Winds of Eden (25 page)

‘No, sir.'

‘They're castrating irons. Sergeant Lane, would you please assist the prisoner to remove his trousers?'

Chapter Twenty-six

Sheikh Saad, Friday 7th January 1916

‘Dear God!' Tom stood at the rail of the steamer and stared at the bank. From the edge of the sluggish, corpse- and debris-ridden muddy waters, to the horizon, the ground was carpeted with filthy, blood-stained men. More unpalatable even than the stench were the cries of the dying and wounded. The few men capable of kneeling were ministering to those lying prone. Driven by thirst some had crawled to the river. They were balanced, leaning over the bank, lowering in water bottles by their straps in an attempt to fill them. Given the increased number of floating corpses in the vicinity it was a dangerous exercise.

Streams of men wearing soiled and bloody field dressings were staggering in from the north-west to join the hellish scene. Crude wooden springless carts juddered, shuddered, and bumped over the rough terrain among them, every movement eliciting screams from the cargo heaped indiscriminately on the bare metal grids that floored the vehicles. In their wake lay a trail of broken men who'd thrown themselves out of the carts because they could no longer stand the pain from the jolts.

Some lay where they landed, others were crawling riverwards on their hands and knees. Behind them the walking wounded limped in using their rifles as crutches. Others leaned on their comrades, the fittest propping up those in a worse state.

‘The guns are firing. The battle must still be raging.' Michael felt as though he was watching a real-life illustration of Dante's
Inferno
.

‘I thought nothing could be worse than the Western Front. I was wrong.' A short dark-haired man joined Tom and Michael at the rail. He turned to Tom. ‘You're the other one.'

‘The other what?' Tom couldn't tear his gaze away from the bank where he was already assessing the condition of the nearest men.

‘The other doctor.'

‘There are only two of us on board?' Tom was incredulous. ‘They were calling for medics.'

‘Two doctors, the rest are stretcher-bearers and army-trained field medics.'

Tom shouted for his bearer. Sami and Adjabi came running. Tom barked orders. ‘Round up all the bearers on board. Send them to the hold. Tell them to find the hospital tents. Carry them on to the bank, clear an area to erect them, and put up the Red Cross flags. Get my bag. I'll need it the moment we berth. Check the medical supplies and see they're ferried to the tents. When that's done, both of you find me. It's time to train you as medical orderlies. ‘

‘What can I do?' Michael asked.

‘Take charge of the non-medical personnel. Tell them to distribute whatever comfort they can, especially water. Preferably clean, not river, although I doubt the water we're carrying will last long given the number of wounded. If there's a field kitchen on board, set it up. If another boat comes in and we've enough manpower, detail someone to collect ID tags and bury the corpses, but for the moment, insist everyone forgets the dead and dying and concentrate on the living who stand a chance.'

Michael was horrified. ‘I'm not qualified to decide who should live.'

‘Do you think I am?' Tom sank his head in his hands. When he looked up his eyes were cold, hard. ‘Now I understand why John's letters seemed odd. It's bad enough waging war when there are medical facilities. When there aren't …'

The ship's engine cut out. The gangplank went down. Tom and the dark-haired doctor ran down from the deck and disappeared into the seething mass of humanity.

Daoud joined Michael. ‘Permission to help with the hospital tents, sir.'

Michael nodded.

‘Beg your pardon, sir.' A private from the Hampshire's accosted Michael the moment he stepped on firm ground.

‘You don't have to call me sir. I'm a civilian.'

‘Then what you doing here, Mr Civilian?' A private lurched towards them. Blood seeped from a bandage covering one eye and most of his forehead. His remaining eye glared balefully at Michael. For the first time Michael sensed what it would be like to face troops trained to hate enough to kill.

‘I'm a war correspondent.'

‘Scribbler,' the man said scornfully.

‘Drink?' Michael took his water bottle from his pack and offered it to the man.

He snatched it from Michael's hands, unscrewed the top, and gulped the water.

‘I'm Michael Downe. We've only just arrived,' he indicated the steamer, ‘but there are doctors with us.' He didn't dare mention how few.

‘Do you know where the field ambulances are, sir?' the private who'd first spoken to him asked. ‘We – that is those of us who can walk. We've been looking all night.'

