For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  Lock got to his feet, a move that unnerved the nearby marine guard, who took a step towards him, rifle raised.

  ‘Easy, tiger,’ Betty snarled to the guard. ‘He ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

  The guard scowled back at her, eyes dropping to the three chevrons on her sleeve. He frowned, then took a step back to his post, having made the decision to leave be.

  Lock couldn’t help but run his eye up and down Betty as she walked closer. She was no longer dressed in the heavy blue serge uniform, but had swapped it for more sensible summer whites. She had on a single-breasted Norfolk-style coat, decorated with gilt buttons and a rating badge on her left sleeve. The skirt was hemmed to no more than four inches above her slender ankle and her shirt was open at the neck with a standard Navy neckerchief completing the look. She was hatless and her lightly curled, thick raven hair was hanging loose to just above her shoulders. It bounced, as did the rest of her, in time with her movements.

  She came to a halt a mere step from Lock, and stared up at him through narrowed dark-brown eyes.

  ‘What happened to that ridiculous straw hat?’ Lock said.

  Betty scoffed and took the cigarette out of her wide mouth again. She held it up and raised a slim eyebrow. ‘From Cairo.’

  Lock took the offered cigarette, noted the pale lipstick mark, then put it between his own lips, and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and let the sweet Egyptian tobacco coat his mouth and tongue.

  ‘God, that’s good,’ he sighed. ‘Thanks. So, why are you here?’

  ‘I’m escorting you back to Basra. Doesn’t look good, you know, about this assassination thingy.’

  Lock shrugged. ‘I may be up for more than that now.’

  Betty gave Lock one of her lopsided, wry smiles. ‘Such a bad boy.’

  ‘So are you taking me back all on your own?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ Betty snorted lightly. ‘You ain’t to be trusted. I bought some of the Red Cap boys with me. They’re hanging around outside,’ she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

  Lock smiled and continued to smoke.

  ‘We had to let Grössburger go,’ Betty said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Pressure from APOC and the Swiss consulate. He’s got some powerful friends.’

  ‘Don’t they all,’ Lock scoffed. ‘Tell me, how did you get here?’

  ‘Boat. Same as you.’

  ‘No chaperone?’ Lock mocked.

  Betty gave him a withering look. ‘I had some nurses for company. General Nixon was so confident of victory that he arranged for medical staff to be ready to set up a hospital here. I’m thinking that the Brits want Amara to be their new administrative centre before long.’

  Lock nodded. ‘Nurses, hey?’

  ‘That’s right. Mind you, I’ve heard that you didn’t have too many casualties.’

  Lock had drifted off into thought. Could Amy be among the nurses?

  ‘I was saying,’ Betty said, ‘not too many injuries.’

  Lock focused on Betty again. ‘What? Oh … no … nothing like Shaiba. Incredible really. Tell me, Bet … Petty Officer … was a Miss Townshend one of the nurses?’

  ‘Shoot, I don’t know,’ she said with a touch of irritation. ‘Why, she your sweetheart?’

  Lock shrugged. ‘Was.’

  ‘Uh, huh,’ Betty said, nodding slowly. ‘Sounds as if you don’t like the situation.’

  Lock was about to reply, but his answer was cut short by the door behind him suddenly opening. The guard snapped to attention and Lock turned to see Ross staring back at him. The major gave a brief nod to Betty, then beckoned for Lock to come in.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lock said to Betty, tipping his forelock mockingly and passing her back the cigarette.

  Ross held the door open wide for Lock, then shut it firmly behind him.

  The office was a surprisingly tranquil room, not at all militaristic, and reminded Lock of the headmaster’s study he had stood in once too often when he was a child. Huge French windows were open at the far end, and Lock could see an invitingly cool courtyard outside with a lone palm tree in its centre offering ample shade. The only sound was the soft chirruping of birds and the gentle patter of water from some unseen fountain. In front of the French windows was a desk, behind which sat a stony-faced General Townshend. He didn’t look at all well to Lock, his skin grey and taut, his eyes bloodshot and watery. The desk was bare except for a single candlestick telephone, the cardboard file of documents he had taken from the liva amiral and then later given to Bingham-Smith, and a Webley. And something …

  Oh, bugger, Lock thought. His knife.

