The Challenging Heights

by Max Hennessy

  Through the interpreter, Dicken shouted an order and, after a long impassioned argument, the camel riders sent three of their number forward.

  ‘Tell your people to go home,’ Dicken advised them. ‘Or we’ll destroy them with the machine guns. Remind them that in Transjordan two years ago Transjordan cars killed six hundred out of a force of thousands who were coming from Nedj to destroy Amman.’

  Listening sullenly, the three riders returned to the milling mass of men and, after another long argument, which could be heard in the armoured cars, the huge horde reluctantly swung away. As they set off on their 300-mile journey back to the border, the cars followed slowly until the radiators began to boil.

  ‘Makes a change from shooting gazelle for the pot,’ Dicken observed.

  As they headed south again, they reached the Shammar village of Kerchian. It was surrounded by groups of black tents and near them a Bristol Fighter was standing. As the armoured cars drew up Hatto appeared.

  ‘Well done, old son,’ he said. ‘Co-operation between the services. The old boy here’s so pleased we’ve been invited to take coffee.’

  Tafas Hashim Fitna was a large fat man with one eye, the other covered by a black patch. He wore a voluminous turban and the usual baggy Arab clothing with bandoliers of cartridges round his shoulder and waist, and bristled with guns and knives of all sorts. Everywhere he went he was accompanied by his youngest son, a small boy with eyes like raisins and a half-moon smile. His men escorted Dicken and Hatto to his tent where they sat cross-legged on carpets. Three long-spouted coffee pots steamed on the embers of a fire set in a hole in the ground, and the tent was full of the smell of cooking meat.

  Despite his ugliness, the old man had enormous dignity. ‘Window-in-Eye,’ he said, indicating Hatto’s monocle, ‘says the raiders have gone. Allah’s blessing on the heads of my friends. You will share our meal.’

  A murmur of approval came from the hawk-nosed men behind him, every one of them armed to the teeth.

  When the coffee was ready, Tafas poured it into a nest of tiny cups and handed them round. The ritual was to taste it, roll it round the mouth as if it were liqueur and show every sign of appreciation. As they finished the traditional three cups, two men appeared carrying an enormous copper tray piled high with steaming rice. On it was a sheep’s head complete with teeth.

  ‘The whole lot’s in there, I’m told,’ Hatto murmured. ‘Intestines and all.’

  As the tray was placed on the ground, the man motioned to them to draw closer and, at his signal, they plunged their right hands into the mound, searching for a piece of meat and hoping to God it wouldn’t be one of the more unpleasant parts of the sheep’s inside. The old man nodded approvingly and, fishing among the rice, produced an eyeball.

  ‘For Window-in-Eye,’ he said.

  Hatto took it gravely and chewed it with every apparent sign of approval. Immediately, one of the other men found a second eyeball which he handed to Dicken. He managed to swallow it whole like an oyster. After the meal, there was a chorus of approving belches, then copper jugs appeared for the ceremonial hand-washing.

  ‘We can stay the night if we want,’ Dicken pointed out. ‘He even provides you with a woman. You don’t see her because she arrives after dark and disappears before dawn. I wouldn’t recommend it, though, because, bless ’em, they weren’t behind the door when lice and fleas were handed out. I think you’d better offer the old boy a flight and then we’ll push off.’

  They managed to persuade the old man to remove his turban and put on a helmet and goggles, then the Bristol took off to give him a bird’s eye view of his village. On the ground, Dicken kicked at the embers of a fire so that the smoke would give Hatto the wind direction and the aeroplane buzzed low over the ground and swung round to make a perfect landing.

  The old man was beaming his delight but when it came to getting out, his baggy trousers prevented him getting his leg over the side of the cockpit to the mounting slot in the fuselage. The problem was overcome by four of his men making a human stepladder, the first against the fuselage with his head down, the second crouched with his hands on his knees, the third on all fours, and the fourth flat on his face. The old man walked imperiously down the steps they formed, watched by the admiring population of the village.

