For Kingdom and Country (13 page)

‘How deep is the water, do we know?’

‘Mostly little more than three feet, but the trouble is the irrigation canals. We’ve no idea where they are until we hit them, and they can be some twenty feet deep.’

Lock nodded and continued to scan the water.

‘There’s very little cover, except the reeds, which at least mark the edges of the river itself, or presumably do. But they can’t be more than five feet high. No good unless you’ve got a company of circus midgets at your disposal.’

Ross snorted. ‘Not even a Welsh detachment, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, that rules out any surprise approach. In daylight.’

‘Yes. Townshend’s fretting about that and the fact that everything you see rules out any outflanking movement, too.’

‘So what the hell are we going to do?’ Lock said, lowering his binoculars.

Ross waved his hand in a slow sweeping gesture in front of him.

Lock blinked back at him. ‘You are joking? A frontal attack across this lake? Madness.’

‘Perhaps, but that’s the plan. That little gathering of floating vessels isn’t just for a colonial re-enactment of the Henley Regatta to appease the homesick aristocracy. No, Townshend’s Regatta is to be our latest weapon in modern warfare.’

Lock snorted. He had called it the very same thing upon arrival.

‘That’s what the men have christened the little armada down by the quay,’ Ross said. ‘Townshend’s plan will be costly, but he believes it’s the best and only way to get the job done.’

‘And?’

‘Like you guessed, a full frontal attack, but methodically undertaken in successive phases.’

‘As in siege warfare.’

The major nodded. ‘That’s the idea.’

‘Do you know, sir,’ Lock said, taking his pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from his pocket, ‘if I had the position of whoever the Turkish general is out there …’ He paused, selecting a cigarette from the packet and striking a match, ‘… I’d be rubbing my hands with glee at the bloody defeat I was about to inflict on the damn fool British.’ He drew in a lungful of tobacco and exhaled slowly. ‘All he has to do is stand firm.’

‘Not very helpful, Kingdom,’ Ross said after a while.

‘No, sir, but it’s the truth. And you know it.’

The major puffed away on his pipe, contemplating Lock’s words of warning.

‘Do you know, laddie, that Shaiba was a pretty damned important battle. I believe it could prove to be a turning point in the war, in the Mesopotamia theatre, that is.’

‘How so, sir? The Turks seem pretty solid to me. You and I both know they are a damned better and more competent fighter than our bloody idiot generals give them credit for.’

‘Yes, undeniably, but it’s their allies, the Arabs, you see. They sense a change. Like a storm on the wind. A number of the Shi’a mujtahids are beginning to distance themselves from their Ottoman overlords and that, of course, will put an end to our German friend’s jihad campaign.’

‘Wassmuss?’ Lock shook his head. ‘He isn’t going to give up so easily, sir. I know him, he’ll never concede defeat. Not until I put a bullet between his eyes.’

Ross nodded his head in agreement and puffed on his pipe some more. ‘Yes, but what can he do if the tribes won’t play ball? There was an open revolt last month in Najaf and my sources tell of unrest brewing
in Karbala. That’s only fifty miles south of Baghdad. Once it starts it’ll spread like wildfire, and then Wassmuss’s plans are finished.’

‘He’s still very strong in Persia, sir. The whole country is so fractured, what with the Russians pressing from the north and the British barely keeping a lid on things in the south. The centre of the country is a free-for-all.’ Lock drew on his cigarette again and shook his head once more. ‘No, sir, the only way Wassmuss’s plans are finished is when the bastard’s dead.’

‘Maybe so, laddie, maybe so.’

‘I know so, sir. He’s out there somewhere, I can smell him, and I aim to get him before he gets to Amy, before he gets to me.’

‘The girl is in no danger, Kingdom, not whilst you’re away from her. This is the safest place for you to be, for her sake.’

Lock pushed himself away from the rail and turned to face the major. ‘You know something, don’t you?’

Ross kept his lips tightly wrapped around the stem of his pipe as his gaze wandered about over the Turk positions on the distant horizon.

‘Don’t I have a right to know?’

‘You’re a soldier. You have a right to obey orders and a right to die. Nothing more.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re talking bollocks.’

