‘Thank you.’ Michael shook his hand.
‘I’m here to meet my cousin Boris Bell. You probably came in on the same boat. Do you know him?’
‘Of course they do.’ Boris joined them ‘You look ten years older than when I last saw you a year ago, Richard.’
‘Nothing like a compliment from a cousin. You all bound for Ali Gharbi tonight?’
‘All we’ve been told is upstream,’ Tom replied.
‘Good men. Someone’s got to get Townshend out of Kut.’
‘Out of – he’s trapped?’ Michael asked.
‘Where’ve you been, man?’
‘On board a ship getting here for the last month,’ Tom explained.
‘You weren’t in radio contact?’
‘The captain was. He didn’t believe in sharing information.’ Michael dropped his attaché case. ‘When we left London, Townshend had just fallen back from Ctesiphon.’
‘He retired to Kut al Amara. The Turkish forces now under the command of a German, Baron von der Goltz, have him pinned down in the town.’
‘Any news on casualties?’ Tom asked. ‘We both have brothers with Townshend.’
‘Officers?’ Chalmers took a packet of Camel cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to Tom and Michael.
‘My brother, John Mason, is a major in the Medical Corps.’
‘My brother is a political officer, Lieutenant Colonel Harry Downe.’
Richard Chalmers was adept at concealing his emotions. ‘I’m bunking with a friend of theirs, or I will be when he’s discharged from hospital: Major Charles Reid.’
‘Charles is here, not with Townshend?’ Tom’s spirits rose. His brother was so close to Charles and Harry he had sudden hopes of finding all three in Basra.
‘Charles was wounded at Ctesiphon. He’s in hospital but on the mend.’
‘Where’s the hospital?’ Michael picked up his attaché case.
‘It’s on the way to my quarters where I’ve had my bearer prepare a feast for Boris, not that he deserves it.’
‘After what I’ve been forced to eat to survive on voyage I deserve every ounce of sustenance you’ve scavenged. Hope there’s a decent vintage to wash it down.’
‘You can hope.’ Richard smiled at Boris’s crestfallen expression. ‘Cousins!’ he clapped his arm around Boris’s shoulders. ‘Appears this sideshow is something of a family occasion for all of us.’
Military Hospital, Basra, morning, Friday 31st December 1915
Michael and Tom heard Charles’s shouts even before they entered the hospital. A young medic backed out of the ward as they approached.
He nodded to Richard, said ‘I refused to discharge him,’ and disappeared.
Richard strode into the ward. ‘Smile, best manners called for, Charles, you have visitors.’
Charles looked up, saw Michael, and murmured, ‘Harry’
‘Michael.’ Michael held out his hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Charles.’
Charles struggled to regain his composure. ‘It’s good to see you, and Tom, too.’ He turned to Tom. ‘You resemble John but not enough to be mistaken for him, whereas Michael … what the hell are you both doing here?’
‘We got in half an hour ago,’ Tom revealed, ‘met Major Chalmers on the wharf and he kindly brought us here. Where are John and Harry? Are they in Basra too?’
Richard went to the door. ‘I can’t leave my cousin in the carriage when he only has a day here. I’ll leave you to your reunion, Charles. See you later.’
Charles didn’t blame Richard for retreating. If the situation had been reversed he’d have done the same thing. He waved a goodbye and turned to Michael. ‘You’re not in uniform?’
Michael pulled up a chair and lowered his voice so as not to disturb the other patients. ‘The army rejected me because of my leg. I’m war correspondent for the Mirror. We only just heard about Kut being besieged.’
‘When we left London they were calling it “General Townshend’s strategic withdrawal”. Are John and Harry with him?’’ Tom pulled up another chair.
‘Are John and Harry in Kut?’ Michael reiterated when Charles didn’t answer.
Charles gripped his metal bed head until his knuckles turned white. ‘They’re dead.’
‘Dead!’ Michael began to shake. ‘Both of them?’
‘Both of them,’ Charles confirmed.
‘They can’t be. Not Harry …’
Charles started talking. Once he began he couldn’t stop. He knew exactly how Tom and Michael felt. He hadn’t wanted to believe Harry and John were dead either. They’d been far more than friends. They’d been an integral part of him – his life – his childhood and the best part of him had died with them.
