The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 45

  He thrust pencil and paper at Harry. ‘Sketch Townsend’s displacements in Kut. Tell me how many able-bodied men he has left. As you see –’ he indicated the camp around him ‘– you have lost the war. The Germans are winning on the Western Front.’ He looked to where the German stood warming his backside on the campfire. ‘And we will win on this front. Help me plan a swift death for your comrades, Harry, and I will order an easy death for you. It is more than a man out of uniform deserves.’

  The offer hung tantalizingly sweet in the cold night air.

  Harry had no illusion of rescue, or escape. He was going to die; the only question was how. He finished his cigarette, threw the stub into the fire and repeated, ‘I am Hasan Mahmoud. I am a poor horse trader from Basra …’

  ‘Perhaps it was foolish of me to expect otherwise, Lieutenant-Colonel Downe.’ There was grudging respect in Murad’s voice. ‘Forgive me for taking leave of you, but I am squeamish about these matters. We will talk again tomorrow, when I hope to find you in a more compliant frame of mind.’

  Murad and the German walked away. A sergeant took Murad’s place; a mountain of a man with the inane grin of a backward child. Behind him stood an emaciated lieutenant. The sergeant pulled the blanket from Harry and tossed it aside. Heaving Harry’s hands behind his back, he chained him again and kicked him on to his side. The lieutenant lit a cigarette with a sulphur match that flared with a beautiful green-blue flame. He handed it to the sergeant who puffed on it before applying its end to Harry’s right nipple.

  Harry screamed as excruciating pain shot through his chest. His body arced until his feet hit his hands. The sergeant removed the cigarette and puffed on it again. The chains chafed Harry’s ankles when his knees were yanked apart and the glowing end pressed to his testicles.

  Harry screamed and cursed – in Arabic. He was Hasan Mahmoud. If he forgot that for an instant, he would cause the death of every man in Kut. He had to forget John, forget Kut, forget everything except Hasan Mahmoud … Hasan Mahmoud …

  The cigarette was removed but not the pain. The lieutenant lit another. The sergeant puffed on his again. Harry screamed as the flesh smouldered below his right eye. He began to gabble in Arabic, telling them about the Bedouin. The women who waited for their men in the harems of the black tents.

  It didn’t take long for him to discover that Hasan Mahmoud was a drivelling coward. He would tell them everything he knew, but Hasan Mahmoud was an Arab with nothing of importance to tell. And he was Hasan Mahmoud.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Kut, Saturday December 12th 1915

  ‘Sir, will I be able to – I mean will I …?’

  Knight took pity on the middle-aged rifleman. ‘Your wife won’t notice any difference, corporal.’ He could sense every man listening intently, including Greening, who stood armed and at attention at the door.

  ‘But, sir, I’ve only one left.’ The corporal was bright red but Knight knew his embarrassment stemmed from talking to a MO, not from the audience of fellow soldiers. There was no room for modesty in the barracks.

  ‘One’s all you need.’ Knight suppressed a smile.

  ‘Then why do we have two?’

  ‘Back-up in case of accidents.’

  ‘But what if she notices? What if she says something?’

  ‘Tell her what I’ve just told you.’ Knight pulled the blanket over the rifleman’s legs. ‘The wound’s healing well. You’ll be fine and, if you want to, you can father any number of children, providing your wife is willing.’

  ‘Reckon she won’t be too keen, seeing as how we’ve nine already. But thank you for putting my mind at rest, sir.’

  Knight moved down the ward, followed by whispers of “told you so”, and “your missus better look out when you get home; you’ll be at her day and night just to prove a point”.

  John was checking a drainage tube in a sergeant’s chest. The man would have died if John hadn’t operated, implementing procedures they’d read about in the Lancet. He damned the staff and their ludicrous order that he could only work under supervision. Crabbe had fought to get the charges dismissed; but three delays due to Turkish bombardments hadn’t helped; neither had John’s reluctance to speak in his own defence. When the hearing had finally been held, they’d all been so exhausted nothing made any sense.

