For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

‘Don’t you remember, Sid? Back in Shaiba? Those AFC boys we saw lugging fuel barrels?’

  ‘AFC?’ It was Singleton. He had stepped out of the wheelhouse and was now standing next to Lock and Singh, a pair of binoculars in his hands.

  ‘Australian Flying Corps, Lieutenant.’

  ‘I didn’t know that there were any aircraft in this part of the world.’

  ‘Just three, hence their name: the Australian Half-Flight,’ Lock said.

  ‘I see,’ Singleton said, putting the binoculars to his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘it looks as if this one is heading our way.’

  The aeroplane was now clearly visible to the naked eye as it banked slowly and moved towards them. The beat of its engine grew louder and within minutes Lock could make out the blue, white and red stripes on its double tail fins and the shape of the pilot and his observer in the centralised, open-air nacelle. This aeroplane was different from the ones Lock was familiar with from his time in China in that, though it was still a two-seater biplane with a wood frame covered in tight canvas, this was a pusher aircraft, so called because the engine was located in front of the rear-facing propeller in the rear of the nacelle. The slab-sided nacelle had a rounded front end topped by a small windscreen, and was sat suspended within a network of struts connecting the upper and lower wings. The pilot and the observer sat well forward of the wings, making it ideal for spotting and, Lock guessed, bombing. The large registration ‘20’ was daubed in white numerals just below the observer’s seating position.

  The windscreen caught the sun and flashed brilliantly as the aeroplane putted overhead. The observer waved down to them, then dropped something that fell onto the afterdeck with a clang. One of the seamen scooped the object up and handed it to Singleton. It was a metal canister.

  The aeroplane backfired as it climbed again, hacking and spluttering its way back downriver towards Qurna. Lock’s eye followed the plane as it swooped and banked down once more. There was another ship that had just rounded the corner of the river some 500 yards behind. It was the Espiegle. The aeroplane appeared to drop another object to them, then swooped and coughed its way up again and continued on its way south.

  Bugger, Lock thought. Townshend was bound to hail the Shaitan to hold now that they had caught up with them.

  Singleton unscrewed the canister and removed a folded paper from inside.

  ‘Well, this confirms my suspicions, Lock,’ Singleton said, as he read the note. ‘Listen. “Enemy in full flight northward”.’

  Lock nodded, but he didn’t smile. The Espiegle was right upon them and Wassmuss was slipping away. He squinted after the rapidly receding aeroplane. If only he could get in it and fly back on up the Tigris, catch and somehow stop the Marmaris. One of Pritchard’s jam-tin bombs dropped from the cockpit would be all that he’d need. But Pritchard wasn’t here, and the aeroplane was heading in the opposite direction.

  ‘Captain,’ Singleton said, ‘I propose full steam ahead, as full as the bends and twists in this damned river will allow, that is.’

  Lock turned to Singleton and smiled. ‘Are you sure, Lieutenant? I don’t want to jeopardise your command.’

  ‘Balls, Lock,’ Singleton smiled wryly. ‘I’m as keen to end this as you. We delay any further and the Turk will just regroup and hold.’ He jutted his chin downriver. ‘Besides, the Espiegle and her sister ships won’t be able to travel much further, I think. The river was some 270 yards across at Qurna. It’s getting narrower all the time, down to under a hundred already. Those sloops are going to become increasingly encumbered with navigating.’ He turned his gaze upriver and pointed. ‘According to my map, Ezra’s Tomb is just around this next bend and I’ll hazard a guess that they’ll have to halt there. If we hang back, the general will undoubtedly hail us to hold too.’ He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Well,’ Lock smiled sheepishly back, ‘we can’t have that, can we?’

  Singleton nodded. ‘Jolly good. Right, hang tight. Coxswain?’ he shouted, marching back to the wheelhouse. ‘Full-speed ahead.’

  The Shaitan steamed on, with the Lewis Pelly still keeping pace behind, and with the Espiegle and the rest of Townshend’s Regatta following on some distance back.

