For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘Understand what? That shit you spouted to me in front of your mother, about duty, tradition and honour? Where’s the honour in marrying a coward like Bingham-Smith?’

  Amy shook her head and a tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

  ‘Tu peux être un vrai salaud!’

  ‘There you go again, hiding behind your French ancestry when you can’t explain yourself.’

  ‘Fils de pute!’ Amy spat, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Lock sat and stared after her, at the finality of the closed white door. The echo of her final insult faded and he was left with the silence of the now empty room once more.

  ‘Bugger,’ he sighed. ‘I should never have left China.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lock paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the gloom outside, and lit a cigarette. He thought with a mental shrug that to do so was a little stupid, for now all he could see was the flame of the match burnt onto his retina. The city was still, with only the insects protesting the silence. What a relief it was not to hear those damned guns booming in the distance. He gave a satisfactory sigh and, when the memory of the match flame faded, he turned to make his way towards the canal, its dank, mouldy, fetid stench a helpful guide to the right direction. But before he had taken more than two paces, a figure loomed out of the shadowy doorway opposite. Lock wasn’t really concentrating on his surroundings and was slow to react, painfully slow. He put his hand up instinctively to ward off the expected blow, but then something exploded in the hand of the shadowy figure and a bolt of lightning slammed like a hammer into Lock’s temple.

  ‘Singh!’

  ‘Easy there, laddie. Easy.’

  Lock slowly felt the fog of his nightmare lift. He was drenched in sweat, his breath short and panting in his chest, which ached as if someone had been standing on it. He rubbed his wet eyes and relaxed as his mind adjusted to reality. He was in bed once more. It was dark outside the window now and a small lamp on top of the table in the corner threw a soft yellow light into the room. Sat by the side of his bed, leaning forward, a frown of concern across his dark, round face, was Major Ross.

  Lock was inwardly pleased to see the Scots officer again, though he was surprised at the touch of grey dusting the major’s thick chevron moustache. And were the bags under his hazel eyes a little larger, a little darker? Perhaps.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Lock said, easing himself gingerly up on his elbows.

  ‘Didn’t sound like nothing,’ Ross said, settling back into his chair. He sat still, waiting for Lock to speak, his eyes just watching patiently.

  ‘I keep reliving the moment when I was shot,’ Lock said, ‘over and over. Only … I just can’t see the shooter’s face.’ He flashed the major a quick smile. ‘The strange thing is, just now, in my dream, I was alone. Singh wasn’t with me and …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Lock shook his head. ‘I don’t know … There was something familiar …’

  Ross pulled out his pipe and knocked it against the metal bedframe with a dull, hollow clang. Then he began his methodical, familiar ritual of filling it. Lock found himself transfixed by the major’s fingers as they poked and prodded the sweet-smelling tobacco into the pipe bowl.

  ‘Singh says the same. About the gunman.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Better than you. The bullet grazed his rib. He’ll mend.’ Ross scratched the tip of his nose with a match. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the provosts have come up with nothing. No clues, no witnesses, not a dicky. Bingham-Smith and—’

  ‘Bingham-Smith?’ Lock said.

  ‘Yes, he’s leading the investigation.’

  Lock scoffed. ‘You are jesting?’

  ‘I agree he’s about as much use as an umbrella in a Zeppelin raid, but at least the provosts are stirring things up with their heavy-handedness. Shaking the cage, as it were, whilst Betty and myself sift through the crap that falls out of the bottom.’

  ‘Betty?’

  Ross struck a match and puffed his pipe into life.

  ‘Hmm, you remember? My American girl? You met her a few weeks back at Command HQ … Pretty thing in a navy-blue uniform …’

  Lock nodded and gave a wry smile. Betty was one of those girls who scared men. She was confident, as well as alluring. Her husky voice was one thing, her uniform another, but it was the way she held herself, the way she just … radiated sex appeal that Lock so vividly recalled. The polar opposite to Amy. Not that Amy wasn’t attractive, wasn’t desirable. But Betty was a different species altogether, a different kind of woman. She was grown up, whole, totally arousing, and fierce with it.