‘Townshend arrived at Kut on December 3rd. On the 4th and 5th he sent his aeroplanes and all his river craft except the gunboats Firefly and Sumana downstream. On the 6th Leachman led out the cavalry and tanks. Most made it to Ali Gharbi. Townshend sent fourteen hundred Turkish prisoners here. He’s been left with nine or ten thousand fighting men. With camp followers there are fifteen thousand on his ration muster but two thousand of those are sick. He faces a Turkish force, estimated by aeroplane reconnaissance, of twenty-five thousand infantry, cavalry, and camelry, thirty-one mobile guns, and seven heavy guns, plus thousands of Arabs. On the 9th Nureddin demanded Townshend surrender. Townshend refused. Since then the garrison’s been under bombardment. Townshend asked permission to retreat, but General Nixon refused …’
‘I don’t want a bloody military report. I want to know what happened to Harry.’ Michael was so pale Tom thought he was about to pass out.
‘Harry left Kut a couple of hours after Leachman. He was in Arab robes, accompanied by Arab ghulams.’
‘He was sent to spy on the Turks?’ Michael guessed.
‘That’s what political officers do and Harry was damned good at it.’
‘He always did like dressing up.’ Tom regretted the fatuous remark as soon as he made it.
‘After war broke out Harry alternated spying on the Turks and Arabs with fighting alongside us. According to Harry’s friend Crabbe,’ Charles rummaged in his locker, produced Crabbe’s letter, and handed it to Michael, ‘Harry was ambushed after he and his ghulams left our lines. One ghulam returned with Harry’s bloodied robes. He told the CO that Harry and the second ghulam fell at the first volley and he’d seen their bodies. Crabbe had no doubt from the ghulam’s account that Harry was dead.’
‘If they were behind Turkish lines they could have been taken prisoner …’
‘An eye-witness said Harry was dead, Michael.’ Charles couldn’t bring himself to utter any of the platitudes that littered last letters home. ‘He died instantly.’ ‘He didn’t suffer.’ ‘The end was swift and painless’.
He’d resorted to them himself when the deceased soldier’s end had been anything but dignified, swift, or pain-free.
‘John?’ Tom demanded.
‘Died of fever in Kut after Nureddin raised the siege. Crabbe knew Harry and John well. Harry was incredibly popular, as was John. I find it difficult to believe I’ll never see them again. It must be much worse for you to arrive here to be told they’re dead. I wrote to you, your parents, Georgie, and Lucy but you obviously left England before my letters arrived.’
Michael finished reading Crabbe’s letter and handed it to Tom. ‘There’s no hope, no hope at all.’ It wasn’t a question.
Charles opened his locker again and brought out a metal flask. He filled the top with brandy, handed it to Michael, and gave Tom the flask. Tom refilled Michael’s cup after he emptied it.
‘How soon are we going in to relieve Kut?’ Tom screwed the top back on the flask.
‘I’ve heard that Townshend only has supplies for four more weeks of siege. Our forces are gathering at Ali Gharbi. From there the plan is to advance, relieve Kut, and move on to take Baghdad. I’m guessing the next show will be within the next week and somewhere between Ali Gharbi and Kut.’
&n
bsp; ‘The Turks?’ Michael asked.
‘Dug in and well equipped. They haven’t let up. They inflicted major assaults on Kut on the 24th and 25th. Two days ago the Turks requested an armistice to bury their dead. We sent up planes for reconnaissance. Estimates put their dead at over two thousand. Townshend wired Nixon that ours were four hundred including seventeen officers.
‘I suppose we’ll find out more when we go upstream.’ Tom returned the flask to Charles.
‘What time’s your boat leaving?’
‘Six.’
‘As a war correspondent, I’m hoping to beg a ride,’ Michael added.
‘The brass will offer you anything you want, on condition you show them your dispatches before you send them,’ Charles warned.
‘What about John’s wife?’ Tom asked. ‘Is she still in Basra?’
Charles hesitated before answering, ‘She is.’
‘Don’t tell me there’s more bad news. Is she ill …’
‘She had a baby on Christmas Eve.’
