‘And what would I get for taking your proposal to the British?’ Mitkhal asked boldly.
‘My hand in friendship. My protection when you return to the tribe.’
‘Ali Mansur had brothers, sisters, a mother.’
‘They will be compensated. His sisters will be found husbands.’
‘Your protection …’
‘Extends to all of you. Mitkhal. You, Gutne, your son, Furja, her children and Hasan.’
Shalan rose to his feet. ‘Don’t look surprised. You would never have left the women to fetch horses if Hasan hadn’t lived. You wanted them for him – not Furja.’
‘He doesn’t remember his life as a British officer.’
‘I know.’ Shalan opened the door of the cabin. ‘Farik is my slave, not Furja’s. He heard I offered a reward for information as to her whereabouts, and found a way to reach me, even when he was not allowed to leave Furja’s house. Norfolk is on the bank waiting for you. Sir Percy Cox has travelled upstream to the British lines on Lieutenant Colonel Leachman’s boat, the Lewis Pelly. You can speak to him about the guns, horses, ammunition and goats.’
‘The mahaila, Dorset, Somerset …’
‘I will take them to Furja’s house and wait for you in Basra.’
Mitkhal followed Shalan on deck. Norfolk, saddled and bridled was on the bank. His bags were across the mare’s back.
Shalan pointed to the gang plank. ‘See you in Basra, Mitkhal.’
Mitkhal remembered Peter’s letter to his wife. He could hardly ask Shalan to carry it to the mission.
He walked on to the bank, pulled his robe close, and mounted his horse.
Chapter Thirty-four
The Battle of Umm-El-Hannah, Friday 21st January 1916
Michael stood on the firing step inside the front line trench, home to, and held by the Black Watch. He was soaked to his skin as were the men around him. The rain was insidious, constant, freezing and could permeate a dozen layers, even those guaranteed waterproof. A shell exploded a hundred yards ahead. He found it difficult to resist the urge to dive for cover.
He gazed at the backs of the British troops advancing towards the Turkish lines on his right. As in every battle since he’d joined the Indian Expeditionary Force, they’d been ordered out over a flat plain with no more defences than the covering fire that could be provided by their comrades “stood down” in the trenches behind them.
He slid down and sat on the cold, clammy sandbag. His notebook and pencil were in his pocket but he didn’t need them. He already knew that the sights and sounds he’d seen and heard since he’d stepped on Mesopotamian soil would be seared on his mind for the rest of his life.
‘Not making notes for the paper, sir?’ a corporal asked. ‘The readers of the Mirror will be disappointed.’
‘I have it all up here.’ Michael tapped his forehead.
‘So do I, sir, and, frankly, I wish I didn’t. Seems to me none of us will be able to forget this mess-up in a hurry. That’s if any of us are lucky enough to make it back home,’ a private commented.
The sound of a whistle shrilled above the artillery barrage. High-pitched, ominous, the sound stiffened the backs of the lines of waiting men. An officer halfway down the line held up his fingers and dropped them one by one. The atmosphere was tense, expectant. When the officer had counted to ten, he blew his whistle a second time.
The men moved as one, climbing up and out of the trench. Michael returned to his post on the firing step, and watched them follow their officers directly into the path of the Turkish guns.
A shell exploded in front of the corporal he’d spoken to. The shock sent his body spinning in the air. When he landed his legs were more than six feet from his body but his torso continued to shudder and scream.
Unable to stomach the nightmarish scene, Michael slid back to the floor of the trench and clapped his hands over his ears, more to drown out the cries of the wounded than the booming of artillery and staccato of rifle shot.
A stretcher fell on his head, its pole hitting him on the arm. A medic stumbled in behind it, carrying a wounded sergeant on his back.
‘Sorry, sir. Hope I didn’t hurt you.’ The man laid the sergeant on the muddy floor.
‘I’m fine.’ Michael splashed towards them. ‘Can I help?’
