For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  Lock was happy to see that a bellum flying a Union flag was rapidly approaching from the east. Singh had used the flag in the same way as Lock had, as a clear indicator of whose side they were on, and now the rest of Green Platoon were on their way.

  ‘I see them, Alfred.’

  A whistle blew and Lock’s attention was drawn back to the shore of One Tower Hill. Up ahead Brooke was waving his arm, signalling the advance.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ the captain shouted, ‘off we go!’

  The lead bellums slammed into the shore and the men sprang out, rushing towards the buildings on One Tower Hill, their bayonets glistening in the dawn sunlight. All around the troops sprang out of their bellums as one by one the boats ran ashore. The men splashed through the last few inches of floodwater until they hit the sandy beach. A shrill whistle blasted from the right, and Lock could see Green Platoon’s bellum judder aground just a few feet away. The men of Green Platoon, with Underhill and Harrington-Brown at their head, stormed ashore. Singh and one of the sepoys splashed over to Lock and helped drag the more cumbersome gufa up out of the water.

  ‘It is good to see you, sahib,’ the big Indian beamed.

  ‘You, too, Sid. Put your man on guard with this chap, would you?’

  Lock unholstered his Beholla and turned to the elderly Turk naval officer. ‘I’d kindly ask you to stay put, Liva Amiral,’ he smiled. ‘Wouldn’t want you getting shot now, would we?’

  The elderly Turk nodded his head in agreement and sat rooted to the raised platform at the rear of the gufa, clinging dearly to the Union flag on its pole, knuckles white with the force of his grip.

  ‘Good,’ Lock said. He turned about and leapt over the edge and into the shallows, with Elsworth at his heels.

  ‘Any trouble at One Tree Hill, Sid?’

  ‘None, sahib. The 22nd came quick sharp and began to shoot their machine guns at Norfolk Hill. We then saw a signal flare and guessed that you had found the electrical switch.’

  Lock nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  He glanced over his shoulder to see that Bingham-Smith was still in the gufa.

  ‘Shift your overprivileged arse!’

  Bingham-Smith was fumbling with his rifle as he tried to climb out of the gufa. He slipped and landed on his hands and knees, dropping the rifle in the water. He fished it out, cursed, and stumbled on after Lock, Singh and Elsworth.

  Lock laughed and ran up the sandy shore, troops running to his left and right all stooped, rifles at the ready. There was very little cover, just a scattering of stumpy reeds and scrub grass leading all the way up to the redoubt wall. Over to the eastern edge of the island, Lock could see a small mud-brick hut, exposed and alone, with a wooden jetty jutting out, similar to the layout at One Tree Hill. But the redoubt up ahead was an ominous mud-brick mound some two storeys high. There was a track that weaved its way round the western side, and there was a carved stepped footpath leading directly up from the hut. Lock could make out two more buildings on top of the mound, as well as the Ottoman flag standing tall and proud, flapping in the warm breeze.

  Singh was running alongside Lock now, his kirpan sword drawn, his face fixed in a grimace of concentration. Or pain. Lock knew that his Indian friend was suffering with the wound to his ribs.

  ‘Better than lying in hospital, Sid?’

  Singh’s eyes momentarily darted to Lock. ‘Better, sahib.’

  A volley of rifle fire suddenly spat forth from the top of the redoubt and the men instinctively ducked down. Bullets zipped and fizzed about their ears like angry hornets, thumping into the ground and kicking up the sand at their feet. Then Captain Brooke, urging his troops on at the head of the company, was hit. He was thrown back off his feet and disappeared from sight.

  ‘On, men, on!’ Lock bellowed, immediately taking over should the attack falter. But they were good men with good NCOs amongst them, and not one soldier hesitated. Lock’s battle cry was taken up, and the Company of Oxfords swarmed up the path like an army of ants, following the track up into the redoubt.

  Elsworth knelt down, rifle levelled, the butt jammed hard into his shoulder. He began to fire calmly, with deadly precision, at the enemy manning the walls above them. Bingham-Smith, skin grey with fear, was stumbling on behind, his rifle held out in front of him awkwardly.

  ‘Use it, Smith, use it!’ Lock shouted, grabbing the young officer by the shoulder and shoving him on.

  Bingham-Smith pushed his ill-fitting topi up out of his eyes, raised his rifle, and let off a wild shot.

