‘I’m so sorry. I suppose it was optimistic of me to hope that we’d both be in Basra and could continue as we’ve have done in London. Arranging to see one another on our days off and spending our free time together. You will write?’
‘I promise,’ Clary said solemnly.
‘You have the address of the Lansing Memorial Hospital?’
‘You’ve given it to me three times.’
A thud announced that the gangplanks had been dropped. Georgiana balanced her umbrella in her left hand and hugged Clarissa. She looked down at her military issue kitbag and small case.
A middle-aged captain appeared at her elbow.
‘If you are disembarking, madam, may I and my bearer help you with your luggage?’
‘Thank you, Captain. You’re very kind.’ Georgiana picked up her case. The captain directed his bearer to pick up Georgiana’s kitbag. The Indian shouldered it along with the captain’s.
‘You have a husband with the forces in Basra?’ the captain enquired as they walked ashore.
‘No. I’ve been given a post at the Lansing Memorial Hospital.’
‘The American mission?’ He asked in surprise.
‘Yes.’ She looked up and down the quayside but could see no sign of vehicles for hire. ‘Are you stationed in Basra, Captain?’
‘Horace Maytree.’ He shook her hand. ‘I am. I’ve just returned from a spell of leave in India. My wife made me promise that I’d look for accommodation here for both of us, but, I ask you, does this look like the sort of place you’d want to take your wife?’
‘I don’t know, Captain. I don’t have a wife,’ she smiled. ‘Is there any transport I can hire to take me to the Lansing Memorial?’
‘There should be, but this isn’t the kind of country where a lady should travel alone.’
‘I’m accustomed to being independent, Captain Maytree.’
‘Please, for my own peace of mind, allow me to assist you.’ He spoke to his bearer in Hindustani. The man dropped the kitbags and scurried off.
‘I really don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘You’re not. I need to hire a carriage to get to my own bungalow and the Lansing isn’t far out of my way.’ His bearer returned with a carriage and an Arab driver.
Captain Maytree helped Georgiana inside, handed her the suitcase and left the kitbags for his bearer to load.
‘I find it odd that a British lady would want to travel halfway across the world to work in an American mission,’ he commented after they set off.
‘I have a brother with the British Expeditionary Force. I’m worried about him and taking a job with the Lansing Memorial was the only way to reach here.’
‘An officer?’
‘Lieutenant Colonel Harry Downe.’
‘The political officer?’
‘You know him?’
‘Not personally, but everyone with the Expeditionary Force has heard of Harry Downe’s exploits. He’s quite the hero.’ He coughed nervously. ‘You have heard …’
‘That he’s posted missing presumed dead. Yes, but I refuse to believe it and I won’t until I see his body, Captain Maytree.’
‘In which case I wish you luck, Miss …’
‘Downe, Dr Downe.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr Downe.’
She looked out at the high mud brick walls of the town’s buildings.
‘This area’s not a pretty sight but the outskirts of the town are quite attractive. If you look ahead you’ll see villas set in gardens. The large white building just coming into sight now is the Lansing Memorial Hospital. As you see, and I promised, it’s no more than a few minutes’ drive from the British compound.’ Captain Maytree pointed to a building hemmed in on all sides by rough wooden carts filled with wounded Turkish soldiers. ‘I’ll ask the drivers to move some of these carts on so we can drop you at the door.’
‘No, please I’ll walk.’ As soon as the cart slowed, Georgiana opened the door and stepped down. She thrust her hand into her pocket. ‘I must pay for the carriage …’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ the captain looked up as a nursing sister approached. ‘I have a feeling we’re about to be confronted.’
‘This is a hospital with strict visiting times. If you come to visit anyone, please return at a time when we’re not busy …’
‘I’m Dr Downe. Please find someone to take my luggage and stow it where it can be retrieved later. You are …’
‘Sister Margaret.’ The nurse was so shocked by a female doctor it was as much as she could do to mutter her name.
Georgiana looked down at a patient who was lying, choking in the back of a cart. ‘Please, find me an apron – an overall would be better and a medical kit? This man’s windpipe needs stitching urgently, if he’s to survive.’
