For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘I know of no officers here,’ Jalal Al-din Bahar said curtly. ‘Please leave.’ He made for the door, but Singh remained where he was.

  ‘Tall and fair. An Australian officer with a bullet hole in the chest of his tunic, and … unusual eyes …’ Singh mimed the description of Lock while he spoke, and pulled a gold coin from his pocket. He held it out to the Arab.

  Jalal Al-din Bahar glared at Singh for a moment before snatching the coin from his grasp.

  ‘He is upstairs, second room on the left.’

  Then the Arab turned and scuttled away to the far side of the foyer, and exited through a doorway that was screened by an elaborately beaded curtain.

  Singh watched him go, and his eyes fell upon an attractive, slender African girl reclining nearby. He grinned at her, then made his way to the foot of the thickly carpeted stairs. As he climbed, passing beautiful and intricately decorated tapestries that adorned the walls, he kept glancing back at the girl. Her dark, hypnotic eyes followed his ascent all the way to the landing at the top. Singh stopped and looked back down at the lounge. The African girl was no longer looking at him. A bald, plump British officer with a beetroot complexion had just come in from the street and, with a swish of the beaded curtain, Jalal Al-din Bahar had appeared again. Singh watched as the girls gathered around the blushing general, giggling as the Arab went through his salesman routine.

  Singh turned away and walked along the corridor. It was lined with more tapestries and the occasional heavy, studded oak door. When he neared the first door, he stopped and listened. Muffled grunting was coming from the other side. He smiled and moved on to the second door. As with the first, he stopped and listened. There was no sound from the room beyond. He tried the handle. It was unlocked, so he pushed the door open and entered.

  The room inside was again decorated to a high standard of decadence. An opulent, dark Persian rug covered the polished oak floorboards and ran all the way over to a large wooden-slatted window that was open at the far end of the room. Next to the window was a dressing table adorned with perfume bottles, brushes and all the things that a woman uses to enhance her beauty. There was also a bowl of fruit and a plate with a half-eaten loaf of bread on top. A cloud of fruit flies hovered above the food. A number of liquor bottles littered the floor.

  Strewn across a deep, leather armchair, which was pushed up against the dressing table, was Lock’s uniform. The sweat-stained slouch hat and the tunic with the bullet hole were unmistakable, as was the prized Beholla 7.65 automatic that Lock had taken from the dead Turk officer in the trench at Barjisiyah Woods. Away from the window, beside a large hearth that, despite the heat outside, burnt gentle warmth into the room, was a tin bathtub full of milky water. Rose petals floated on its surface.

  Opposite the door, taking up much of the room, was a large four-poster bed. It was enshrouded in mosquito nets that hung loosely open, like the curtains to a stage. On the bed were three bodies, entwined in an unconscious, drunken, post-coital stupor, such was their heady perfume of sweat, sex and alcohol. Singh moved forward and pulled the nets aside. Lock lay, head slumped on his chest, naked in the middle of the bed with a nude woman either side of him. One was milky-white, freckled and had long curled red hair; the other was a brunette with silky olive skin. Singh could not help but smile as he looked down on the slumbering trio.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he took hold of Lock’s foot and shook it.

  ‘Sahib! Wake up, sahib! It is I, Singh.’ He shook Lock’s foot again.

  The redhead stirred and flopped over onto her back. Despite his best efforts, Singh felt his eyes magnetically drawn to her body.

  ‘Sahib!’ Singh called again, louder this time, and with a touch of embarrassed irritation.

  Lock groaned.

  ‘Sahib?’

  With an immense effort Lock lifted his chin. He opened his eyes blearily and tried to focus.

  ‘Sahib. It is I, Singh.’

  Lock frowned and put the half-empty bottle of arrack he still held in his hand to his lips. He drank heavily and blinked back at Singh. ‘Sid?’ he slurred.

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  ‘You wanna girl, Sid? Here …’ He lifted the arm of the olive-skinned brunette. ‘She’s a bit of a minx though, I warn you.’ He grinned stupidly and took another swig of arrack, belched loudly, and grimaced.

  ‘No, sahib. I was sent to fetch you.’

  Lock looked up hopefully. ‘Amy?’ he slurred.

  Singh shook his head.

