Winds of Eden

by Catrin Collier

  ‘Are they likely to get it, sir?’

  The political officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not from the Turks.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘It would be premature to discuss the future of Mesopotamia before we’ve driven out the Turk, Downe.’

  ‘So we have no plans for the country?’

  ‘You’ve accepted a position as a captain in the Political Office, Downe. Despite your cover as a journalist, this meeting and our conversation, like all our future conversations, are entirely off the record. So forget any thoughts you might have had about publishing any part of anything said by me.’

  Michael resisted the temptation to argue that his position as a journalist was more than a cover. ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘I trust you do, Downe, or our acquaintance will be a brief one.’

  ‘It would help if I knew the Indian Office’s long-term plans for Mesopotamia, sir,’ Michael ventured.

  ‘You’ve heard something?’

  ‘Rumours, sir.’

  ‘Elucidate?’

  ‘A letter that was sent to an M.P.’

  ‘It’s well known that there are people, in the Indian Office, Westminster and the military, even in my own department, with plans for Mesopotamia.’

  ‘I read Sir William Willcocks’ argument for annexing the country for India, sir. He suggested irrigating the southern lower reaches of the desert around Amara and Basra with water from the Tigris and Euphrates until it rivals the north for fertility. He also suggested that this new agricultural land could be populated with surplus Indians from the Punjab who would, and I quote, “transform Lower Mesopotamia into one of the largest granaries of the world.” Presumably with the aim of creating a new colony for India?’

  ‘The Indian Office has made no secret of its expansionist plans,’ Cox agreed.

  ‘Are the Arabs aware of these plans, sir?’ Michael asked.

  ‘To be frank, Downe, it’s not something I’ve discussed with them, or would wish to. I trust you’re not thinking of bringing the matter up in conversation with any sheikhs you meet.’

  ‘No, sir. But there was a paragraph in the proposition I found disturbing.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘It stated that the Arab population would gladly accept British rule through the Indian Office as they did at Basra before the war. Harry was here, and he never mentioned British rule of any part of the Ottoman Empire, or “glad acceptance by the natives”.’

  ‘You said he never wrote about the war.’

  ‘This was before the war, sir. I’m just looking for confirmation that the Indian Office sees Mesopotamia as a future colony of our eastern empire.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that’s how the Indian Office sees the future of this country, Downe. Like you, I’ve heard it argued that skilful irrigation could transform the arid nature of the lower reaches of the desert around Basra. My deputy even suggested we wouldn’t even have to garrison the country as the land could be leased or gifted to native Indian Army veterans who’d form a territorial defensive militia should the Arabs prove difficult, which in my opinion they most definitely would if the Indian Office imported overlords. Mesopotamia is very different to India, as your brother well knew. The Bedouin may be nomadic, but they are neither disorganised nor weak. Two attributes I believe the Indian Office equate with their nomadic lifestyle.’

  ‘So the political future of Mesopotamia has yet to be decided sir?’ Michael tried not to sound disingenuous.

  ‘As I’ve already said, first we have to drive out the Turks. There’s no point in even discussing the matter until we’ve accomplished that much.’ Cox refilled their tea glasses.

  Michael sensed Cox wanted to end the interview but there was one subject he hadn’t yet broached. ‘Have you managed to locate my brother’s bearer, sir?’

  ‘I sent a message out on the native grapevine. Hopefully he will hear it.’

  ‘If he should contact you, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Captain Reid informed me that my brother was shot by a Turkish sniper.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Does anyone know what happened to his body?’

  ‘Other than his corpse fell into Turkish hands, no. There are many unmarked graves in the desert, Mr Downe. I usually say that is a situation that will be rectified at the end of the war, but not in your brother’s case. He left Kut to spy on the Turks. He was dressed in native robes and carried nothing that could identify him as a British officer. Not even his identification tags. There’s no way of distinguishing his body from any other, even if it should be found.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, sir.’ Michael left his chair. ‘I have copy to deliver before I go upstream. Please excuse me.’

  ‘You won’t forget to meet Daoud in Abdul’s.’

  ‘At four o’clock. I won’t forget, sir.’

