For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘That’s good of you.’

  ‘Oh, come, come. You didn’t want the responsibility of a company, did you? Not really? All that paperwork? Having to act upon Godwinson’s battle directives? This way you can remain independent, to go about as you please, to have the freedom—’

  ‘To do your bidding,’ Lock interrupted. ‘Don’t try and bullshit a bullshitter, Major. I’m not stupid. I’m more use to you as … this Kommando than as a company commander having to lead seventy-five or so men into battle.’

  Ross smiled wryly. ‘Well, perhaps. But I am right, aren’t I?’

  ‘And the Marmaris?’

  ‘One thing at a time, laddie.’

  Lock wasn’t happy. He was angry and frustrated and … He sighed. The major was right. He didn’t want the responsibility, but he did want the respect. All right. He was back to where he started. So what? He’d said it before and he’d say it again, he would prove his worth in his own way. Sod the lot of them.

  ‘And my rank?’

  ‘You’re still a captain. For now.’

  Lock scoffed again. ‘How long have I got?’

  Ross frowned. ‘Got? Oh, yes, your mission … Good, good … Glad you came round. Not that I didn’t think you would. Well, Townshend wants to set off at dawn. The bombardment of the Turkish redoubts will start at 5 a.m. and then the advance is scheduled for an hour later. He’s worried that if we sit and wait here any longer, we’ll lose more men to heatstroke and sunstroke than we will to enemy bullets.’

  The major gave a heavy sigh and stared off towards the horizon.

  Lock knew Ross was troubled by events to come, more so than normal, and he was aware just how many fronts the little Scot was fighting on.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. What you have said in the past is right, about my proving my worth in the field. If I can pull this little task off, then perhaps those officers keen to see me fall will think again. I know they’ll never accept me as one of their own, but if I can earn their respect, even grudgingly, that’s a start.’

  Ross gave Lock a warm smile.

  ‘Aye, laddie, that’s the spirit. Now, tell me,’ he said taking Lock by the elbow and steering him back over towards the ladders to begin their descent down from the platform, ‘what it is you propose about the troublesome natives in the marsh?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Night had fallen swiftly and with it came total darkness. The heat hadn’t let up, so baked was the earth, but the burning sun and the threat of sunstroke at least wouldn’t trouble the men for a few hours. Even the flies had gone. They were replaced by clouds of mosquitoes. Then, around 2 a.m. the moon rose and a pale, silvery light spread out across the surrounding floods like a glistening white fire.

  Lock had arranged for the local sheikh of the nearby Marsh Arabs to meet with him at the sight of an old ford, just north of the boat bridge where the marsh and the sand dunes ran down to the water. The ford was used by the Marsh Arabs to cross their livestock over the Tigris during the dry season, when the river was less treacherous and flooded. Right now, the dark waters were flowing by at a terrific speed.

  Above the roaring, inky blackness, Lock, jacketless with his sleeves rolled up, was deep in conversation with a gesticulating Arab. He was a tall, painfully thin man, barefoot, dressed in a long, ragged shirt open at the chest, which revealed the dark-brown skin taut over his ribcage. On top of lank, greasy black hair he wore a loosely wound kufiya headcloth. A worn, black cloak was draped over his left shoulder. He carried no visible weapon, not even a knife.

  ‘My dear Ahmad. Shokran, shokran. You are a good friend and you have done me a great a service,’ Lock said in Arabic, careful to emphasise that the Arab had been helping him personally and not the British in general. ‘Please take this as a symbol of my gratitude. Go in peace. Maa as-salaamah.’

  The Marsh Arab took the bag of coin from Lock’s hand, bowed his head graciously and gave the gesture of farewell. He then turned and scuttled off back up the bank. When he got to the summit there were two officers standing there. Lock couldn’t be sure but he thought he recognised the figure on the right as Bingham-Smith. The Arab nearly bumped into them, dodged sideways and disappeared over the summit. The two officers were watching him go when there came a shout from over their shoulders.

  ‘’Ere, ’ere, mind yer backs, sahs!’

  Sergeant Major Underhill’s gruff voice was unmistakable and Lock allowed himself a wry smile as he watched the two officers jump out of the way. Underhill and five sepoys from Green Platoon mounted the summit, carrying a bellum between them. They stumbled, skidded and slid down the muddy bank until they reached the water’s edge where Lock was standing. They lowered the boat down.