  Least of all the staff’s decision to postpone the verdict.

  John finished checking his patient and left the ward. The hospital had been set up in a merchant’s house. Four light, airy reception rooms had been turned into wards but only one had access to the gloomy kitchen. Glazed tiles offset the dreariness. Tints of gold and silver glittered among jewelled shades of emerald and sapphire brushed into curiously beguiling, abstract patterns. While admiring them, John noticed a teapot on a cupboard. It was still warm. He poured himself a cup. Leaning against the stove, he siphoned off its warmth and cleared his mind of everything except the tile pattern. A shell crashed behind the building. Matthews’ voice rose above the blast.

  ‘Bleeding hell that were close.’

  John didn’t flinch. Sipping the lukewarm tea, he began to count the tiles.

  ‘Any news?’ Knight joined him.

  ‘About what?’ John enquired absently.

  ‘Your court martial. I thought they’d have sent for you this morning.’

  ‘They haven’t as yet.’ John resumed counting the tiles. There was another crash.

  ‘Bloody Turkish artillery.’ Knight tossed the contents of the teapot into the slop pail. Opening the stove, he raked the wood and set the kettle to boil. ‘Would you believe I actually found myself wishing Townsend had given in to Nur-ud-Din’s demands for surrender three days ago? If he had, you’d have had to take your chances with the Turks along with the rest of us, and Cleck-Heaton’s charges would be forgotten. We wouldn’t be sitting in this blasted bombardment …’ Another shell cut him short.

  ‘The brass would have had me shot before they surrendered.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that. But I’m damned sure if they find you guilty they’ll shoot you now.’

  ‘If a shell doesn’t get me first. I appreciate your concern, Knight, but my fate doesn’t seem that important in the scheme of things.’

  ‘Been drinking again?’

  John pulled the flask from his pocket, and shook it. ‘I haven’t filled it in days.’

  ‘Major Mason?’

  ‘What is it, Sergeant Greening?’ Expecting the worst, Knight’s hand shook as he opened the door. They couldn’t shoot John – they couldn’t –

  ‘Colonel Crabbe’s here to see Major Mason.’

  Crabbe walked in, carrying a bundle under his arm.

  Knight looked at Crabbe’s face. ‘They’ve sent for John?’

  Crabbe shook his head. He handed John the parcel. ‘One of the ghulams brought it in ten minutes ago. I think the beggar was on his way downstream when the Turks got wind he was one of ours, so he hightailed it back here. The damned coward said he ran when Johnny Turk fired the first shot. It killed Harry. If we believe the bastard we can console ourselves with the thought that Harry died quickly.’

  John unfurled the robe. Streaks of dried blood stiffened the surface. He lifted it to his face and held it against his cheek. Turning his back on Crabbe, he took a few steps. When he crashed into the tiled wall, the first blinding tears fell from his eyes.

  The Turkish camp besieging Kut, Saturday December 12th 1915

  The tent shielded Hasan from the wind and rain if not the cold. When dawn broke on the first morning, men had come to the campfire with mess tins. One had looked at him and vomited. After that, they carried him into the tent.

  Since then, time had lost all meaning. Hasan welcomed Murad’s visits because the Turk would lay a blanket over his body and wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt him when he was present. The rough wool chafed his burns, but the pain was worth it, because he was no longer naked. Hasan trusted Murad; he did not burn or torture him. He only asked questions – que
stions in an alien tongue.

  Whenever he tried to tell him he didn’t understand, Murad would leave, the blanket would be removed, and the pain would begin again. He lay chained hand and foot, unable even to crawl. Every time Murad left, the sergeant and lieutenant returned, and fear relaxed his bladder and bowels. The Turks didn’t have to touch him to provoke the response. He lay in his own excrement and stank. He could see it in the lieutenant’s disgust when he drew near. A few times the pain was so great he lost consciousness. Then buckets of freezing water were thrown over him.

  He’d been thirsty enough to lick the drops from the filthy canvas floor, too far gone to care what he was drinking, as long as it was wet. Then the blanket would fall over him again and Murad would return with his civilised voice and gentle ways.