  Kut al Amara, Sunday 2nd January 1916

  ‘You’re picking up a fair collection of scars. Out to impress your lady with tall tales of hard fought battles, Smythe?’ John Mason quipped as he passed him and Knight in the officers’ aid station.

  ‘If I ever see her again,’ Peter moaned.

  ‘No defeatist talk allowed.’ John filled a bowl with water from a jug and proceeded to scrub his hands.

  ‘Only officers to hear it.’

  ‘Officers as depressed as the ranks, despite the dictates of the brass that it’s our duty to bolster morale.’ Knight was attempting to tweeze a bone fragment from Peter Smythe’s shoulder that had proved stubborn when the wound had first been dressed. ‘How’s Cleck-Heaton?’ he asked John.

  ‘Sitting up. Uncommunicative.’ John reached for a towel.

  ‘Must be difficult to say “thank you for saving my life” to a man you wanted shot.’ Peter winced when Knight dug too deeply.

  ‘Sirs,’ John’s orderly Dira appeared at the door. ‘Stretcher-bearers have brought in a sepoy with a head wound.’

  ‘Take over here, John. I’ll go to the Indian hospital.’

  ‘Any reason, Knight?’

  ‘You’ve only half an hour of your shift to go and I’ve just come on duty. Besides, this bone splinter is proving more elusive than the carp in my father’s lake.’ Knight handed John the tweezers and left the chair. ‘Snipers busy, Dira?’

  ‘No more than usual, Sahib sir, but from the casualty lists it seems they prefer to aim at the English and Indian officers, than at the ranks, sir.’

  ‘Wipe that grin off your face, Dira, before the brass suggest you change uniforms with us.’

  Dira’s smile broadened. ‘Yes, sir, Sahib Knight.’

  John sat on the stool Knight had vacated and dipped the tweezers into a cup of antiseptic. ‘You need to keep this wound clean, Smythe. Get it dressed here night and morning.’

  ‘It’s infected?’

  ‘It’s looking messy.’

  ‘That a technical term?’

  John frowned as tried to get a grip on the sliver. ‘Try to eat some of the weeds the cooks serve as vegetable substitute. It’s anyone’s guess what they are or what effect they’re having on our digestive systems but malnutrition, scurvy, and the unsanitary conditions are playing havoc with recovery rates from wounds, so anything’s worth a try.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I wish I had a guinea for every time I’ve heard that lately. Another injury like this and you’ll be heading downstream to your lovely lady as soon as we’re relieved.’

  ‘I wish I could look forward to that reunion.’

  ‘You’re worried about what happened in Qurna last August?’ John asked.

  ‘You probably remember more of what happened than me.’

  ‘You’d been in battle, you were shell-shocked. You lashed out in your sleep …’

  ‘And damn near killed my wife. You saw what I did to her. You treated her after I beat her.’

  ‘In your sleep,’ John reiterated.

&n
bsp; ‘There’s no guarantee I won’t do the same again.’

  ‘You haven’t attacked anyone other than a Turk sleeping – or awake – since that night.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Peter demanded.

  ‘Because I asked Crabbe to keep an eye on you and he would have told me if you had.’

  ‘Even in my sleep I’m aware that Crabbe, and his Webley revolver are only a couple of feet from my head.’

  ‘You could always ask Angela – Mrs Smythe – to lock you in a separate bedroom at night if you’re worried about a recurrence when you see her again,’ John finally managed to gain a purchase on the bone splinter.

  ‘I am worried,’ Peter admitted, ‘and for that reason alone I’m dreading us being relieved.’

  ‘Have you considered we might not be?’

  Peter looked John in the eye. ‘You think we’ll be forced to surrender?’

  ‘It’s a possibility and forewarned is forearmed. The food’s running out and the sepoys … let’s just say there’s been an increase in the number coming into the aid stations with gunshot wounds.’

  ‘Self-inflicted, feet and hands,’ Peter guessed. ‘Cowardly beggars! Are the rumours of Turkish reinforcements being brought in true?’

  ‘You have more time than me to monitor the Turkish lines. Are they?’

