Winds of Eden

by Catrin Collier

  WINDS OF EDEN

  CATRIN COLLIER

  December 1915. Following heavy casualties, General Townsend withdraws his exhausted troops to the town of Kut Al Amara, Iraq. His orders – to engage as many Turkish troops as possible in a siege situation.

  A relief force is hastily assembled, among them Charles Reid, Tom Mason, and Michael Downe, for each of whom the advance is personal. Charles returns to the country where he lost the love of his life. Tom’s brother John, an army surgeon, awaits execution. Michael’s brother Harry, an army intelligence officer, is missing, having never returned from his last mission.

  Short of everything except the sick and wounded, reduced to eating their horses, the column is repeatedly thrown against the might of the Turkish guns as they wonder if they will ever see home and their wives again. For the women in their lives, the strain reaches breaking point as they wait for news from the front.

  As the death toll rises, the British War Office faces the unthinkable: defeat for Townsend and his 10,000 men.

  “Heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives! You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours. You, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.”

  Mustafa Kemal Atatürk

  For my grandson

  Alec John Nicholas Anderson

  May he live in a peaceful world

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty one

  Chapter Twenty two

  Chapter Twenty three

  Chapter Twenty four

  Chapter Twenty five

  Chapter Twenty six

  Chapter Twenty seven

  Chapter Twenty eight

  Chapter Twenty nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty one

  Chapter Thirty two

  Chapter Thirty three

  Chapter Thirty four

  Chapter Thirty five

  Chapter Thirty six

  Chapter Thirty seven

  Chapter Thirty eight

  Chapter Thirty nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter One

  London, Tuesday 30th November 1915

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Downe.’ The emissary from the War Office who’d introduced himself as ‘Mr Smith’ shook Michael’s hand. ‘Your editor, Mr Kenealy, assures me that, young as you are, he could find no better or more experienced man than you to be the Mirror ’s war correspondent on the Mesopotamian Front. No doubt you’ll see Mr Edmund Candler there. You could learn a great deal from him. He’s not only the Times correspondent for the Expeditionary Force, but also the British Government’s Official Eye-witness in Mesopotamia.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll look out for Mr Candler and do my utmost to deserve the trust Mr Kenealy and the Mirror have placed in me.’

  ‘Make your dispatches accurate, as detailed as space allows no matter how unpalatable the truth, and you won’t go wrong.’

  ‘Something else to remember, Downe,’ Mr Kenealy added, ‘is that your dispatches will be heavily edited by the censor before they appear in the Mirror.’

  ‘I’ve worked on the Western Front for the last year, sir,’ Michael reminded him.

  ‘Of course, you have. My apologies.

  ‘So, you know all about security, censorship, and keeping up the troops’ morale, Downe.’ Mr Smith turned away from Michael and shook Mr Kenealy’s hand. ‘Lunch soon – but not today. I have to return to the office. A deluge of communiqués arrived this morning.’

  ‘Is there any fresh news from Mesopotamia, sir?’ Michael ventured.

  ‘The Battle of Ctesiphon resulted in a stalemate.’

  ‘I read that when it came in on tape from Reuter’s two days ago, sir.’

  ‘General Townshend and General Nureddin have retreated from the battlefield.’

  ‘Both sides have given ground?’ Michael was surprised.

  ‘General Townshend had no choice. His supply lines were stretched too far. An army can’t fight without food, water, and ammunition. The terrain’s impossible. Either desert flat as a subaltern’s wallet that affords no cover, or swamp and marsh that affords too much, flooded year round by water deep enough to drown a tired man. The country, coupled with the extremes of temperatures, makes soldiering in Mesopotamia hell. Townshend is aiming for a point on the Tigris where he can be supplied from Basra by river. Possibly, though it’s by no means certain yet, at Kut-al-Amara.’

  Encouraged by ‘Mr Smith’s’ frank reply, Michael asked, ‘Are all the casualty lists in from Ctesiphon, sir?’

  ‘More were coming in this morning when I left the office. You have someone there?’

  ‘My brother, sir.’

  ‘An officer?’

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel Henry Downe, sir.’

  ‘The political officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Smith gave a rare smile. ‘We are acquainted with Harry Downe and his exploits in the War Office. Sir Percy Cox, the Chief Political Officer with the Indian Expeditionary Force, speaks highly of him. So, you’re off to join your hero brother. I envy you, boy. General Townshend is a fine man, a fine leader. A few months from now I dare say you’ll be marching alongside him and your brother into Baghdad. What a headline that will make for you to write for the readers of the Daily Mirror to read over their breakfasts.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Michael knew he was being over-effusive but after hearing Harry praised, he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘No need to see me out, Kenealy. I know the way.’ Mr Smith opened the office door. The noise of the newsroom blasted in, a cacophony of almost battlefield proportions. Typewriter keys being hit and hit hard interspersed with the slam of carriage returns. The whirr of tape machines mixed with the staccato of hobnailed boots skidding over the wooden floor, as errand boys charged from one end of the hall to the other. Reporters were shouting, checking facts, and announcing updates above the squeak of the tea trolley’s wheels as it rolled from desk to desk.