  ‘Good lads. Take a breather,’ Underhill said, wiping the sweat of exertion from his brow with his rolled-up sleeve. The sepoys slumped down where they stood, glad for a respite.

  ‘This armour plating looks cumbersome, Sergeant Major,’ Lock said, looking over the bellum. It was the same familiar vessel, but modified by the engineers, and Lock wasn’t impressed with the so-called improvements. ‘I saw the engineers attaching these plates when we arrived, but on closer inspection … they just won’t do.’

  ‘’Ow so, sah?’

  ‘It’s not just open water, is it, all around us, but reed marsh of varying denseness. Are you not forgetting what we crawled through on the east bank of the Shatt al-Arab outside of Basra? When we discovered Wassmuss’s little armada?’

  Underhill was rubbing his chin and casting his eye over the armour. The plating projected over both gunwales for several feet and dropped to water level.

  ‘They’re really going to hamper our progress if we end up in the reeds, and I think it highly likely that we will do, seeing as they offer us the only cover,’ Lock said.

  ‘So what yer sayin’? It’s gonna takes us bloody ages to remove this lot,’ Underhill said, irritation already building in his voice.

  Lock shook his head. ‘I agree, but I have a better idea. Go fetch another.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Bellum, Sergeant Major, bellum.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do it,’ Lock snapped, turning away. Conversation over. He stepped down to the water’s edge and pulled out his pack of cigarettes.

  Underhill stood rooted to the spot for a moment in exasperated silence. ‘Right you lazy black bastards,’ he said, ‘you ’eard the man, up and fetch another bloody barge.’

  He tramped off back up the muddy bank muttering under his breath as he went. The five sepoys groaned, but pulled themselves to their feet and made after the sergeant major.

  ‘I say, Lock … Can I have a word?’

  Lock glanced over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips, match at the ready. Major Carver and Bingham-Smith were picking their way down the bank towards him. Both officers were wearing the summer British Service caps with the inbuilt sunshade that could be lowered to cover the back of the neck. Carver approached, but Bingham-Smith held back. Lock had last seen Carver over a month ago in the officers’ mess tent at the army encampment outside of Mohammerah in Persia.

  ‘Sir,’ Lock said, nodding, putting the lighted match to his cigarette. Then he looked to Bingham-Smith. ‘Recovered from your little swim, Smith?’ he called.

  Bingham-Smith turned his head away and made a show of studying the bellum that Underhill and the sepoys had deposited nearby.

  ‘That filthy Arab fellow …’ Carver said in his distinctively impeccable diction, ‘… Did I see you give him money?’

  ‘Sir.’ Lock inhaled deeply.

  Carver narrowed his hazel eyes and his thin mouth curled up. ‘Look here, Lock … I don’t think—’

  ‘No, sir, I imagine you don’t,’ Lock said, slowly letting a cloud of tobacco smoke escape from his mouth.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Captain?’ Carver said, the pencil moustache twitching above his top lip as a look of indignation clouded his youthful face.

  ‘White Tab business
. Sir.’

  Carver glanced over to Bingham-Smith as if looking for moral support.

  ‘Lock, you—’ Bingham-Smith said.

  ‘It’s Captain Lock, Assistant Provost Marshal.’

  Bingham-Smith snapped his jaw shut, and scowled.

  ‘Well, Captain, I am your superior officer,’ Carver interjected, ‘and I insist you tell me what the hell is going on here. You are in my company and under my command.’ He stepped forward a pace and pulled Lock’s arm to make him turn to face him.

  Lock looked down at Carver’s hand resting on his forearm and then slowly raised his eyes to meet Carver’s.

  The young major swallowed and let go. He cleared his throat, shifted uneasily on his feet and his eyes fell, as so many men’s eyes had done before him, to the bullet hole just above the left breast pocket in Lock’s tunic.

