Kingdoms Fall - The Laxenburg Message (7 page)

           
Wilkins eyed Gresham warily as they walked up the shore line to where they had
learned the Tenth Manchesters were encamped. “Do you have any idea what it’s
about?” he asked Gresham.

           
“No idea whatsoever. I’ve never even heard of I-Branch.”

           
“I am sorry you won’t be at tea. You deserve far more credit for taking that
ridge than I do. Don’t imagine I will forget it, really.”

           
“It is your prerogative as commander to delegate, Captain. I simply attempted
to fulfill your orders to the best of my ability.”

           
“Now you are sounding rather toady, Gresham. I didn’t have a clue what to do.
Thank you for taking the lead. Ah, look, you can see Sergeant Hart there; we
must be close to the camp.”

The company encampment they found consisted of
only two tents on a hill, a scattered pile of baggage, a small cook fire, and a
large group of naked men either bathing in the warm bay water or sitting in the
sun on the pebbly shore. A strong breeze of hot air wafted the scent of decomposing
flesh and feces over the site, and there was no potable water to be found.

“You’re alive, thank God!” said Lieutenant
Keeling with a great smile as he rushed over to shake Wilkins’ hand; his other
hand held a sterling silver flask and he reeked of gin. “I was terribly afraid
you’d died and left the company to me. How ever did you get back?”

“Gresham and Sergeant Hart played highwaymen
and captured us a cart in which to sneak back across the lines. The Turks are
so busy moving up reinforcements, they couldn’t be bothered to pay much
attention to us as we came back across the lines in the dark.”

“Marvelous, really marvelous,” said Keeling.
“Dutton!” He shouted to Wilkins’ batman, a personal servant assigned from the
ranks. An older, rather dirty man with a long filthy mustache hustled over.
“Get a lunch together and some decent uniforms out for the Captain and
Lieutenant.” Suddenly a shell burst some thirty yards away, but the men had
already become so accustomed to the flying shrapnel that they barely flinched.

“The Colonel told us that the Innys relieved
you,” Wilkins said. “How many men did we lose?”

After hearing Keeling’s report, Wilkins was
relieved that the company had lost far fewer men during the landing and advance
up the ridge than he had any right to expect, but the Manchesters as a whole
had lost close to two hundred killed and wounded.

Half of Wilkins’ company was off burying the
corpses in their section. Gresham and Wilkins joined the men bathing in the
warm Suvla Bay water, but soon found that they continued to be covered by the
small, black flies even after rinsing off. Dutton prepared cold sandwiches of
sliced Bully Beef and biscuit for them, and they ate grimacing as they
accidentally swallowed some of the swarming flies as well. Then Dutton helped
Wilkins dress, while Gresham dressed himself in his one remaining clean
uniform, brushed his shaggy hair with his fingers, wiped some biscuit crumbs
from his shaggy mustache and said a quick farewell to Wilkins and Keeling.

“See you anon, Gresham,” Keeling said good
naturedly.

“Come back as soon as you can, Lieutenant,”
said Wilkins, shaking hands warmly, “I don’t wish to go back up that ridge
without you.”

“I shall. Thank you, Captain,” said Gresham, and
then Wilkins went into his tent to escape the hot mid-day sunshine.

           
Gresham marched back down the shore to where the lighters and beetle boats were
still unloading cargo and men. Gresham saw wounded men being loaded onto one of
the lighters and approached the crew. “I need to get to Imbros. Any ideas on
how I can get there?” he asked.

           
“We’re transporting wounded to hospital on HMH
Assaye
, Sir. We could
take you over to the ship, and from there, some of the worst cases are being taken
over to Imbros, so I’m sure you can find passage,” suggested the crewman. The
lighter was a mess, covered in blood (and flies) and full of severely wounded
men. There was no alternative, however, so Gresham climbed aboard and sat in
the cleanest corner he could find. Even in the hot sun and with shells bursting
periodically nearby, the gentle rocking of the boat soon put him fast asleep.