  ‘By the way, Downe,’ Mr Smith raised his voice so he could be heard. ‘How old did you say you were?’

  ‘I didn’t, sir.’

  ‘He’s twenty-three,’ Mr Kenealy revealed.

  ‘This is a young man’s war. Bad news for us veterans who’ve been put out to grass, Kenealy. Good luck, Downe.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Michael watched the civil servant raise his hat in salute as he sailed past the journalists hammering out copy.

  ‘Good chap Mr … Smith.’ Mr Kenealy closed the door and the noise subsided. ‘Passes on a lot of useful leads.’ He went to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a wallet-sized folder. He handed it to Michael. ‘Travel warrants. You’re leaving for France tonight on the midnight boat train from St Pancras, sailing out of Marseilles next Sunday, which should give you a couple of days’ respite to enjoy the French fleshpots. This,’ he handed him a stiff-backed card, ‘identifies the bearer as a
journalist of the Daily Mirror. These,’ he passed over a brown envelope bearing an official government stamp, ‘are your War Office papers designating you war correspondent posted to the Indian Expeditionary Force, Mesopotamia. Just as the Western Front, you have carte blanche to join any company you see fit, and go wherever the action and your instincts take you, provided you …’

  ‘Don’t get in the way of, compromise, or hinder military operations, sir.’

  ‘I keep forgetting you know more about active service than me. To my shame, every time I look at you I see a schoolboy not a veteran, Downe. Forgive me. Age has never given way to youth graciously, preferring to see the young as immature and inexperienced. You’ve probably seen more action in the last six months than I did as a correspondent during the entire second Boer War. Do you have everything you need in the way of tropical kit?’

  ‘Thanks to my Mirror expense account, the Army and Navy Stores, and Gamages, sir.’

  ‘Stout trunk?’

  ‘The one you recommended, sir. The War Office steel cabin trunk, guaranteed airtight and insect-proof.’

  ‘Whether it will stand up to Mesopotamian flies is another matter. I’ve heard they’re cunning little blighters. Mosquito nets with wooden frame including a fine mesh net for sand flies?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Canvas bath? Field washstand?’

  ‘Plus a twenty-pound tent for my bearer when I get one. Forty-pound for me, folding table and chairs – in short the entire kit prescribed by HQ Simla for officers of the Indian Army, as I’m going to be with them, if not one of them.’

  Alexander Kenealy nodded approval. ‘Not sure if you have one of these, but I thought it might prove useful.’ He handed Michael a writing attaché case. ‘It has a safety ink bottle, something every war correspondent should own.’

  Michael was touched by his editor’s generosity. Turned down by the army as unfit due to a childhood leg injury he’d applied for a position as a reporter. The transition from a desk in his father’s bank to war correspondent hadn’t been smooth. Any idea he’d had that journalism would be an easy option was shattered the first time Kenealy had bawled him out for submitting verbose, over-emotional dispatches from France.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’ Michael ran his hands over the leather grained case.

  ‘As you’ll be the one doing the work on the ground, least we can do is give you the tools for the job. I put a couple of boxes of horseshoe nibs in there. The ink reservoir on them is useful although I wouldn’t go as far as to endorse the manufacturer’s claim it’s sufficient to write a whole letter.’ He hesitated. ‘Downe, I know your brother’s in Mesopotamia, but are you absolutely certain this is the assignment for you? I’ve heard the Indian Office has made a complete cock-up there, especially with supply lines. The men are short of kit, food, ammunition, and other essentials they need to drive out Johnny Turk. The weather’s foul, either unbearably hot or cold, and in the rainy season the whole country floods and turns to mud. You could stay on the Western Front.’

  ‘No. Thank you, sir, but no.’ Michael was resolute.

  ‘Not sure I understand. You’re not long married. Mrs Downe is too pretty a girl to be left alone in London for months on end. If you return to France you can always nip over the channel during the quiet times to deliver your dispatches and see her.’

  ‘She’s busy with war work, sir. My parents’ and parents-in-law’s estates have lost so many workers to the army she spends most of her time in the country, dividing her time between Clyneswood and Stouthall. In fact she’s there now.’

  ‘Surely not working in the fields?’

  ‘She helps with book-keeping and oversees the fulfilment of requisitions of agricultural produce for the War Office.’

  ‘King and Empire are demanding a great deal of your generation, Downe, women as well as men. I’m proud of you. All of you, for stepping up to the call. I won’t keep you. I don’t doubt you have plans for your last day in Blighty.’

  ‘I’m meeting my sister for lunch and we’re dining with our cousin. He received his orders yesterday.’

  ‘For France?’

  ‘Marseilles, sir. I’m not the only one in the family with a brother in Mesopotamia.’

  ‘I hope you find your brother and cousin well in the East, Downe. Good luck, goodbye, and safe return.’

  ‘Thank you for your help and advice, sir. I would never have made war correspondent without the training you gave me.’