She pulled off and pocketed her gloves before exerting pressure on a severed blood vessel. ‘Apron and medical kit?’ She repeated.
‘Right away.’ Sister Margaret shouted to an orderly.
British Camp outside Umm-El-Hannah, Wednesday 16th February 1916
Mitkhal plodded slowly into the British camp. The constant rain, tramp of feet and wagon traffic had turned the ground to sludge. After seeing Norfolk struggle hock deep in the glutinous mess, he’d dismounted and walked the mare the last few miles. Arab auxiliaries had congregated beneath a wind-torn, open-sided canvas shelter on the edge of camp. They’d lit a brazier inside. It smouldered low in the waterlogged atmosphere, belching out black smoke. He searched for a familiar face, and recognised Daoud, one of Cox’s senior auxiliaries.
‘Mitkhal, my friend.’ Daoud left the fire to greet him. ‘I don’t know which looks worse, you or your horse.’ He took Norfolk’s rein and called over a syce. ‘Treat this horse like royalty. Give it plenty of feed, a rub down, and as dry a stable spot as you can find in this marsh. Don’t worry, Mitkhal, she’ll be well looked after.’ He handed Mitkhal a camp chair.
Mitkhal took the chair, lifted his saddlebags from Norfolk’s back, and slung them over his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’
‘Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon,’ Daoud commented.
‘I need to see the Chief Political Officer urgently.’
‘You have news?’
‘News that won’t wait,’ Mitkhal made it clear he’d said as much as he was going to.
‘All the political officers are on the chief’s boat. I’ll find a bellum to take you there but the meeting has just started so they won’t be free for an hour or so. Are you hungry?’
Mitkhal recalled eating fish and flatbread but couldn’t recall whether it had been that morning or the day before. ‘I could eat.’
Within minutes Daoud had organised a mug of tea, a bowl of bully beef stew, and a bellum to ferry Mitkhal to the staff boat.
‘I can’t promise you that you will see Sir Percival Cox quickly, but what I can promise you, is that he’ll find it more difficult to ignore you, once you’re on board.
British staff boat moored on the Tigris outside Umm-El-Hannah, Wednesday 16th February 1916
Sir Percy Cox looked down the table at his assembled political officers. Over half were dressed in Arab robes, including Michael Downe, who’d just returned from a trip upriver to meet one of the sheiks camped just outside the Turkish lines. Despite his similarity to his brother, unlike Harry he looked ill at ease in native dress. The archetypal Englishman masquerading in fancy dress for a ball.
‘So, to begin.’ Cox closed the file in front of him and surveyed the men around the table in the cramped captain’s quarters. ‘I can’t stress enough that what I’m about to tell you is highly confidential, and can never be mentioned or alluded to outside of this room. General Townshend is seeking approval from Lord Kitchener and the War Cabinet for an attempt to be made to buy the freedom of the garrison in Kut from the Turks.’
‘At what price, sir?’ Michael asked.
‘One million pounds and five guns.’
‘General Townshend has one million po
unds with him in Kut?’ a major asked.
Cox sat back in his chair. ‘According to my sources in the India Office, neither he, nor the India Office, has anywhere close to that amount of money.’
‘It’s a bluff?’ Michael ventured.
‘On the contrary, I believe General Townshend made the offer on the assumption that either the India Office or the War Cabinet will provide the funds should the time come for them to be paid. What I want you gentlemen to do is contact every influential sheikh you know, friendly, duplicitous, or hostile and without going into details, canvass their opinion on such a bribe being paid to the Turks in return for free passage out of Kut for the beleaguered garrison.’
‘I can tell you now, sir, what the reaction of every decent Arab with integrity will be,’ one of the senior political officers said. ‘The British would lose the respect of the native population and our prestige in Mesopotamia and the Near East would hit rock bottom. We would be called cowards, and rightly so. Men stand and fight for their beliefs. Only cowards would try to bribe themselves out of a siege situation where the odds are stacked against them.’