‘The hospital tents are going up now. Looks like someone's thought of food,' he added when he saw half a dozen bearers carrying crates of bully beef. ‘Private …

‘Locke, sir.'

‘If you make your way to where they're pitching the hospital tent, someone should see to you.'

‘Thank you, sir, but there are a lot worse off than me, so if it's all the same to you I think I'll rest here for a bit. Don't suppose you've anything to eat on you? It's just that none of us have eaten anything since yesterday morning.'

Michael dug in his pocket and came up with half a bag of crackers left over from his last meal. ‘That's all I have, but there should be more as soon as they sort out the kitchen.'

‘Thank you, Mr Downe, sir. You're very kind.'

Michael was glad Locke had the sense to push the crackers into his pocket, out of sight of the others. He retrieved his water bottle from the one-eyed private. It was empty. Not knowing what else to do he headed for the field kitchen the Indian bearers were setting up to check if they had drinking water he could distribute.

‘There's more than you can see here,' a voice whispered hoarsely up at him.

‘Pardon?' Michael looked down on a sergeant wearing the insignia of the Black Watch.

‘Good to see you, Downe. Even in mufti.' The man's skin was grey, his eyes beginning to glaze. Blood seeped from his shirt. Michael realised he'd mistaken him for Harry.

‘There's close on a thousand Indian sick and wounded behind the village of Sheikh Saad. Poor beggars can't understand what's going on. No hospitals, no food, no care … not that any of us understand.'

‘Where are you wounded?' Michael asked.

‘Guts.' The man lifted his shirt, displaying a wide gash and protruding intestines. ‘But there's plenty worse off than me.'

The whistle blew on the steamer. Michael saw the crew carrying some of the wounded on board. He remembered what Tom had said. “Concentrate on the living and those who stand a chance.”

‘Sami?' He shouted to Tom's bearer who was hauling a box of lint down the gangplank. ‘Give me a hand over here.'

‘You should see to the men …'

‘I'm seeing to you. That boat's going downriver. You'll stand a better chance in the hospital in Amara. We'll never relieve Kut if we lose our sergeants.'

Kut al Amara, Friday 7th January 1916

Crabbe left the guardhouse and headed for the stables. Peter was standing on the corner of Number 1 Avenue and Spink Road, the thoroughfare that led to the front lines.

‘No luck. You?' Peter shouted when he saw Crabbe approach.

‘Where are the platoons?' Crabbe questioned.

‘Searching every building on this avenue.'

‘Call one in.'

‘The stable sergeant talked?'

‘For his sake I hope he wasn't lying. I've left Gagan and Sergeant Lane with him in case he suddenly remembers more than he's told us so far.'

‘Where are we headed?' Peter struggled to keep pace with Crabbe.

‘The cellar of the Norfolks' non-com officers' mess.'

Mitkhal heard footsteps outside the cellar door. He pulled the knife from his gumbaz and flicked the blade. He tensed his muscles and tried to stand.

The gloomy cellar swam around him and the floor rose to meet him. He stumbled and collapsed to the sound of bolts being drawn back on the door.

It creaked open.

‘Put that bloody knife away. I'm here to free you, not fight.' Crabbe bent over Mitkhal and grabbed his shoulders. ‘Smythe, give me a hand. We need to get him to the hospital.'

‘Dear Lord, you're worse than Harry was. Will you please sit still for two minutes so I can stitch this eyebrow?' John pushed Mitkhal back down on to the spare cot in his room.

‘I feel odd.'

‘You're entitled to after the beating that sergeant gave you.' Crabbe and Peter had stayed while John had examined Mitkhal and dressed his wounds.

‘You've a lump the size of a duck egg on your head and you're exhibiting signs of concussion,' John diagnosed.

‘Just a lump on my head? Nothing else is broken?' Mitkhal spoke slowly, hesitantly, like a drunk.

‘Your spine's bruised, which is why you're having trouble walking, but your limbs are intact. There, finished.' John dropped the instruments he'd used back on the tray. ‘If the morphine I gave you isn't working yet, it soon will. Then you'll have no choice but to rest.'