  Lock’s face fell again and he waved Singh away.

  ‘Bloody Ross. Well, bugger him!’ he said, and threw the bottle of arrack at the wall.

  The bottle smashed, spraying glass and liquid over the floor, and both girls woke with a start. The redhead let out a yelp and pulled the sheets over her nakedness when she saw Singh towering over the bed. Her olive-skinned colleague merely groaned and turned over onto her belly. Lock pulled the redhead back down and put his arm protectively around her. She relaxed and let the sheet slip from her shoulders.

  ‘Go away, Sid. Leave me be,’ Lock whispered, and turned his gaze to the window.

  ‘Sahib, if I may be permitted to saying so, this is not the way. You must get up now and come with me,’ Singh said. ‘The men need you, your men. They have a great respect for you, sahib, I have a great respect for you. I am proud you are my captain. But I am not proud to see you like this. You must take control of your heart, sahib, you must not let it ruin you. All is not lost, not yet. Perhaps Memsahib Amy will not marry that fool – forgive my bluntness, sahib, but a fool is what he is, this Sahib Bing Ham Smith. It is not over yet, sahib, not unless you wish it to be.

  ‘You are a good man and a good officer, sahib,’ he added. ‘Do not throw all that away. Not like this, sahib. Not like this.’

  Lock turned his bloodshot eyes back to Singh. He sat up and pushed the redhead away. ‘But it is too late, Sid. She’s gone, she said so herself, gone to that … slimy … pompous … buggering bastard, Bingham Bloody Smith.’

  Lock’s face was twisted with anger and hurt, and spittle was running down his chin as he spoke. He shook his head and winced, and pulled himself down to the end of the bed.

  ‘What am I doing here? What am I doing wearing that bloody uniform?’

  ‘You fight with us, sahib, to protect those we love, all that we hold most precious, from the evil Turk and the corrupt German.’

  ‘Bollocks, Sid,’ Lock said. ‘What we fight for is a lie! It’s all for greed, for money, for oil. For fucking oil, Sid. Sick black death … on our hands, on every man’s hands. I cannot … I will not be a part of it. No more, Sid. No more.’

  ‘But you are, sahib, and you have been. I know nothing of oil, sahib. But Major Ross wanted me to tell you that you are a true hero and that you have saved the reputation of the regiment by your actions at Barjisiyah Woods. He is very proud of you.’

  ‘He’s a using bastard, Sid, and well you know it,’ Lock sniffed.

  ‘Maybe that is so, sahib. But he is a good using bastard. Better than that monkey’s arse, Lieutenant Colonel Godwinson. And we need men like you to keep men like Godwinson in … What is the term you like, from the chess, sahib? In check? Yes?’

  Lock grunted and ran a hand through his matted hair. ‘I’ve lost half the platoon, Sid. What can I do with so little? We’re finished. We’ll be swallowed up by that bloated aristocratic fart Godwinson and his bloody nephew. I’ll lose my command, not that I really ever had one …’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘I’m lost, Sid.’

  Lock shook his head and pulled himself to his feet. He wobbled uneasily as he staggered over to the dressing table.

  ‘No, sahib, you have not,’ Singh replied earnestly, as he followed the naked Lock across the room. ‘You have fought and won with much, much less. The platoon … it is still yours. That is why Major Ross wants to see you, why he sent me to find you, Captain sahib.’

  But Lock didn’t hear Singh’s words as he leant down on the dre
ssing table and stared back at his own reflection in the mirror. He looked truly awful. His face was sallow and rough, and his eyes were red and dull. He really did look as if he had been single-handedly fighting a war. He laughed suddenly and, pulling himself upright, he weaved his way unsteadily over to the bathtub. He hesitated, then stepped into the water and slumped down. He looked over at Singh, then closed his eyes and let himself slide under.

  Singh watched as the air bubbles burst on the surface of the water. And just as it seemed that Lock had been under for too long, the fair-haired officer suddenly shot up again, gasping. Water sloshed and splashed over the edge of the tub, soaking the floor, and Lock shook the water from his hair like a dog. He groaned, squinted up at Singh, and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Sid! How are you?’ he smiled affably and sniffed. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It is getting late, sahib. The sun will be gone soon.’