Cox didn’t comment. He turned to Michael. ‘Mr Downe, you have just returned from a conversation with the leaders of the Arab auxiliaries who’ve attached themselves to the Relief Force. Have you an opinion on this matter?’
‘Only to agree with what’s already been said, sir,’ Michael demurred. ‘From what I’ve been told by the old Gulf hands, when Force D landed here in the autumn of 1914 the Arabs regarded us as invincible, which is why so many sheikhs flocked to our side. Now, most of the sheikhs I’ve spoken to regard the British as vulnerable which is why so many have retreated to the side lines to await the outcome of events rather than fight alongside us. You say that General Townshend has sought approval from the British War Cabinet and Lord Kitchener. Is he likely to get it?’
‘Is Michael Downe the war correspondent asking that question or Michael Downe, intelligence gatherer for the British Expeditionary Force?’ Cox asked pointedly.
‘I gave you my word when I took this post, sir, that everything said within the confines of the Political Office is confidential. All my dispatches are heavily censored and I have sent my editor nothing that has not been approved by yourself or senior staff of the Relief Force.’
‘Point taken, Downe. Please accept my apologies. Like everyone else in the force, I’m tired. Recent setbacks have affected me more than I would wish. Has anyone else a comment they wish to make?’ He looked down the table. ‘No? Carry on the good work, gentlemen. No one knows more than myself that it’s not easy in view of the recent setbacks to convince the native population that we will be victorious but I assure you, we will win this war. On all fronts. Dismissed, gentlemen.’
Chairs were scraped back over the board planking and the officers began to file out of the door.
‘A word please, Mr Downe,’ Cox said as Michael stood in line to follow the others. He waited until they were alone before continuing. ‘I wanted to thank you for the sterling work you’ve done among the natives in such a short time.’
‘Any success I’ve had in gathering information is due to Daoud, sir, not me.’
‘It’s you in your brother’s clothes that loosens their tongue, Downe. I’ve heard people of all races and colours say that Harry Downe was more Arab than the Arabs. He understood the Arab mind better than any of us and with understanding came mutual respect. How I miss him.’
‘I’m finding it hard to live without him, sir,’ Michael couldn’t bring himself to say more.
‘It’s going to be hard to win this war without him.’ Cox changed the subject. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you earlier by the suggestion that you would print confidential information.’
‘No offence taken, sir.’
They were disturbed by a knock at the door. An adjutant opened it.
‘Lieutenant Colonel Downe’s orderly, Mitkhal, is here, sir. He’s asking for an audience. He says it’s urgent.’
‘Show him in, captain.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Michael went to the door.
‘No need to leave, Downe. I understand you’ve already met your brother’s orderly.’
‘Briefly, sir.’
‘Now’s your chance to renew the acquaintance.’
Chapter Thirty-six
Lansing Memorial Hospital, Basra, Wednesday 16th February 1916
Georgiana stepped around the burial party who were headed towards the room Dr Picard had designated temporary mortuary. Fourteen Turkish soldiers had been laid out on the floor in the four hours since her arrival. Testimony to their deplorable condition on arrival.
Already she felt a murderous rage towards the inept British doctors who’d allowed the transfer of dying, wounded, vulnerable POWs in conditions of filth and degradation an animal shouldn’t be subjected to.
Theo left the theatre and joined her on the ward. He pulled off his blood-stained gown and took a clean one a volunteer nursing assistant handed him. ‘How are you coping, Dr Downe? You haven’t stopped since you walked through the door.’
‘My disgust is sustaining me. Just looked at this man.’ She uncovered the arm of the patient she’d been tending. It was black with putrefaction, and covered with large blisters. This man’s wound hasn’t been dressed in the ten days it took him to reach here.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because his sergeant,’ she pointed to the man lying on the makeshift bed on the floor next to him, ‘speaks French, and I understand enough to make out what he’s saying. How could British doctors allow Turkish POWs to be treated like this? If this man’s wound had been properly cleaned after it was inflicted it would have healed. Instead his arm will have to be amputated …’
Theo interrupted her. ‘Time to take a break. We’ll talk about this in the kitchen. Sister Margaret?’ Theo called to the senior nursing sister. ‘Put this man on the list for immediate surgery … and before you protest, I know immediate doesn’t necessarily mean within twenty-four hours. Angela,’ he addressed his sister who’d handed her class over to Mrs Butler, yet again, so she could help out at the hospital. ‘We’re having tea.’