  ‘Val. Yes, I remember her,’ Lock said.

  Ross scowled back at Lock. ‘Not Val, Elizabeth. Elizabeth Boxer. Petty Officer Elizabeth Boxer. And don’t you forget it. She’s not one for fools, I can tell you. Or for fooling around. A good lass. Quick-witted and very intelligent. She’d beat you at chess, every time.’

  The major paused, and puffed on his pipe.

  Lock shrugged.

  ‘She’s doing what she can,’ Ross said, ‘and so far we have a few threads. Even Underhill is grudgingly impressed.’

  ‘Underhill?’

  Ross nodded. ‘He’s her … chaperone.’

  ‘Pah!’

  ‘Now, look here,’ Ross snapped, jabbing his pipe at Lock’s chest. ‘I don’t appreciate this ongoing feud. Bingham-Smith is one thing, I can understand that, what with everything you’ve been through with Amy Townshend, but Underhill is one of mine and you’d do well to remember that.’

  Lock glowered back at Ross, but lacked the energy to argue. Yet, both names the major had mentioned, Bingham-Smith and Underhill, were on his list of suspects as to who pulled the trigger on him and Singh. And he wasn’t forgetting about the rat in the White Tabs either. And the sergeant major was a sure bet for that little tag, too.

  ‘Besides,’ Ross said, ‘we are pretty certain that it was Wassmuss behind the shootings.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Ross tutted. ‘You can’t be sure. We never found a body, and the attack on you has got his signature all over it. The bullet removed from Singh’s rib and the one Petty Officer Boxer dug out of the door frame of that … house you left …’ The major smiled thinly, ‘the one that bounced off of your skull, they’re both 7.65 parabellum rounds. Those commonly used by the Luger semi-automatic. That’s a German handgun.’

  ‘I know it’s a bloody German handgun,’ Lock said, ‘and it means nothing. Christ, do you know how many Lugers our boys use? The Webley may be able to blow an elephant off its feet, but it’s a shitty, heavy and cumbersome gun.’

  ‘Poppycock.’

  ‘Poppycock nothing. I carry a Turkish handgun and the 7.65 is the same round I use. Or do you think that perhaps I shot Singh and then turned the gun on myself?’

  Ross sat back in his seat and puffed on his pipe. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  The major narrowed his eyes and stared back at Lock, long and hard. Then he grinned.

  ‘It’s pretty nasty out there. Conditions, I mean. The city feels like an open cesspit. You’re in the best place. Out there,’ he nodded to the window, ‘many of the streets are still flooded and with the temperatures rising … My God, the flies are out in force. It’s unbearable at times. They get in everything.’ He paused, grimacing at some recent memory.

  ‘When Allah made hell,’ Lock said, ‘he did not find it bad enough, so he made Mesopotamia – and added flies.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Thomas Cook and Son.’

  Ross scoffed. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘there’s overcrowding, poor sanitation and, by God, poor administration is compounding matters as well. The men are dropping ten to the dozen … Sickness is rife. The hospitals are overrun, bar this one. Seems the officer class has a better constitution.’

  ‘Better sanitation and water, you mean,’ Lock said.

  Ross tut-tutted and
sucked on his pipe. But he didn’t disagree.

  Lock shifted, wincing as he adjusted his position in bed.

  ‘How’s the shoulder, sir?’

  Ross raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Good of you to ask. A little stiff. Particularly when it rains.’

  ‘It always rains.’

  ‘There you go, then.’

  Lock snorted. ‘And how goes the war, sir?’

  ‘Well,’ the major said, clearing his throat, ‘there’s been an election back home, in Britain, and we have a new Secretary of State for India, chap called Austen Chamberlain. Seems he’s a little bit more on the ball than Crewe was, though I did like His Lordship. Anyhow, Chamberlain is trying to get a grip on the situation here and has already telegrammed Hardinge and ruffled a few feathers.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m paraphrasing, but he’s insisting our generals grasp “their proper place in the perspective of the overall scheme of the war”.’

  ‘That amuses you, doesn’t it?’ Lock said, noting the sparkle in Ross’s eyes.

