‘Good,’ Lock smiled insincerely. ‘Well, he has orders to shoot you between the eyes if there is so much as a cross word from any of your men. Understand?’
The miralay’s face dropped and his eyes darted from Lock to Elsworth’s rifle. He swallowed. ‘I … I understand. You will have no trouble, Yüzbaşi Bey.’
‘Good,’ Lock said. He turned his back on the miralay and beamed at Ross. ‘All yours, sir.’
‘Lieutenant,’ Ross said to Singleton, ‘have a couple of your men take that flag down and run up our Union Jack.’ He jerked a thumb towards the roof of the Customs House.
Singleton smiled. ‘With pleasure, Major.’ He turned and clicked his fingers at the two seamen standing beside the open gangway to the Shaitan. ‘Bates, Amos … You heard the major. Go grab the spare Jack from the locker and get that gaudy red pirate flag down. On the double.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Amos darted back onto the Shaitan, and returning with a folded Union Jack in his hands, he and Bates hurried into the Customs House to make their way up to the roof.
Ross leant forward and hissed in Lock’s ear, ‘Do you know who that fellow was you threatened?’
‘Threatened? What makes you think I threatened him?’ Lock said innocently.
‘Come, laddie, I don’t need to speak the language to know the tone. Besides, the look on his face told me plenty.’
‘Whoa! Whoa, there!’ came a shout.
Two of the Shaitan’s crew were nervously pointing their rifles at a rapidly approaching Arab infantry cyclist.
‘Hold your fire,’ Singleton ordered, and his men lowered their rifles.
The cyclist gave a tinkle of his bell and a wave of his hand as he wobbled down to the quayside. He skidded to a halt in front of Ross and gave the major a smart salute, immediately spewing forth a rapid stream of Arabic, pointing and gesticulating back up the street he had just ridden down.
Ross turned to Lock and Singleton.
‘Seems there’s a whole battalion of Turkish pompiers at the main barracks ready to surrender.’
‘Pompiers?’ Singleton asked.
‘Fire Brigade.’
‘Firemen? Wanting to surrender?’ Singleton said, looking bewildered.
‘Don’t let the name fool you, Lieutenant; the Fire Brigade Regiment are the crack troops of the Ottoman Empire,’ Ross said. ‘Well, Lock, would you do the honours? I’m staying here to await Townshend’s imminent arrival. Need to get this governor chap to organise supplies for our men. Fifteen thousand mouths to feed, remember?’ he beamed, having raised his voice on mentioning the amount of British troops that were soon to be expected. He, as did Lock, knew damned well that some of the Turkish officers amongst the little gathering on the quayside would have a good knowledge of English.
‘Besides,’ Ross added with a wink, ‘can’t wait to see Godwinson’s face when he hears you took the surrender of a crack regiment of Turkish troops.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Lock said. ‘Sid … Ram Lal … come with me.’ He turned to the Arab cyclist.
The man was wearing a grubby white uniform and the traditional Arab kufiya headcloth with an ’aqal camel hair ring around his head. And, despite having a bandolier full of shells wrapped around his waist, Lock could see that he was unarmed.
‘Right my friend,’ Lock said in Arabic, ‘lead the way.’
The Arab’s dark face cracked into a jagged-toothed smile. He wheeled his bicycle about, and led Lock and the two Indians up into the heart of Amara.
The dust-choked streets of the town were crowded with the Arab inhabitants all looking on in excited awe as Lock and the others marched by. Lock kept his shoulders back and his head high, but inside his stomach was churning. This was insanity, yet it was happening like a dream. Why the Turks and the Arabs of Amara had so readily surrendered, he just couldn’t fathom. The British were outnumbered by at least fifteen thousand to one. But the bluff was holding. He just hoped Townshend and his crazed regatta was close by.
Faces young and old, male and female, watched as Lock marched on. He caught many an eye as he scrunched up the wide, dusty street feeling slightly otherworldly. But he just nodded affably, saying the odd ‘As-salaam alaykum’, and strode on.
The town itself appeared to be well maintained, with street lamps and telegraph lines, and rows of four-storey buildings that were just as impressive and of a similar design to those in the older parts of Basra.