  ‘Every time I look out over no-man’s-land, all I see are rows after rows of the bastards. We won’t stand a chance if Constantinople send another brigade to join them.’

  ‘Which is why I try to spend all my time in here. Success at last.’ John dropped the bone splinter into a kidney dish. ‘I’m the proverbial coward who’s afraid to look.’

  ‘That I don’t believe. A lesser man would be a gibbering idiot after what you’ve been through since Nasiriyeh.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ John dismissed. ‘The instinct for survival is inbuilt in us all.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s in Townshend, and if the worst does come to the worst, that he opts for surrender, not a futile last attack.’ Peter felt in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘If he surrenders you do realise that will mean the end of the war for all of us?’

  ‘And God knows how many years in a Turkish prison camp.’ John deliberately moved the conversation away from their plight. ‘Have you seen Harry’s horses?’

  ‘Oddly enough I mentioned them to Crabbe earlier. If you’ll excuse me from duty I’ll see if I can find them.’

  John washed his hands again and reached for a notepad. ‘The “excused duty” is easy. I’d be grateful if you would look for them. Harry adored his horses and I can’t bear the thought of them ending up on a plate in the mess.’

  ‘I know there’s talk of eating mules but surely we won’t have to eat the cavalry horses?’ Peter questioned.

  ‘That depends on how long we’re dug in here and how long the animal feed holds out. Last I heard it’s dangerously low and they’re thinking of giving it to the Indian troops to supplement their rations because they’re refusing to eat mule or horseflesh.’

  ‘Silly beggars.’

  ‘This is not for general consumption but the Indian Medical Service has advised General Townshend – not for the first time – to search the town and stockpile all foodstuffs found in the native warehouses and shops under military authority.’

  ‘Rationing?’

  ‘Full rations at the moment but if we’re not relieved in a week or two it might have to be cut by a third,’ John warned.

  ‘I heard that the brigadier advised a search of the town for hidden stockpiles when we arrived. General Townshend refused on the grounds that the natives were restless enough and he was afraid a house to house search would push them over the edge. It would have been better if we’d sent them packing when we reached here. As it is we have to feed them as well as ourselves.’

  ‘It was Cox who persuaded Townshend not to expel the native population in the middle of winter. It’s the British way. We care for the underdog.’ John handed Peter the note he’d scrawled.

  ‘Word from HQ is the Relief Force is assembling at Ali Gharbi only 56 miles away. Given the Generals’ penchant for delay I hope they make a move towards us before the rainy season.’

  ‘Which will start any day now,’ Crabbe walked in. ‘And when it does, it will bring floods, in which case we’ll all be floating out of our trenches downriver to Basra. Us, Turk, Arab …’

  ‘Floating and fighting.’ Peter fell serious. ‘The sappers can’t understand why we’re in this Godforsaken place.’

  ‘No one’s given me a reason that makes sense.’ John dropped the tweezers back into the antiseptic.

  ‘It doesn’t pay to think deeply about anything in this man’s army,’ Crabbe studied Peter’s wound. ‘That looks distinctly off-colour.’

  ‘John called it messy. You’ll have me down as a case of gas gangrene next.’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’ John irrigated Peter’s wound one final time before reaching for a square of gauze.

  ‘Major Mason, they’ve just brought Captain Leigh in with a neck wound.’

  ‘I’m there, Matthews. Send an orderly in to bandage Captain Smythe.’ John went to the door. ‘You won’t forget to look for Harry’s horses, Peter?’

  ‘He won’t need to, I’ve found them,’ Crabbe announced.

  ‘You could have told us.’ John remonstrated.

  ‘I came straight here after talking to the Norfolks’ syce. They’re in the Norfolks’ stables.’

  ‘Who put them there?’ Peter demanded indignantly.

  ‘Perry.’

  ‘The thieving bastard!’ Peter jumped out of the chair.

  ‘Sit until the orderly’s had a chance to put a bandage on that,’ John ordered.

  ‘Someone needs to have a word with Perry.’

  ‘That’s Colonel Perry to you, Captain Smythe. Unfortunately he outranks us all,’ Crabbe reminded him.