Ross couldn’t help but break into a lopsided grin. ‘Well, I have to keep up appearances, don’t I, laddie? Still …’

Lock gave a sigh of resignation. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Ross beamed back, and patted down his pockets. ‘Here, what do you make of this?’ From his side pocket he pulled out what looked at first like a stubby stick and handed it to Lock.

Lock turned the object over in his hand. It was a bound piece of metal cable, rusted and pitted. ‘Ordinary telegraph cable.’

‘Like that?’ Ross said, indicating to the telegraph poles and the wires strung between them that ran the length of the east bank opposite.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Well, this came from down there not up there,’ Ross said pointing down to the murky, fast-flowing waters of the Tigris.

‘Very well. That would explain the rust.’

Ross nodded. ‘Yes, but this was taken from one of the mines a sapper detail pulled out of the river a few days ago.’

‘Tangled?’

Ross shook his head. ‘Connected to.’

Lock frowned and studied the cable a little closer. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it that he could see.

‘I have a feeling that they are all connected in this way, Kingdom. The mines. And if that’s the case then it corroborates one of my intelligence reports.’

‘Which is?’ Lock was getting a little impatient now. He wished the major would just get to the point so he could get down from this damned platform and go and get some coffee and food in his belly.

‘That the whole network of mines that we know litters the Tigris are connected to an electronic switch that—’

‘That can be set off by one man. Jesus.’ Lock’s attention returned to the north and his eyes focused on the Turk redoubts that were scattered all the way up to the horizon and beyond. ‘It could be anywhere along their lines.’

This was bad news, bad news indeed.

‘I know. That’s what worries me. If the attack goes ahead …
When
the attack goes ahead, no matter how many mines we clear or sweep away, the whole network could still be set off automatically, and then that’s the end of that. Townshend’s entire force will be blown from here to India.’

‘So what’s your plan, sir?’

Ross scratched the side of his head with the stem of his pipe, then looked Lock directly in the eye.

‘It’ll be risky.’

‘When isn’t it?’

‘Quite. Still, there’s a hell of a lot of enemy troops out there, not to mention the Marsh Arabs in the surrounding countryside just waiting to snipe at us.’

‘I have an idea about the Marsh Arabs.’

‘Oh?’ Ross raised an eyebrow. But Lock wasn’t prepared to elaborate for now, so the major continued to lay out his plan. ‘It was before your time, but there was a group of farmers during the Boer War who were highly adept at making quick raids and reconnaissance behind enemy lines. They were very effective, very skilled, and very successful. We did capture and kill one such unit and the only survivor was held under interrogation in one of our concentration camps. When I visited, he told me that he was a
Kommando
.’

‘I’ve never heard of them, sir.’

‘No, well, we didn’t really advertise any Boer successes … Politics, propaganda and all that … Still, why I’m telling you this is because I want you to be like one of these units now and head upriver to find and disable that electronic switch. As soon as you do, send up a flare, and the assault will begin. The Turks will be confused enough with flares and rifle fire coming from behind their own lines.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, there’ll be just your platoon,’ Ross held up his hand to stop Lock butting in. ‘Just a moment. There will be you and your platoon, no explosives, no side arms, just rifles, so that the Turks in the redoubts will at first think they are being raided again by some disgruntled Marsh Arabs.’

Lock nodded slowly. ‘That could work … But you said “platoon”. What of my company?’

Ross pursed his lips and shuffled on his feet. ‘Ah. Yes. About your company …’

‘There is no company is there?’

Ross shook his head. ‘Sorry, laddie. I tried, believe you me. It was yours but then the rumours … You know, of you supposedly having murdered this Turkish officer and of an impending court martial … Your promotion has been suspended for the time being, as a company commander, I mean. It took all my power to keep you in this regiment as it was, and with your platoon, not to mention your rank, although Godwinson tried. But as you are technically in the AIF he was powerless to do anything about that. Mind you, I’m sure he’s written to the Australian High Command. We’ll have to wait and see on that one. But there was no way he was going to let you have command of one of his companies. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. For now. We’ll get it sorted, don’t you worry.’

‘It’s all right, sir, I didn’t really believe it would happen, anyway,’ Lock said. ‘I take it you’ve already had the meeting. For the commanders, that is?’

