, but this was different. Defeat was staring them in the face. The Turks were out there. Well-fed, strong, fit; ready to take on the world. The question was no longer who was going to win. Only how soon.

  Harry walked his camel along the line where the sepoys were digging trenches. He passed the liquorice factory and the troops ferrying grain from the factory storehouses. After crossing the centre of the town, he rounded the curve of the river and rode out into the open countryside on the left bank. Dusk fell as he and his ghulams reached the town limits.

  The temperature plummeted. Pulling his abba close, Harry hit his camel. Whipping up speed, he trotted blindly into the darkness, the ghulams keeping their own camels a few lengths behind his. Images of John, Peter, Knight, Crabbe, and the others in the beleaguered town intruded. How long would it take 20,000 Turkish troops to overrun the exhausted garrison at Kut and move on?

  Would Nur-ud-Din halt at Amara or march until he had retaken all the ground the Ottoman Empire had lost, including Basra and the Karun Valley?

  Ctesiphon had added a new dimension to his concept of dying. The end of his existence and onset of nothingness rarely worried him except during the early hours when he couldn’t sleep. What terrified him was death as he had seen it on the battlefields – brutal and degrading. The bestial cries that had come out of no-man’s-land from men who had nothing left to beg for except a swift end; men with their genitals or faces shot away. Men who lived for hours, sometimes days, drowning in their own blood and the freezing mud; screaming until they could scream no more.

  The thought of ending that way haunted him. As a professional soldier, he should have been prepared to die from the day he enlisted. But he hadn’t even considered death when he’d sailed to India with John and Charles, only the good times his own and Charles’s father had reminisced about in the smoking room at Clyneswood.

  The afternoon polo matches, drinking bouts in the mess; dinner parties with ladies; at which point the general had always looked solemn, as befitted a man who had lost his wife to fever at an early age. Balls, parties, rides in the countryside at dawn and sunset – no mention of a bloody, miserable death in the mud of Mesopotamia.

  Soldiers were paid to fight. The risk was early death. He could hardly blame the army for his own lack of
foresight in not realising the obvious. But he wondered if John or Charles had considered the implications when they’d taken their commissions. From the time they’d been old enough to join their fathers for brandy after dinner they’d heard stories about ‘poor old Carruthers, who’d bought it in Poona in ’84’. But the poor old Carrutherses of this world had died in their beds of fever, or heroism in a tribal skirmish. There’d never been a hint of anything like this mass slaughter.

  Aside from his prayer for a swift death, there was the question of loyalty to the Arabs who’d placed their trust in the British Empire: Arabs who’d never have done so without his persuasion.

  Nur-ud-Din would not be merciful towards natives who’d aided the British, so where did that leave Muhammerah, and the other Arabs who’d acted as ghulams and scouts – and Shalan – and Furja?

  He harried his camel on. He’d promised so many Arabs that the Turks had been ousted permanently; men who’d supported him on that understanding. Now the best he could hope for was that they – and Furja – would survive.

  If she did, would she find happiness with her new husband? The thought twisted in his gut like a knife. Perhaps that was why Mitkhal had left no messages for him. Mitkhal was happy with Gutne, and Furja was happy with Ali.

  His daughters would grow up calling another man father. They’d never know anything about him, never need him …

  A shot rang out, slicing through his thoughts. It hit his camel squarely in the centre of the forehead. The beast crumpled. He was pitched onto the riverbank. Stunned, he heard the tramp of marching feet. The ghulams took off. He didn’t blame them. If he’d been in their position, he’d have done the same.

  ‘This is the Ferenghi known as Hasan Mahmoud.’ Ibn Muba stood beside a Turkish major. The Marsh Arab lifted his lantern higher so Harry could see his triumph. ‘This is for my village and all the villages on the Kerkha, Hasan.’

  The sergeant fastened the first chain around Harry’s wrists.

  Kut

  John lay on his cot, too exhausted to undress – or drink – although he’d taken care to fill the flask that nestled in his uniform pocket during his 24-hour stint at the hospital.

  ‘Major Mason, open the door.’

  He forced his eyelids apart. It was dark. He wasn’t sure whether he’d slept or not.

  ‘Major Mason!’ Another door opened. John heard Peter’s voice raised in annoyance.

  ‘What the hell –? Begging your pardon, sir.’

  Light flooded into his room and he saw Peter in his long, woollen underwear standing to attention in the corridor.

  ‘Major Mason.’ Perry entered and stood before him. Making an effort, he forced himself upright.

  Perry held a sheet of paper. ‘Major Mason, you have been charged with striking a superior, refusing to carry out orders, and …’ Perry paused, his face was impassive, but John saw a jubilant gleam in his eyes. ‘The murder of Lieutenant Stephen Amey at field ambulance four during the battle of Ctesiphon.’

  The light from the corridor wasn’t sufficient to illuminate the paper. John realised Perry had taken the trouble to memorise the charges so he could study him while he reeled them off.

  ‘That’s preposterous!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘There’s no way John would kill anyone, much less Amey.’

  ‘Court martial to take place tomorrow at 15.00 hours, Major Mason.’ Perry didn’t turn his attention away from John. ‘Until then, you will be held under open arrest so you can continue working in the hospital. The shortage of medical personnel has forced command to take this step. You will have the freedom of your room and the hospital. Do you understand the charges, Major Mason?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He’d been expecting it, but it had been a long time coming. Now it had actually happened, the only emotion he felt was relief the waiting was over.

  ‘Sergeant Greening will remain with you at all times. Should you attempt to deviate from the route between this room and the hospital he has orders to shoot you.’

  An angry murmuring buzzed in the corridor.