‘You can if you’ve any water to spare.’ The medic looked up at the rain. ‘Seems like even God is joking with us. Talk about “water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink.” That isn’t thick with dirt, that is.’
Michael handed over his water bottle. The stretcher-bearer moistened the lips of the sergeant who tried to grab the bottle.
‘Dare not give you any more, Sergeant,’ the stretcher-bearer warned. ‘Not when you’ve a stomach wound.’
Michael noticed the sergeant’s shirt and tunic had been slashed open and his torso covered by a field dressing. The linen was saturated, stained by a bubbling flow of blood. Michael tried to give the sergeant an encouraging smile. He couldn’t manage a sincere one. Every soldier who’d been near a field ambulance knew the worst wounds for attracting infection were those in the abdomen.
‘Fancy bandaging,’ Michael complimented the medic for the sake of saying something.
‘Not mine, sir. I couldn’t do anything as good as that. There’s a doctor out there from the Indian Medical Service. He’s taken bullets in his left arm and right side but is still attending to the wounded and refusing to go to the clearing station. My mate’s helping him. Not often you come across a useful toff.’
‘First time I’ve heard anyone referred to as a “useful toff”.’ Michael repeated the expression.
‘That’s because you meet so few of them, present company excepted, sir.’ The medic took Michael’s water bottle when Michael offered it again and drank. ‘You take command now. They’re a right load of useless toffs, sitting well behind the lines or in their boats at a nice safe distance from the shells, bullets and fighting. Ordering us poor sappers to do the impossible and march up to the Turks as if we’d been issued with invisible protective armour.’
The sergeant groaned.
‘Well it was nice chatting to you, sir, but the sooner I get this non-com to the Field Ambulance the sooner I can get back to my mate. There are a lot of men out there who need us, and if that doctor’s taken another bullet we might persuade him to come in. Do you mind if I leave the stretcher here until I come back?’
‘Be my guest. It’s not as if it will be in the way of anyone.’ Michael propped it up beneath a torn piece of mud-stained tarpaulin. ‘How far back is the Field Ambulance?’
‘Behind the third line manned by the 37th Dogras and 6th Jats. You’re not wounded, are you, sir?’
‘No. You’ve put me to shame. I’m a war correspondent but I can’t write in the rain so I may as well go out there and see if I can help.’
‘Here take this, sir. I would say it would help you to avoid pot shots but it didn’t do much for my mate.’ The medic handed over a red-cross armband.
‘Thank you.’ Michael took it and pushed it into his pocket. He linked his hands to give the stretcher-bearer a leg up out of the trench. When the medic was on top he lifted the sergeant out of the mud and handed him up.
The guns fell quiet but not for long. Michael glanced at the packs and detritus left by the men who were fighting and wondered how many would return to collect their belongings.
He took the armband, pulled it on over the sleeve of his jacket, returned to the firing step and lifted his binoculars.
There were more Connaught Rangers and Hampshires lying in the mud than there were advancing. All the wounded were coated in clay and thick mud, most shivering. He continued to scan the field. He spotted Tom kneeling over a man on the ground, an orderly beside him. When Tom turned and delved into his knapsack, Michael saw that his sleeve was blood-stained. When he turned back he saw stains on his left side.
‘So you’re the idiot doctor who wouldn’t leave the injured to go to the Field Hospit
al to have your own wounds tended to.’ Michael packed his binoculars into his knapsack, dropped it next to the packs on the ground and climbed over the top. He turned to see Daoud beside him.
‘I go where you go, sir.’
Kut al Amara, Tuesday 25th January 1916
The brigadier faced Colonel Perry across his desk. ‘I don’t want a list of the foodstuffs you found in the natives’ secret storerooms, what I require is an estimate of how long we can hold out.’
‘The supply department …’
The brigadier had no compunction about interrupting Perry. ‘Colonel, when you took stock shortly after our arrival on the 3rd December last year, you stated the garrison had one month’s rations. Accordingly, General Townshend radioed your estimation to command in Basra and General Nixon was given to orders to expedite the Relief Force at all costs. Four days later on the 7th December you doubled the time limit to sixty days.’