  Lock hauled his soaking body out of the bathtub and squelched over to the window. He pushed the shutters wide open and squinted at the setting sun.

  ‘What does Ross want, Sid?’

  ‘I do not know, sahib. Something to do with General Townshend, and the new election in Britain. Politics.’ Singh shrugged, and looked over to the two girls that still slumbered in the bed. ‘And she does too, sahib.’

  Lock shivered. Goosebumps had broken out on his skin.

  ‘She?’ he asked, as he turned back and pulled a sheet from the bed, wrapped it around himself, and walked over to the fireplace. He crouched down and reached for a fresh log from the basket at the side.

  ‘Memsahib Amy,’ Singh replied quietly.

  Lock threw another log onto the fire and stared silently down at the flames.

  ‘All right, Sid. I’m up. I’m sober … well, conscious anyway. You go on ahead. I need to get dressed and settle my account here.’

  ‘No, sahib,’ Singh smiled wryly down at his friend, ‘I am to accompany you. Major Ross’s strict orders.’

  Lock rose stiffly to his feet and walked over to the armchair. He let the soaked sheet slip from his body and began to dress. Sitting down to pull on his boots, he glanced over to the bed. The two girls had curled up together now. Lock looked to Singh. The big Indian must have read his thoughts for he shook his head firmly. Lock grinned and stood up. He bent down to the dressing table mirror and brushed his still damp hair back with his fingers.

  ‘How do I look, Sid?’

  ‘Very smart, Captain sahib.’ Singh said, and opened the door.

  Lock gave a final glance to the slumbering girls, sighed, and stepped out into the corridor. He hesitated, realising what Singh had just said.

  ‘Yes, I’d forgotten that. My promotion, I mean. But I doubt Godwinson will stand for it.’

  ‘But it is not up to him, Captain sahib, surely?’

  Lock grunted, then they both made their way down the stairs and through the foyer towards the front door.

  Jalal Al-din Bahar was waiting for them, and he bowed and smiled at Lock as the two men approached.

  ‘I trust that your stay has been … refreshing, effendim?’

  ‘Most. Here.’ Lock handed the portly Arab a couple of coins. ‘Right, come along then, Havildar!’ Lock said, and slapped a bewildered Singh on the shoulder. ‘If I’m to be a captain, Sid, then I insist that you’re my new sergeant.’

  ‘No, no, sahib, you cannot, please. What about the sergeant major?’

  ‘Sod Underhill, Sid. I never wanted him as my number two, watching my back. That’s like bedding down with a cobra. No, I want a friend at my side, and you’re it.’

  Before Singh could protest further, Lock opened the door to the street and stepped outside.

  The sun had fallen behind the rooftops now and, despite the sky being an artist’s palette of pinks and reds, the street was in darkness. For a moment, as the door closed behind them, it was difficult to see, coming as they had from the bright lights of the brothel out into the gloom of the street.

  The two men paused in the doorway to let their eyes adjust, and Lock lit a cigarette. It was a quiet night. Only the insects broke the silence around them, and it was a relief not to hear the sound of distant guns. After a minute they turned and moved off in the direction of the canal. But, as they did so, a shadowy figure stepped out from the doorway opposite. There was a brief scuffle before two gunshots rang out, their cracks echoing off the surrounding buildings, and the muzzle flashes momentarily illuminating Lock and Singh’s surprised faces. Then the street was enshrouded in gloom again. A body fell heavily to the floor as the sound of fleeing footsteps slowly diminished.

  ‘Sahib,’ Singh gasped weakly, before a second body slumped to the ground.

  The echoing footsteps faded into the distance, until there was nothing, only silence and darkness …

  CHAPTER TWO

  Everything was white.

  Too bright.

  Kingdom Lock squeezed his eyes shut again. His thoughts and feelings were a tumble of confusion. He remembered a blinding flash of light and then nothing, just blackness and cold. He was no longer cold, though, no longer numb, but warm and somehow overwhelmed with a feeling of security, of safety, as if he was back in the womb. A part of his mind expected to feel pain, his body to ache, but there was nothing, only softness. He knew he should try and sit up, but found he hadn’t the strength. So he lay still and listened. Nothing. No, there was … a gentle, rhythmic pulse. It was barely audible, yet he knew it was close. Then he felt his face flicker into a smile. His heart was still beating. He was alive.