  He offered to tell Murad everything he knew, but every time he spoke, he made Murad angry. He did not know why. He told the Turk about the desert and the marshes. The mashufs he’d seen filled with fish and dates. He no longer felt hunger – the only sensations that penetrated the fog in his mind were pain and thirst – but it pleased him to think of shining dates and fish cooking over a dung fire. Murad didn’t want to hear about food. Sometimes other men came. One was fair, with blond hair, but he never spoke. Only stood and watched.

  For the second time his hands were unchained but he was too weak to move them. The sergeant wrapped the soiled blanket around him and lifted him on a chair. It was wrong.

  Murad was asking questions and the lieutenant and sergeant were there. He tried to tell them the sergeant and lieutenant should go away, but they didn’t listen.

  Too weak to sit, he fell from the chair. The sergeant kicked him; one of his ribs cracked, but the pain wasn’t as agonising as the ones from the burns. The sergeant threw aside the blanket and lifted him back on to the chair. His legs were spread-eagled and tied. They were going to emasculate him. Why else would they expose him? He lowered his chin in an effort to conceal his fear.

  The sergeant tied his left hand to his leg; his right he pressed down on the scarred surface of a table. Murad questioned him and the lieutenant produced a knife. The sergeant’s grip tightened. He watched the Turk straighten his fingers. His hand …

  He tried to pull it away but the sergeant’s grip was strong.

  The knife was long-bladed, sharp – like a butcher’s knife. Where had he seen a butcher’s knife? Of course – in the market in Basra. Without warning, the lieutenant brought the blade down on his little finger. He stared at his knuckle and nail, severed and lying on the table.

  Blood pumped from the stump and pain shot up his arm. The chair rocked when he threw himself back with a strength born of agony.

  Questions rained swifter than he could answer. He tried to reply. But his words were drowned in his screams.

  The knife came down again and embedded itself in the table. There was now only a bleeding root where his little finger had been. Through his cries he could hear Murad’s voice, soft, insistent.

  The lieutenant prised the knife from the table. Murad asked another question. Then it was his index finger, lying in three neat blood-stained pieces next to the remains of his little finger. He sat sobbing in his own filth. He would do anything they wanted to put an end to it. Anything …

  Murad called him Harry.

  ‘My daughter’s name is Harri.’ He offered them the life of his child.

  Murad’s face loomed close to his. The knife came down again – his voice was swallowed in yet another whine. His forefinger joined his index and little fingers.

  Another question; another flash. Another question; another flash. He no longer had the strength to moan. He whimpered, offered to say whatever they wanted to hear until there was only his palm left. Murad fell silent. A man walked into the tent and shouted. The sergeant left, returning a few moments later with an iron bar that glowed red hot at its tip.

  Murad caught his shoulders and shouted yet more questions that he failed to understand.

  The chair he was tied to was knocked on the floor. He lay on his back. Every part of him was pain. They didn’t need to hurt him any more. He would do whatever they wanted. Why wouldn’t they listen?

  The iron glowed closer. The lieutenant knelt beside him and caught his head in his hands. The sergeant moved the tip of the bar slowly, inexorably towards him.

  Murad asked one last question before the hot iron plunged into his right eye. The last thing he saw before he drowned in agony was a blond head.

  *……*……*

  Kut, Wednesday December 15th 1915

  Leigh sidled over to Peter’s cot. ‘Do you know which regimental mess received a year’s supply of drink before we dug in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on, old man, tell Uncle Leigh all.’

  ‘So you can beg hospitality. Not bloody likely. The fewer people who know, the greater the share.’

  ‘Come on … I say, you look peaky.’ Leigh greeted Grace, who had stayed on in Kut with the crew of the Sumana. ‘Not bad news about Bowditch? He was doing all right last I heard.’

  ‘I’ve come from the hospital. Harry’s dead and they’ve passed the death sentence on Mason. Came to get him while I was there. He’s to face a firing squad in an hour. Crabbe and the senior MO are with the staff now but it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Where have they taken him?’ Peter left his bed and fastened his collar.