  ‘All I did was knock raw material into the shape the Mirror demands. I won’t burden you with cautions, Downe. After the Western Front you know what you’ll be up against. I do however have one piece of advice. A war correspondent’s brief is to accurately record within censorship guidelines, and that’s all. Don’t take unnecessary risks. No heroics. I want to see you back here, sound in wind and limb the moment the peace treaties are signed.’

  ‘I’ll be back, sir.’ Michael opened the attaché case and stowed his identity papers and travel documents inside. He shook his editor’s hand and left.

  Alexander watched Michael make his way through the newsroom. Downe was popular in a quiet, self-effacing way. Everyone wanted to wish him well and shake his hand. Given what he’d heard about the failings of the India Office and rampant disease in the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force he only hoped he hadn’t sent the boy to his death.

  Ritz Hotel, London, Tuesday 30th November 1915

  Tom Mason took the key from the bellboy and handed him sixpence.

  ‘Thank you, sir. If you and your wife need theatre tickets …’

  ‘We won’t be needing any, thank you.’ Tom hung the ‘Do not disturb’ outside the door, closed it in the boy’s face and locked it. ‘Well, Mrs Captain Dr William Scott, alone at last.’ He raised his eyebrows.

  Clarissa Amey dropped her handbag and coat on the nearest chair. ‘Just who is Captain Dr William Scott?’

  ‘A boring physician I’ve thankfully left behind on the Western Front. What do you think of the room?’

  ‘Luxurious and extravagant. We could have gone to the usual place, Tom.’

  ‘Bayswater’s too drab to say goodbye. Besides, nothing’s too good for my girl.’ He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her long and thoroughly.

  Clarissa wanted to ask him if she was ‘his girl’ when he allowed her to breathe again, but mindful of an article she’d read in Woman’s Weekly about ‘sending your loved one off with a smile’ she refrained. How could she demand Tom give her any assurance about his feelings for her, or their future together, when he was going off to war?

  Since she’d been promoted to ward sister, the reality of what the men who marched away were forced to face had become all too apparent. The strain of nursing the smashed and broken bodies of young men who would never be whole again, and listening to their screams as they relived the horrors of the battlefield in their nightmares, had been almost more than she could bear. Especially when she thought of Tom and her brother Stephen.

  ‘You’re pensive, sweetheart?’

  ‘Sorry. Thinking about the list of sister’s duties Matron gave me,’ she lied.

  ‘Don’t, not until after midnight.’ He gave her a winsome smile.

  ‘Is that the time your boat train leaves?’

  ‘From St Pancras. Here, I bought you something to remember me by.’ He took a jeweller’s box from his greatcoat and handed it to her before hanging his coat in the wardrobe.

  Her heart pounded when she saw the small blue leather box. She hadn’t dared voice her hope, but she’d dreamed of an engagement ring, or at the very least a locket with a photograph she could wear close to her heart. Something she could show her family and friends with a casual – “My boy at the front gave me this when he said goodbye.”

  She opened the box. A pair of beautiful sapphire earrings twinkled up at her, reflecting the light from the electric lamps.

  Tom read the expression on her face. ‘If you don’t like th
em the jeweller said he’d exchange them.’

  ‘They’re beautiful, Tom. It’s just that …’

  ‘What?’

  How could she even begin to tell him she would have preferred something less expensive, more personal? ‘They’re lovely, Tom.’ She closed the box, ‘But they remind me you’ll soon be gone.’

  ‘Not for,’ he looked at his wristwatch, ‘almost twelve hours.’

  A knock at the door disturbed them.

  ‘Our champagne and caviar. Get undressed, darling, so we can start making memories.’

  She bathed her eyes in the bathroom while he dealt with the waiter.

  Kettner’s Restaurant, Soho, London, Tuesday 30th November 1915

  ‘So, you did it. You managed to get yourself posted to Mesopotamia.’ Dr Georgiana Downe eyed her brother Michael across their table.

  ‘You look as though you don’t know whether to kiss or thump me.’

  ‘Definitely thump you. As a war correspondent, you’re in an even better position than me to know what Mesopotamia’s like. I don’t doubt you’ve read the dispatches as well as Harry’s letters.’

  ‘As much as the correspondents and Harry are allowed to put in them,’ Michael picked up the wine list.

  ‘There was a huge battle there a couple of days ago with heavy casualties. Our forces …’

  Michael looked over his shoulder before lowering his voice. ‘Have tactically withdrawn.’

  ‘In God’s name …’

  ‘Now you’re blaspheming.’

  ‘Since when have you turned into St Michael?’

  ‘War correspondents are not saints.’

  ‘Only a saint would volunteer for a hell-hole. Isn’t it enough that I have one brother there? Do you have to emulate every stupid thing Harry does? You could have stayed in the bank.’

  ‘With Britain at war?’

  ‘I accept you want to do your bit. But a war correspondent? With a badly broken leg which never healed properly that prevents you from running. What do you do when the shells start falling?’

  ‘Duck. If they’re close, there’s no point in running. If they’re not, chances are you’ll end up in their path.’