  There were two more chairs lined up to the left of the desk. Colonel Godwinson, legs crossed, cane tap-tapping lightly against his boot, was sat in one, Bingham-Smith, with his usual smug smirk written across his face, was sat in the other. Lieutenant Singleton was standing, smoking a cigarette, on the far side of the room in front of a large, empty stone hearth cut into the wall. Major Ross crossed the room to join the Royal Navy commander. Beneath the tobacco and leather, the room smelt faintly of mint tea.

  Lock, slouch hat in his hand, stood to attention in the middle of the Herati-patterned Persian rug that dominated the room, and waited.

  ‘Bloody fellow doesn’t even shave,’ Godwinson grumbled, his blue-grey eyes boring into Lock. ‘Never seen him with a smooth chin. A damned disgrace.’

  Townshend coughed lightly and Godwinson fell silent.

  ‘Sir, I …’ Lock started to say, but the general just glared back at him. Lock snapped his mouth shut.

  ‘Two things, Lock,’ Townshend said. ‘One. Did you disobey a direct order from your commanding officer and refuse to transfer a valuable prisoner to the command vessel, the Espiegle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rot!’ Godwinson spat. ‘Casper …’ He paused, clearing his throat to correct himself. ‘Bingham-Smith is your superior officer and after he led the assault on One Tree Hill he discovered that there was an important Turkish officer—’

  Lock began to laugh.

  ‘What the devil?’ Godwinson spluttered, turning to Townshend. ‘See? This man is not fit to lead men!’ He turned back to Lock, rising from his seat, his face a deep crimson, eyes bulging with fury. ‘This is not a joke, you nasty little colonial … blaggard. How dare you?’

  Lock was shaking with the effort of trying to hold in his laughter. But it was no good, for the more he tried, the more Godwinson bleated and blustered, and the more Lock found it hilarious.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it, I say.’ Godwinson lunged forward, his cane raised.

  There was a vicious snap as the cane sliced through the air. But Lock’s hand shot straight up and caught it just inches away from his face. He gripped it tightly and glared back at the colonel, all his laughter evaporated.

  ‘Uncle …’ Bingham-Smith was standing, his hand on Godwinson’s arm in an attempt to calm him.

  Godwinson shook him off irritably. ‘Keep out of this, Casper.’

  ‘Sit down. Please, Colonel,’ Townshend said calmly.

  Lock let go of the colonel’s cane, with a forceful shove. Godwinson glared back, the colour high on his neck, but he stepped away and sat himself down again.

  ‘You had two points, sir,’ Lock said, turning his gaze back on Townshend. He could hear Ross’s sharp intake of breath, but he no longer cared at what these men thought. They had already decided his fate. That much was clear. There was nothing left for him to do but get this over with and get the hell out.

  Townshend narrowed his eyes and his mouth took on a hardness Lock had never seen before. The general took a deep breath through his nostrils.

  ‘Two. Did you kill Lieutenant Harrington-Brown?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lock didn’t even hesitate to reply.

  Townshend sighed and slumped back in his chair. He stared at Lock long and hard and gave a barely detectable shake of his head.

  ‘I note with interest the engraved words on this dagger,’ the general said eventu
ally, leaning forward and picking up the blade from the desk in front of him. ‘“For Kingdom and Country”.’

  He raised his eyes and fixed Lock with a steely glare. ‘There’s no room in this war for selfish acts, Lock. You’ve disobeyed orders once too often.’

  Bingham-Smith snorted, but fell silent when Townshend shot an angry glance his way.

  ‘You took matters into your own hands,’ the general continued, ‘and all you have to show for it is this file of useless documents and the blood of one of your fellow officers on your hands. I know you need to operate in a somewhat unorthodox manner, Lock, but murder?’

  Lock remained silent, staring back at the general, using all his will power not to look at Bingham-Smith and the colonel.

  Townshend gave a long, heavy sigh and passed his hand through his neatly combed hair. ‘I wash my hands of you, Lock. For King and country is how one should act, not for self, not for …’ He held up the knife, ‘… Kingdom and country. You will be escorted under guard back to Basra where you will face court martial. I’m sure you can guess what the inevitable outcome will be.’

