Lock took the canteen, removed his slouch hat, and threw back his head dousing himself in water. He swigged a mouthful and spat it out, then took a long drink. He brushed his hand over his wet head, handed the canteen back to Sid, and slapped the slouch hat back on. ‘Disgusting stuff, Sid.’
‘Very, sahib. Back to work?’
‘No rest for the wicked, Sid,’ Lock smiled, patting his friend on the shoulder.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two hours before dawn, with a pale moonlight reflecting off the dark waters of the Tigris, Lock and his platoon sat in their two conjoined and armoured bellums on the east bank. They were ready to set off towards One Tree Hill, the isolated Turk redoubt some four miles upriver and two miles within enemy lines. Behind them, ready to advance on Lock’s signal when he had located the electric switch, were the 22nd Punjabis and the rest of C-Company from the Mendips Light Infantry. They would begin their assault once One Tree Hill was captured, and once firing had opened up upon Norfolk Hill two miles to the south-west on the opposite bank. This would force the Turks held up there to turn their position and, in doing so, expose them to attack from the waiting Company of Ox and Bucks Light Infantry and A- and B-Companies from the Mendips.
Lock glanced back down the line of waiting boats and could just make out the figures sitting motionless, helmets and puggarees silhouetted against the pale, moonlit sky. Now and again came the faint sound of half-whispered orders or the hollow knock of a bamboo pole against a boat, or the slap of skin against skin as yet another mosquito met a crushing end. Beyond the bellums sat the armed launches the Shaitan and the Lewis Pelly. Both were waiting at the point where the bridge of boats had been opened, and had a heavy chain strung between them to sweep up any mines that had been missed. And behind these two vessels, was the familiar shape of HMS Espiegle itself, ready to begin its glide slowly upstream, to keep pace with the main flotilla. Townshend had decided to make the Espiegle his flagship for the battle to come, and although Lock couldn’t see the general, he knew he and Ross would be watching events unfold from the foretop, watching as Lock set off on his predawn Kommando raid.
‘We’re all marines now, laddie,’ Ross had quipped, before leaving Lock to his preparations.
Now Lock was ready. He turned back to face north, adjusted his position in the bellum, the crack of his knees making him suck his breath in between his teeth.
Townshend had set the start of the artillery bombardment for 5 a.m. Lock had until then to get the job done. He gave the order to set off and the tandem bellums glided away from the rest of the flotilla.
‘Steady, lads,’ he said softly, ‘steady.’
The boat made good progress and Lock gave his men a cursory glance. They were all crouched low, but eager and alert. Bingham-Smith cut a rather comical figure, though, eyes darting left to right, crouched low and clutching his SMLE as if it were an umbrella, with an Arab kufiya head cloth on his head. All the men wore these, even the sepoys over their turbans, just in case their silhouettes should give them away as being obviously British. The regulation topis were stored under the raised platform at the stern.
‘I thought you’d be used to a rifle, Smith, what with all that pheasant shooting you presumably get up to back in England,’ Lock said.
‘I’m not a bloody gamekeeper, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said nervously.
‘No, fox hunting’s more your thing, I’d wager.’
Bingham-Smith flashed his eyes in Lock’s direction. ‘That’s right, Lock, I’m a gentleman, and gentlemen—’
‘Fall on their arses all too often,’ Lock said.
‘You are an intolerable blaggard, Lock. Intoler—’
‘If you want to get off, Smith, be my guest. You can swim back to Uncle.’
Bingham-Smith sniffed but didn’t reply, and Lock, grinning, turned his attention back to the landscape ahead of them.
The going had been steady and easy while they kept to the inky black, fast-flowing waters of the Tigris. But it wasn’t long before they had to veer off to the east across the flood and into the reeds, and then the going became tougher. More than once they all had to climb out of the boats and physically push the bellums along, as the water was so shallow and the reeds so thick that they obstructed the poles. Men slipped, tripped and splashed their way forward, but only once did one of them disappear from sight completely, having walked into a ditch or some other unforeseen depth. That man was Bingham-Smith and his sudden vanishing and immediate gasping return, soaked to the skin, cursing in his clipped accent, the kufiya down over his eyes, caused much amusement amongst the sepoys.
