Michael rose slowly. Long hours spent crouching over bodies on the floor had played havoc with his thigh muscles.
Stepping gingerly between bodies, he headed for the tent opening, passing Sami and Adjabi who were filling water bottles from a tank they’d brought off the ship. Daoud was handing the bottles out to bearers who were taking them to the patients.
‘If anyone wants me I’ll be outside, Adjabi, I won’t be far.’
‘Can I get you anything, Sahib?’
The irony of his bearer’s question wasn’t lost on Michael. In the middle of chaos where there wasn’t even enough drinking water for the dying, his bearer was still a loyal, dutiful servant.
There was nothing he could do other than play the role of considerate employer. ‘Nothing, thank you, Adjabi. I’ll be back soon.’ He went outside and stepped to the side of the tent, out of the path of the stretcher-bearers who were ferrying men in and corpses out.
He gazed at the river. Behind the slanting masts of the native mahailas and the smoking stacks of the transport steamers, snow crusted the distant peaks of the Pusht-i-Kuh. The rays of the dying sun had tinged it a beautiful pale pink, the colour of the petals of his mother’s favourite rose in the gardens at Clyneswood. Although his mouth was as dry as a tinderbox he reached for his cigarettes from force of habit and lit one. Drawing on it, he turned left and walked towards the lines of braying mules, spitting camels and ammunition dumps running parallel to the river.
Behind them a large square had been marked out with sticks and string. Pockmarked with holes, six feet by two, it was a giant version of the silverware drawers in the butler’s pantry at home. He walked to the edge of the first hole and looked down.
A corpse wrapped head to toe in a concealing grey army blanket lay in the bottom. Misted with light, silvery raindrops, it reminded Michael of an Egyptian mummy. Pinned to the front was a jagged-edged page torn from a notebook. He crouched down and read the scrawled name:
Captain Tim Levitt, 6th Indian Cavalry.
Outside the cordoned off area was a pile of rough planking torn from packing cases. Two sepoys were sitting alongside it, hammering the lathes into rough crosses. When they’d finished one, they handed them to a British corporal who been given the task of painting names on the rough memorials.
Michael offered him and the sepoys cigarettes.
‘If you’re here for the service …’ the corporal noted Michael’s civilian clothes and added, ‘sir, the padre won’t be along for an hour or two. We’ve a bit of work to do before he can start.’
‘I’m taking a break from the hospital.’ Michael sat on the ground beside the corporal and leaned against a packing case that hadn’t yet been torn apart.
He turned aside from the sight of a fatigue party making its way towards them with a stretcher heaped with three copses and looked back at Tim Levitt’s remains.
‘They’re not letting up, are they?’ the corporal said to no one in particular.
Shells were bursting on the sunset-streaked horizon, their crimson, opal, and violet lights mingling with the dying shades of the day. The sharp staccato of shrapnel cracked against the deep boom of the guns in a noisy symphony that reminded Michael of childhood fireworks.
‘Friend of yours, sir?’ The corporal indicated Tim’s grave.
‘No. Came over in the boat with a cavalry officer from the same regiment, I just hope he’s not dead too.’
‘What’s his name and rank, sir?’
‘Captain Boris Bell, 6th cavalry.’
The corporal referred to his list. ‘No one of that name among these dead, sir. This the first time you’ve seen battlefield graves?’
‘You can tell?’
‘There’s an expression a man wears when he looks at the last resting place of men he was talking to and joking with only a few hours before. I call it “the how long will it be before I’m in a hole like that” look.’
‘It’s that obvious?’
‘You know what they say?’
Michael sensed what was coming but he asked anyway. ‘What?’
‘War is a much overrated pastime.’
‘Corporal?’ One of the sepoys pointed to a stream of wounded, pouring towards them. Darkness was falling and the pale stark faces of the injured were thrown into sharp relief by the lamps they carried.
‘The living need us, more than these dead. Round up as many able-bodied sepoys as you can find,’ the corporal ordered the Indians.