  Look stood still and didn’t show any reaction to what the general had just told him.

  ‘Well?’ Townshend said.

  ‘Sir?’ Lock said.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’ Townshend blurted out, spraying spittle across the desk, his impatience getting the better of him.

  ‘I like the courtyard,’ Lock said, nodding past the general’s shoulder.

  Townshend smashed his palm down on the table. ‘Ross! Get him out of here!’

  The major indicated for Singleton to follow and made to leave. Lock put on his slouch hat, gave the general a smart salute, and turned on his heels, ignoring the gloating face of Bingham-Smith, and marched out of the door, with Ross and Singleton close behind.

  Outside, Ross pulled Lock angrily back. There was a deep-set fire of anger in the major’s eyes, but Lock was beyond caring now.

  ‘This isn’t a game,’ Ross snapped. ‘What the hell do you think you are playing at?’

  ‘Oh, come on, sir. It’s all bullshit. You know it. Christ, even the old man knows it.’

  Ross glared back at Lock, nostrils flaring, his face taut with anger.

  ‘What exactly do you bastards want of me?’ Lock said. ‘You set me up with this commission in the AIF, you employ me as a White Tab agent, and you tell me there’s a German spy – hell, a whole network of spies, working against us, and that you want me to put a stop to it. But every time I get somewhere, I find obstacles put in my way by the men on my own side. I followed Wassmuss’s trail on your lead, sir, and Harrington-Brown was in the way. He’s the rat and now he’s gone. One less obstacle.’

  ‘But we’re no closer to catching Wassmuss or the people behind him, are we?’ Ross said. ‘You killed a major suspect who probably had answers. He’s dead, so now we can’t interrogate him, and you can’t prove who he really was.’

  ‘But you know!’

  ‘What does that matter? Those men in there,’ Ross said jerking his head back towards the closed office door, ‘Christ, most of the bloody British command, think you’re a killer, Lock, an animal that needs to be not just neutered, but put down.’

  Lock took a step closer to the major, their noses almost touching.

  ‘Do you know something, Major? Not only are you a cold bastard, but you’re a manipulative using backstabbing bastard, too. If you hadn’t secured my release from that prison in Van, if you hadn’t then recruited me to the bloody White Tabs and sent me off to China, then none of this would be happening. I would never have met Mei Ling, I would never have met Amy, and I would never have lost them both.’

  Lock’s chest was heaving, and Ross opened his mouth to interrupt, but Lock wasn’t ready to stop.

  ‘You bloody well arranged my arrest in the first place, didn’t you?’ Lock added. ‘In Turkey, just so you could use me, so you could manipulate me like you do everyone around you. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if Harrington-Brown was spying for Wassmuss under your orders. You could support me. You could insist that Harrington-Brown was a traitor and that I had no choice in killing him. You have shaped me into a weapon that you wished you had the guts to be yourself. But you can’t, can you? Because you’re just the same as those fuckers in there, a yellow manipulative, self-serving coward.’

  Ross slowly pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He didn’t say anything in response to Lock’s tirade, he just calmly went about the ritual of filling his pipe. Only he wasn’t calm, Lock could see that, he was angry. The major’s colouring hadn’t changed, but there was a rage emanating from him, and his hands were ever so slightly trembling. A clump of tobacco fell to the floor. Lock’s eyes watched its progress and when it hit the ground, he looked up and Ross was staring back at him.

  ‘Petty Officer Boxer,’ the major said softly, ‘escort Captain Lock here back to Basra, if you’d be so kind.’ He then dropped his eyes again and continued filling his pipe.

  ‘Pleasure, sir,’ Betty said. ‘Come on, Captain, we’ve a long journey ahead of us.’

  Lock glared back at Ross waiting for him to deny his suspicions, to answer his accusations, but the major didn’t look up again. Lock swore and turned away.

  Outside on the steps to the Customs House, three Red Caps were standing idly by smoking and talking quietly amongst themselves. They didn’t even look up when Lock emerged, blinking into the blazing sunlight, or when the American girl came out moments later. A fourth figure, who was sat a little apart from the Red Caps, did notice Lock and Betty, though. He got to his feet and sauntered over to them.

  ‘Still alive, Sergeant Major?’ Lock said, a touch of disappointment in his voice.