Ross nodded.

Lock turned back to face out towards the enemy positions. He was about to ask another question and then he stopped, frowning. There was something more that the major wasn’t telling him.

‘What else?’

‘Um … How shall I put it …?’ Ross hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Carver’s been promoted, as you know, so C-Company does have a new commander …’

‘Yes?’ Lock had a bad feeling that he wasn’t going to like what the major was about to tell him.

‘It’s Bingham-Smith.’

Lock was momentarily stunned. And then he let out a single mocking laugh, shaking his head. ‘You have got to be kidding.’

‘I wish I was. But nepotism is rife in this army of ours, as if you didn’t know that already.’

‘I thought the little shit was an assistant provost marshal? A base-wallah, safely tucked up in the barracks back at Basra.’

‘Not a glamorous enough position for the future husband of Amy Townshend, it seems.’

Lock felt a sudden surge of angry betrayal. ‘General Townshend’s behind this, isn’t he?’

Ross shook his head. ‘I think it is probably more likely to be pressure from Lady Townshend. Sorry, laddie. Anyway, did you really think Godwinson would let a nephew of his not have the chance at proving his bravery on the front lines? He’d have Bingham-Smith as his second in command if he could. Can you imagine? The whole thing’s a joke. Assistant provost marshals are supposed to be combat-experienced, not the other way around. Godwinson’s already trying to push for Bingham-Smith’s rank to be that of major, that’s the army equivalent to assistant provost marshal. I’m afraid I put a stop to that little farce. Had a quiet word in General Townshend’s ear.’

‘That’s good of you.’

‘Oh, come, come. You didn’t want the responsibility of a company, did you? Not really? All that paperwork? Having to act upon Godwinson’s battle directives? This way you can remain independent, to go about as you please, to have the freedom—’

‘To do your bidding,’ Lock interrupted. ‘Don’t try and bullshit a bullshitter, Major. I’m not stupid. I’m more use to you as … this
Kommando
than as a company commander having to lead seventy-five or so men into battle.’

Ross smiled wryly. ‘Well, perhaps. But I am right, aren’t I?’

‘And the
Marmaris
?’

‘One thing at a time, laddie.’

Lock wasn’t happy. He was angry and frustrated and … He sighed. The major
was
right. He didn’t want the responsibility, but he did want
the respect. All right. He was back to where he started. So what? He’d said it before and he’d say it again, he would prove his worth in his own way. Sod the lot of them.

‘And my rank?’

‘You’re still a captain. For now.’

Lock scoffed again. ‘How long have I got?’

Ross frowned. ‘Got? Oh, yes, your mission … Good, good … Glad you came round. Not that I didn’t think you would. Well, Townshend wants to set off at dawn. The bombardment of the Turkish redoubts will start at 5 a.m. and then the advance is scheduled for an hour later. He’s worried that if we sit and wait here any longer, we’ll lose more men to heatstroke and sunstroke than we will to enemy bullets.’

The major gave a heavy sigh and stared off towards the horizon.

Lock knew Ross was troubled by events to come, more so than normal, and he was aware just how many fronts the little Scot was fighting on.

‘Don’t worry, sir. What you have said in the past is right, about my proving my worth in the field. If I can pull this little task off, then perhaps those officers keen to see me fall will think again. I know they’ll never accept me as one of their own, but if I can earn their respect, even grudgingly, that’s a start.’

Ross gave Lock a warm smile.

‘Aye, laddie, that’s the spirit. Now, tell me,’ he said taking Lock by the elbow and steering him back over towards the ladders to begin their descent down from the platform, ‘what it is you propose about the troublesome natives in the marsh?’

Night had fallen swiftly and with it came total darkness. The heat hadn’t let up, so baked was the earth, but the burning sun and the threat of sunstroke at least wouldn’t trouble the men for a few hours. Even the flies had gone. They were replaced by clouds of mosquitoes. Then, around 2 a.m. the moon rose and a pale, silvery light spread out across the surrounding floods like a glistening white fire.