‘Put a sock in it, sah!’ Underhill hissed. ‘And stop larkin’ about.’
‘Stop larking about? What do you blood—’
‘Quiet!’ Lock said, holding up a hand.
The platoon came to a dead stop, each man holding his breath. They stayed like that for what seemed like an age, Lock straining to pick out anything above the creak of the reeds in the light breeze and the slap and slosh of the water around his waist. But there was nothing to hear other than the buzz of the insufferable insects and the beating of his heart in his ears. He waved the men on, and before long the reeds thinned out again and they all climbed back inside the bellums.
On they poled, each man alert to the impending danger around them. The water evened out and the reeds fell away. Lock was fully aware that this was the moment of acute danger, for if any enemy lookout should be concentrating in their direction then they couldn’t fail to spot the dark mass of their bellum illuminated on the shimmering floodwater.
The dark silhouette of One Tree Hill loomed large as the bellums approached its eastern shore. The sandy hill with its lone tree on the western edge was hidden from view here, but Lock could, in the soft, pale light of the predawn, make out the block structure of the khan used as the first Turkish redoubt nearest to the British lines.
Lock tried to keep his breathing as quiet as possible even though he knew no enemy would hear him. But as they got nearer and nearer to the shore, he felt his body tense, half-expecting a sudden pattering of gunfire to spit out at them from the dark, and to see muzzle flashes light up the sky. But nothing came, nothing stirred in the eerie stillness. The armoured bellums ground to a halt again as their flat bottoms this time scraped against the shallows of the shore.
‘Scramble lads,’ Lock hissed.
Men from both boats leapt out into the water, which was now little higher than their ankles. They split off up the shore in four sections. Skirting round to the north, Underhill led Toor and two of the new sepoys, with Bingham-Smith keeping close by, while Harrington-Brown with Chopra and two more of the sepoys, moved further west. Sergeant Pritchard and Ram Lal, with another two of the new sepoys, circled the shoreline to the south. Lock, with Singh and new recruits, Addul Tarin and Karamjeet Singh, at his heels, headed straight for the khan’s eastern perimeter. Elsworth, with his keen eye and scoped rifle at the ready, waited with the last two sepoys at the bellums.
Lock and his squad moved quietly, but swiftly, through the scrub that dotted the sandy ground, until they came to the rough-hewn, mud-brick wall of the building. Singh and the two sepoys fell in behind him. They all held their breath, ears pricked to the moonlit landscape around them and to the silent dark building at their backs. There was a closed, solid wooden door cut in the wall and, above it and to the left at about head height, an elongated horizontal embrasure or loophole. It would offer those inside a protected view and firing position to the south. There was no sign or sound of human activity from within the khan.
Lock tightened the grip on the Lee-Enfield rifle. It made him feel strangely exposed, though he was happy to feel the weight of his trusted Beholla in the holster at his hip. He also had the dagger Amy had given him, which was lighter and less constricting than the bayonet he usually carried. Singh had his ever-reliable kirpan sword drawn, gripped in his huge palm, a rifle strung across his shoulders, and the two sepoys carried their regulation SMLEs.
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There came a fall of loose rocks off to their right, and all four men instinctively ducked down, staring off into the moonlit predawn, weapons poised. From the shadows a low whistle sounded twice, paused, then came again. Lock returned the tune, and Pritchard quickly approached.
‘Nothing down by the shore, sir,’ the sergeant whispered, falling in at Lock’s side. ‘Just a rickety jetty and a couple of gufas moored. I spotted two more mines in the shallows, too. Looks like they’re connected by wires. They head off westwards into the deeper water of the river. I left Ram Lal and the two sepoys there on watch.’
Lock nodded. Pritchard had been sensible not to leave the raw recruits alone should their nerves get the better of them. Ram Lal was an astute and good soldier and could be trusted to keep his head.
‘Sahib.’ Singh touched Lock’s arm and indicated to their left.
Underhill and Bingham-Smith were returning.
‘All quiet on the west and north sides, sah,’ Underhill whispered. ‘Sentry sat on a jetty facin’ the river. That’s where the main entrance is. ’E was dozin’, but ’e ain’t no more.’