‘That means you want me to make it?’
‘Thank you for volunteering. But as you’ve finished dressing that leg wound I thought you could do with a break.’’
He ushered Georgiana into the kitchen and ferreted around the shelves. ‘There should be some cookies here…’
‘Mrs Butler sent down cheese sandwiches. They’re in the tin.’ Angela joined Georgiana at the sink where she was washing her hands. ‘Hello, Dr Downe, I’m Angela Smythe.’
‘I’m Georgie. Dr Wallace and Dr Picard told me you know my brother.’
‘Your brother? He’s with the British Force?’
‘Dr Downe is Harry’s twin sister.’ Theo set two cheese sandwiches on a plate, sat on the edge of the table and proceeded to eat them. ‘Excuse me for not standing on ceremony, Dr Downe, or may I call you Georgie too?’
‘You may.’
‘I’m ravenous. Twenty-four hour shifts do that to me.’
‘We met your other brother …’
‘Michael?’ Georgiana dried her hands and took the plate of sandwiches Theo handed her.
‘He wasn’t here long before leaving for upriver to join John Mason’s brother Tom. I brought you in here …’
‘Because we both needed a break,’ Georgiana suggested to Theo.
‘That, and because I wanted to tell you how much I admire you. You haven’t stopped since you walked through the door.’
‘I hate to disappoint you but I took ten minutes to wash my face and cool my temper in the nurses’ room an hour ago.’
‘I’m trying to tell you, if you’ll allow me to get a word in edgewise, that the abysmal condition of the POWs is not down to the Relief Force Medical Service.’
‘It isn’t?’ She took the tea Angela handed her. ‘Thank you. If it isn’t down to them, whose fault is it?�
�
‘The India Office. They haven’t sent the Expeditionary Force enough supplies of anything. Hospital tents, equipment, dressings, doctors, orderlies, antiseptic, drugs, the list of what they don’t have is endless and the little they do receive is invariably sent late, often too late to be of use. Believe me, the Turkish POWs have fared no worse than the British wounded. I’m sure Colonel Allan would be delighted to show you around the British Military Hospital to prove my point.’
Georgiana’s temper rose. ‘Are you telling me that our troops are being ordered into battle without medical facilities to care for the wounded?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dear God! No wonder my aunt said John’s letters seemed strange.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve been thrown in the deep end here, but we’ll manage if you take a proper break. Mrs Butler has sent down three messages demanding Dr Picard and I send you to the mission so you can unpack and rest.’
‘I’m perfectly fine. I’m used to working long shifts in the London hospitals, and that man’s arm needs amputating. If it’s gas gangrene …’
‘Pity help us if it spreads among the other patients.’
‘I’ll operate as soon as I’ve scrubbed up.’ Georgiana ate the last of the cheese sandwich and returned to the sink.’
‘You – operate?’ Theo looked at her questioningly.
‘I’m a surgeon, Dr Wallace. Didn’t they tell you?’
British staff boat moored on the Tigris outside Umm El-Hannah, Wednesday 16th February 1916
‘What exactly did Sheikh Ibn Shalan ask for?’ Cox unscrewed an ink well, pulled a notepad towards him and picked up a pen.
Because Cox had been constantly on the move, it had taken Mitkhal a full month to track the man down. Time he'd used to evaluate the weaknesses and strengths of both the British and Turkish positions.
‘Four hundred new rifles with a corresponding amount of ammunition. A minimum of one hundred horses, and sixteen herds of goats.’ Mitkhal had doubled Ibn Shalan’s demands on the premise that if the British acquiesced to the full amount, which he doubted, he’d dovetail the extra into his own and Harry’s personal holdings. If they beat him down as he expected, it gave him a reasonable margin to bargain with.
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