Michael had never possessed any artistic talent. He’d never wished for any until that moment but he longed to capture the numb, defeated faces of the men stumbling into the grossly inadequate medical facility.
The travelling desk his editor had given him was with the rest of his kit – wherever Adjabi had stowed it for safekeeping. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out his small notebook. A stub of pencil was tucked between its pages. There were many who needed help, much for him to do, but he had to capture the moment and what he was seeing and feeling before his memory was overwhelmed by another influx of broken men.
He moved close to a lantern and started writing.
Kut al Amara, early hours Sunday 9th January 1916
Crabbe could almost taste the whisky – good Scotch whisky. He watched the orderly uncork the bottle and lift it above the tray of glittering glasses then someone started banging. He looked down the table and prepared to chastise the subaltern who dared to disturb the hallowed moment, but the scene faded and the banging continued.
He woke with a start and opened his eyes. The room was in darkness.
‘Major Crabbe, sir?’
He stumbled from his bed only just managing to regain his balance when his foot became tangled in the sheet. He wrenched open his door. The duty orderly was outside. He handed him a candle.
‘Brigadier’s called a meeting, sir.’
‘At,’ Crabbe turned and squinted at the window. ‘Dawn’s not broken.’
‘It’s coming up to four o’clock, sir.’
‘Tell the brigadier I’ll be down as soon as I’ve dressed.’ Crabbe shouted for his bearer before closing the door. The man came running. Crabbe went to the washstand, tipped water from the jug into the basin and splashed his face. He ran his hands over his stubble. He needed to shave but as the brigadier had decided to call a meeting in the middle of the night he could damn well take him as he was.
When he felt more human he began to dress.
‘You know what this is about?’ he asked his bearer.
‘The relief column or so I’ve heard, Sahib.’
‘General Aylmer’s close?’
‘All I know is the wireless has been red-hot crackling all night and messengers have been running to and from the wireless room to HQ, Sahib.’
‘So something must be happening.’
‘I don’t know if it’s good or bad something, Sahib, but it’s certainly something.’
When his bearer approved of his appearance, Crabbe ran down the stairs and crossed the street to HQ. He knocked at the brigadier’s office door. It was opened by an adjutant. The brigadier dismissed his aide, and asked Crabbe to close the door.
‘My bearer said the wireless has been red hot. Are we about to be relieved, sir?’
‘Not soon.’ The brigadier was pale from lack of sleep. ‘The Turks are in retreat downriver but the battle at Sheikh Saad was an absolute bloody shambles. Over 4,000 casualties and 417 dead.’
‘Good God.’
‘He’s not being very good to us at the moment, Crabbe. More than 90 British officers have been wounded, and the medical facilities are non-existent. Most of the hospital ships are still at sea. From the dispatch it appears facilities for our casualties were on a par with the Crimea, which proves the criminal inefficiency of the India Office. Sooner this sideshow is put under the auspices of the War Office in London the better. Problem as I see it, is General Aylmer pushed his men forward before they were ready. Between me and you,’ the brigadier lowered his voice althoug
h there was no one else in the room, ‘Townshend telegraphed that we only had supplies to last us until mid-January.’
‘We’ve all advised him to search the town for foodstuffs. You only have to look at the locals, sir, to see they’re eating better than our men.’
‘After hearing General Aylmer’s and General Younghusband’s casualty figures, Townshend’s finally capitulated. A search of all local housing is to be conducted at 0700 hours this morning. Colonel Perry’s been ordered to oversee the one in the native areas between second and third avenues. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘What’s happening with Downe’s orderly?’
‘Mason is caring for him in his own quarters.’
‘Will he be fit to leave within twenty-four hours?’
‘I’ll let you know Mason’s verdict, sir.’
‘Townshend wants a report on the Turkish positions around Kut. Initial estimates from officers in the front line suggests their strength is around 11,000 fighting men. Townshend is convinced if Aylmer pushes through and joins forces with us we can overcome them.’