           
Later in the afternoon, Wilkins had a shave from Dutton and dressed in a third
clean uniform; he had already perspired through the second. It was terribly hot,
and most of the men were with the Sergeants getting water from a large tank
that had been cut loose and floated ashore from
Grampus
. Keeling had
left earlier to oversee a crew laying telephone wire. Wilkins, alone in the
tent, noticed the three exquisite, silver-handled shaving brushes Keeling had
lined up on a crate of gin next to his camp bed and shook his head. Each of the
brushes had been a gift from one of Keeling’s three lovely fiancés. Keeling
hadn’t yet decided which one to marry.

Wilkins was partial to the chaste “Harrison
Fisher girls.” He tacked a couple of the portraits to the post beside his bed.
They displayed the Edwardian ideal of womanhood that Wilkins much admired –
beauty, gentility and zeal – but although Wilkins admired it, he had yet to
find it. There was only one woman in Wilkins’ life:  His very intelligent
and refined mother, the woman who had toured him through the marbled great
halls of Europe during his holidays from Eton College, introduced him to kings
and queens, and showed him, perhaps inadvertently, that being clever was as
good as or even better than being wealthy (not that Wilkins father, Lord
Bartlett, was not wealthy as well). Apart from his mother, Wilkins had only
ever been close to his two older brothers, who were now in the Royal Navy, and
his schoolmates at Eton.

           
He left his tent and walked down the shore to the officer’s mess unsure of what
he would say if pressed on how his company had taken the Kiretch Tepe
ridge:  He wanted to give Gresham credit, but he also knew that Gresham
was a man that others would not want to congratulate. Could he not assist
Gresham more if Wilkins himself were in a position to do so? He watched two
British biplanes fly overhead, on their way to survey the Turkish forces. It
was an astonishingly quiet day (notwithstanding the occasional shell burst)
considering that a major offensive was supposed to be underway.

           
The officer’s mess was up on the plain, next to the kitchens near Lala Baba. A
hot dry wind was blowing, but at least it kept the flies off Wilkins’ face. As
he passed the stoves, he noticed the cooks had hung a couple of dozen privy
seats on barbed wire to create a wind break to keep sand and dust out of the
food. Large pots of chopped Bully Beef and root vegetables were boiling into a
hot stew; nothing could have looked less appetizing on such a hot afternoon. As
he rounded the corner of the tent, Wilkins discovered a dozen officers crowded
together, sitting on crates and boxes around the end of a long table made of
crates and wooden planks. “There you are, Wilkins,” said Keeling. At once the
large group turned to acknowledge Wilkins and burst into applause. “Well done,
very well done,” “wonderful work there, old man,” and “bravo!” they cheered to
Wilkins.

“Come have a seat,” said Keeling.

“No room, no room,” shouted another Lieutenant.

“Have some wine,” shouted another, in an
encouraging tone.

Wilkins looked around the table, but there was
no wine. ‘I don’t see any,’ he replied.

           
“No, there’s only this bloody awful rum,” said the first, sadly.

           
On the table there was a large silver platter of hard biscuits covered with
flies and several tins of jam covered with flies. Instead of cups of tea, the
officers were drinking rum from small Turkish coffee cups. Everyone was in a
good mood, and they were all pleased to see Wilkins was well and to drink their
rum, sometimes swallowing a fly or two as well.

           
 “Take my seat, old man,” said Keeling, who got up from the one real chair
in the tent, a raggedy old upholstered wingback chair that had been found
floating near the shore.

“Did you really ride back through the enemy
lines on a corpse cart?” the Second Lieutenant asked.

           
“Yes, the poor horses – but I don’t doubt someone will miss them when the Turks
start to pile up,” Wilkins jested.

           
“Herbert’s trying to arrange a truce this afternoon so both sides have a chance
to bury yesterday’s dead,” said a Lieutenant. “Apparently they do it all the
time here.”

           
“I would think a truce, at this moment, would advantage the Turks by giving
them more time to move up their reinforcements.”

           
“Where are
our
reinforcements?” asked the sad Lieutenant.

“You’ve been on reserve this whole time, Terry;
you
are
the reinforcements,” said another.

“I understood this landing was to be a surprise
attack,” Wilkins replied.

           
“Ah, but a surprise for whom? Ha, ha, ha!”