‘My mother will be pleased. Did John know?
‘He knew she was pregnant. Maud was notified of his death before the birth. She’s living in the Baptist mission attached to the Lansing Memorial Hospital if you want to see her.’
‘I’d like to.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
‘You’re not fit enough.’ Tom looked at Charles with a professional eye.
‘They let me out in a wheelchair last night; they can do it again now. You should come with us, Michael. The people there knew Harry as well as John. They’d be pleased to see you but there’s one thing you should both know before we leave. The baby is Maud’s but it’s not John’s. Your sister-in-law is a whore, Tom.’
Chapter Seven
Kut al Amara, Friday 31st December 1915
‘I joined the bloody army to fight. Not to burrow in bloody holes and live like a bloody rabbit. I dig in bloody dirt. I live in bloody dirt. I eat bloody dirt. I sleep on bloody dirt. I even feel like a bloody rabbit. Look at my strong back legs and big ears.’ Private Bert Evans helped carry Sergeant Lane inside the house that had been commandeered by Townshend’s 6th Division as an aid station for the front lines.
‘Just how many “bloodies” can you get in one sentence, Private Evans?’ Major David Knight of the Indian Medical service held open the door of the room that did duty as dressing area.
‘A lot more than I just said, sir,’ Bert continued unabashed as he and his companion hauled Sergeant Lane inside and dumped him on a chair. ‘The “bloodies” are for you, sir. Usually I’m less polite.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ David Knight examined the bullet wound in the sergeant’s shoulder. Lead shot was embedded in his collarbone. Blood and bone splinters had sprayed over his tunic. ‘Matthews?’ David called for the orderly.
‘Sir.’ He appeared in the doorway.
‘Clean this up, and warn the duty orderly I’ll need the theatre in the non-coms and ranks hospital to operate.’
‘Sir.’ Matthews called to the duty orderly before picking up a bowl, a jug of boiled water, gauze pads, and scissors.
‘Johnny Turk’s starting the fusillade early today. He usually holds back until four o’clock,’ Knight tipped water into a bowl, took a bar of carbolic soap and began scrubbing his hands.
‘Judging by the bullets flying our way, the opposition’s brought some keen snipers up the line, sir. The minute they see an officer’s cap or stripes on a non-com’s sleeve they let rip and unlike Petulant Fanny they usually hit their target.’
On the right bank of the Tigris the Turks had set up a trench mortar that fired noisy 15-inch bronze shells. All aimed at the same spot, slightly ahead of the British redoubts, but ‘Petulant Fanny’, as the troops had christened the mortar, had yet to hit rank, file, or a single military target.
John Mason’s bearer Dira ran in, shouting, ‘Officer coming, Sahib Knight. Badly wounded.’
Two stretcher-bearers from the 6th Poona Division burst in carrying Major Cleck-Heaton. Blood covered the right side of the major’s face from a head wound that was still pumping.
‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer officer,’ Knight muttered.
‘Sir?’ Matthews was unsure he’d heard correctly.
‘Bowl and swabs, Matthews, the shoulder wound will have to wait.’
‘Bloody officers always get in first,’ Bert swore.
‘Another comment like that, Private Evans, will see you on a charge. Head wound takes precedence over shoulder wound, whether the head wound’s a sepoy, private, or colonel,’ David snapped. ‘Set the major on that table.’
David soaked a pad of gauze in the bowl Matthews held for him and swabbed Cleck-Heaton’s face. The bullet had entered just below his right eye socket. But Dira had failed to notice the bullet hole in the major’s chest.
‘Prepare the major for surgery, Matthews. Dira, tell the orderlies to get the theatre ready in the officers’ hospital. Then fetch Sergeant Greening and his prisoner. There’s only one doctor who’d dare operate on that chest wound.’
‘He finished a fifteen-hour shift two hours ago, sir,’ Matthews reminded him.
‘I know but he’s the only one with enough surgical experience to tackle this. Go, Dira. Tell him the patient’s Cleck-Heaton, and I wouldn’t blame him for refusing to come.’