  The river current was quickening and in its convolutions round the bends, the tug jerked violently to either side. Singleton barked orders to his men, and between much cursing and physical strain they began to use poles to force the ship away from the muddy reed-choked banks. The coxswain wrestled with the wheel in his fight not to let the vessel slam into the mudbanks. All Lock and his men could do was watch and hold on tight as the Shaitan slid to either side of the banks seemingly out of control, then suddenly the launch swung back and straightened out again. Lock looked back to see the Lewis Pelly struggle in the same way, but then it too passed through and chugged on after them. How the larger sloops would cope with such a tight and powerful bend, Lock couldn’t imagine, but no vessel looked to be slowing and soon he saw the Espiegle nose its way around the corner.

  The river straightened out again and the launch-tugs chugged onwards, with the sloops racing after them. However, the river was narrowing at an alarming rate. Still there was no sign of the Turk steamers. But Lock, for the first time, felt a twinge of hope in his gut that they would catch them after all when finally he spotted their distant smoke.

  The day moved on. The liva amiral was relieved of his task and escorted to the stern of the boat by Ram Lal. The elderly Turk settled himself down and spent his time either studying his play or dozing. There was no sign of any enemy troops or any Marsh Arabs on the banks both to the east and west, and there was little to do but watch the heat haze dance and shimmer on the horizon. When Ezra’s Tomb came into sight, the sun had begun to sink towards the horizon.

  On the western bank, nestling in a clump of date palms, an oasis sat on an otherwise open stretch of river, was a collection of buildings. Behind a battlemented wall, there was a domed mosque and what appeared to be a courtyard. The tops of a number of trees were just visible inside. There was also a string of telegraph poles running into the distance. Some of the outer buildings were in ruins, but the dome and yellow walls of the courtyard, decorated in bands and splashes with simple but beautiful glazed bricks of dark green, looked to be intact. The dome itself was made with perfect curves, coloured in a blend of every shade from sea-green, to lilac and mauve and blue, to a deep iridescent purple. It positively took Lock’s breath away as they slowly chugged past, and such was the complete evaporation of enemy resistance, he, along with his men and the crew of the Shaitan, could stand and drink in the ancient beauty of Ezra’s Tomb with time to spare. And as Lock watched, the red glowing orb of the sun dipped lower on the horizon to the west, and suddenly the whole tomb changed colour again, becoming a mirror to the pinking sky above them, to the swaying green tops of the nearby palms, and to the darkening tawny flood of the river below that sloshed and slapped right up to the very walls of the buildings.

  ‘A magnificent sight, is it not, Captain?’ Singleton said.

  ‘Beautiful, Lieutenant,’ Lock whispered.

  ‘I’m just glad the shells from the Espiegle’s guns missed it,’ Singleton said.

  Lock nodded in agreement, and his gaze followed the line of the river and the smoke trails up ahead. ‘How long before we have to stop?’

  ‘It will be dark in half-an-hour or so, then we can’t risk carrying on. Not until moonrise, anyhow. But we’re gaining on them.’

  As they passed the tomb, the land beyond flattened out considerably. The river still snaked on ahead like a serpent, but it was becoming increasingly hard to judge where the deeper channel of the Tigris ended and the shallow flood plains began. Singleton was shouting instructions from the wheelhouse to his midshipman and the crew, all of whom were leaning over the gunwales with sounding lines. The coxswain, in a mist of sweat and curses, had to throw the wheel to the left and to the right, constantly correcting the Shaitan’s direction to avoid running
aground.

  ‘Sid,’ Lock called to Singh, ‘have you got my pack?’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  Lock rummaged in his haversack and pulled out his binoculars. The rear of the enemy shipping was now clear to see.

  At that moment Townshend must have spotted the very same, for suddenly the air was angry with the passing of screaming shells as the Espiegle’s 4.7 guns opened fire on the fleeing Turks. Lock watched as water fountains from shell impacts erupted into the air all around the Turk boats. It was only a matter of time now, surely. Lock’s palms felt damp with anticipation, and he lowered the binoculars and pulled out his cigarettes. A smoke would help calm his excitement. But he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

  ‘I’m coming, you bastard,’ he muttered staring ahead.

  As darkness rapidly gathered around them like an enveloping cloak, the Shaitan pushed on, moving on up into the Narrows, the stretch of river between Ezra’s Tomb and Qala Salih.