           
“Gentlemen,” exclaimed an old Major, as he stood and raised his cup, “to King
George.” The other officers briefly stood, saluted “the King,” drank, and sat
back down. A couple officers had already had too much rum and were sleeping
with their heads on the table. Others were chatting right over them.

           
Colonel Banks entered the tent and stood up at the head of the table as the men
quieted. “Gentlemen, I have some fortunate news to share with you. I’ve just
learned that Major Davenport is returning to the Regiment shortly; seems his
enteritis passed quickly.” A couple of the lieutenants spit out their drinks
with laughter. “Now, now, I didn’t mean it that way,” the Colonel continued.
“Of course, we all know the Major is a solid gentleman, so no surprise there.
As happy as I am that he will be returning to us, I am honored to recognize
Captain Wilkins’ leadership of C Company’s advance up the Kiretch Tepe ridge
yesterday whilst in command of Davenport’s company, and bollocks to the Innys
who mucked it up. Captain Wilkins, my congratulations to you.”

           
“Hurrah,” “bravo,” and “well done, James” came the shouts and applause from
around the table. Wilkins smiled as best he could, but it was difficult not to
be embarrassed for accepting credit for an attack he knew he did not actually
command. He resolved to help Gresham along if he could – that is, if Gresham
ever returned from Imbros.

The Colonel continued: “As you all know, we did
not achieve all our objectives yesterday because of slow landings and changes
in the timetable. I have no doubt we will advance again as soon as our
commander decides to join us from his comfortable cabin on
Jonquil
. In
the meantime, keep your men fed, watered, exercised, and healthy. Water is
still in short supply, so trench digging details will be staggered, and please
lay to rest any corpses or carcasses found in your sections. I’m afraid that’s
all I have for you today, and now I’ll leave you younger gentlemen to your
tea.”

The officers sat stolidly as Colonel Banks left
the tent. No one was excited to hear that they had been ordered to wait.
Wilkins’ blood rose and he became suddenly furious with frustration. Could no
one here see that the element of surprise had been lost? He leaned towards
Keeling: “I was in that damn village over there, and there should have been
over two thousand British soldiers waiting for me, but instead there were a
thousand Turks digging trenches and stringing wire. Doesn’t anyone want to win
this war?”

“Consider yourself the lucky one, James,” said
Keeling with a grin. “You’re probably the only man here who will ever see that
village.”

Before long, there were a few card games in
progress and the rum continued from tea straight into supper. Few had any
appetite for hot “pontoon,” as the stew was known. Wilkins, feeling rather
sick, nibbled on a hard dry biscuit and excused himself at sunset. He walked
unsteadily back to his tent alone; Keeling had disappeared again.

Gresham made his way from
Assaye
to the
island of Imbros on a small Turkish caique, a grimy little fishing boat that
was every bit as filthy as the lighter he had taken to
Assaye
. He
arrived at Imbros well rested, at least, and had no trouble getting directions
to the General Headquarters there. And everyone seemed to know where to find
the “I-Branch,” which Gresham quickly learned was the M.E.F.’s military
intelligence office. “Intelligence – of course,” he thought with a grimace. He
was not especially surprised, nor was he in the least pleased.

In the small house where I-Branch was
headquartered, a young Corporal grimaced at Gresham’s filthy appearance but
gave him a glass of cool tea with lemon and asked him to sit in a small breezy
room in the back. The open windows had lace curtains and overlooked wild
flowers, and for a moment Gresham almost felt like he was back at some cottage
in the Cotswold. But he had a bad feeling in his stomach that wouldn’t go away.
The Intelligence fellows were trouble, and Gresham wasn’t looking to make his
life any more difficult than it already was. It was the Intelligence office
which had sent him off “on holiday” to Arabia with that bookish fellow,
Lawrence, and it was more luck than skill that they had escaped the ambush by a
Turkish company near the Suez. By then, the Regiment had decided to ship
Gresham off to Suvla Bay rather than return him to the front lines in Belgium
where at least he could have made a name for himself; surely no one would
remember the little part of the war fought on the Gallipoli peninsula. Gresham
now had no other option than to do the best job he could for the Regiment and
to pray for advancement.