‘It took time to assemble all our stocks and calculate …’
The brigadier held up his hand to silence Perry. ‘I’m not finished. On the 11th of December you estimated the local population could feed themselves for three months and all ranks in the garrison could remain on full rations, except for meat, for a further fifty-nine days.’ The brigadier picked up a file. ‘You signed off on the report, Colonel Perry.’
‘It was founded on intelligence available to me at the time, sir.’
‘Based on your predictions, Lieutenant General Aylmer pressed on with the relief operation although he was far from ready. As a result he lost 600 men on the 6th January and over 4,000 on the 7th. On the 16th of January you declared there was a twenty-one day supply of half-rations for the British and an eighteen-day supply of half rations for the Indians, which would take the garrison through until the 18th February. On the 22nd January you announced there were 22 days of half-rations for the British troops, but that there was more food available in the town. It is the 25th January today, is it not?’
‘It is, sir,’ Perry squirmed.
‘Now you tell me that following your house-to-house searches you have eighty-four days’ half-rations left which should keep the garrison fed until the17th April, and in addition you have 3000 horses and mules that can be slaughtered?’
‘That I entirely attribute to my own and my junior officers’ laudable efforts, sir …’
‘Laudable. Did you listen when I recounted the casualty figures for the Relief Force. The last three days alone run into thousands of men Aylmer and the Expeditionary Force can ill afford to lose.’
‘With all due respect, sir. The men under my command conducted a thorough house-to-house search …’
‘Have you any conception of the number of complaints this office has received from your “thorough search”, Perry?’
The silence in the room grew intense.
‘Do me, and yourself, a favour, Perry. Check every item of our food stock. Every item,’ the brigadier repeated forcefully. ‘Bring me a full and comprehensive list by six this evening, with a platoon of men who can show your successor exactly where each and every item is being stored.’
Perry’s colour heightened to that of ripe burgundy but he managed an unemotional, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want you to supervise this search personally. Not from the Norfolks’ officers’ mess while you play bridge. In fact you can give the bridge parties a miss from now on. You won’t have time when you take up your new duties.’
‘New duties, sir?’
‘To personally supervise the slaughtering of all mules, donkeys, and horses for consumption by the men. You are to examine them prior to slaughter for signs of disease. Watch the butchering and ensure each regiment receives a fair share of the meat. That will be all, Colonel.’
British Expeditionary Force camp outside Umm-El-Hannah, Wednesday 26th January 1916
Michael left Daoud in the Indian field kitchen and negotiated his way around the wounded laid out on the floor of the aid station. An orderly had assured him that Captain Mason was in the top left-hand corner of the tent, along with the other wounded awaiting non-urgent surgery.
He looked down at the faces of the men lying on the canvas. Most were mercifully unconscious, those who were awake were showing signs of pain but few were complaining. Possibly because there was no one to complain to, as all the available orderlies and doctors were busy assessing the stream of wounded still pouring in from the battlefield.
‘Michael?’
The voice was weak. He looked down. Tom gazed up at him.
‘They said you were here, I’ve been looking for over an hour.’ Michael crouched down, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet, he steadied himself with his hands lest he topple on one of the men lying around him.
‘They’ve just brought me in from outside.’
‘Damn the India Office for not giving the medical service tents and supplies.’
‘The doctors are doing what they can. I was stupid to get shot …’ Tom gasped for breath and his eyes rolled.
‘Medic!’ Michael shouted. He looked around. The only movement came from the men lying groaning on the ground.
‘Medic!’ he repeated. He’d never felt so impotent. Wishing he’d studied medicine like his cousins, he took out his water bottle, upended it on his handkerchief, and bathed Tom’s face.
There was a bandage on Tom’s arm, but whoever had tied it hadn’t bothered to remove Tom’s shirt. Another bandage was wound around his torso. Then he noticed a third wound in Tom’s neck. He took his handkerchief and bathed it.