  With Hatto’s help, Dicken found himself back on flying duties at last. With his flight taken from the border patrol and sent to Hinaidi, when one of his officers was found to be suffering from ear trouble through sitting too close to the muzzle of the Vickers guns on the range, Hatto hurriedly arranged a swop.

  On the aerodrome were five squadrons and Hatto’s detached flight, each in self-contained camps, the one next door, No 45, whose mess they shared, commanded by a ginger-haired aggressive martinet called Arthur Harris who had built himself a record during the recent war. Taking over a squadron of Vernons and objecting to flying aircraft not designed to carry bombs, he had managed to add racks and a bomb sight and transformed a transport squadron into a highly efficient unit with an excellent record of bomb aiming.

  Baghdad was smelly, sordid, and very hot. The city of the Arabian Nights sounded romantic but in reality it consisted of dirty mud-brick houses with scarcely a single imposing building and no streets worthy of the name save a single one cut ruthlessly across it by the Turks during the war. Lined with uninviting little shops, the only place of interest was the bazaar where carpets, carved trays and armour were sold over the inevitable Turkish coffee and cigarettes.

  The streets were busy with Arabs, Jews, Christians, Persians, Syrians and Sabeans, and there were only a few hotels where it was possible to get a meal with Japanese beer or watered-down whisky. Everywhere, even the RAF messes, was riddled with cockroaches, and there was no air conditioning beyond slow-moving fans in the ceiling to combat the temperature during the hot season when it rose to 120 in the shade. There was riding, however, and plenty of sport, including shooting, which added duck, partridge, pigeon and grouse to the monotonous menu, but there was a lot of resentment against the British and it was never wise to go far from the base unarmed, and even a visit to one of the pathetic cabarets in the city entailed carrying a revolver.

  Since the area had recently emerged from a long period of a cholera epidemic, the eating of all fresh fruits and vegetables was banned and the Vernons were used to carry patients from distant airfields to the hospital, even occasionally a victim of the bubonic plague, after which the crew searched themselves scrupulously from head to foot for the bites of the flea that carried the disease, before heading for the mess for a stiff reassuring drink or two.

  With the northern tribes quiet, most of the work consisted of carrying passengers between the aerodrome and Baghdad where general headquarters were situated, and landing after a trip to Mosul, Dicken was met by Hatto.

  ‘He’s arrived,’ Hatto said.

  ‘Parasol Percy?’ Obviously, Hatto couldn’t mean anyone else because Diplock sat across their careers like blight.

  ‘All set to go up the ladder,’ Hatto said. ‘Passed the Staff College examination with honours and selected to go at once. Got a good recommendation from the Wing Colonel, of course. All those languages he speaks. He’s also got a new gong, I notice. Order of St Anne with Swords. Given to him by that chap, Yudenitch, for sitting at a desk in Riga. They were two of a kind. Yudenitch’s campaign produced about as much as Parasol Percy’s.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s taking over this wing and he starts his tour of duty with an inspection with his old friend, St Aubyn. I gather they’re out to find fault. Unfortunately, they got off on the wrong foot. There’s a big economy drive on so Percy dug up a lot of petrol that’s been standing idle for a long time and delivered it round the squadrons. Harris promptly complained it was dangerous because it contains water so it’s all had to be withdrawn and, unfortunately, Percy isn’t sure where
it all went.’

  Hatto smiled. ‘They tried to get their own back by ticking Harris off over his bomb racks but that didn’t come off either because Harris doesn’t have ginger hair and a gift for pungent expression for nothing. He informed them that so long as his Vernons do their transport stuff there’s no reason why they shouldn’t also be good at bombing. There’s no answer to that. We’re next and I gather they’re out for blood.’

  The flight was lined up outside the decrepit wooden hangar they’d been given when the Group Captain appeared, trailed by Diplock. St Aubyn acknowledged Hatto’s salute but offered no ‘Good Morning’. Like Diplock, he had had occasion from the past to remember Hatto and he was in a mood to find fault. He complained about haircuts, polished boots, the way puttees had been wound, even the straightness of the lines.