  ‘Up ahead, sir,’ came a cry from Elsworth at the bow.

  Lock turned and stared ahead into the gloom. ‘I see them,’ he said, unholstering his Beholla.

  Just up ahead was a mahaila, a Turkish barge, jammed on the muddy bank at the edge of a vast reed marsh.

  ‘Action stations!’ Singleton shouted, and there followed a great commotion as his sailors armed themselves with rifles and stood at the ready. Two gunners positioned themselves at the launch’s 1-3pdr gun, and Lock indicated for his men to take up defensives positions with the Shaitan’s crew.

  Singleton came up alongside Lock at the bow, a Webley gripped in his hand.

  ‘Must have been cut adrift from one of the steamers,’ he said. ‘Slowing them down, I’d wager.’

  Two powerful torches shot their beams out into the growing gloom, and as the Shaitan came alongside the barge, dozens of haunted faces squinted back at them. The barge was full of Turkish Mehmetçiks who to a man raised their hands in surrender.

  ‘Please, effendim, save us,’ came many a plaintive cry.

  ‘Sid,’ Lock called, ‘take a couple of men and gather any weapons they have, and throw them into the water.’

  ‘We’ll have to anchor here, Lock,’ Singleton said, ‘and wait for the moon to rise. It’s just too dangerous to carry on in the dark.’

  ‘Very well, Lieutenant. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with this lot,’ Lock said, indicating to the Turkish soldiers.

  ‘Good,’ Singleton said. ‘The Espiegle and the other sloops will have to be doing the same. And don’t worry, the Turks up ahead won’t be able to continue on, either.’

  He signalled to the coxswain for the engines to be cut, and as soon as they were, a great cacophony of human voices could be heard crying out from further away in the gloom.

  ‘Searchlight,’ Singleton ordered, and at once a great beam cut through the dark. It wavered about the reed marsh, then came to a halt.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Singleton said.

  Lock could see two more Turkish lighters packed with troops only a few yards off, and beyond them, just visible in the beam of light, was a half-sunken steamer, listing on its side.

  ‘Who are you?’ Lock called out in Turkish.

  ‘We surrender, effendim!’ came a cry from the dark.

  ‘What vessel are you?’

  ‘The Bulbul, effendim. We were hit below the waterline. There are many Arabs creeping about in the marsh. Please help us.’

  ‘Sounds desperate,’ Singleton said.

  ‘They are. They say the surrounding marsh is teaming with hostile Arabs. Can you blast a few rounds into the distance? Scare them off if they are skulking about still?’

  Singleton nodded and indicated to his gunners. ‘Four shells. Two hundred yards. When you’re ready.’

  The gunners wheeled about, raised the turret and let off four rounds in quick succession. They fizzed off into the night and exploded in a mass of mud and water a good distance beyond the stricken Bulbul.

  A great hush fell over the Turkish soldiers, and then, like a gathering cloud of insects, a general murmur of excitement filled the air.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have any trouble for a while. From these poor souls, or any Marsh Arabs.’

  ‘Let’s hope you are right, Lock. I feel rather exposed out here. This is a damned lot of men. And it’s only one of their steamers. How many more barges full of troops are being towed by the other boats?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant. The Turks can’t have any idea how many there are of us coming up behind them. I think they’re in a real panic. So, let’s keep them guessing.’

  Singleton didn’t look too confident. ‘Very well, Lock. But we’ll have to go on alone as soon as the moon rises. I can’t leave this many prisoners behind us without a guard. The Lewis Pelly will have to stay behind.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Lock said.

  ‘And I think it best that we say goodbye to our Ottoman guest also.’

  ‘Yes, I was thinking the same. Liva Amiral?’ Lock called.

  The elderly Turk officer shuffled out of the gloom clutching his book to his chest.

  ‘It is time for you to leave us.’

  The liva amiral blinked back at Lock, a look of suspicion clouding his face.

  ‘It is too dangerous for you to continue on upriver with us, so I’m having you escorted over to the Lewis Pelly. You will be well looked after, Liva Amiral, I promise you.’

  The liva amiral glanced back at the dark silhouette of the other launch, then nodded. ‘I do not like it, Yüzbaşi, but I understand. I shall however refuse to talk until your return.’