  The major shrugged. ‘He’s right though, isn’t he? But more troops are on their way to help reinforce our presence here in Mesopotamia.’

  Lock rubbed his eyes. He was feeling wearier by the minute.

  ‘So what’s next? Do we just hold the Turks off and sit tight and reinforce Basra? Stay in permanent check with them?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘No, laddie. Townshend’s got the bit between the teeth and is itching to have a crack at Johnny, and Nixon and I have finally managed to convince London and Simla to push on and force the Turks further away from the oilfields.’

  ‘Oh, good show, sir.’

  Ross hesitated and gave Lock a withering look. Lock just smiled mischievously back.

  ‘I can see your attitude is on the mend,’ the major said. ‘I told Lord Crewe way back in November that we should declare a permanent occupation of the Basra Vilayet …’

  Lock raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘The Basra Vilayet? Oh, historically it covered an area roughly stretching from Nasiriyeh and Amara in the north to Kuwait in the south. Where was I? Oh, yes, Crewe … He rejected the idea, of course, worrying about upsetting our entente allies when he’d promised there would be no acquisition of territories until the war was over. Ha! Silly man. He’d probably still be in the job if he wasn’t such a cautious fool. So, now we’re just waiting on the final say-so giving us the go-ahead to push on up the Tigris to Amara. Hopefully we’ll get word by the end of the month.’

  ‘Since when do you wait for the official go-ahead?’ Lock said.

  ‘I shall ignore that,’ Ross said. ‘Now, as for my own particular war … Well, I’ve been diligently working through the copies I made from Wassmuss’s notebook before the blighter stole it back. Do you recall that rat mentioned in the White Tabs?’

  Lock nodded, but didn’t mention his own personal feelings on the matter.

  ‘I believe,’ the major continued, ‘that it’s all connected. Wassmuss has a vast network of agents at work but,’ and Ross clenched and squeezed his fist here to illustrate the point, ‘I’m shutting his operations down, Lock, one by one.’ He smiled and pulled himself to his feet with a grunt, then struck another match and relit his pipe. ‘But don’t concern yourself with it, just get on with recuperating and leave the investigating to us.’

  ‘I’m sick of being in bed,’ Lock said. ‘I’m fine. I want to help.’

  ‘Nonsense. You need rest. That’s a nasty head wound and you’re lucky,’ Ross said. ‘The doctor tells me your balance is still shaky and the headaches will be paralysing at times. That’s no good to me out in the field.’

  ‘Balls, sir. I’m feeling fitter every day,’ Lock said.

  ‘No. What possible use are you to me if you keep fainting like a damned young girl in too tight a corset? Just do as I say, and do as the M. O. says. You’ll be back on your feet within a week or so. We’ll manage until then.’

  ‘And what about Amy?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Oh, come on, sir. If what you say is true, about Wassmuss being loose about the city seeking revenge, then Amy’s in danger,’ Lock said. ‘He knows what she means to me. Huh, he knows more than she does. Look, sir, I need to get out of here—’

  Ross stepped forward, pressing Lock back down into bed.

  ‘No you don’t. You need to rest. We can manage. As for Amy, she’s quite safe. I have people watching her. Besides, she’s more than capable of looking after herself, isn’t she?’

  Lock grunted in agreement. He couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘She’s distracted enough by her wedding preparations, anyway,’ the major added.

  Lock sighed heavily and relaxed back into his pillow. He’d quite forgotten about the wedding. ‘Damn the girl,’ he thought. He smiled up at Ross.

  ‘Very well, Major, if you say so. I’ll be a good little boy and take my medicine and wait for nurse to make me all better.’

  Ross straightened up, a hurt look across his face.

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘It’s why you love me.’

  Ross snorted. ‘You are impossible.’ He gathered up his cap and cane and stepped towards the door. ‘Well, take it easy, laddie. I’ll be back in to see you in a few days. Let you know how we are getting along.’

  Lock gave a soft nod of agreement, albeit an agreement he had no intention of sticking to. He had been laid low long enough. It was time for action.