  Putting on his glasses, the great man then proceeded to inspect the machines and, rubbing a finger along the flying wires of the nearest, half turned and held out his finger.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Rustless paint, sir,’ Hatto said.

  ‘Other squadrons aren’t in the habit of using rustless paint. You’d better make a point of visiting them and see how they maintain their aircraft.’

  Hatto’s face went red. Dicken could see Diplock standing behind the Group Captain, his face smooth and expressionless. Hatto indicated a chalked circle on the floor of the hangar.

  ‘Sir. Perhaps you’ll note that circle.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There are fifty-one like it, sir, and each one marks a leak in the roof.’ Hatto pointed to the door. ‘And that door, sir, can’t be opened because if it were the roof would fall in. If you can provide me with a hangar that will keep out the weather, I’ll maintain the aircraft as well as any other station.’

  St Aubyn looked flustered and turned to Diplock. ‘You heard that,’ he said. ‘Make a note of it.’

  Dicken watched them stalk away, convinced that nothing would ever change because, even if by some miracle St Aubyn meant what he said, it would immediately be vetoed by the staff of the Air Officer Commanding as an unnecessary expense because he was being chivvied by the Air Staff in London, who were chivvied in their turn by a parsimonious Treasury.

  There were a few frosty faces as drinks were taken in the mess then St Aubyn flew off to some diplomatic function in Baghdad while Diplock announced that he had to go to Diana east of Mosul and needed one of the Bristols to fly him there. It was Dicken’s turn for duty when he wished to return and as the staff car drew up and Diplock climbed out, Dicken saw he was wearing a beautifully-cut uniform and topee and was carrying a briefcase. His face was set in a petulant expression and, as he approached the aeroplane, he frowned.

  ‘Quinney,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Well, sir.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  There was a sly look on Diplock’s face and Dicken guessed that he’d heard about Zoë’s activities. He himself hadn’t had a letter from her for two months now so doubtless Diplock knew more about her than he did himself.

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘I heard she’d gone to America.’

  It was news to Dicken but he didn’t blink. ‘That’s correct, sir,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘She wrote me.’

  Diplock looked about him. ‘Strange to find you in a squadron in my wing,’ he said. ‘I thought you were in armoured cars.’

  ‘I was sir. No 4 Company. I was transferred to take the place of a sick man.’

  Diplock said nothing and, handing his briefcase to the officer who had accompanied him from headquarters, struggled into a pair of white overalls and flying helmet.

  ‘Shall we go?’ he said.

  Perhaps it was Diplock’s smugness and the fact that he had advanced in the RAF by kow-towing to the right people, or perhaps because he knew more about Dicken’s wife than Dicken himself did, but Dicken was in a foul temper as the propeller was swung. Taxiing into position far too fast, he checked his instruments and controls then took off in a climbing turn which was against regulations but which he hoped would frighten the life out of his passenger.

  Lifting across the ridge that framed the landing ground, as they crested the last fold of land suddenly there was nothing ahead but the great bowl of the sky. The ridge had ended in a huge precipice with the plain beyond a thousand feet below, and the aeroplane lifted violently to the air that rose against the contour of the ground, then dropped violently as it passed through it.

  Fighting the bumps, hoping that Diplock was hating every one of them, Dicken circled to find his direction and turned towards Mosul. As he landed he was pleased to see Diplock looking green.

  He didn’t even notice Dicken’s quivering salute and climbed into a waiting car without even changing out of his flying overalls. Two days later, Hatto sent for Dicken.

  ‘What the hell did you do to Parasol Percy?’ he asked. ‘Looped? Rolled? Anything like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you must have done something. There’s a signal. You’d better read it.’ He passed the signal flimsy across.

  The words on it leapt out at Dicken as if they were on fire.

  ‘Subject: Captain and Flight-Lieutenant Quinney, ND. This officer is to be returned at once – repeat at once – to No 4 Car Company. He is not to take command of an aeroplane in this wing until he has completed a refresher course in flying.’