Soon the barracks loomed up ahead. It was a great block of four houses with a common courtyard in front. They passed through the stone arched gates into a vast cloistered yard edged by verandas of little inner courts, and with a bare flagpole in the centre. Waiting for them, like a battalion ready for inspection, were about 500 Turkish soldiers all standing to attention in orderly military rows, with rifles presented. At their head stood the officers, smart and erect in their service uniforms.
Lock gave Singh an uneasy glance, then with his chin held high, strode towards the senior commander.
The officer, a binbaşi, was dressed in the same khaki green as the rest of the Ottoman troops in Amara, but their uniforms bore the distinctive Firemen Regiment badge, a brass fireman’s helmet on a green collar. They also wore steel peakless helmets with a flame-proof cloth hanging down over the back of the neck. The men’s helmets were completely lacquered in red, with a brass Order of the Orta crescent badge in the centre, while the junior officers’ had a polished brass brow, while the senior officers’ were in solid polished brass. They all wore brown leather halter straps, and the men also wore hatchets attached to their belts.
The binbaşi had an angular face, with a strong nose above a deep black and neatly manicured, upturned moustache. He was slightly shorter than Lock, standing at a little under five foot ten, but his body looked lean and athletic under the well-tailored uniform. He can’t have been much older than Lock, either, maybe just thirty at the most. His green eyes peered back with an intense glint, then briefly danced around Lock’s appearance, noting the holstered Beholla, the bullet hole in the left breast of the tunic, the Australia shoulder flashes, the slouch hat, before eventually coming to rest on Lock’s eyes. They flicked from one to the other, and Lock noted the gentle raise of a curious eyebrow.
‘Monsieur le Capitaine,’ the binbaşi said in perfect French, ‘I would like to offer you our unconditional surrender.’
He clicked his heels together, bowed his head and held out his Mauser M1910/14 pistol, butt first.
‘Please, Binbaşi, keep your weapon,’ Lock replied in Turkish, holding his palm up.
The Turkish officer looked Lock in the face with initial surprise, then he nodded, and reholstered his pistol.
‘Thank you, Yüzbaşi. I am Binbaşi Esad Čuvidina. These are my men,’ he said with a flourish of his hand. ‘They are all honourable, good soldiers. And loyal. I have surrendered, therefore they have surrendered. You will have no trouble from them, I give you my word.’ He clicked his boot heels again and gave another little bow of his head.
‘I know who you are, Esad Čuvidina Bey. I saw your troops parade in Constantinople before the war,’ Lock said. ‘Fine men.’
‘You honour us, Yüzbaşi …?’
‘Lock, Kingdom Lock. But no, Binbaşi Bey, you honour us with your surrender,’ Lock said, giving a little bow of his head in return. ‘However, I would request that your men surrender their weapons.’ He glanced over to the far side of the courtyard and to what appeared to be a heavy iron door. ‘Is that a storage vault? Do you perhaps have the key?’
‘Onbaşi Akşener, keys,’ Binbaşi Čuvidina barked.
A corporal broke from the ranks, trotted over, and saluted. He handed out a large bunch of heavy iron keys. Binbaşi Čuvidina nodded over to the large iron door, and the onbaşi saluted again, ran over to the doors, unlocked them, pulled them open, and then ran back. He snapped to attention again. The binbaşi took the keys from him and passed them to Lock.
‘Thank you,’ Lock said. ‘Sid,’ h
e called, and tossed the keys over to the big Indian. ‘Have the weapons piled up in that vault and then lock them away. Don’t want the locals getting any ideas, do we?’
‘Sahib,’ Singh called.
Lock turned back to the Fire Brigade’s commander. ‘If you would, please, Binbaşi Bey, we shall march down to the Customs House at the quayside, where the rest of your fellow officers are, along with the governor.’
‘I hope, Yüzbaşi Lock, that all your commanding officers are as learned and courteous as you,’ the binbaşi said.
‘Some, Binbaşi Bey. But not nearly enough.’
The Turk officer snorted lightly. ‘It is the same in our army. I fear it is the same the world over.’ He gave Lock a smart salute, then turning to the yüzbaşi to his right, passed the order for the men to hand in their weapons. The Turks circled in an orderly fashion, piling their rifles and hatchets inside the storage vault under the watchful eye of Singh and Ram Lal, and turned back to form orderly lines in the courtyard once more.