  ‘You may appoint an officer to defend you, Major Mason. Should you have difficulty finding one, the court will appoint one for you.’

  ‘He’ll have no difficulty.’ Crabbe pushed past Perry and joined John in his room.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to do it; no one did,’ Sergeant Greening explained. ‘The colonel had to order me to stand guard. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.’

  John gave the sergeant a remote smile. ‘I’m glad he chose you. You’ll need a chair to sit outside. Unless …’ John looked at the bed he’d vacated.

  ‘Outside the room will be fine, sir.’ Taking a chair, the sergeant left.

  ‘That bloody man. Cleck-Heaton may have filed the charges, but we all know who put him up to it. Perry’s not going to get away with this. I’ll defend you …’

  ‘Thank you, Crabbe, it’s very good of you,’ John gave a remote smile. ‘But I’m afraid the facts speak for themselves.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake you can’t blame yourself. You’re a doctor, not God. You can’t save everyone.’

  ‘Not everyone, just Amey.’ John lay on the bed. Peter joined Crabbe inside the room and shut the door in the face of the officers crowding the corridor.

  ‘We have to get to work on your defence.’ Crabbe pulled a pencil and notebook from his pocket. ‘Light that lamp, Smythe.’ He placed the candle he was holding on John’s locker. ‘We’ll start by making a list of all the people who were at the field hospital when you had that brush with Cleck-Heaton.’

  ‘There’s no need. I killed Amey. I lost my temper and released my hold on a severed artery that could have been sewn back together. That makes me guilty.’ John reached for the flask in his jacket.

  ‘Damn it, you can’t just take this. Perry’s thrown the book at you. Don’t you understand, you fucking idiot? They’re intent on shooting you.’

  ‘I hope they do.’ John turned his face to the wall.

  Turkish HQ, The Tigris Valley above Kut-el-Amara, Thursday December 9th 1915

  Harry expected the Turks to shoot him where he’d

  fallen. During the night that followed, he wished they had. After chaining him, they stripped and searched him, ramming their fingers into every orifice of his petrified body. When they finished, they bundled him, naked, across the saddle of a horse, before leading it at a gallop for two freezing, numbing hours. Then, they dumped him in front of a campfire.

  He lay there shivering for what seemed like an eternity before he dared lift his head. Hundreds of well-aligned rows of canvas tents faded into the darkness along with neat stacks of rifles, ammunition, and cook fires. He remembered the exhausted men and low supply dumps he’d left in Kut. If this was Nur-ud-Din’s army, it was better organised and supplied than any Turkish force they’d come up against before.

  A group of officers wandered over. Tin mugs and cigarettes in hand, they prodded his shivering body with their boots while they continued to talk among themselves. One man stepped forward; kicking Harry on to his back, he questioned him in rough, heavily accented Arabic.

  ‘What is the strength of General Townsend’s force? How has he deployed the defences at Kut? What information have you been sent to gather?’

  Harry considered brazening it out. Ibn Muba wasn’t in sight. His colouring was wrong for an Arab, but there was always his pigeon German – then he glimpsed a blond head shining in the firelight and remembered the Berlin-Baghdad railway.

  ‘I am Hasan Mahmoud. I was a horse trader in Basra but I lost everything in the war. I am trying to get to my brother in –’ He thought quickly; Ahwaz would never do. He was too far from the Karun valley. ‘Baghdad,’ he gabbled hastily. God help him if by some miracle the Turks believed him and sent him there.

  ‘Nice try, Lieutenant-Colonel Downe. Your Arabic is excellent, but the ruse won’t work this time. Even without Ibn Muba’s assistance I would have known you.’ The language was English. A Turkish officer squatte
d on his heels and peered into Harry’s face. He was holding a poster. ‘I compliment your command of a difficult tongue. My Arabic is nowhere near as good and I have had many more years to study it than you.’

  The officer was handsome. Taller and slimmer than the short, squat, thickset Turks around him, he had a pencil fine moustache and a full head of dark hair. ‘I was hoping you’d return the compliment and commend me on my English. I studied in your country. At Cambridge. May I introduce myself? I am Murad Pasha but we will not stand on ceremony. You may call me Murad. Would you like a cigarette?’ He took one from a gold case and offered it to Harry. Harry looked at it, but his hands were still chained behind his back.

  ‘How stupid of me, Lieutenant-Colonel Downe, or may I call you Harry? You cannot smoke because your hands are bound.’ He shouted an order.

  Harry’s hands were pulled painfully higher and the chains removed. He massaged the circulation back into his wrists. Someone threw him a blanket. He grabbed it, and draped it over his shoulders, more anxious to cover himself than shelter behind its warmth. Murad Pasha gave him the cigarette. It was already lit, and he watched the Turk warily from beneath half-closed eyelids as he drew the smoke into his lungs.

  ‘Your commanding officer made a mistake when he sent you to us, Lieutenant-Colonel Downe. Surely you didn’t expect to fool us again with this ridiculous charade of Arab robes? I see from your expression you are surprised we know so much about you. But you are famous.’ Murad pushed the poster he was holding under Harry’s nose. It was caricature of his features, resembling a cartoon drawing from Punch.

  ‘Poor Colonel Bilgi in the Karun Valley was relegated to the ranks for believing you. A fate worse than death for one such as him. He was not a popular commander, however, and I feel he deserved the punishment after giving you our summer campaign plans. But please, do not insult our intelligence any longer. We’re both professionals. I will not lie. If you answer my questions, I promise you an easy death. Should you refuse to co-operate, I promise you will long for such a death. We have men here who are expert at prolonging a man’s life when he is no longer recognisable as a man.’