Lock had arranged for the local sheikh of the nearby Marsh Arabs to meet with him at the sight of an old ford, just north of the boat bridge where the marsh and the sand dunes ran down to the water. The ford was used by the Marsh Arabs to cross their livestock over the Tigris during the dry season, when the river was less treacherous and flooded. Right now, the dark waters were flowing by at a terrific speed.

Above the roaring, inky blackness, Lock, jacketless with his sleeves rolled up, was deep in conversation with a gesticulating Arab. He was a tall, painfully thin man, barefoot, dressed in a long, ragged shirt open at the chest, which revealed the dark-brown skin taut over his ribcage. On top of lank, greasy black hair he wore a loosely wound kufiya headcloth. A worn, black cloak was draped over his left shoulder. He carried no visible weapon, not even a knife.

‘
My dear Ahmad. Shokran, shokran. You are a good friend and you have done me a great a service
,’ Lock said in Arabic, careful to emphasise that
the Arab had been helping him personally and not the British in general. ‘
Please take this as a symbol of my gratitude. Go in peace. Maa as-salaamah
.’

The Marsh Arab took the bag of coin from Lock’s hand, bowed his head graciously and gave the gesture of farewell. He then turned and scuttled off back up the bank. When he got to the summit there were two officers standing there. Lock couldn’t be sure but he thought he recognised the figure on the right as Bingham-Smith. The Arab nearly bumped into them, dodged sideways and disappeared over the summit. The two officers were watching him go when there came a shout from over their shoulders.

‘’Ere, ’ere, mind yer backs, sahs!’

Sergeant Major Underhill’s gruff voice was unmistakable and Lock allowed himself a wry smile as he watched the two officers jump out of the way. Underhill and five sepoys from Green Platoon mounted the summit, carrying a bellum between them. They stumbled, skidded and slid down the muddy bank until they reached the water’s edge where Lock was standing. They lowered the boat down.

‘Good lads. Take a breather,’ Underhill said, wiping the sweat of exertion from his brow with his rolled-up sleeve. The sepoys slumped down where they stood, glad for a respite.

‘This armour plating looks cumbersome, Sergeant Major,’ Lock said, looking over the bellum. It was the same familiar vessel, but modified by the engineers, and Lock wasn’t impressed with the so-called improvements. ‘I saw the engineers attaching these plates when we arrived, but on closer inspection … they just won’t do.’

‘’Ow so, sah?’

‘It’s not just open water, is it, all around us, but reed marsh of varying denseness. Are you not forgetting what we crawled through on the east bank of the Shatt al-Arab outside of Basra? When we discovered Wassmuss’s little armada?’

Underhill was rubbing his chin and casting his eye over the armour. The plating projected over both gunwales for several feet and dropped to water level.

‘They’re really going to hamper our progress if we end up in the reeds, and I think it highly likely that we will do, seeing as they offer us the only cover,’ Lock said.

‘So what yer sayin’? It’s gonna takes us bloody ages to remove this lot,’ Underhill said, irritation already building in his voice.

Lock shook his head. ‘I agree, but I have a better idea. Go fetch another.’

‘Another?’

‘Bellum, Sergeant Major, bellum.’

‘But—’

‘Do it,’ Lock snapped, turning away. Conversation over. He stepped down to the water’s edge and pulled out his pack of cigarettes.

Underhill stood rooted to the spot for a moment in exasperated silence. ‘Right you lazy black bastards,’ he said, ‘you ’eard the man, up and fetch another bloody barge.’

He tramped off back up the muddy bank muttering under his breath as he went. The five sepoys groaned, but pulled themselves to their feet and made after the sergeant major.

‘I say, Lock … Can I have a word?’

Lock glanced over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips, match at the ready. Major Carver and Bingham-Smith were picking their way down the bank towards him. Both officers were wearing the summer British Service caps with the inbuilt sunshade that could be lowered to cover the back of the neck. Carver approached, but Bingham-Smith held back. Lock had last seen Carver over a month ago in the officers’ mess tent at the army encampment outside of Mohammerah in Persia.

‘Sir,’ Lock said, nodding, putting the lighted match to his cigarette.
Then he looked to Bingham-Smith. ‘Recovered from your little swim, Smith?’ he called.