A basçavuş, sergeant major, holding a large brass parade torch, clearly a symbol of great honour for the regiment, stepped forward a pace. He stamped to attention, and the men behind him all shouted in unison,
Yangın var! Yangın var!
Ben yaniyorum
Yetişin a dostlar
ben yaniyorum.
Lock glanced over to Singh, who was just finishing locking the storage vault shut. He turned and gave a thumbs up, then with Ram Lal at his side made his way over to the gate. Lock moved off with the binbaşi walking regally beside him. The basçavuş came next with the parade torch held aloft and then, marching two abreast, followed the troops of the Constantinople Fire Brigade.
Lock gave Singh and Ram Lal a reassuring wink as he passed back through the stone arch entrance. ‘Bring up the rear, Sid. Make sure nobody strays.’
‘Very good, sahib,’ Singh said, and waited, watching as the Turks filed by.
The crowds of Arab inhabitants were still lining the streets. Lock and his Turkish prisoners marched back down towards the shimmering Tigris; there was a hushed silence as if the populous could not quite believe that their time under Ottoman rule had come to such an abrupt and peaceful end.
A low murmur started up somewhere to Lock’s left, that quickly spread through the crowd like wildfire, and soon the men, women and children alike were shouting and clapping and singing and calling out Allah’s name in joyous celebration.
CHAPTER TWENTY
By the time Lock had made it back to the river front, the Comet was docked along the foreshore. With her were the armed tugboats the Samana and the Lewis Pelly, both with a horse-boat containing a mounted 4.7 gun on tow. The Turkish dignitaries were no longer out on the quayside and there was no sign of Major Ross. The Union Jack that Singleton’s men had taken up to the roof of the Customs House was now flapping gently in the dry, hot breeze. Perhaps they were all inside. Lock was about to go and find out when a marine approached. He was wearing the dark-blue underdress uniform with the distinctive peakless ‘Broderick’ cap, and his trousers, with their red seam down the outside, tucked into brown laced-webbing gaiters and black laced boots, made Lock think of the Red Caps. It gave him an uneasy feeling, and he suddenly regretted leaving Ross to take the surrender, when Singleton would have been perfectly capable of doing the task.
‘Captain Lock, sir,’ the marine saluted. ‘If you will follow me, I’ll show you where the prisoners are to be taken.’
Lock nodded and led the prisoners further on down the quay. They marched on, passing the vast open courtyard of the bazaar, its rib-vaulted domed ceiling like that of the inside of a cathedral. Outside, in front of rows and rows of crates, fishermen were working at repairing their nets, others sorting through the day’s catch. Lock could see baskets full of a carp-like fish, some as big as 70lbs. His mouth watered at the prospect of sitting down to eat one of the monsters.
‘Captain Lock, sir, this way.’
The marine led Lock and his prisoners down some greasy wooden steps and onto the muddy foreshore where local children were crying and laughing as they ran in and out of the water.
‘Where exactly are we taking them?’ Lock said.
‘There, sir.’
The marine pointed to a big iron lighter that was anchored out in the middle of the river.
Look stood with Singh and Ram Lal, watching the transfer of men as gulls screeched and swooped overhead in the morning haze. Two able seamen from the Comet were ankle-deep out in the water, helping to steady the launch, while under the suspicious glare of the marine, the men of the Constantinople Fire Brigade lined up quietly, ready to climb aboard. The launch then sped off to the lighter, unloaded and returned, where the process was repeated.
Lock was thinking about finding a cafe someplace and ordering a good hot meal and some strong coffee, when his mood was broken by a familiar figure slipping and splashing towards him across the mud.
‘Sir, sir … there’s trouble,’ Elsworth gasped, catching his breath.
Lock glanced back along the muddy foreshore towards the Customs House.
‘What is it, Alfred?’
‘Captain Bingham-Smith … and the colonel, sir. I overheard them arguing … with Major Ross, about you … sir. Something to do with …’ Elsworth hesitated.
‘Go on, Alfred. I think I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Lieutenant Harrington-Brown, sir … He’s dead. Only they’re … saying it’s murder, sir.’