Dira left the building. He kept his head low. Although the aid station and hospitals were well behind the lines, many areas of the town were within the sights of the Turkish forward posts across the river and within range of their snipers, if not their major guns. He passed a rickety, irregular row of squalid, crumbling mud brick houses. Women were squatting in front of them, gathered around mud ovens, cooking their thick pancake ‘kababs’. Grubby children played in the dirt beside them. Half a dozen older girls were grinding corn in shallow stone bowls. As soon as they had enough to mix to a paste they carried it in their hands to the women nearest the stoves. Immersed in their task, the locals didn’t even glance up at Dira as he ran to the end of the street.
The building HQ had requisitioned for use as a prison was mud brick. It appeared to be crumbling but there were sturdy iron bars at every window and the door was metal. Dira banged on it with his closed fist. It was opened by a sergeant from the Mahrattas. Dira stepped into the mud-walled and -floored room to be instantly overwhelmed by the stench of raw sewage. Four Indian sepoys were sitting around a table. A bunch of keys, a charcoal-fuelled burner with kettle, a tray of mugs, and a set of dice lay in front of them.
‘Cha?’ the sergeant offered Dira.
Dira kept his lips tightly closed and tried not to breathe too deeply. He shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I’m in a hurry.’
Knowing what Dira wanted, the sergeant lit an oil lamp and handed it to him along with the keys.
Dira unlocked a metal door set in a side wall. It opened on a steep stone staircase that wound down to the cellar. As he began his descent the reek of damp and excrement intensified. The temperature plummeted to the freezing low that made sleep impossible at night. At the foot of the winding stair was a two-metre-square hallway. It held a chair, army cot, and low-burning oil lamp. Sergeant Greening of the 2nd Dorsets was stretched out on the cot, wrapped in his uniform, greatcoat, boots and two blankets.
Dira shook him.
The sergeant opened one eye and squinted. ‘I’m dead.’
‘You’re talking.’
‘I’m a talking corpse.’
‘Major Knight sent for your prisoner. It’s urgent. Major Cleck-Heaton has been badly wounded.’
‘That’s bloody marvellous, Dira. Do you mind if we celebrate later when I’m not tired.’
‘Major Knight said you’re to bring your prisoner at once.’
‘That’s bloody rich.’
‘Sahib Knight says Major Cleck-Heaton’s only hope is your prisoner.’
‘If Cleck-Heaton had had his way the man who’s been asked to save him would have been shot by a firing squad, wee
ks ago. Let’s pretend that’s what happened. Inform Major Knight that Major Cleck-Heaton has no saviour to call on.’
‘I’ve been given orders.’
Realising Dira was about to lose his temper, Sergeant Greening rose slowly from the cot so as not to topple it. ‘Keep your hair on.’ He filched the keys from his belt and unlocked the only door in the hall. He picked up the oil lamp and stepped into an ice-cold, windowless cell.
‘Major Mason, sir, Major Knight has sent for you. Major Cleck-Heaton has been wounded. Major Knight says you’re the only one who can save him.’
British Military Hospital, Basra, Friday 31st December 1915
After ten minutes of heated argument and intervention by a senior medical officer who’d known and respected John in India, Charles was given permission to visit the Lansing Memorial Mission with Tom and Michael. An orderly was sent to summon a carriage while Charles dressed. When Charles was ready, he refused to sit in a wheelchair. The Indian orderly who’d helped him don his uniform settled the discussion by simply lifting Charles into the chair and wheeling him to the door.
To Charles’s annoyance the orderly also hoisted him into the carriage and pushed the chair in after him. Wracked by pain, exhausted by the effort it had taken to dress and reach the outside, Charles sank back in the seat.
‘Leg wound followed by fever?’ Tom climbed in and sat on the bench seat opposite Charles.
‘It appears that you, like your brother, never stop being a doctor,’ Charles snapped.
‘Am I right?’
‘Not entirely. I had fever before I was wounded as well as after.’
‘You’re lucky to be in one piece, and you’re not helping yourself by fighting medical advice. Model patients who follow their doctors’ instructions recover more quickly,’ Tom remonstrated.
‘Model patients are sent to recuperate in India. I have friends in Kut with Townshend. Someone has to get them out.’
‘Not a major who’s unfit for duty,’ Tom declared. ‘Charles …’
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