Bingham-Smith turned his head away and made a show of studying the bellum that Underhill and the sepoys had deposited nearby.

‘That filthy Arab fellow …’ Carver said in his distinctively impeccable diction, ‘… Did I see you give him money?’

‘Sir.’ Lock inhaled deeply.

Carver narrowed his hazel eyes and his thin mouth curled up. ‘Look here, Lock … I don’t think—’

‘No, sir, I imagine you don’t,’ Lock said, slowly letting a cloud of tobacco smoke escape from his mouth.

‘I beg your pardon, Captain?’ Carver said, the pencil moustache twitching above his top lip as a look of indignation clouded his youthful face.

‘White Tab business. Sir.’

Carver glanced over to Bingham-Smith as if looking for moral support.

‘Lock, you—’ Bingham-Smith said.

‘It’s
Captain
Lock, Assistant Provost Marshal.’

Bingham-Smith snapped his jaw shut, and scowled.

‘Well, Captain, I am your superior officer,’ Carver interjected, ‘and I insist
you
tell me what the hell is going on here. You are in my company and under my command.’ He stepped forward a pace and pulled Lock’s arm to make him turn to face him.

Lock looked down at Carver’s hand resting on his forearm and then slowly raised his eyes to meet Carver’s.

The young major swallowed and let go. He cleared his throat, shifted uneasily on his feet and his eyes fell, as so many men’s eyes had done before him, to the bullet hole just above the left breast pocket in Lock’s tunic.

Lock pondered on whether to keep up his aloof manner, but inside he
was smiling. He just couldn’t stop himself from being obnoxious to these kind of men, these officers with their holier-than-thou attitude, the way they spoke to their so-called inferiors, their general manner in dealing with the lower ranks. It stank and it left a nasty taste in Lock’s mouth, a taste he wanted to hack up and spit right back in to their smug faces. He took a last, long drag on his cigarette and let out a sigh, tossing the end away into the water. He wished Ross was here to field these inevitable questions. But the major was with General Townshend and the other senior commanders briefing them on Lock’s forthcoming
Kommando
raid. Lock removed his slouch hat and passed a hand through his sandy hair. It was beginning to grow thick again, though he could still feel the raised wound where the bullet had passed, a constant reminder of just how close he had come to shuffling off this mortal coil. He beamed back at Carver.

‘Major. Sir,’ Lock said calmly. ‘I may be in your company, which is under your overall command, but my men and I are not. I hold a commission in the Australian Infantry Force. Note the flashes on my uniform. My subsequent’ – he paused here, searching for the right word – ‘attachment to the Mendip Light Infantry was arranged by General Townshend himself. I operate outside of the normal chain of command. I’m sorry, but that is a fact. If you have any complaints you will have to take them up with Major Ross, who, I’m sure, will pass on your worries to the general. Now, I don’t want you to think me rude,’ Lock smiled, to which Carver gave a snort of disbelief, ‘so I will let you know the gist of my mission.’

Carver glanced over to Bingham-Smith, then back to Lock again. He scowled. ‘Well?’ he snapped, clearly growing increasingly frustrated with Lock’s roundabout way of coming to the point.

‘I have been directed to clear the mines ahead of the main attack,’ Lock said. ‘That “filthy Arab”, as you so eloquently put it, has just been helping me to do just that.’

Carver frowned. ‘I don’t understand, Lock. Surely
they
were the ones who planted the damned things in the fir—’

Lock shook his head. ‘The Turks trust them about as much as you do. Sir. Ahmad and his tribe live by the river. They live off the river. They
are
the river. They see everything, they know everything, and it stands to reason that they watched their Turk overlords lay the mines in the first place. Therefore I offered a reward of four hundred rupees for each and every mine my good friend and his fellows discovered.’

Carver glanced over to Bingham-Smith once again, who gave the merest of shrugs. The two officers, it would seem, couldn’t argue with the logic.

‘Granted they won’t have found them all,’ Lock continued, ‘as the German engineers – Yes, I got that little bit of information from our Arab friend, too – the German engineers have littered the river with mines. But it’s a start. The effect has also been marvellous in stopping the Arabs sniping at us, too. Hundreds of them since dusk have spent their time hunting for the mines. Did you not see the activity on the river this evening?’