  Lock’s nose twitched. A smell, faint, but there all the same, like a memory. Furniture polish and caustic soap. He opened his eyes once more, trying to focus through his bleached surroundings. He turned his head stiffly and a pain exploded inside his skull. He wanted to scream out, he wanted to vomit. But he lay still and waited for the wave of nausea to pass, for the pain inside his head to subside. His breathing slowed. Calm.

  For the third time in what seemed as many hours, Lock opened his eyes. He was in a private room, clinical and white, lying on a bed, shrouded in starched cotton sheets. They were pulled up to his chest. His arms were free, stretched out either side of him with his palms facing down. Soft cotton pyjamas had replaced his uniform, but his head felt tight, encased, as if he still wore his slouch hat. Opposite the bed, daylight was streaming through a high window and Lock could make out the gnarly branches of a tree swaying in the breeze outside. He cautiously, should any sudden movement give him a relapse of nausea, turned his head. To his right was a door; to his left a small bedside cabinet. On top were a jug and a glass of clear water.

  Lock licked his lips. They were chapped and sore. His throat was dry. He tried to reach for the glass. Sweat broke out on his brow. He could feel it prickling his skin. His heart started to race in his chest. A dull ache was building in his temple. His arm was trembling. It was barely off the bed. He stopped trying and felt the weight of his whole body sink back into the mattress.

  A flurry of movement caught his attention. He moved his eyes. Three white-speckled bulbuls had landed on the nearest branch to the window. Lock could hear their loud chattering now, as if they were in disagreement about something. He frowned at the scene for a moment and tried to recall where he had been before, before the bed and the white room. He lost his focus and the birdsong melded into the voices of men talking.

  Lock groaned in confusion. The voices were familiar, yet they sounded alien to his ear. He couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  ‘Speak up,’ he said.

  The voices ignored him and continued with their chatter. One said ‘Kahve’.

  Lock grunted and relaxed. Kahve was Turkish for ‘coffee’. Coffee would be nice. He’d like a cup, strong and bitter. Perhaps with a little sugar. He nodded.

  ‘Yes, good idea,’ he said.

  Movement rocked the bed. Lock opened his eyes.

  But he was no longer lying in bed, in the white room. He was sat upright, fully dress
ed in his old, brown corduroy suit, perched on the back of the ox cart he knew so well; the ox cart he had used for weeks at a time to lug telegraph poles and cables around the lonely roadways of eastern Anatolia. That was his job initially, and then his cover, putting up telephone lines for the Sultan. He recognised the man moving about next to him, rocking the cart. It was Bedros, the Armenian, a wiry fellow with pockmarked skin, who was always dressed in a worn, ragged blazer. He was part of the work detail Lock had assigned to him; one Armenian and eight Kurds.

  ‘I make coffee, effendim?’ Bedros said in Turkish, beaming a smile of broken, blackened teeth.

  Lock nodded and noted that his head no longer throbbed with pain. ‘Yes, good idea,’ he said in the same tongue, understanding perfectly.

  He turned his attention to the main work detail a little way ahead.

  The Kurds, despite being strong labourers, with rough hands and rougher manners, were struggling to lift a pole into a freshly excavated hole. Two of them had even stopped working and were shading their eyes, staring off beyond the cart, into the distance.

  Lock raised himself up and turned around.

  Stretched out before him was a flat, grassy landscape dusted with snow. It ran all the way to the foot of the distant white peaks of three mountains to the north: Soli, Davutaga and Isik Dagi. To the right was the eastern shore of Lake Erçek, its azure waters sparkling in the afternoon sunshine. A road, little more than a dirt track, followed the length of the shore before hitting a crossroads, and it was here that Lock could see a large dust cloud rising up in the distance.

  ‘Strange. Nothing heavier than farm traffic usually passes along this stretch,’ Lock said.

  ‘Not farm traffic, effendim,’ Bedros said. ‘They are … horsemen?’

  Lock turned back at the sound of running footsteps. The two Kurds who had been pointing off into the distance, a young man with bright, excitable eyes, called Mehmet, and an older, burly chap Lock knew as Fuat, were rapidly approaching.