  Lock pondered on whether to keep up his aloof manner, but inside he was smiling. He just couldn’t stop himself from being obnoxious to these kind of men, these officers with their holier-than-thou attitude, the way they spoke to their so-called inferiors, their general manner in dealing with the lower ranks. It stank and it left a nasty taste in Lock’s mouth, a taste he wanted to hack up and spit right back in to their smug faces. He took a last, long drag on his cigarette and let out a sigh, tossing the end away into the water. He wished Ross was here to field these inevitable questions. But the major was with General Townshend and the other senior commanders briefing them on Lock’s forthcoming Kommando raid. Lock removed his slouch hat and passed a hand through his sandy hair. It was beginning to grow thick again, though he could still feel the raised wound where the bullet had passed, a constant reminder of just how close he had come to shuffling off this mortal coil. He beamed back at Carver.

  ‘Major. Sir,’ Lock said calmly. ‘I may be in your company, which is under your overall command, but my men and I are not. I hold a commission in the Australian Infantry Force. Note the flashes on my uniform. My subsequent’ – he paused here, searching for the right word – ‘attachment to the Mendip Light Infantry was arranged by General Townshend himself. I operate outside of the normal chain of command. I’m sorry, but that is a fact. If you have any complaints you will have to take them up with Major Ross, who, I’m sure, will pass on your worries to the general. Now, I don’t want you to think me rude,’ Lock smiled, to which Carver gave a snort of disbelief, ‘so I will let you know the gist of my mission.’

  Carver glanced over to Bingham-Smith, then back to Lock again. He scowled. ‘Well?’ he snapped, clearly growing increasingly frustrated with Lock’s roundabout way of coming to the point.

  ‘I have been directed to clear the mines ahead of the main attack,’ Lock said. ‘That “filthy Arab”, as you so eloquently put it, has just been helping me to do just that.’

  Carver frowned. ‘I don’t understand, Lock. Surely they were the ones who planted the damned things in the fir—’

  Lock shook his head. ‘The Turks trust them about as much as you do. Sir. Ahmad and his tribe live by the river. They live off the river. They are the river. They see everything, they know everything, and it stands to reason that they watched their Turk overlords lay the mines in the first place. Therefore I offered a reward of four hundred rupees for each and every mine my good friend and his fellows discovered.’

  Carver glanced over to Bingham-Smith once again, who gave the merest of shrugs. The two officers, it would seem, couldn’t argue with the logic.

  ‘Granted they won’t have found them all,’ Lock continued, ‘as the German engineers – Yes, I got that little bit of information from our Arab friend, too – the German engineers have littered the river with mines. But it’s a start. The effect has also been marvellous in stopping the Arabs sniping at us, too. Hundreds of them since dusk have spent their time hunting for the mines. Did you not see the activity on the river this evening?’

  Carver shook his head. ‘I’ve been training with my me—’

  ‘Of course you have. Sir.’ Lock’s focus shifted to over Carver’s shoulder. ‘Ah, you’ll have to excuse me now, my platoon is back. Time is of the essence.’

  Lock stepped away from Carver. Underhill and the sepoys were making their way down the bank once more, lumbering a second armoured bellum between them. Following close behind were Singh, Pritchard, Elsworth and the rest of Green Platoon. They were all carrying rifles, equipment and supplies. Bingham-Smith skipped out of their way as the boat was lowered down near to the first one. Jawad Saleem came running over the rise, a large metal tea urn strapped to his back, and with the dog bounding around his feet.

  ‘Right,’ Lock said, ‘I want the two boats side by side, attached for stability, then reverse the armour plates so that they don’t project below the level of the gunwales. Got it?’

  Underhill nodded. ‘Aye, that should work. At least we’ll still ’ave protection from any rifle fire.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant Major, I’m hoping we won’t run into any.’ Lock glanced over his shoulder to check he was out of earshot of Carver and Bingham-Smith, then lowered his voice. ‘It’s a Kommando raid, not a full-on attack.’

  Underhill gave a grunt of acknowledgment and set about organising the sepoys to their task, barking orders left and right. Lock noted that the sergeant major appeared to be in his element again and even pondered if he could finally trust the man. Then he shook his head softly.

  ‘Don’t get too complacent, Kingdom,’ he said to himself. ‘Not where Underhill is concerned.’

  Lock stood and watched as the sepoys eagerly set about tackling the armoured plating, glad to have something to do at last, no doubt. Pritchard and Elsworth were checking each and every rifle, while Singh and the other sepoys took up tools and began to remove the armour plating from the first bellum.