  ‘As you wish, Liva Amiral,’ Lock said. ‘Harrington-Brown?’

  The lieutenant came up to Lock.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Escort the liva amiral to the Lewis Pelly. We’re going on without him.’

  ‘You’ll find a dinghy tied to the stern, Lieutenant,’ Singleton said.

  Harrington-Brown gave a stiff nod and then held his hand out politely for the elderly Turk officer to lead the way back towards the stern.

  The next few hours passed peacefully considering the situation that Lock and his men and the crew of the Shaitan found themselves in. It was a still and stiflingly hot night, and as Lock sat alone on the deck, back against the gunwale, too wired to sleep, he wondered just how long the marsh would last. The occasional footfall broke the monotony as a sentry paced to and fro, and at one point Lock thought he heard the splash of an oar. But peering out into the darkness he could see nothing. He remained there at the gunwale listening intently, but he could pick nothing out other than the chorus of snores coming from prisoners and crew alike.

  He settled back down on the deck, and suddenly found his thoughts turning to Amy. Perhaps the real reason for his desperation to keep moving, to keep chasing, was that it distracted him from thinking about her. And now, as he had to sit in the dark, up she popped again. Why was his mind so cruel? He sighed. Being sat on this boat deck just conjured up happier memories of when he and Amy would meet secretly, nightly, on the poop deck of the RIMS Lucknow. If only he could return to then, standing with her, embracing her under the stars as the ship pitched and heaved over the Indian Ocean.

  Bugger, this had to stop. He’d lose his mind before long, and he couldn’t afford to do that, to take his eye off the ball.

  ‘Bugger you, Amy,’ he whispered to himself. But he didn’t mean it, he could never mean it. His feelings for her were stronger than anything he’d felt before, stronger than his love for Mei Ling. He knew that now.

  Lock let out a soft moan of despair, and put his head in his hands. ‘If I could just get you out of my bloody head. Damn you, girl, damn and bloody bugger.’

  The sentry passed close by. ‘You all right, sir?’ a voice whispered from the dark.

  Lock stared up at the shadow looming over him. ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely, ‘just a bad dream.’

  ‘Well, try to keep it down, sir,’ the sentry said, and moved away again.

  ‘B
ugger off!’ Lock muttered after him. He shifted his tender buttocks, stretched, and felt his spine crack. He leant back and rubbed his stiff neck. Looking up through the gap between the gunwale and the canvas roof awning, he began to search the sky, and set his mind to finding as many constellations and planets he could in an effort to blank out Amy. He sighed and swore after what could have only been five minutes. It just wasn’t working.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A little before 2 a.m., the moon rose. Lock checked his watch and calculated that they had been stationary for just over five hours now. He just hoped that the Marmaris hadn’t been able to navigate any further upriver than they had. He pulled himself to his feet, sucked in his teeth as his left knee cracked loudly, and stretched his aching, stiff limbs. His backside was numb.

  Lock moved to the bow and peered ahead. It was as bright as day now, with the near full moon throwing a silvery light across the landscape that spread like a white fire. He was just wondering how long before the Espiegle came up to them when the heavens exploded.

  The Shaitan’s crew scrambled to their feet and each man peered from under the awning back down the length of the Tigris. Behind them the Espiegle, the Clio and the Odin seemed to be moving up fast, their guns spitting roaring hate towards the Turkish vessels that were so easy to see now across the flat flood plain to the west. Great dark plumes of water exploded into the air as shells fell around the enemy ships.

  Lock felt the deck shudder under his feet as the Shaitan’s engines fired up with a great cough of smoke and a bone-shaking jolt. The launch began to move forward once more, and Lock felt his spirits rise. They were so close, now. He turned back to the bow and stood, peering ahead into the steely light, his hand resting on the barrel of the 3-pdr that still radiated heat from a day in the sun and its brief call to action at dusk.

  They rounded a bend, and the river widened again, opening up to nearly 200 yards in places. Lock leant forward, suddenly alert, feeling the skin on the back of his neck tingle with tentative hope. They were rapidly gaining on the ship at the rear of the Turkish retreat. His hand gripped tighter on the gunwale, and he clenched his teeth. God, they were nearly upon her.