  ‘His rank doesn’t give him the right to take Harry’s horses,’ Peter protested.

  ‘Unfortunately Harry purloined Perry’s polo ponies and used them to swim the river at Amara. He reminded the syce of the incident when the syce suggested that Dorset and Somerset should be taken to the Dorset’s stables.’

  ‘You going to try arguing with Perry?’ John looked at Crabbe.

  ‘I’m on my way to see him.’

  ‘Give me a few minutes and I’ll go with you,’ Peter said.

  ‘Any advice from you about Perry’s soft spots would be welcome,’ Crabbe said as John walked to the door.

  ‘The only advice I can give you is that my father-in-law has no soft spots that I know of. Good luck to both of you. You’ll need it.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  London, Sunday 2nd January 1916

  ‘That was one interminable, boring sermon. After one hour, twenty-two minutes, and thirty seconds of Reverend Brooke’s pontificating …’

  ‘You timed it?’ Clarissa asked Georgiana as they left the church after evensong.

  ‘On the wristwatch Uncle Reid bought me as consolation prize for being rejected by the QAINC.’ Georgiana pulled back her glove so Clarissa could admire it. ‘I fail to understand what Jesus resisting temptation in the deserts of Israel has to do with the length of women’s skirts. Does the Reverend believe men have so little self-control they can be driven wild by the sight of a woman’s ankle and a glimpse of her calf?’

  ‘Shh, not so loud!’ Rain started spotting. Clarissa opened her umbrella.

  Georgiana ignored an audible ‘Blasphemy’ and parried disapproving glares from a group of elderly women. She linked arms with Clarissa as they walked ahead. ‘It’s going to be horrid without you.’

  ‘You’ll have Helen. Both of you will be too busy to miss me.’

  ‘Busy and envious. Truth be told, absolutely green.’

  ‘I’m sorry your godfather couldn’t organise you a berth or a posting to the QAINC, but I promise, Georgie, the moment I step on Mesopotamian soil I’ll start asking about Harry.’


  ‘Bless you.’

  ‘You’ll post these for me tomorrow?’ Clarissa handed the umbrella to Georgiana, opened her bag, and pulled out two letters.

  ‘One for your parents,’ Georgiana guessed.

  ‘The other for my sister. I hope they’ll understand why I had leave.’

  ‘We’ve been through that a hundred times, Clary. If they don’t, it’s their problem, not yours.’ Georgiana took the letters and stowed them inside her handbag. ‘You’ll write?’

  ‘As often as I can.’

  ‘Don’t put up with any nonsense from that cousin of mine when you catch up with him.’

  ‘Nonsense?’ Clarissa echoed.

  ‘There’ll be military chaplains even in Mesopotamia. Drag Tom to the altar. He’s dilly-dallied enough.’

  ‘You want Tom to marry me in Mesopotamia in the middle of a war even if it means I’ll lose my commission in the QAINC?’

  ‘After the way he’s treated you, yes.’

  ‘Georgie, the last thing I need right now is another lecture on how Tom takes me for granted.’

  ‘He does,’ Georgiana declared.

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘You love him so much you’re happy to allow him to use you as a doormat?’

  ‘This war is awful for the men.’

  ‘Some men, granted, but not quite so awful for doctors. Aid stations and military hospitals aren’t frontline trenches, Clary, and you’re forgetting this war is just as foul for the women.’

  ‘Things might have been different if Tom hadn’t put in for a transfer from France. Two leaves last year wasn’t much but now he’s in Mesopotamia it’s hopeless.’

  ‘You’ll be there shortly.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I’ll see him. We were given a lecture on what to expect when we reach there. Basra has been secured by our troops. All the fighting is expected to take place two hundred miles or more upriver. We’ve been drafted in to take the place of the medical staff in the military facilities who are being sent to the front. Given Tom’s experience in France, he’s bound to be posted to a field hospital or aid station.’

  Georgiana frowned. ‘You have written to him to tell him you’ll soon be in Mesopotamia … you haven’t, have you?’ she pressed when Clarissa didn’t answer.