  ‘The basement of the supplies depot. It’s no good trying to see him. I went there to pay my respects. No one’s allowed to approach the building without a pass.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Leigh grabbed Peter’s coat. ‘You want to give them an excuse to shoot you too?’

  ‘We could go to the mess,’ Grace suggested. ‘Crabbe will have to pass it when he leaves HQ.’

  ‘It’s not Crabbe I want to see.’

  ‘If you want to see John, Crabbe’s the only one who can help you. They can’t do anything until he gets there. As John’s defender, he has to witness the execution.’

  Peter had seen a court martial and execution before the war. But the blighter had deserved death. John didn’t. And to take a doctor from the hospital and shoot him when there were more sick and wounded men in their camp than healthy seemed the ultimate obscenity of war.

  John sat on a wooden bench in a damp, windowless cellar. A candle burned on a table Greening had scrounged. He heard sentries pacing the stone passage outside. It had been cold in the hospital, but not like this. The temperature had to be below freezing.

  He held out his hands and studied them. All the training, all the knowledge he’d acquired at the cost of countless hours of study, had come to nothing. He would have been better employed joining Harry in every drunken escapade. That way, at least he’d have pleasurable memories to look back on. As it was, all he could recall was tedious hours locked away with books, and professors who could make the most interesting topics boring. What brief interludes of enjoyment there’d been had always come courtesy of Harry.

  This time had been given him so he could prepare for his own death, not mourn Harry; but he deserved death. He’d made a shambles of his life. His wife wasn’t even carrying his child, but perhaps Maud had never really been his, not in the sense he’d wanted.

  He’d searched for an ideal, a soulmate he could lavish love on and exact love in return. He’d tried to explain how he felt about marriage once to Harry and his cousin had laughed, telling him he’d been reading too much Byron and Shakespeare. Harry had been right. Women were not ethereal creatures to be put on pedestals and adored. They had feet of clay, like Maud. Why was it that whatever he thought about, he always returned to Harry?

  Harry, Charles, and him. Charles had disappeared, probably drowned in the mud at Ctesiphon. John pictured his friend’s tall, slim body sinking inch by inch until he was covered with oozing black slime. Harry – the pain of losing Harry was almost too great to bear. He had so many memories of Harry.

  Harry creeping
into the school dormitory late at night, his shirt stuffed with pastries he’d wheedled from the girls in the cake shop. How old had they been? Ten? Twelve? Women had succumbed to Harry’s charms even when he’d been a child.

  Harry setting out for school from Clyneswood with a pig’s bladder full of his father’s whisky stuffed into the case of the violin he never played. Harry leaving school to the cheers of the masters and the sobbing of the boys.

  Harry thrown out of medical college, surviving the rigours of Sandhurst, smiling through it all, even the magnificent engagement party his parents had arranged for him and Lucy. And Harry had still been smiling a week later when he’d met him and Charles in London.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, John, but I’ve decided to break it off with your sister. It’s for the best. She’s much too good for me.’

  He’d been so charming about the whole episode everyone had forgiven him, except Lucy. Charming, headstrong Harry sitting on the edge of the sofa in his quarters in Basra saying, ‘She’s my wife, actually. And we get on.’

  Harry picking Furja up and whirling her in the air. Harry in love. Really in love and not giving a toss for anyone’s opinion except his own. How he’d envied Harry that one quality. The ability to ignore the rest of the world and live his life his way.

  The bolts grated. He rose to his feet, his limbs stiff with cold. Perry entered, as correctly attired as ever. Siege conditions hadn’t affected his bearer’s ability to cope with his laundry.

  ‘I’ve brought you paper, ink and a pen, Mason. You may write to your family. Delivery will depend on the censor. In order to mitigate the distress your disgrace would cause your relatives, they’ll receive a telegram detailing your death from fever. The staff decided against “fallen in battle”. That means your widow will only be entitled to the lower rate of pension, but considering the circumstances I think you’ll agree it’s generous of the army to consider your relatives at all.’