  ‘Before you go, Major …’

  Ross paused at the threshold and inclined his head slightly.

  ‘It’s about Singh,’ Lock said. ‘Just before I … we were shot, I promoted him.’

  ‘You did, did you?’

  ‘To havildar … sergeant.’

  ‘Didn’t you mean to naik? Can’t have him jumping two ranks. I think Corp—’

  ‘Havildar,’ Lock said. ‘Sid deserves it.’

  Ross pursed his lips. ‘Hmm. We’ll see.’

  Then without any further comment he left, closing the door behind him.

  Lock lay still after the major had gone and gave it a while longer should he return. When he judged that plenty of time had passed, Lock threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat himself tentatively up. A wave of nausea forced him to pause and he pressed his hands to his head, and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the feeling to pass.

  In his mind’s eye Lock saw the Turkish cavalry officer who had accused him of being a spy – if only he had known how prophetic his accusation was – back when he was in charge of the work detail in Anatolia on the day that war was declared between Britain and Germany. Only now Lock couldn’t make out the yüzbaşi’s face. It was completely in shadow. Yet when the officer spoke, his voice was familiar to Lock. Only the more Lock tried to place it, the more it slipped away from him, like trying to grab hold of a handful of smoke. Lock opened his mouth to ask, but the shadowy officer was now standing in a darkened doorway opposite Cennet, his pistol raised. There was a flash and a loud bang.

  Lock gasped. His cheek was cold and his left arm was on fire. He flickered his eyes open and the first thing he saw was the metal legs of his bed and a crescent moon of dust underneath where the cleaner’s broom had swept lazily by. There was a cockroach scuttling along in the far corner and Lock watched its progress, while his brain began to fire up again.

  He was on the floor.

  ‘Christ, Kingdom, pull yourself together,’ he muttered to himself as he groggily groped out. Using the bed as a support, he pulled himself shakily to his knees. He took a moment to assess himself, breathing heavily. Apart from a numb arm and what felt like a cut lip, he was still in one piece.

  ‘Come on, you’ve been in worse states than this. Get on your feet and get yourself out of here.’

  It took Lock the best part of ten minutes, drenched in the sweat of exertion, before he made it back up onto the bed. He sat wheezing, g
athering his strength, then, on rubbery legs, staggered over to the far side of the room. Here, on top of a small table, there was a tepid bowl of water and a large jug with a cake of soap, a razor blade and a shaving brush all neatly lined up on a folded cloth.

  Lock stripped naked and began to wash himself as best he could, careful to leave his bandaged head dry. Next to the table was a wardrobe. Inside he found his uniform, pressed and cleaned, with his new badges of rank – three brass pips for captain – already attached. As well as the sunburst badge and the three hills of the Mendips on each collar point, both arms bore the bronze ‘Australia’ title. The patches on the upper arms bore the plain block of purple for the 1st Div. Engineers, with an additional white square – for the White Tabs – in its centre. The bullet hole was still there, though, in the left breast, much to his pleasure. He pulled out the khaki shirt and the olive-drab necktie and began to dress.

  Ten minutes later, standing in front of the mirror that was screwed to the inside of the wardrobe door, Lock gave his reflection a careful inspection. His face looked tired and slightly drawn, but the shave had made him feel younger, and there was a touch of colour in his cheeks. He looked from one eye to the other, from the green one to the blue one, and back again. They were watery and bright, if a little bloodshot. He shrugged, then tentatively began to unravel the bandage around his head. His sandy hair had been cropped very short, as Mary said, and was shaved around the wound high above his left eye. But already there was a thick growth of stubble there. The wound itself was covered with a patch of cotton wool and gauze, a small spot of dark dried blood in its centre. Lock thought it best to leave it alone, so with delicacy, he pulled his brushed and cleaned slouch hat on.

  ‘Right, Captain Lock,’ he said to his reflection, ‘there’s some bastards that need a good kicking, a friend to drag out of his sick bed, and a girl in peril. Only this time it’s a peril of her own choosing.’

  He gave himself a wry smile.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it then? Well?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. I agree. But, first thing’s first. Let’s go and fetch Sid.’