For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  Lock lowered the binoculars and stood gazing out into the mirage.

  ‘Where are you?’ he muttered, his thoughts turning to Wassmuss. He checked his watch. Time to get going.

  He stepped over to the eastern edge of the tower. Below he could make out his platoon at work by the water’s edge, loading up their equipment in the bellum and the gufa, all under the watchful eye of Sergeant Major Underhill.

  Lock made his way down the open stairs to the dank lower levels, and emerged out onto the main courtyard of the tower. It was busy with conversation and activity as British and Indian troops checked through the stockpiles of ammunition and food supplies that had been captured from the Turks. As Lock glanced to his left, he spotted the familiar figure of Harrington-Brown. He was standing in the shadow of a stack of grain sacks, engaged in an animated conversation with an Indian naik.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ Lock called.

  Harrington-Brown disengaged from the Indian and walked briskly up to Lock and saluted. His face was grimy and there was a cut across his left cheek.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Got separated in the push up the beach, sir. Found myself in the thick of the throng bursting into the redoubt,’ he said, pointing to a breach in the redoubt wall. ‘Over there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Light resistance with some ancient artillery officer in command. Seems it’s either old men or young boys in charge of hapless Arab irregulars left to defend the line. Poor resistance, really.’

  Lock studied Harrington-Brown’s face. He didn’t trust this man. He hadn’t since the first time he’d met him.

  ‘Yes, it would appear so. All right, Lieutenant. Go and give Sergeant Major Underhill a hand loading up the boats. We’re moving on to Alloa.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Harrington-Brown gave a quick nod of his head and trotted off.

  Lock lit himself a cigarette and watched the lieutenant go. He thought he saw Harrington-Brown glance briefly in the direction of the Indian naik, but he couldn’t be certain. The Indian naik caught Lock’s eye and quickly went about his business of counting off the grain sacks. Lock drew in a deep lungful of tobacco and sighed. Everywhere, it would seem, there was some conspiracy going on.

  ‘It’s enough to make a man paranoid,’ Lock said to himself, and scoffed.

  Lock made after Harrington-Brown, picking his way through the troops and the debris and abandoned Turkish equipment, down towards the shore. As he hit the scrubby sand, a voice called out to his left.

  ‘Sahib! Sahib!’

  Singh was scrambling down the sand towards him.

  ‘What is it, Sid?’

  ‘You had best come. Trouble with Bing Ham Smith, sahib.’

  ‘Oh, for fu—’ Lock tossed his cigarette aside and trotted up the bank with Singh at his side.

  When they crossed back over to the southern beach, Lock could see that most of the Oxfords had set off again to join the main flotilla of bellums. Only the gufa was still there, tied to the shore.

  Bingham-Smith had the Parabellum pistol raised and Elsworth was standing, ankle-deep in the water, between the officer and the liva amiral. The elderly Turk naval officer was sat, stony-faced, in the back of the gufa, still clinging on to the Union flagpole. Two of the new sepoys were standing a little further up the bank, watching with wide, worried eyes.

  To Lock it appeared that Elsworth was trying to stop Bingham-Smith from shooting the liva amiral.

  ‘I’ll have you court-martialed for this, Lance Corporal,’ Bingham-Smith barked. ‘Now, I shan’t ask again, move!’

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on, Alfred?’ Lock said.

  Elsworth had his hand held up facing Bingham-Smith, as if he was a policeman holding up traffic. ‘The liva amiral refuses to budge, sir. Just keeps saying “hayir”, which I’m guessing is “no”.’

  ‘But just paddle off!’ Lock said in exasperation.

  ‘Can’t, sir. He keeps whacking me with that bloody flagpole.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Lock said, knocking Bingham-Smith’s pistol upwards. The gun went off and Lock shoved the aristocrat away. He pushed past Elsworth, jumped into the gufa, and stormed towards to the elderly Turk. He ducked as the naval officer swung the flagpole at his head, grabbed hold of it, and shoved the Turk forcefully back.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Lock bellowed in Turkish, spittle flying as he glared down at the elderly officer.

  The liva amiral blinked myopically up at Lock and shrugged. ‘I am your prisoner, Yüzbaşi, I will not go anywhere unless I am escorted by you.’