Carver shook his head. ‘I’ve been training with my me—’

‘Of course you have. Sir.’ Lock’s focus shifted to over Carver’s shoulder. ‘Ah, you’ll have to excuse me now, my platoon is back. Time is of the essence.’

Lock stepped away from Carver. Underhill and the sepoys were making their way down the bank once more, lumbering a second armoured bellum between them. Following close behind were Singh, Pritchard, Elsworth and the rest of Green Platoon. They were all carrying rifles, equipment and supplies. Bingham-Smith skipped out of their way as the boat was lowered down near to the first one. Jawad Saleem came running over the rise, a large metal tea urn strapped to his back, and with the dog bounding around his feet.

‘Right,’ Lock said, ‘I want the two boats side by side, attached for stability, then reverse the armour plates so that they don’t project below the level of the gunwales. Got it?’

Underhill nodded. ‘Aye, that should work. At least we’ll still ’ave protection from any rifle fire.’

‘Well, Sergeant Major, I’m hoping we won’t run into any.’ Lock glanced over his shoulder to check he was out of earshot of Carver and Bingham-Smith, then lowered his voice. ‘It’s a
Kommando
raid, not a full-on attack.’

Underhill gave a grunt of acknowledgment and set about organising the sepoys to their task, barking orders left and right. Lock noted that the sergeant major appeared to be in his element again and even pondered if he could finally trust the man. Then he shook his head softly.

‘Don’t get too complacent, Kingdom,’ he said to himself. ‘Not where Underhill is concerned.’

Lock stood and watched as the sepoys eagerly set about tackling the armoured plating, glad to have something to do at last, no doubt. Pritchard and Elsworth were checking each and every rifle, while Singh and the other sepoys took up tools and began to remove the armour plating from the first bellum.

Earlier, Lock had gathered the men together to brief them on their mission. Standing away from the sea of white canvas tents that were nestled beneath a canopy of date palms at the water’s edge, Lock surveyed his platoon all sat around him in a semicircle, giving each man a moments full attention, etching their features in his mind. He had a number of new recruits now that brought his platoon not just back up to size, but almost to the minimum regulation quota of twenty-five. It was under that, of course, but seventeen men would be enough for his needs. The new men were all Indian sepoys, all Sikhs, which suited Lock fine. They
were hard workers and disciplined soldiers, so Singh assured him. But the big Indian was delighted with them, and that was good enough for Lock.

Of his original group, Lock had promoted Chopra, Toor and Ram Lal to lance naik, with Elsworth also being given the equivalent rank of lance corporal. Pritchard was a sergeant and Singh was of the same rank but under the Indian title of havildar. Though still a sergeant major, Lock had gained a rare mumble of gratitude from Underhill when he presented him with his promotion to regimental sergeant major, an appointment that was even signed off by Godwinson, much to Lock’s surprise. Not that it would have mattered if he hadn’t anyway, for Townshend had given his full blessing already. Undoubtedly Ross had a hand in persuading the colonel to accept, but clearly had caught him on a good day.

Lock had no junior officer and that suited him fine, because he would be splitting the platoon into squads and then sections at some point, and each section would have a leader, an experienced man. Age didn’t matter, they were all young, except for himself and the senior NCOs; combat time was what counted here. With Bombegy behind bars back in Basra, Jawad made up their numbers as the newly appointed cook, to nineteen, including Lock himself, and thus far the lad seemed to be coping. At least no one had the Mesop trot yet, anyhow. Besides, Jawad and the dog had bonded and that was a blessing, for Lock really didn’t want to find the hound following him into a battle zone. He had enough to worry about with keeping his men alive without being distracted by a four-legged friend. And so Jawad would stay safely behind the lines with the animal for company.

Lock fished out a cigarette, lit it, and nodded his head in satisfaction as he exhaled. He stood smoking a while, watching and listening to the men chatter amongst themselves. He had a platoon again. He just hoped he could keep them alive this time. Lock glanced at his watch, then tossed the spent cigarette aside, and pulled a folded sheet of paper from
his side pocket. Using his new knife, he pinned the paper to the nearest tree. It was a map of the area.