  Lock urged the troops coming up behind him forward, turned to run with them, then paused. Captain Brooke was lying at his feet, arms flung out to his side, legs twisted at an odd angle. He looked like a broken doll. His half-open eyes were glazed and still, and there was a small hole in his forehead.

  Lock ran on, raising his Beholla, firing up to his left at the high point of the redoubt. He saw two bullets strike and splinter the top of the brick wall, a third hit home, snatching a Turk back and out of sight. Lock’s gaze fell on Bingham-Smith’s back. It was tempting. He licked his lips, gripped his Beholla tighter, but he kept moving.

  All of a sudden the shooting from above stopped. Lock had reached the foot of the stone steps. He moved to one side and crouched low, looking back down the length of the beach. The last of the men were running up, and Lock indicated for them to move both to the left and right, to take cover at the foot of the redoubt wall. There were surprisingly few casualties, much to his relief, and a blessed absence of the plaintive calls for mothers, gods or sergeants from the wounded men. Movement in the corner of his left made Lock turn. Underhill was scrambling towards him.

  ‘What’s ’appenin’, sah?’ the sergeant major said, breathlessly, his face red from exertion.

  Lock leant out cautiously, and peered up the stone steps. ‘I’d say it was over, Sergeant Major.’

  At the top of the flight of steps, Lock could see a British NCO. He was waving his arm from side to side.

  ‘All clear,’ the sergeant shouted down.

  Lock got to his feet and slowly the rest of the men around him followed suit. Elsworth lowered his rifle, but kept scanning the walls above, ever watchful and untrusting. Lock fished out his Woodbines and lit one. He turned to Underhill.

  ‘Casualties? Ours, I mean?’

  ‘None, sah. Not even a scratch.’

  ‘Good,’ Lock said, exhaling a trail of tobacco.

  ‘Lieutenant’s missin’, though.’

  ‘Harrington-Brown?’ Lock said, his cigarette dancing between his lips as he checked the bullet clip of his Beholla. Satisfied, he slammed it back home again. ‘Well, see if you can find him, Sergeant Major, there’s a good chap.’

  Underhill shouldered his rifle and gave a curt nod.

  ‘Then prepare the men,’ Lock added. ‘We’re heading north.’

  Underhill turned back. ‘Sah? We not joinin’ the Espiegle and the rest of the regatta?’

  ‘Not yet, Sergeant Major.’

  ‘Look, sahib,’ Singh interrupted, pointing to the track.

  Marching down, two abreast, their heads dropped and their hands held up, were a number of Turkish troops. They were all dishevelled, disarmed and despondent. Lock studied their faces for a moment searching for the familiar looks of Wassmuss, then his eye was drawn up the track to the flagpole at the top of the tower. It was bare now, but as he watched, the British flag was hoisted high. A cheer rose up.

  ‘Where the hell is Bingham-Smith?’ Lock said, looking about him.

  Elsworth pointed off to the right, down the beach. ‘There, sir.’

  Bingham-Smith was hobbling slowly towards them.

  ‘Where’s your bloody rifle, Captain?’ Lock said. He kept his face as hard and as straight as he could, but he was smiling inside. Bingham-Smith looked like he’d had a torrid time. He’d lost his topi, his face was blackened and streaked with sweat, and his tunic was torn all the way down the left sleeve.

  ‘Bloody thing ex
ploded in my hand, Lock! I knew I should not have listened to you and left my Webley behind,’ Bingham-Smith croaked.

  ‘Are you injured?’

  Bingham-Smith shook his head. ‘I think not.’

  ‘Pity,’ Lock said. ‘Well, you best arm yourself again, and sharpish. Take a dead man’s gun. Second thoughts, here.’ He holstered his Beholla, and pulled the liva amiral’s cumbersome Parabellum pistol from his pocket and handed it to Bingham-Smith.

  ‘But this is a bloody Johnny gun.’

  ‘A gun is a gun, Smith,’ Lock said, glancing back towards the Turkish prisoners. Could Wassmuss be here? he thought, in the guise of Binbaşi Feyzi, amongst these captured men?

  Lock turned his back on Bingham-Smith and walked over to the prisoners who were being corralled on the western shore by a sergeant from the Oxfords.

  ‘Sergeant?’ Lock said.