  ‘I’m not your bloody batman, sir,’ Lock fumed.

  The elderly Turk merely tutted and turned his gaze out to the Tigris.

  Lock’s shoulders dropped. ‘Fine,’ he sighed. ‘Bingham-Smith, Elsworth, we’ll take the old goat with us to Alloa. Liva Amiral Bey,’ Lock said, switching back to Turkish and holding his hand out, ‘please step out of the boat. You’re coming with us.’

  ‘That’s not on, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith fumed. ‘I already told you that I am returning to the Espiegle. With the prisoner.’

  Lock flicked his chin out towards the main flotilla on the river. ‘And so you shall, Smith. But she’s well ahead of us now.’

  ‘Then we must catch her, Lock. We must catch her.’

  ‘In this thing?’ Lock said pointing to the gufa. ‘Look, Smith, the Espiegle’s due to halt at Alloa anyway and has to follow the bend of the river. So we will rendezvous with her there.’ He turned away from Bingham-Smith and climbed out of the gufa. ‘Sid, Alfred and …’ He paused, glancing at the two sepoys. The Indians stepped forward apace, and snapped smart salutes.

  ‘Sepoy Addul Tarin, sahib.’

  ‘Sepoy Karamjeet Singh, sahib.’

  Lock nodded. ‘Good lads. Right, dump your gear in the gufa and help Havildar Singh and Lance Corporal Elsworth drag it out of the water and over to the north-west beach.’

  The two sepoys readily did as they were ordered, while Lock lent a hand to the elderly Turk, helping him to climb back out of the gufa and on to dry land. The liva amiral still kept a tight grip of the Union flag.

  Lock eyed the flag with amusement. ‘Liva Amiral, you can let go of the flag now, if you wish.’

  The elderly Turk turned his watery gaze on Lock. ‘Oh, no, Yüzbaşi. It is insurance.’

  Lock smiled and held his hand out, directing the Turk naval officer to walk on ahead. He then waited for the sepoys, Singh and Elsworth to trot by with the gufa held up between them, and then he turned to face Bingham-Smith.

  ‘I was beginning to get more and more suspicious, Smith.’

  ‘Of what?’ Bingham-Smith narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Of you.’

  ‘What the devil do you mean?’

  ‘As to why you are so keen to abandon the chase.’

  ‘Preposterous!’ Bingham-Smith spat.

  ‘Is it? But then I realised that you’re not suspicious at all.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Bingham-Smith nodded in agreement.

  ‘You’re just a coward.’

  Bingham-Smith’s mouth went slack.

  ‘I …’ he spluttered, but Lock had already turned on his heels.

  ‘You coming, Smith? Or are you going to try and swim after Uncle Goddy?’ Lock called back over his shoulder.

  Bingham-Smith muttered a curse, then scooping up the Parabellum pistol from the sand, he followed the others up the beach.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Already the heat was so terrific that it was hard to concentrate properly. The temperature must have been well into the high nineties and Lock found it energy sapping just watching the sepoys struggle to move the bellum and the two gufas through the thick reeds. Salt-sweat stains were already creating intricate circular patterns on the backs of their khaki tunics, but the Indian lads kept at it. Progress was slow, and the men had begun to appear drowsy under the effort. The insects buzzing and biting around the
m were relentless, as was the merciless furnace of the sun overhead. The only break in the monotony was Underhill’s hoarse voice barking out ‘wake up, darkie!’ whenever a sepoys’ head bobbed forward. And even Elsworth hadn’t the energy to sing one of his insufferable tunes.

  Lock had split Green Platoon into three squads ready to attack the village. In the gufa with Lock, sat working the paddles, were the two sepoys, Addul Tarin and Karamjeet Singh. Elsworth, as before, was at the bow, scoped rifle at the ready, Singh was sat just behind the young sharpshooter, while Lock himself was sat towards the rear with the liva amiral at the very back. The old Turk officer had nodded off and was snoring softly now. He still held the Union flag and pole between his crossed arms, but it was now lying flat across the gunwales.

