‘I … it … it is but a graze, effendim Yüzbaşi.’
‘I need your help, Mülazimi Sani.’
The Turk nodded. ‘If I can, effendim.’
‘I’m looking for the electric switch … for the mines.’
It was a long shot, Lock knew, but one worth taking. Their luck had held out so far, but the more time that passed, the more likelihood of their discovery, particularly as dawn was rapidly approaching.
The Turk shook his head. ‘I do not know … Wait, effendim … perhaps … There is an older officer, a miralay, I think. He is stationed at …’ His brow furrowed in thought.
‘Hold on,’ Lock said as he pulled the map out of his pocket. He unfolded it and showed it to the Turk officer, pointing at One Tree Hill. ‘This is where we are now …’
The Turk scanned the map and pointed to One Tower Hill, the redoubt directly across the Tigris on the west bank. Lock nodded. It made sense. This was situated at a natural bend in the river and was two miles further north from Norfolk Hill, the redoubt closest to the British line. If the Ottomans saw that the British were advancing, then there was more than enough time for them to get word to the officer controlling the mines, and for them to be detonated before the attack got anywhere near them.
‘There? One Tower Hill?’
The Turk shook his head. ‘No, effendim. The little island beyond.’
Lock looked closer at the map. There was another sand island marked to the north-west of One Tower Hill.
‘Is there a building there? Defences?’
The Turk shrugged. ‘I have never been there, effendim, or seen it. I just know that this … elderly miralay is stationed there.’
Lock scratched his stubbly chin. He judged it to be about two miles from where they were now to the little sand island. He stared off to the east. It wouldn’t be long before sunrise.
‘All right, Mülazimi Sani, thank you. Return to your men. If you cooperate then you will be treated well, I give you my word.’
The Turk saluted Lock. ‘Then you shall have my word also, Yüzbaşi.’
Lock nodded and the young officer started to head back to his men.
‘Mülazimi Sani?’
‘Effendim?’
‘One last thing. Do you know if there is a Binbaşi Feyzi among the officers? Stationed in one of the other redoubts, perhaps?’
The Turk rubbed his lip for a moment, and shook his head. ‘It is not a name I am familiar with. But there are many officers, effendim. Particularly on the steamer Marmaris.’
‘What about German officers? Herr Wassmuss?’
Again the young Turk shook his head. ‘I do not know, effendim.’
‘All right, never mind. You can return to your men.’
The young Turk gave a quick nod and went to sit back down with his soldiers.
Lock called Underhill over, and Bingham-Smith and Harrington-Brown, not to be left out, followed. Lock opened up his map again and tapped the small sand island the Turk officer had just pointed out.
‘It’s highly probable that our target is on this little island, here.’
‘Christ, that’s bloody close to that Abdul redoubt,’ Underhill said. ‘It’s one of the bigger ones, ain’t it?’
‘One Tower Hill. Yes, I know, Sergeant Major, that’s why I’m going to go on alone, with a smaller team.’
Underhill shook his head. ‘Too risky, sah. You’ll get spottid’ an’ the ’ole place’ll get blown to kingdom come.’
Bingham-Smith gave a snort of laughter here, but no one else shared in his humour.
Lock shook his head and smiled.
‘Such faith, Sergeant Major, that’s what I love about you. Look, I want you and the lieutenant to take charge of this garrison here. Post lookouts on all corners of this redoubt, and try to keep low. Hold until the 22nd arrive. Keep a watch on the prisoners, too. But unless they look like starting any trouble, and I doubt that, treat them well.’
Harrington-Brown grunted. ‘Huh, can’t trust the bloody Buddoos. We should shoot the blighters just to be on—’
‘Their officer gave me his word, Lieutenant,’ Lock said. ‘You’ll have no trouble.’
‘I have to say I agree with Harrington-Brown,’ Bingham-Smith said.
‘I said, you will have no trouble.’
Underhill snorted. ‘You an’ yer bloody Johnny mates. It’ll get you an’ the rest of us killed one day.’
‘But not today, Sergeant Major,’ Lock grinned. ‘Now, Pritchard …’
‘Sir?’