‘Will he be missed?’
Underhill shook his head. ‘Nah, left ’im slouched in the same position. Just ain’t breathin’ no more. Toor’s keepin’ watch with the new lads should anyone come out.’
‘What about the lieutenant?’
‘Passed ’im on my way back ’ere. The north wall is quiet, just an embrasure like this,’ he said, jerking his head at the wall above them. ‘No sign of movement, though. ’E’s dug in, in the scrub.’
‘The south wall has no door, just two embrasures,’ Pritchard added.
‘Then it would appear we’re lucky and the majority of this post are still inside,’ Lock said. ‘I’m guessing this is a simple two-roomed khan. The stable doors are where the animals are sheltered, and this side is the living quarters. All right, fall back to the scrub and take cover. Pritchard, you wait with me.’
The men all moved back silently, and spread out amongst the low scrub grass. They lowered themselves down, flat on their bellies, and waited. The growing dawn light was shortening the shadows now, and though the moon was still out its glare was fading.
Lock knelt down with Pritchard, huddled close to the wall. He pulled out his cigarettes, lit one and puffed away until he had a good burning end, careful to keep the smoke away from the embrasure above him.
‘You got it?’ Lock said, pulling the cigarette from his mouth.
‘Here, sir,’ Pritchard said, pulling out one of his home-made grenades, a jam-tin bomb, from his haversack.
‘No, Sergeant, the honour is yours.’
Lock held out the cigarette to Pritchard.
The sergeant grinned and held the fuse to the ember stub. It sparked instantly and he began to count down softly, ‘Five, four, three, two …’
He tossed the jam tin through the embrasure and ducked away.
Lock held his head between his hands and felt his heart skip a beat. There was a second’s delay followed by a shout of alarm from inside, cut short by a muffled explosion. Lock could feel the shockwave beneath his feet. The door to their right was blown out of its frame with a great splintering of wood, and a cloud of smoke and debris was pushed out of the embrasure above them.
Lock held up his hand, telling his men to hold fast. Five pairs of eyes glistened back at him from the gloom, sparkling with anticipation. There came a muffled cry from within the khan, then a white flag was thrust out of the embrasure.
‘Min fadlak, min fadlak,’ pleaded desperate voices from inside.
‘I think they’re in no mood for a scrap,’ Lock said to Pritchard, getting to his feet but keeping his back to the wall. He turned his head towards the open doorway and shouted out in Arabic, ‘Come out! Hands raised!’
There was a moment of stillness, then the remains of the battered door were pushed fully open and a second white flag was thrust out and frantically waved about.
‘Min fadlak …’
A stream of bleary-eyed, coughing, dust-coated Arab irregulars stumbled out, hands raised, some supporting wounded, groaning comrades.
Lock signalled for his men to approach, and with their rifles raised, they herded the Arab soldiers away from the khan.
‘Check them over for weapons, Sergeant Pritchard,’ Lock said.
Pritchard took charge and he and a couple of the sepoys began to push and pull the shocked prisoners into an orderly line.
‘Where’s your officer?’ Lock demanded in Arabic. But he was only met by blank stares.
‘All right, Pritchard, you and the two sepoys keep guard here,’ Lock said, handing the sergeant his rifle. ‘Look after this will you? Sergeant Major, take our illustrious Captain Bingham-Smith with you and circle back to the north and west, check the positions. Sid, follow me.’
Bingham-Smith was about to protest, but Lock had turned away.
Lock paused at the side of the doorway, Beholla held up, his back to the wall. Singh was at his shoulder.
‘Ready, Sid?’ Lock said.
‘Sahib.’
Lock hesitated, then wafting the smoke from his face, dodged inside.
Once Lock had stepped over the threshold, he was met by a grisly sight. Pritchard’s jam-tin bomb had done untold damage and it was hard to recognise anything in the small room such was the devastating effect of the explosive in so confined a space. Everything was black and scorched. The walls were pitted with shrapnel, and twisted bits of furniture and body parts littered the hard-earth floor. The acrid smell of burnt metal and scorched flesh caught Lock’s throat and he grimaced. The bomb had landed in the sleeping quarters and had taken out most of the small garrison.