  In the second gufa was Harrington-Brown, with Chopra and Ram Lal and two of the new sepoys at the paddles. Taking point was the bellum, with Bingham-Smith out at the very bow. Lock could see the pompous arse’s shoulders hunched forward, his head low as it jerked from left to right like a nervous chicken. Behind him sat Toor, then four of the new sepoys manning the oars, while Underhill was at the stern manning the guiding pole.

  Everyone was crouched as low as they comfortably could be, in silence. The only sound they made above their harsh breathing was the repetitive lifting and plunging of the poles and oars in the water and the occasional smack of a hand against the bite of incessant mosquitoes. The water splashed and sloshed about them, with the reeds rustling gently as the boats squeezed by. Way over to the east, Lock could hear the continuous distant thump of shellfire, and the crack of rifle shots mixed with the occasional rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. But up ahead, Alloa appeared silent and deserted.

  Lock removed his slouch hat and wiped the dripping sweat from his brow. His wound had begun to itch like crazy and it took all of his willpower not to scratch at it. He slapped his neck and cursed under his breath. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was now well past midday. Squinting forward into the hazy mirage, he hoped there wouldn’t be any surprises waiting for them at the village, and that he could at least let the men rest up for a bit in the shade of the buildings.

  So far they had been fortunate; not one casualty or injury to a member of his platoon. He still didn’t know if Pritchard and the two sepoys had made it safely back to Qurna. But he trusted that they had, and that they would now be with the main thrust of the attack. Lock knew that this good fortune couldn’t last, but, by God, he was going to savour it while it did. Yet, doubt was nagging at the back of his mind. Yes, he was eager to push on after Wassmuss, but did he have the right to risk his men’s lives for, if he was honest, what was rapidly becoming a personal vendetta? He mentally shrugged. No, he was being hard on himself. Wassmuss was the enemy, his network vast and destructive, and by bringing the German down, the threat would be at an end. Wouldn’t it?

  Lock pinched the bridge of his nose. Fatigue and the heat was making his head swim. He could use a rest himself, just thirty minutes of blissful sleep. And a drink. Christ, he could use a proper drink. He licked his dry lips, but didn’t reach for his water canteen. That was not the kind of drink he wanted, anyway, no matter how parched he was. He swallowed dryly and grimaced. Best to wait until they hit the shore and knew what lay ahead.

  They were to beach and spread out to the east and west, encircling the redoubt as they did on One Tree Hill. Lock’s squad would go in through the centre. This time, however, he was acutely aware that they didn’t have the cover of darkness, albeit, a darkness illuminated by the full moon. And despite the number of white flags flapping in the heavy hot breeze, Lock wasn’t going to be complacent. The men were on high alert, bayonets were fixed, and although the atmosphere was draining, Lock knew they were ready to storm the redoubt.

  He wiped his brow again and fixed his slouch hat back on his head. The reeds were beginning to thin out and the village of Alloa was drawing ever closer.

  ‘Be wary, lads,’ Lock called when the boats finally passed through the reed marsh and out on to open water. All three vessels spread out, with Underhill and Bingham-Smith’s on the left and Harrington-Brown’s on the right, furthest east and closest to the wide expanse of the Tigris.

  Alloa was little more than a collection of dilapidated reed and mud huts, mostly roofless and most with little more than half a wall left standing. But it was still a perfectly adequate spot for a concealed machine gun nest, or for a sniper to lie in wait. So, everyone instinctively ducked down as low as they could during that last hundred yards of flood. The boats were making slow progress to cover the distance, but then Lock felt the bottom of the gufa he was in begin to catch against objects beneath the surface of the water.

  ‘Over the side, boys!’ Lock called, and followed his words up and out of the gufa.

  Everyone plunged ashore. Lock ran, crouched low, Beholla drawn. He made it to the first piece of suitable cover, a low wall behind which stood a row of fishing poles, broken and twisted like an abandoned child’s climbing frame, and paused.

  Each moment that passed, Lock expected gunfire to spit forth its indiscriminatory fury. But the crumbling walls of the village outskirts offered nothing but a great, yawning silence. Lock glanced to his left, catching the eye of Underhill. Lock held up his hand, fingers splayed, and mouthed ‘five minutes.’ Underhill nodded his understanding, then scooted off with his squad in tow. Bingham-Smith hesitated, staring directly at Lock. Then, stooped so low that he was practically running bent double, and with one hand clutching onto his officer’s peaked cap should it fall off, and the other gripping tightly to the Parabellum pistol, he stumbled after Underhill.