  The NCO, a short wiry man with a sour face and dark, humourless eyes, didn’t take his attention from his prisoners as he acknowledged Lock. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Any senior officers? Here or above?’

  ‘There’s an artillery colonel or some such.’

  ‘Where?’

  The sergeant jerked his head. ‘Back up top. He’s explaining the layout to your lieutenant.’

  ‘My lieutenant?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant said, turned his dark eyes on Lock. ‘You’re the Mendips aren’t you?’

  Lock nodded.

  ‘Then he’s yours. Some double-barrelled toff type.’

  Lock glanced back over towards his own men. He could see Bingham-Smith standing beside Elsworth. Then he realised. The sergeant had said ‘lieutenant’. It must be Harrington-Brown. How in the hell had he gotten so far ahead?

  ‘What does he look like?’ Lock said.

  The NCO narrowed his eyes for a second. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The Turk officer, Sergeant. Describe him for me. Young? Old?’

  ‘Oh, he’s old, sir, older than my grandfather,’ the sergeant said. ‘Old, bald and fat, with one of those moustaches, waxed and pointing up.’ He mimed the description, waving his fingers under his nose.

  Lock nodded. Wassmuss’s disguises were good, but he knew that this artillery officer wouldn’t be him. Besides, he reasoned Wassmuss would be somewhere a little more secure than a redoubt under threat of invasion. One of the steamers, perhaps?

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. Carry on.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Lock left the sergeant to guard the prisoners, and walked back over to where Singh, Elsworth and Bingham-Smith were standing along with the rest of Green Platoon.

  ‘Right, lads, back to the boats. This isn’t over yet.’

  ‘What do you mean, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘We won, didn’t we?’

  ‘No, Smith, we haven’t won. Not yet. This is just the beginning.’ Lock glanced at his watch. It was a little after 10 a.m. He raised his eyes back up to Bingham-Smith’s face.

  It would appear that Bingham-Smith had found himself a new cap, a captain’s cap. Lock thought that only one captain had been wearing a cap, and that captain was now dead. And although he knew it to be irrational, Lock felt a sudden surge of anger that Bingham-Smith had taken Brooke’s cap for his own. Lock rubbed his chin irritably and tried to calm himself.

  ‘What now, then?’ Bingham-Smith said, clearly mistaking Lock’s silence as hesitation.

  ‘North. Towards Amara.’

  ‘But we need to get the prisoner, that liva amiral, to the Espiegle,’ blustered Bingham-Smith, indicating down the beach to where the gufa and the elderly Turk naval officer were.

  Lock shook his head. ‘First things first.’

  ‘And what in God’s name does that mean?

  ‘It means, I’m the captain of this mission, and the miss—’

  ‘Your mission, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith sniffed, ‘was to disable that electric switch. That prisoner is invaluable, and you should—’

  Lock took a step forward.

  Bingham-Smith instinctively flinched, then straightened up, holding his ground.

  Lock flashed a smile. ‘I see, Smith. Desperate to get off the front line. Very well, you take him, then. But you need to get him to the Shaitan or the Lewis Pelly and fast. He’ll be able to help spot the mines, or at least guide our ships through.’

  Bingham-Smith scoffed. ‘And why on earth would he do that, Lock? He’s the bloody enemy.’

  ‘He’ll do that, Smith, because like you he’s an officer, but unlike you he’s also a gentleman and a man of his word. Besides, he’ll do it because I’ve told him that if he doesn’t, I’ll slice off his eyelids and then tie him to the bow of the lead ship so he’ll be the first to go should it hit one of his mines.’

  Bingham-Smith stared back at Lock in mild surprise. ‘Isn’t that a tad … barbaric, even for you?’

  ‘This isn’t a game of cricket, Smith, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Lock had finally come round to Major Ross’s thinking. This was war and sometimes brutality was necessary.

  ‘But just where are the Shaitan and the Lewis Pelly? It will take us an age to catch the mine ships in the damned bathtub you’ve got us using. And I’ve had enough of bloody paddling.’ Bingham-Smith nodded over Lock’s shoulder. ‘No, I think I shall take the liva amiral there.’

  Lock turned around. The floodwater and the Tigris beyond was full of bellums now, British troops all powering on towards the next Turkish position. And keeping pace with them was the Espiegle. There was a crack and a boom, and the Espiegle’s guns began to spit more death and destruction upon Alloa and Gun Hill, the next Turkish positions just north of Birbeck Creek that ran westwards.