Mitkhal raised himself up on one elbow.

‘I said rest …'

‘Have you found Harry's horses?'

‘No,' Crabbe answered Mitkhal. ‘But we have four platoons out looking.'

Mitkhal stared out of the window. ‘The sun is setting.'

‘Night usually follows day.' John pushed an extra pillow beneath Mitkhal's head.

‘The captain won't wait. The boat will leave …'

‘We have boats and we have other ways of getting you downstream. First rest …'

‘The horses …'

‘One thing at a time. Close your eyes …'

‘I have to get the horses … have to … for Harry … Harry needs them …'

‘Did he say Harry?' Crabbe asked.

‘He doesn't know what he's saying. He won't remember much of what happened when he wakes tomorrow. What have you done with the sergeant who beat him?' John checked Mitkhal's pulse.

‘Turned him over to the brigadier,' Crabbe replied. ‘I don't envy him. The brigadier's convening a court martial.'

‘What charge?'

‘Attempted murder of a friendly native and ally.'

‘You still have search parties out looking for the horses?' John checked.

‘And watching Perry, and all the streets and thoroughfares, in case Perry tries to have them moved.'

‘Do you think Perry had them killed?'

‘I found no trace of their hides among those of the slaughtered mules and horses,' Peter went to the door. ‘If you'll excuse me, tomorrow is another day and I want to rise early to carry on searching.'

‘Sleep well. Can you spare me a moment?' John asked Crabbe when he went to follow Peter.

‘Any time.'

‘I heard you took a veterinary with you when you interrogated the sergeant.'

‘I did.'

‘Strange choice.'

‘Not at all. He proved useful except in one respect.'

‘What was that?'

‘He helped us find Mitkhal but failed to implicate Perry in Mitkhal's beating or the disappearance of the horses. But, that's not to say I won't use him again. I'm still hoping to strike lucky with that man.'

‘Don't try too hard, Crabbe. I'm proof that Perry can bear a grudge longer and more viciously than most.'

‘That's exactly why I'm determined to see him get his comeuppance. Sleep well, John.'

Furja's house, Basra, Saturday 8th January 1916

Furja sat nursing her son but she was watching her husband. His fever had broken leaving him weaker than her baby. She set Shalan in his cot when she saw Hasan's eye flicker but he fell back comatose, deep in sleep before she'd even settled the child.

She covered Shalan with his baby blanket and went to Hasan. She laid her hand on his forehead. It was cool. As the doctor had promised the fever had abated, but she knew Hasan wouldn't begin to recover until he woke and started eating and drinking again.

‘Furja.' Gutne was at the door with Bantu. ‘Zabba wants to talk to us. Bring Shalan to my room, Bantu will sit with Hasan and fetch you if there is a change.'

Furja picked up her baby and went into Gutne's quarters where Zabba was talking to Hari and Aza.

‘I haven't seen those dolls before,' she smiled at her twin daughters.

‘Auntie Zabba gave them to us.' Hari held up hers so Furja could admire it. Aza, who hardly spoke because she was content to allow Hari to do the talking for her, followed suit.

‘Lucky girls. You can go out on the terrace to play with them if you want.'

They didn't need a second invitation.

‘You may be bringing them up in the town, Furja, but you can see the girls are Bedouin. They hate being confined. Already they love the feel of air on their skin, even in winter. Thank you.' Zabba took the tea Gutne handed her.

‘I have no choice but to bring them up in a town, while their father is ill and most of the world wants to hunt us down.'

‘That is why I'm here.'

‘You've heard something? My father … the Turks …'

‘Abdul sent a message. Your father has let it be known that he is offering a reward to anyone who can tell him your whereabouts.'

‘How large?' Furja shook her head when Gutne offered her tea.

‘A thousand gold English sovereigns.'

Furja set her baby down on the cushions beside her. ‘How many people know we're here beside you, Zabba?'

‘Two of my servants and all of yours.'

‘Your servants?'

‘Would die sooner than betray my trust. I trust them with my life. Yours?'

Furja thought for a moment. ‘Farik is my father's slave. Bantu belongs to Mitkhal.'

‘Bantu never leaves the house,' Gutne pointed out.

‘But Farik does.'