  Lock turned to his right and again held his hand up and mouthed ‘five minutes’ to Harrington-Brown. The lieutenant gave a curt nod, then he too led his squad off, picking their way cautiously towards the eastern side of the redoubt.

  Lock turned his attention to the main building of the redoubt that loomed directly ahead of him. It was an imposing wall at least three storeys high. There was a large set of barn doors in the centre, one of which was blown off from its hinges. There were no windows, only two embrasures, one either side of the doors, cut high enough for a man to stand behind with a rifle poised. Only there was no rifle barrel or heavy gun turret poking out, just a solitary white cloth flapping limply from the right-hand embrasure.

  ‘It looks as if Johnny has left this place to its fate, sahib,’ Singh said from close to Lock’s side.

  ‘Yes, but be wary of snipers, Sid. All right, I’ll go in first.’

  Lock scrambled up and vaulting over the low wall, zigzagged through the fishing poles and made a dash for the barn doors. His heart was in his mouth as he skipped over the scabby, debris-strewn ground, but it was only a matter of seconds before he reached the gaping black doorway. He thumped his back into the wall to one side and stood still, catching his breath, ears peeled for any sound of movement inside. He signaled for Singh to follow.

  The big Indian leapt over the low wall, and made a darting, weaving run. He stood with his back to the redoubt wall on the opposite side of the doorway and gave Lock a brief nod. Singh then gave a low whistle and Sepoys Addul Tarin and Karamjeet Singh scampered over to join him.

  A fall of rocks made Lock snap his head back to the low wall behind the fishing poles. He caught sight of the Union flag hanging limply. Elsworth’s face peered over the wall and Lock held his hand up indicating for him to wait there. The young sharpshooter nodded his understanding and ducked back down. The liva amiral’s face appeared briefly, but was quickly dragged away again.

  ‘Jesus, why didn’t I just shoot that stubborn old goat in the first place?’ Lock muttered.

  He turned back to the doorway and checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go before the five minutes he’d indicated to both Harrington-Brown and Underhill had passed. But there had been no gunshots, so no one had run into any resistance.

  ‘So far, so good,’ Lock said to Singh. He unbuttoned his breast pocket and pu
lled out the silver trench whistle Major Hall had given him at Shaiba. Placing it between his lips he watched the second hand on his watch tick home, then blew three short, sharp blasts.

  Lock burst through the door with Singh and the two sepoys close behind. At the same instant, he was aware of Underhill’s and Harrington-Brown’s squads rushing in from the left and from the right, their guns at the ready.

  Lock held up his hand and stopped dead in his tracks. Underhill and Harrington-Brown did the same.

  Inside, the place was knocked to pieces. It was a vast open shell, nothing but four walls with embrasures on each side, and open doorways. Most of the roof was missing, with many bare and charred joists visible above. It was as if they were standing inside the ribcage of some great prehistoric skeleton. Daylight streamed down through the broken ceiling making intricate patterns with the shadows of the joints and the dust particles that floated and danced in the air. The walls were as pockmarked on the inside as they were on the outside, with bullet and shell holes. A rickety wooden staircase ran up the left-hand wall and disappeared through an open access to the roof.

  There were no bodies visible, but in the middle of the building, sat next to a silent Krupp field gun, his head held in his hands, was a dishevelled Turkish artillery officer. He hadn’t even looked up when Lock and the others had burst in.

  Lock indicated for his men to stand down and holstered his Beholla.

  ‘Sergeant Major … Lieutenant … Sid …’ he said, ‘secure the perimeters of the building and place a man at each and every corner.’

  The trio quickly set about organising the sepoys under their charge to place themselves at the embrasures and crouched near to the open doorways, ready to defend against any sudden attack.

  Lock walked over to the Turk officer and stopped in front of him.

  ‘Yüzbaşi?’ Lock said softly.

  The Turk didn’t stir.

  ‘Yüzbaşi?’ Lock snapped, clicking his fingers in front of the Turk’s nose.