‘I want you to return to the bellums. Separate them again, then take one back to our lines. If you hug the east bank you should avoid getting snagged in the reeds. Use your electric torch to signal your approach, otherwise you may buy it from a friendly.’
Pritchard nodded his understanding.
‘When you get back,’ Lock continued, ‘tell them what’s happening, where I’m heading and for them to hold the artillery bombardment until they see my flare. Take the two sepoys down there with you and send Elsworth back up to me. Oh, and get that kufiya off. Topis and turbans only. Just in case.’
Pritchard threw a quick salute then trotted off down to the shoreline.
‘I think I should go with him, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said.
Lock shook his head and smiled thinly. ‘No, my dear Casper, you’re coming with me.’
‘Good God, you are quite mad, aren’t you? Reckless and mad. The sergeant major’s right, you’ll kill us all!’
‘You wanted to observe, Smith, so you can come and observe.’
‘I …’ Bingham-Smith started to protest but thought the better of it.
Lock knew he wouldn’t say too much more in front of Harrington-Brown for the risk of looking like a coward in front of his peer.
‘And just how do we get there, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘You and I can’t manage a bellum alone.’
‘We’re taking one of the gufas that Pritchard found tied to the jetty on the south shore. Besides, Elsworth is coming with us to help row.’
As if on cue, the young sharpshooter came trotting over. Lock gave him a nod.
‘Ready for another little boat trip, Alfred?’
‘Sir,’ Elsworth said with an eager smile.
‘Sid, you help the sergeant major and I’ll see you soon.’
‘Very good, sahib. Here, you will be needing this I am thinking,’ Singh said, as he tossed a rifle in Lock’s direction.
Lock caught the rifle and hitched it over his shoulder. ‘Yes, must try and keep up our ruse of being Marsh Arabs. Right, come along then, Smith, Alfred, we need to get a move on,’ Lock said, as he headed off in the direction of the southern jetty and the moored gufas.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘I must … protest, Lock … just why … in the hell … isn’t the lance … corporal … being an … oarsman?’ Bingham-Smith hissed between puffs and pants, working his arms in a steady ‘C’ stroke as he paddled away.
‘Because … Smith … young Elsworth … is a far … better shot … with far … better eyesight … than you … or I … put together,’ Lock whispered in between strokes. He was sat shoulder to shoulder with Bingham-Smith, working his paddle in the same way. ‘He is more … value where … he is … at the aft … using his … senses … to guide us … through the Turk … lines.’
‘I’m a damned … good shot … too … you know?’ Bingham-Smith replied petulantly.
‘I’m sure … you are … but right … now … you’re a damned … good paddler … So shut up … and concentrate … We’re drifting … too much … to the left.’
‘All right … all right,’ Bingham-Smith mumbled, and he quickened his stroke to match Lock’s.
They were making rapid progress and, having battled the currents to cross the Tigris, were now approaching the larger Turk redoubt of One Tower Hill over the floods.
Lock checked his watch. It was a little after a quarter-to-five. Time enough. He just hoped Pritchard would get word to
the British lines in time to delay the bombardment. He looked down at his feet to check that the Very pistol he had taken from Ram Lal was still there. It was.
The sky was lighter still and the redoubt was a dark silhouette just to their right. It was another large sand island rising to higher ground in a similar way to One Tree Hill, only with a large tower, which loomed above them like a sleeping giant, instead of a simple khan as its main building. The tower had been built in four stages superimposed, with indications of a winding ascent from one storey to the other and crowned with a chapel. It stood alone, with just a single-storey building off to the side, and both were constructed in traditional mud brick. And, just like One Tree Hill, there was no sign of life.
Once they had paddled by, Elsworth hissed over his shoulder, ‘Sir, up ahead, about 500 yards away …’
Lock craned his neck to look above Elsworth’s shadowy form. He could make out a tiny island with some sort of object in its centre, a sloping roof of some kind with a dark bulk underneath.
‘All right … gentle strokes now … slowly and … quietly,’ Lock whispered.