‘Sahib,’ Singh said leaning close to Lock’s ear, ‘I would very much advise you to get out of here.’
‘Make a run for it? From Bingham-Smith?’ Lock shook his head. ‘Never, Sid. It was self-defence, and the major knows it.’
Singh shifted uneasily on his feet, throwing glances up towards the Customs House. Lock had never seen his Indian friend look so concerned, so doubtful, before.
‘Look, Sid,’ Lock said, putting a reassuring hand on the big Sikh’s shoulder, ‘I’m not stupid. I know they’re after my blood, but this war’s bigger than any of us, and if they ca—’
‘Captain Lock?’ a voice called from behind.
Lock turned to see three armed marines standing at the edge of the quayside. They didn’t look friendly.
‘You’re to come with us, sir,’ the burly NCO at the front called, as they descended the wooden steps leading down to the muddy foreshore.
‘Oh? On whose orders?’ Lock called back, standing with his hands on his hips waiting for the three marines to get closer.
The rifles the two junior men carried were the older Navy issue Charger-Loading Lee–Enfields. The NCO wore a holstered Webley at his hip, although Lock noted the holster was unclipped.
‘General Townshend’s, sir,’ the NCO said, as he approached.
‘Bugger,’ Lock said. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Lead on.’
‘And you’re to hand over your weapon, sir.’
‘I shall do no such thing.’
The NCO put his hand to his holster and the two marines with him raised their rifles a touch.
‘Sir. It’s not a request, sir. Sorry,’ the NCO said.
‘Listen you—’ Elsworth said, a surprising level of anger in his voice, as he stepped forward.
Lock held up his hand to stop the young sharpshooter making trouble for himself.
‘It’s all right, Alfred. Just a misunderstanding. Here.’ He unclipped his holster and removed the Beholla, but handed it to Singh and not to the NCO. ‘Look after it for me, Sid.’
‘Sir, that’s not—’ the NCO started to protest, but Lock turned a steely glare on him. The NCO thought better of it, his eye dropping to the bullet hole in Lock’s left breast pocket, then back up to Lock’s face. He cleared his throat. ‘If you’d accompany us back to the Customs House, sir,’ he said.
‘Very well, Sergeant.’
Lock splashed on up the foreshore, with the two marines flanking him and the NCO leading the way. Singh and Elsworth followed, leaving Ram L
al with the two able seamen and the first marine to watch over the transfer of the last of the Turkish prisoners.
Lock was sat on a hard chair to the left of a closed, heavy wooden door in the foyer of the Customs House. It was a bland, soulless space, vast and full of echoes. A sweeping staircase curved up from the left leading to a mezzanine level above. Two Tommies, one on a stepladder, the other leaning down precariously from the balcony above, were removing the only form of decoration in the foyer. It was a huge imposing portrait of Enver Pasha, framed by the Ottoman and the German flags, hung just below the balcony. It was the first thing you saw when entering the Customs House, and Townshend wanted it gone. The only other presence in the foyer was an armed marine guard. He was standing on the opposite side of the door to Lock, but his eyes were keeping a close watch on him.
From behind the heavy wooden door, Lock could hear raised voices. He couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but as Townshend, Ross, Godwinson and Bingham-Smith were in there, Lock was confident that he was the subject of their heated debate.
Lock crossed his leg over his knee, sighed, and began to pick at the loose stitching on the brim of his slouch hat held in his lap. He licked his lips and tried to ignore the dryness of his throat. How long had it been since he’d had a decent drink? Christ, he could use a smoke, too.
‘I wonder …’ Lock started to ask the marine guard, before a sudden voice echoing around the foyer interrupted him.
‘I might have known you’d be the cause of all this fuss.’
Lock looked over to the main entrance. Standing in the threshold, leaning against the door jamb, with sun streaming in behind her, was the silhouette of a woman.
Lock grinned, recognising the voice. ‘Pretty Officer Boxer, what brings you to this desolate part of the world?’
‘You do,’ she said striding forward, her shoes click-clacking against the stone floor.
‘I’m honoured.’
‘I wouldn’t be,’ she said, pulling a cigarette from between her lips, and blowing a smoke trail behind her like a slow-moving locomotive.
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