‘Doesn’t he realise most of our men and officers are sick and the native troops demoralised and half-starved, and that’s without taking account our Muslim sepoys who are loath to fight brother Muslims.’
‘You haven’t been to many of Townshend’s Durbars, have you, Crabbe?’
‘I haven’t been to any, sir.’
‘Should you be invited, remember the general is not an admirer of free and candid speech. When I left, he was berating Aylmer and Younghusband for wasting their troops by sending them across open ground in the face of a full Turkish fusillade. We’ve paid a high price for the few miles of country the Relief Force has taken. A price that needn’t have been paid if we’d ransacked Kut for foodstuffs and stockpiled them before the siege was raised. As it is, I’m afraid this search is too little, too late.’
‘I’ll check the measures Colonel Perry has ordered, and collate the reports the regiment has made on Turkish troop dispositions facing the Dorset lines, sir.’
‘Thank you. I know you’ll be busy but don’t forget to inform me if Harry Downe’s orderly is fit enough to go downstream tonight. If he is, we’ll need to find a boat and brief men to create a diversion. Should we be in a position to go ahead, you’d better send Smythe to me. One good thing about going downriver is he can always drop the dispatches into the water if the Turks ambush the boat. I hate the thought of sending out a sick man, Crabbe, but if we’re going to be relieved it’s imperative that information gets to Aylmer as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Crabbe went to the door and hesitated.
‘Thought of something else, Crabbe?’
‘Medical aid and reinforcements for the Relief Force, sir?’
‘We’ve been assured they’re being sent upriver.’
‘Being sent – not already sent?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Sufficient field hospitals?’
‘We can hope they’re on their way.’
‘Seasoned troops, or raw recruits in the Relief Force, sir?’ Crabbe watched the brigadier’s face.
‘If it’s the latter, Crabbe, I doubt Aylmer and Younghusband will break through. Time perhaps, for us all to start making contingency plans to sit out the rest of this war in a Turkish prison camp.’
Crabbe left the brigadier and closeted himself in his own office. He summoned the company clerk and two hapless lieutenants who’d drawn night duty and set them to work collating all the reports the Dorsets had made on Turkish troop placements. Leaving them to their task, he went to the mess. Two platoons were standing outside awaiting orders. Inside he saw Colonel Perry and two captains studying plans of the native quarter. He managed to leave the building without Perry spotting him and headed for the hospital.
John and Knight were breakfasting on fish and coarse native flatbread in Knight’s alcove.
‘Mud fish and sawdust bread?’ Knight offered Crabbe a plate.
Crabbe’s stomach revolted at the thought. ‘Tea would be good if there’s any in the pot.’
John poured him a glass.
Crabbe looked at it suspiciously.
‘It’s what passes for clean here,’ John joked.
‘Thank you.’ Crabbe took it and sat on a stool. ‘How’s Mitkhal?’
‘Asleep, when I left my room. I think I may have overdone the morphine. The problem is the man’s the size of an ox. He fought the effects for so long I kept increasing the dose. What’s the flap?’
‘You’ve heard?’
‘The rumour that wireless didn’t stop all night? Hasn’t everyone?’
Crabbe looked over his shoulder, checked that no one was within listening distance and passed on the information the brigadier had given him.
John pushed the remains of his breakfast to the side of his plate. ‘I’ll check on Mitkhal now.’
‘I’ll find Smythe.’ Crabbe finished his tea.
‘And look for Downe’s horses,’ Knight added. ‘I can’t see that Arab going without them.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
Kut al Amara, Sunday 9th January 1916
‘You’re concussed,’ John remonstrated with Mitkhal when the Arab staggered from his cot.
‘It’s not the first time. I’ll get over it.’ Mitkhal sank back down and held his head in his hands.
‘Like Harry, you’re adept at ignoring medical advice. You should rest …’
Mitkhal was in no mood to discuss his condition. He interrupted John. ‘Harry’s horses?’
‘Crabbe and Peter have had platoons out all night looking for them.’
‘I think I know where they could be.’ Mitkhal placed his feet flat on the floor, rose and fought to maintain his balance.