There was an open doorway at the far end of the room that led further into the khan. Lock beckoned for Singh to keep close, and they both edged towards the doorway, carefully picking their way through the smouldering debris and cadavers. Lock raised his hand and both he and Singh paused, ears pricked for any sound of life coming from beyond the doorway.
‘Come out with your hands held high,’ Lock called in Arabic.
Wood scraped against stone, as if someone had knocked a chair. Then it was silent again.
‘Surrender or die,’ Lock said in Arabic.
The silence was broken by a patter of running feet. A heavy wooden door was shaken vigorously. Someone was trying to make a run for it out of the main entrance. A muffled rifle shot came from outside and there was a screech of surprise followed by a heavy thud. Panicked whispering gave way to hushed silence once more.
Lock glanced about him, then reached down and picked up a chair leg. He tossed it through the open doorway. A pistol shot rang out, the bullet smacking into the mud wall opposite.
Lock dropped to his knees, poked his Beholla round the corner, and fired wildly and blindly into the darkened room.
‘Min fadlak, min fadlak!’ came the familiar response. ‘We surrender, we surrender!’
‘Throw out your weapons,’ Lock growled.
Two Mauser rifles and a pistol clattered out of the darkness. Singh scooped them up.
‘Come out, hands above your heads,’ Lock said.
There was a scuffle of furniture and boot leather, then three men, two Arab irregulars and a clean-shaven young Ottoman officer, shuffled bleary-eyed out of the room. The officer was a slim, rather trim man with one arm hanging limply at his side, a wound bleeding from just below his shoulder. His sharp eyes widened in surprise when he saw Lock and Singh.
‘Breetaanee?’ He looked almost relieved.
Singh shoved the trio towards the door, and marched them outside to join their comrades.
Lock remained inside the khan. He poked his head around the corner where the three soldiers had been making a stand. The second room was empty but for a dead Arab irregular slumped beside the barn doors.
‘All clear,’ Lock shouted for the benefit of his men outside. His call was met by a shrill whistle. Lock holstered his Beholla and picked
his way back through the khan to join Singh and the others on the eastern side. Harrington-Brown appeared from the northern perimeter and walked over to where Bingham-Smith and Underhill were standing. The two officers stepped away from the sergeant major and began a hushed conversation, throwing glances Lock’s way every now and again. Lock was about to shout over to them when Pritchard approached.
‘No weapons, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Though I don’t think they’ve much fight in them.’
‘I’m guessing they’re just happy we weren’t a Marsh Arab raiding party, after all,’ Lock said. ‘What’s the count?’
‘None for us, sir. For them … Eleven dead, nine survivors. One with a serious wound. It appears this garrison had just twenty men.’
Lock scanned the prisoners. Eight Arabs and just the one officer. They looked a sorry sight, dishevelled, blank-eyed, despondent, all sat in a small group with two sepoys watching over them. The Ottoman soldiers were all wearing the Arab kufiya head cloths, and standard Turkish infantry uniforms but with bottle-green patches on their collars. Many of them didn’t have any boots, but feet bound simply with cloth. Lock’s gaze fell on the Turkish officer. He was bareheaded and wore a brown-grey field uniform similar to that of his men, but with a full bottle-green collar and plain gold epaulettes stating his rank as a mülazimi sani, a second lieutenant.
‘Was there a machine gun in the khan, Sid?’ Lock said over his shoulder. The big Indian was crouched down checking over the weapons the Ottomans had surrendered.
‘Not that I noticed, sahib,’ Singh said, getting to his feet.
‘This lot are part of a machine gun detachment, according to their uniform facings.’ Lock rubbed his chin and scanned the prisoners. ‘Mülazimi Sani,’ he said in Turkish.
The young officer looked up with nervous eyes, and Lock beckoned him over.
The Turk scrambled to his feet. ‘Yes, effendim?’
‘How is your arm?’
The officer was clearly taken aback by the question and his eyes fell on the bullet hole above Lock’s left breast. He frowned slightly, then looked up into Lock’s eyes, first at the left one, then at the right. He quickly collected himself and gave a thin smile.
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