There was an extraordinary stillness all around them as they paddled on across the flood. Lock glanced up. High overhead he could see a flock of pelicans, their white plumage tinged pink with the coming golden dawn. They seemed to be drifting on the air like blossom blown from the trees and Lock was suddenly, momentarily reminded of his rooms back in Karachi, of the trees he could see from his balcony. His eyes fell to the landscape now bathed in the orange glow of sunrise. Far to the north he could make out more of the Turkish redoubts, Shrapnel Hill and Gun Hill and the village of Alloa. It was going to be a brilliant, crystal-clear day. He held his breath. They were moving further and further into enemy territory. He glanced behind him again at the now distant One Tree Hill and at that moment the sun shot up above the level horizon. The magic colours of the dawn landscape faded from the sky and the reed marsh and the flooded land all around turned to a harsh metallic blue, sprayed with vivid green.
‘Shit … Paddle fast!’ Lock hissed. ‘Elsworth … get ready.’
Lock knew that unless Pritchard had managed to get an audience with Townshend, very soon the general would more than likely order his artillery to open fire. Lock could now see that the tiny island they were making for was little more than twenty yards square. Plonked in the middle of it was a table and chair shaded by a huge tasselled parasol. Sat dozing in the chair, legs stretched out before him, hands folded across a large rising and falling belly, was a man in a dark uniform. His capped head was drooped forward, chin resting on his chest, and his snoring was clearly audible above the splash of the gufa’s oars.
Lock strained his eyes. There was something hanging down from the table and running off into the water. ‘Oh, bugger,’ he said. It was a vast rope of wiring, the same wiring that connected the mines on their approach to One Tree Hill.
Lock dropped his oar and went to draw his knife, but the sheath was empty. His mind tumbled for a second. When had he last had it? On the shore at Qurna? Had he dropped it when taking the redoubt?
‘Elsworth, your bayonet!’ he hissed.
The young sharpshooter slapped his blade into Lock’s outstretched palm without question, and Lock vaulted over the side. He was only a few yards out and the floodwater was but a foot deep. He waded forward, legs driving through the water as if it were thick mud, and soon his thighs began to ache with the effort. The dozing man in the dark uniform gave a snort and time seemed to slow as Lock watched him laboriously raise his head. Lock threw himself at the wires just as the man became aware of what was happening. His pale eyes widened in shock and he jerked forward, stretching his hand out desperately for the instrument panel on the table next to him.
As the gufa slammed aground, Elsworth leapt over the gunwale, rifle raised.
‘Don’t!’ he shouted.
The man sprung back in his chair with such force, thrusting his stubby hands into the air, that his cap flew off his round head.
Lock seized the rope of wires running down from the back of the instrument panel and, with a slash of the bayonet, severed their connection. He let out a long sigh of relief and looked up. The man in the dark uniform was staring back at him through hooded, watery eyes.
He was an elderly officer, somewhere in his sixties, short and stocky with bushy eyebrows, bald on top with straight gunmetal grey hair around the sides of his head. He had a large, bulbous nose that twitched nervously like a frightened rabbit’s above a magnificent walrus moustache. He was a naval officer and his dark-blue uniform bore the three rings and loop of the rank of liva amiral, commander, on his sleeves. So not a miralay, a colonel, as the young Turk officer on One Tree Hill had said.
‘Good morning, Liva Amiral,’ Lock said in Turkish, giving a wolfish grin as he stood tall. He pulled the now soaking kufiya from his head and dropped it to the sand with a wet slap.
The liva amiral thrust his hands even higher in the air, eyes darting over Lock’s face and uniform.
‘Now, let’s have a litt—’
Lock was cut short by four booms in the distance.
Either Pritchard didn’t get there in time or Townshend’s impatience had gotten the better of him and he had ordered the howitzer battery to open fire.
The attack had begun.
‘But we haven’t sent the bloody signal!’ shrieked Bingham-Smith from the gufa. He was staring south, at the distant smoke of the forty-gun artillery bombardment as they began to unleash hell upon the Turkish redoubts.
Soon, the air was full of the ominous whistle of hundreds of falling shells. And then came the shuddering thump and spasm as they impacted all around.
Lock checked his watch. It was 5 a.m. on the dot. ‘The punctuality of the British,’ he scoffed. ‘God help us all.’ He waved the naval officer to his feet. ‘Hands down, Liva Amiral. You’ll be coming with us.’