John pulled a chair out from a table. ‘I brought you breakfast.’ He pointed to a tray. ‘Oat cakes made from mule feed and a slice of the mule that would have eaten the feed if we hadn’t been hungry enough to eat him. The tea’s weak, brewed from twice dried leaves, but I did manage to track down half a spoonful of real sugar.’
‘It’s good of you to forage for me, Major Mason.’ Mitkhal was glad to sit down again.
‘The least I could do, and it’s John, Mitkhal, now you’re no longer attached to the Expeditionary Force. While you eat I’ll send a message to Peter and Crabbe asking them to meet us here. They might have some news about the horses.’
Mitkhal studied one of the oatcakes before tentatively biting into it. It had the taste and consistency of river sand. Not wanting to appear unappreciative, he waited for John to leave before pushing the plate aside. He sipped the tea which, sugar aside, was as bad as John had warned. Feeling stronger he went to the travelling washstand, washed his hands and face, and reached for his gumbaz and abba which had been washed by John’s bearer. He’d finished dressing and was lacing his boots when John returned with Crabbe and Peter.
Peter didn’t bother with pleasantries or enquiries after Mitkhal’s health. ‘John said you might have an idea where Harry’s horses might be?’
‘I don’t think they’ll be far. Have you searched the stable?’
‘We’ve looked in the stable half a dozen times and everywhere in the town. Even the attics, roofs, and cellars,’ Peter asserted irritably.
‘But not in the right place.’ Mitkhal slipped his abba over his gumbaz. ‘Shall we go, gentleman?’
‘Much as I’d like to join you, unfortunately the Turkish snipers are already at work. There’s a queue at the dressing station. You’re taking a platoon with you, for protection?’ John checked with Crabbe.
‘Two,’ Crabbe answered.
A corporal had taken over command from Sergeant Pickering in the Norfolks’ stables. He, and the two privates who were assisting him, snapped to attention when Crabbe stepped over the stoop followed by Peter and Mitkhal. Peter was careful to leave the stable door open and ordered their armed escort to remain in view of those
inside the building.
‘We’re here to search for Lieutenant Colonel Downe’s horses,’ Crabbe informed the corporal.
‘I received an order from the CO to assist you, sir.’
Peter walked up to the two greys he’d examined the day before and peered closely at them.
‘No matter how often you look at those greys you can’t turn them into Dorset and Somerset,’ Crabbe commented.
‘More’s the pity,’ Peter muttered.
Mitkhal looked for the sack of henna he’d seen the day before. There was no sign of it. He stood in front of the lines of horses and whistled. Two rusty brown horses in the darkest corner of the stable, started neighing and pawing the cobbles.
Mitkhal went to them. Both horses pushed their noses at him, nuzzling his abba as soon as he was within reach. He stroked their noses. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not Harry and I have no sugar for you, not this time. But there will be later.’
Peter joined him. ‘You knew their coats had been dyed?’
‘I saw a sack of henna before the sergeant attacked me. It’s a strange thing to keep next to sacks of feed in a stable.’
‘Corporal, groom these horses, wash them, and restore them to their original colour,’ Crabbe ordered.
‘No,’ Mitkhal countermanded. ‘Not if I’m taking them downstream. In fact we should find the henna and dye Norfolk. She’s in the Dorsets’ stables?’ he checked.
‘She is. I’ll arrange it,’ Peter volunteered.
‘I’ll take these to join her. They’ll be glad to see their old stablemate.’ Mitkhal untied Somerset’s and Dorset’s halters from the rope. ‘I’ll be happier when these two are in Harry’s regimental stables.’
Kut al Amara, early hours Monday 10th January 1916
The rainy season had broken with a vengeance. The heavens had opened and water was sheeting into the Tigris. The sentries squelched as they patrolled the barricades. Most of the trenches were knee deep in water and ankle deep in the “drier” sections. Off-duty troops lying in their berths in the trenches coughed painfully, making sounds the medics feared were symptoms of early-onset pneumonia.
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