  ‘You in the shit again? Sah.’ Underhill said with a twinkle of glee in his eye.

  ‘How ever did you guess?’

  Underhill stood with his back to the Red Caps, blocking them from Lock’s view.

  ‘’E was a pompous prick,’ the sergeant major sniffed, glaring up at Lock, ‘that ’Arrington-Brown. Never trusted ’im, never liked ’im.’

  Lock stared back at Underhill in surprise, and then glanced at Betty.

  ‘You go easy, sah. And I’ll see you soon. Unless you go and get your bleedin’ ’ead blown off,’ Underhill smirked. ‘Now there’s a thought, eh?’

  Lock frowned, totally at a loss to what the sergeant major was playing at.

  ‘I … I’ll try … Sergeant Major,’ he said warily.

  Underhill nodded to Betty. ‘Go careful, miss.’

  She gave the sergeant major a casual salute, then pulled Lock after her.

  Lock hesitated, looking back at Underhill. ‘Why?’

  Underhill glanced over his shoulder at the three Red Caps, who were still minding their own business, then he stepped a little closer to Lock.

  ‘White Tabs, innit,’ he hissed, and tapped his nose.

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  The sergeant major shrugged. ‘Orders, sah. Ain’t cus I like you,’ he spat, then grinned. ‘We both knows that. But can’t be ’avin’ no court martial ending yer life now, can we? That’s gonna be my pleasure. Some day.’

  Lock narrowed his eyes. Was Underhill joking? He didn’t joke. He was a sly, cunning bastard. No, he was up to something. Perhaps he was going to shoot him the moment he turned away, saying that he had tried to escape. Lock licked his lips.

  ‘Go on, then. The Yankie bint’s waitin’,’ Underhill sneered, jutting his chin over towards Betty. ‘I ain’t gonna shoot you in the back, if that’s what yer thinkin’. ’Onest to God.’

  Lock nodded and backed away a few paces. Underhill was watching him, a curious expression across his pug-ugly face, but the three Red Caps were still paying them no attention. Lock glanced at the open doorway to the Customs House. Empty. No sign of Ross or the sentry. He gave a curt nod to Underhill, then turned and ran.

  There was a narrow alleyway that passed down the side of the Customs H
ouse. It was in deep shadow, cool, but stank – like all alleyways did – of fecal matter. Lock breathed through his mouth, keeping close behind Betty.

  ‘What a charming aroma.’

  ‘Shut it, bud,’ she growled over her shoulder.

  They came out onto an open stableyard and Betty made her way quickly across to a pair of large barn doors. Lock followed and helped her slide them open. Inside, there was a parked automobile. It was a civilian touring car that had been converted into an armoured vehicle. The rear sedan seat had been removed and replaced by a platform, upon which a Hotchkiss M1900 8mm machine gun with an armour plate shield had been mounted. The platform was surrounded by a bulwark, so, apart from the gunner, there was only room for a driver and a passenger to sit cramped under a small rain cover roof at the front.

  ‘Get in,’ Betty said, and she began to crank-start the motor.

  ‘How did you know about this?’

  ‘Until … recently … it was … the pride … and joy … of the governor … of Amara,’ she said, in between hard jerks of the cranking handle.

  ‘Let me do—’

  The engine backfired, then coughed into life with a spew of black exhaust smoke. Betty straightened up, brushed her hands, and grinned at Lock. The motorcar began to vibrate from side to side, making a gentle tock-a-tock-a-tock noise as it idled.

  ‘I think we’d best go before it shakes apart,’ Lock said, climbing into the driving seat.

  ‘Hey, shift,’ Betty said, hitching up her skirt a little as she climbed up the same way. Lock scooted over, and Betty plonked herself down behind the wheel. She released the handbrake and, with a loud crunch, engaged the gears and the car chugged off.

  Lock held on tight as Betty swung the motor vehicle out of the stableyard and onto the side street that ran north away from the Customs House.

  Lock leant out and glanced back the way they had come. The road was empty.

  ‘We being followed?’ Betty shouted over the engine and the rushing wind.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Lock said, sitting back in his seat. ‘Do you think there’s ammo for that?’ he jerked his head at the mounted machine gun above them.