‘Here, sir,’ Elsworth scooped up the naval officer’s peakless cap and handed it to him. The elderly Turk took the offering, nodded his appreciation, and turned and saluted Lock.
‘Liva Amiral Hulusi Özel, at your service, Yüzbaşi.’
A string of shells landed one after the other not 200 yards to their left as they faced south, throwing up dark columns of mud and water. The artillery were quickly finding their range and were getting ever closer to hitting the nearby redoubt of One Tower Hill.
Elsworth, used to Lock’s calmness under fire, turned his attention to the distant shore of One Tower Hill, rifle at the ready should any sentry suddenly spot them and decide to take a potshot.
The liva amiral seemed totally unconcerned by the artillery fire, but Bingham-Smith was flinching and pacing the gufa, as much as its constant rocking would allow him to.
‘We m … must leave!’ he stuttered, looking exasperatedly on at Lock’s seeming indifference to their increasingly hazardous position.
‘Well, Liva Amiral Özel Bey,’ Lock said, returning the Turk’s salute and ignoring Bingham-Smith, ‘just what have we here?’
Lock was staring down at the table. On it rested a simple electric keyboard, not dissimilar to a telephone operator’s keyboard, with a number of switches, sockets and plugs. A great string of wiring snaked out from the back of the keyboard forming one larger rope that had run down and out into the water, until Lock had cut it. Next to the keyboard was a string-bound cardboard folder, thick with papers, and a drawstring cloth bag. Lock picked up the bag and opened it. He stared in at the contents, then raised his eyes. The liva amiral was watching him intently.
Lock studied the elderly Turk’s face for a moment.
‘Do you know a Binbaşi Feyzi?’
The Turk shook his head.
‘A Herr Wassmuss?’
Again the Turk shook his head.
‘Look here, Lock, we need to get the hell off of this bloody island,’ Bingham-Smith said shrilly. ‘We must take this … this prisoner to the Espiegle immed—’
‘Shut up, Smith.’
‘But Yüzbaşi,’ the elderly Turk interrupted, ‘there is a German officer …’
‘Where?’
‘I believe,’ the liva amiral turned and pointed towards the village a little further north, ‘there … at Alloa.’
‘You are certain?’
The Turk shrugged. ‘Nothing is certain any more, Yüzbaşi.’
‘And the pearls?’ Lock shook the cloth bag in his hand, making the contents rattle like a child’s stash of prize marbles.
The Turk licked his lips, staring at the bag in Lock’s hand. ‘I … I am a collector …’
‘Bullshit. Pearls are currency … the currency of spies.’
The Turk gave a non-committal shrug. ‘I know nothing of spies. I only know we do not get paid very often. I was paid in pearls. The pearls you now have.’
‘Paid?’
‘To man this station … to be ready with that,’ the liva amiral flicked his chin at the switchboard on the table.
‘What about duty?’
The Turk chuckled. ‘Germans buy duty.’
Lock scoffed, closed the bag again and pocketed it. He picked up the bulky cardboard file, opened it up and flicked through the papers.
‘And these?’
The liva amiral shrugged. ‘I was given them to look after.’
‘Look after? Why?’
Again the liva amiral shrugged again. ‘I am too old a man to question why, Yüzbaşi.’
‘Who gave them to you to look after?’
The liva amiral’s eyes drifted to a point over Lock’s shoulder and seemed to glaze over as if lost in thought.
‘Liva Amiral?’
The elderly Turk lifted his gaze back to Lock. ‘The German officer. I do not know his name. On the Marmaris. He … he was the one who gave me the pearls. For my trouble. But it is no trouble to look after a cardboard file.’
‘And you didn’t find his … “request” at all strange?’
‘Why should I, Yüzbaşi? War is strange.’
Lock scoffed, closed the file up again, and returned his attention to the other objects on the tabletop. There was a telescope, a large artillery-type parabellum pistol in its holster, a tin mug and a leather-bound book. Lock picked up the book and read the spine. It said, Şair Evlenmesi. Lock was familiar with it. It was a one-act comedy regarded as the first modern Turkish play. He opened it up at the marked page and smiled.
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