‘Put pressure on it to stop the bleeding.’
An Indian orderly stood over him. The man looked as though he was sleeping on his feet.
‘This man is a doctor and he needs a doctor now,’ Michael protested.
‘All the doctors are operating.’ The orderly bent over Tom and examined the wound. ‘I’ll put a stitch in it, it should hold until he gets downriver.’
‘Downriver! You can’t move a man in this state.’
‘It’s his best chance. A medic will be on board in case of further emergency. There,’ the orderly fastened off the stitch he’d put in Tom’s neck.
‘Damn …’
‘Please, sir. These men are sick, don’t make so much noise. Believe me, your friend is better off than most. He will be cared for on the boat and in a few days he will be at Amara. There is a proper hospital there. With nurses and everything. Excuse me, sir.’ The orderly moved on.
Michael’s thigh muscles were cramped and aching. He wanted to move but he also felt there was no way he could desert his cousin. He had no idea how long he crouched there. The light beneath the canvas turned from light to mid- then dark grey. The pounding of the rain above grew heavier, the rivulets of water running down the inside of the walls, thicker.
A lamp shed a glow into the darkness. He sensed movement further down the tent; cold rain needled in as the tent flaps opened and closed.
‘You still here, Mikey?’ Tom mumbled.
‘I thought you were out of it.’
‘Not quite.’
‘They’re taking you downstream.’
‘Best place. Out of this.’
The men in front of Tom were carried out. The stretcher-bearers returned and took the men either side of him.
‘Sorry, sir, we have to take the captain now.’ A medic set a stretcher beside Tom.
Michael grasped Tom’s hand. ‘As a doctor I expect you to take care of yourself.’
‘Get John out of Kut?’
‘I’ll try, and I’ll make a point of looking you up next time I’m in Amara.’
‘With John.’
Michael recognised the signs of delirium.
‘We’ll come together.’
‘Really have to go, sir.’
Michael nodded to the medics. He sat back, stretched his legs in front of him, and watched as they carried Tom out. For the first time since he’d entered the tent he listened – really listened to the moans and cries of the
remaining men. One word was intelligible above all others. ‘Water.’
He reached for his water bottle and unscrewed the top. It was empty. He continued to sit and wait while the circulation returned. So much thirst to quench and so few people to do it.
Chapter Thirty-five
Basra wharf, Wednesday 16th February 1916
Restless, Georgiana paced the deck and watched the dock inch gradually closer. It was swarming with lines of British troops drawn up in formation. Behind them sepoys were ferrying supplies to and from vessels. Doctors and nurses were supervising the unloading of wounded from hospital ships and on to hospital transports.
She ran a practised eye over the walking wounded. Most looked as though they should be lying on a stretcher or at least propped up in a chair. She couldn’t hazard a guess at the condition of the men on stretchers.
Clary joined her. ‘I missed you at breakfast.’
‘The snorer in our cabin kept me awake most of the night so I decided to eat early. Besides, I was anxious to catch a first glimpse of the town. Harry wrote to me about it in detail when he was sent here as punishment back in 1912. I’ve been longing to see it ever since.’
‘First impressions?’
‘The country’s flatter and greener than I thought it would be but that could be down to the time of year. Trust us to arrive at the height of the rainy season.’ She stuck her hand out from under her umbrella. ‘One of the crew said we’ll be close enough to drop the gangplank in ten minutes.’
‘It looks every bit as cold, wet, and miserable as London.’
Georgiana looked at her. ‘Clary, what’s the matter?’
‘The senior nursing officer posted a list on the board five minutes ago. Apparently the fighting’s escalated. There’s been an enormous influx of wounded.’
‘I saw some of them being unloaded on the quayside.’
‘Not all, apparently. Some have been taken to hospitals upriver and that’s where half of us are going, including me.’
‘You’re not disembarking?’ Georgiana was as disappointed as Clarissa.
‘Not here.’
Winds of Eden Page 32