  ‘It will be a damned sight quicker, Lock. They can then take the liva amiral by launch to the … er … Shaitan.’

  Lock narrowed his eyes and studied the progress of the flotilla. Bingham-Smith was right, a launch from the Espiegle would get the Turk officer to the lead ship far quicker than rowing the gufa ever would.

  ‘Very well,’ Lock said. ‘But I’m sending Elsworth with you and a couple of sepoys. They can help paddle. You’d be circling around all week if you went alone.’

  Bingham-Smith stared back at Lock in silence, his mouth a tight, thin line. Lock beckoned Elsworth over. The young sharpshooter had been standing a discreet distance away with Singh and Underhill.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Elsworth said.

  ‘Get back to the gufa. Take two sepoys with you to paddle, and escort our Turkish friend to the Espiegle. Then take him and that cardboard folder I gave you straight to Major Ross. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Elsworth snapped a sharp salute and turned about.

  ‘Oh, and Alfred …’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t take any shit off anyone. Straight to the major, you hear?’

  Elsworth grinned and saluted sharply. ‘Sir. Yes, sir.’

  ‘No, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said, ‘we will report straight to my un … to Colonel Godwinson. He’s our commanding officer—’

  ‘Your commanding officer.’

  ‘He’s a senior officer in—’

  ‘He’s a senior moron, Smith.’

  ‘I’d ask you to stop insulting my uncle, Lock.’

  ‘Why? He does nothing but insult me.’

  ‘That’s different. You’re …’ Bingham-Smith cleared his throat and fell silent.

  Lock glared blackly back at him, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  Bingham-Smith’s eyes fell to Lock’s hands, then flicked back up to his face. ‘Er … very well, Lock,’ he swallowed. ‘Officers together, and all that … I’ll report to … Major Ross as you … suggest.’

  Lock gave a slow nod, but didn’t take his eyes off Bingham-Smith’s for a second. He knew he was lying.

  ‘Right then,’ Bingham-Smith said, ‘lead the way, Lance Corporal.’ He hesitated, then gave a stiff nod to Lock in return, and headed after Elsworth, back down to the shoreline.

  Lock was standing, binoculars in h
and, up at the highest point of One Tower Hill, on the baking flat roof of the tower itself. It was difficult to breathe up there such was the concussive heat being thrown up from the surface. Sweat was already pouring down Lock’s face, stinging his eyes and making his neck smart. He removed his slouch hat, wiped his brow with his sleeve. He unfastened his canteen, and swilled his mouth with tepid water. He spat it out, then raised the binoculars to his eyes again.

  On Townshend’s Regatta went, steadily encroaching the Turkish ribbon of defence. Gun Hill, Shrapnel Hill and the village of Alloa were receiving a merciless pounding from the British artillery, both from land and sea. The 4.7 guns of the flotilla had a devastating effect on the Turkish resistance and morale. There were white flags appearing everywhere Lock turned his gaze, from all along the banks of the Tigris to the redoubts themselves, and long before any British or Indian troops even got close. The 22nd Punjabis had joined the main thrust, moving across from One Tree Hill on the east. The distant thump of artillery to Lock’s left made him turn his attention to the redoubt of Shrapnel Hill, the furthest Turkish defence to the west. He could make out the report of gunfire coming from the Turks’ position and watched as the 103rd Mahrattas pushed on up through the thick reeds. But just as the first of the British bellums landed, the white flags appeared and Lock watched as dozens of Turks emerged from the buildings, their hands and weapons held high as they quickly surrendered.

  Directly opposite, Gun Hill was now silent. Lock scanned across until his eyes rested on Alloa. It was a tiny settlement just a mile to the northeast, sitting on the banks of the Tigris. Again there was no sign of life down there, just more white flags fluttering in the wind from various embrasures in the south-facing walls. If he and his platoon left now, Lock thought, they would get there long before the Espiegle and the rest of the flotilla. Admittedly, there was more reed marsh to negotiate either side of Birbeck Creek before they hit the southern shore of Alloa, but there was a small channel that Lock could see and he estimated that it would just allow his two boats to move up in single file. The flotilla, in the meantime, would have to follow the bend of the river, the reed marsh being too impenetrable for so many of them to take a short cut.