  Earlier, Lock had gathered the men together to brief them on their mission. Standing away from the sea of white canvas tents that were nestled beneath a canopy of date palms at the water’s edge, Lock surveyed his platoon all sat around him in a semicircle, giving each man a moments full attention, etching their features in his mind. He had a number of new recruits now that brought his platoon not just back up to size, but almost to the minimum regulation quota of twenty-five. It was under that, of course, but seventeen men would be enough for his needs. The new men were all Indian sepoys, all Sikhs, which suited Lock fine. They were hard workers and disciplined soldiers, so Singh assured him. But the big Indian was delighted with them, and that was good enough for Lock.

  Of his original group, Lock had promoted Chopra, Toor and Ram Lal to lance naik, with Elsworth also being given the equivalent rank of lance corporal. Pritchard was a sergeant and Singh was of the same rank but under the Indian title of havildar. Though still a sergeant major, Lock had gained a rare mumble of gratitude from Underhill when he presented him with his promotion to regimental sergeant major, an appointment that was even signed off by Godwinson, much to Lock’s surprise. Not that it would have mattered if he hadn’t anyway, for Townshend had given his full blessing already. Undoubtedly Ross had a hand in persuading the colonel to accept, but clearly had caught him on a good day.

  Lock had no junior officer and that suited him fine, because he would be splitting the platoon into squads and then sections at some point, and each section would have a leader, an experienced man. Age didn’t matter, they were all young, except for himself and the senior NCOs; combat time was what counted here. With Bombegy behind bars back in Basra, Jawad made up their numbers as the newly appointed cook, to nineteen, including Lock himself, and thus far the lad seemed to be coping. At least no one had the Mesop trot yet, anyhow. Besides, Jawad and the dog had bonded and that was a blessing, for Lock really didn’t want to find the hound following him into a battle zone. He had enough to worry about with keeping his men alive without being distracted by a four-legged friend. And so Jawad would stay safely behind the lines with the animal for company.

  Lock fished out a cigarette, lit it, and nodded his head in satisfa
ction as he exhaled. He stood smoking a while, watching and listening to the men chatter amongst themselves. He had a platoon again. He just hoped he could keep them alive this time. Lock glanced at his watch, then tossed the spent cigarette aside, and pulled a folded sheet of paper from his side pocket. Using his new knife, he pinned the paper to the nearest tree. It was a map of the area.

  ‘All right you lot,’ Lock said. ‘Listen up, and listen up good.’

  Hush fell over the men and Lock waited until all eyes were on him.

  ‘We have a task set us by our dearly beloved Major Ross,’ Lock said with a wry smile. ‘One in which he probably hopes I won’t come back from.’

  There were a number of knowing chuckles from amongst the men, plus a few concerned glances from the new sepoys. But Lock didn’t let this worry him, they would all be up to speed soon enough once out in the field.

  ‘However,’ Lock continued, ‘we do get to be the first to push through enemy lines. Now,’ he said, pointing at the relevant sections of the map, ‘it seems our German friends have been encouraging their Ottoman allies to litter the Tigris with mines. While most of them will be cleared up to the bridge of boats, the rest of the river north of Fort Snipe is inaccessible, seeing as Johnny has redoubts on both banks. But, although there will be minesweepers leading the attack, there is a rumour that Johnny has gone and connected all the mines together via a telegraph wire and that he can set the whole bloody lot off with the throw of an electric switch.’

  The men began to mutter excitedly to one another.

  ‘Shut it!’ Underhill bellowed, to instant effect.

  ‘Our first objective is here,’ Lock said, pointing to the map once more, ‘One Tree Hill, on the east bank. Once this is taken, a squad will be left to guard any prisoners, while the rest of us move on upriver in search of the switch. As soon as the switch is located,’ Lock continued, ‘we disable it and then send up a flare signal. This will be the trigger to start the main assault by our forces on the Turkish positions. We will then drop back and await Lieutenant Colonel Blois Johnson’s 22nd Punjabis to arrive, then we too will join up with the main thrust. Hopefully we’ll be in Amara by this time tomorrow. Questions?’