  Seven

  The Wahabi were on the move again. There were thousands of them in the valleys and behind the hills to the north. As Tafas Hashim Fitna sent warning, the armoured cars roared north and stood in a wide ring round Kerchian, their radio aerials strung out, ready when the raiders appeared to pass the word to Hatto’s flight, transferred back to Mosul within two months of the disastrous inspection.

  There had been a lot of trouble recently along the border from disaffected tribal leaders pushed on as usual by Sheikh Mahmoud, who as head of the Sheikhs of Barzinja exerted a continuously disruptive influence. But Mahmoud had finally been forced to withdraw from Persia and once again there had been an uneasy peace until Tafas’ messengers had brought news of a new horde – this time big enough to wipe all the northern villages off the map – heavily armed and without the camels and tents that proclaimed they had their women and children with them. They clearly intended vengeance on the chiefs who had stood by the word of law, and Tafas was understandably nervous.

  ‘Will Window-in-Eye be ready?’ he asked Dicken.

  ‘Window-in-Eye is ready,’ Dicken insisted. ‘His aeroplanes are bombed up and he can come just as soon as I send him word. As fast as an eagle and strong as a tiger.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I am watching the north.’

  Dicken was looking at the sky as he spoke. It was grey and opaque and threatened bad weather. Soon the winter would be on them and that would bring an end to the raiding.

  As the days passed, there was no sign of the raiders but somehow Tafas had acquired the information that they were led by Kerim Fatah Agha, who was not only noted as a vicious, merciless killer but was also related to him and considered Tafas had usurped his rights to the leadership of the northern tribes.

  The days grew colder, then, on the day that definite news of the raiders appeared in camp, a signal arrived. Hatto sent an aeroplane for Dicken and, handing him the signal across the folding table that did duty for his desk, he sat back.

  ‘We’re moving,’ he said.

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘You are. I am. The flight. The armoured cars. We’re going to the landing field at Shemshemal on the Persian border south of Sulamainiyah.’

  ‘In winter?’ Dicken’s eyebrows rose. ‘That field closes down at the end of the summer.’

  ‘This year it doesn’t. They say that Kerim Fatah Agha’s up there
trying to get across the border.’

  ‘He can’t be up there! He’s here. Just to the north of Kerchian. Tafas has never been wrong yet.’ Dicken’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whose doing is this?’ he demanded. ‘Parasol Bloody Percy’s?’

  ‘It is.’

  Dicken glared. ‘Well, what the hell are you going to do? Sit there and let him get away with it?’

  Hatto sounded weary. ‘Look, old fruit, I know what you feel. I know what I feel. There’s nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘You haven’t even tried!’

  Hatto jumped to his feet and slammed his hand down on the table to send papers flying. ‘Yes, I damn well have!’ he snapped. ‘So you can take that back.’

  Dicken shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Willie. I ought to have known. It was a damn silly thing to say.’

  ‘Forget it!’ Hatto growled. ‘That bastard, Diplock, gets us all on edge. I sent a signal insisting that Kerim’s here, but it came back signed by that bastard, St Aubyn. We can’t fight both the bastards. Want to see his reply? It says that we leave at once – repeat at once.’

  ‘And Tafas? What happens to him?’

  Hatto gestured wearily. ‘Christ knows.’

  ‘You know what it’s all about, don’t you?’ Dicken said. ‘It’s because I shook the bastard up on that flight to Hinaidi. It scared him rotten and when he’s scared he bites like a weasel. He’s sending us up there because it’s the coldest, most uncomfortable bloody place he can find. You and I, Willie, old lad, are going to spend the rest of our careers fending this bugger off.’

  ‘What concerns me more at the moment,’ Hatto growled, ‘is that before long Tafas is going to be fending off Kerim Fatah Agha. And that won’t work, because Tafas has only a couple of hundred men and KFA’s got a couple of thousand.’

  In the hope of proving themselves wrong, Hatto flew north to the border and Dicken pushed the cars forward into the wilderness. All the signs were that Kerim Fatah Agha was near and Hatto came back to report the wadis to the north of the border where they couldn’t touch them were full of men, horses and camels.