The afternoon sun was lower now, but its heat was still intense as it burnt into Lock’s back. Already sweat was trickling down from under his arms and down his spine. He finished his cigarette, crushing it out with his shoe, and looked along the trail.
He could smell the heady mix of piss, shit and rank fur of the camels long before the creatures got anywhere near. Then the single-humped dromedaries let out a long gurgling, guttural cry as if to warn their master of danger up ahead.
‘As-salaam alaykum,’ Lock called, swinging the haversack up onto his shoulder and stepping forward, raising his hand in greeting.
The Arab was an elderly man, very short, lean, with a face as blotchy, lined and cracked as the desert floor around his sandalled feet. He had a dirty white beard and wore a black aba and kufiya. But the most interesting thing to Lock about the Arab’s appearance was the fact that he wore a black patch over his left eye. That was something that would come in very handy. The Arab was carrying a wooden staff and leading his two camels, both laden with goods, by a line of rope, one behind the other. Now, Lock was up close, he found it hard to determine who smelt the worse, the man or his beasts of burden.
The Arab nodded a greeting in return, but did not break his stride or slow down, as if seeing an aeroplane land and deposit a lone man in the middle of the desert was an everyday occurrence to him.
Lock fell into step beside the elderly Arab.
‘Do you mind if I walk with you?’ Lock asked in Arabic.
‘Ensha Allah,’ the Arab croaked, his voice as dry as dust.
They walked in silence, the camels plodding languidly behind them, every now and again snorting in complaint. Lock pulled out the pack of Fatimas and offered one to the Arab.
‘Shokran jazeelan,’ the Arab nodded and smiled a gummy smile. His bony fingers eagerly snatched one of the cigarettes and put it between his thin, cracked lips. ‘Shokran, shokran. Jayyed, jayyed,’ he said as Lock struck a match for him.
They walked on, and Lock considered the packet of Fatimas. He took four out for himself, then handed the rest of the pack to the Arab. ‘Tafadal.’
The old man nodded, hid the packet quickly away within the folds of his aba should Lock change his mind, and carried on walking, smoking in silence.
Lock turned his attention to the huge mounds off to their right, the highest heap now looking more like a truncated pyramid the closer they got. Lock could just make out the niched brick casing of its construction poking through the drifted sands. They were indeed eerie monuments to an ancient civilisation half-buried and forgotten, and he wondered what they would look like if someone took the time to clear away the sand. He cast his eye over the surrounding rocky, dusty plain. There was nothing. No vegetation, no animals, not even a bird in the cloudless sky. Just him, the Arab and the two camels. The war was a million miles away, and Lock felt at peace. He smiled.
‘Are you walking to Nasiriyeh?’ he asked the Arab after what seemed like an age.
The Arab nodded.
‘The market?’
Again the Arab nodded his head.
‘I would like to make a trade.’
The Arab carried on walking without hesitation or question.
‘With you. Your eyepatch. For … this blade.’ Lock fished out the cut-throat razor from the haversack, and offered it out.
The Arab gave the razor a cursory glance, stroked his beard as if to say what need had he for a razor, and continued putting one foot in front of the other without comment.
Lock opened the haversack again and fingered the riding boots. He was reluctant to give them up and cursed himself for not having left them with Petre along with the rest of his Aussie uniform. But he knew he couldn’t carry them with him into Nasiriyeh.
‘… and these boots.’
The Arab stopped, turned to Lock and narrowed his one grey eye.
Lock held out the boots.
The Arab softly cackled and removed his patch. Underneath, the eye was opaque and blind. He kicked off his tattered leather sandals, sat himself down on the ground and pulled on the boots. They looked far too big, but he appeared delighted. Lock helped him back up onto his feet.
‘Here, you may as well have this, too.’ Lock handed out the haversack.
The old man peered inside and pulled out the khaki breeches and then the shaving items. He nodded, grinning up at Lock, then bending to pick up his old sandals, stuffed everything in the haversack and plodded over to the first camel. He stashed the haversack away, and then began to rummage around in the packages and boxes tied to the animal’s hump.
Lock removed his fez, and tied the patch in place to cover his grey-blue eye. Now his disguise was complete. He couldn’t be walking about behind enemy lines as Kedisi. He didn’t want to stand out and he couldn’t afford to be recognised, obviously, before he found Wassmuss. Now he was just a one-eyed naval officer.
He checked his watch. It was a little before 4 p.m. He estimated that it would be a good three hours before they reached the town. The sun would set near to 7 p.m., so if he was lucky they’d be there just before dark.
Lock lit one of his remaining cigarettes and waited for the old Arab to finish whatever it was he was doing amongst his packages. A minute later the old man came back, a paper bundle held in his hand. He opened it up to reveal a cooked fish that had been picked at a number of times already.
‘Masgouf,’ the Arab said holding out the fish with his right hand, wafting the curious flies away with his left. ‘Tafadal.’
‘Shokran,’ Lock said, pulling off a piece of the cold fish with his right hand. He placed it in his mouth and chewed. It was surprisingly smoky, succulent and quite delicious. He nodded his appreciation, and pulled off another piece of the flaky fish.
‘Wa howa ka-zaalek,’ Lock said.
The old Arab nodded and grinned and tore off a piece of the fish for himself. He stuffed it in his mouth, then folded the rest away and this too was hidden away within the folds of his aba.
On they walked, the desert scrunching underfoot, while the sun beat down and the camels gurgled and snorted behind them.
By the time the sun had become a hazy orange orb low on the horizon in the misty eastern sky, turning the sand of the track underfoot a deep red, the desert around them had begun to show signs of life. There was more and more scrub grass to see and Lock even spotted a far away bird of prey circling slowly. Then, with their shadows stretched far into the dusk, they came to the outskirts of Nasiriyeh itself.
Lock stayed with the Arab as the desert floor became a carpet of green until, passing through a cluster of date palms, they finally hit a more established road. The air was fresher here, as the road ran parallel to the nearby Euphrates River, but the mosquitoes were out in droves. Lock waved his hand in front of his face over and over, but the act was futile.
Buildings came into view, their rooftops taking on a deep orange hue in the setting sun. There were a few people about, all native Arabs, but no one gave Lock more than a cursory glance. This was, after all, Lock thought, occupied Ottoman territory. At the end of a small row of mud-brick hovels was a checkpoint. There was a wooden pole stretched across the road, and beyond that, a sentry hut. Lock could see a telephone wire running from the roof of the hut up to the string of telegraph poles that lined the street. A lone street lamp, a beacon for hundreds of moths and insects, was throwing a pale pool of yellow light over the queue waiting to be admitted to the town. Three Turkish nefers, privates, and their officer were meticulously scrutinising each person and checking through their baggage.
Lock felt a moment’s hesitation in his stride. Surely they weren’t looking for him? And then he dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Nobody knew he was here except for Betty and Ross, and Captain Petre, and they were all miles away in the opposite direction. Still, he had no papers and his uniform was suspiciously dusty from the trek through the desert. He pulled up and felt for a cigarette. Then he remembered that he had already smoked the few he had taken bef
ore handing the pack to the Arab.
‘Bugger,’ he muttered.
The Arab stopped and turned. He looked Lock up and down and seemed to be reading his mind. Once again he moved to the first of his camels and began to rummage about amongst the pack tied to its hump. He returned momentarily brandishing a stiff brush in his bony hand. He pushed Lock’s arms up and began to vigorously groom the dust from the uniform. Lock tried to protest, but the Arab refused to stop, muttering under his breath as he worked. He then stepped back and nodded as he ran his good eye over Lock’s appearance.
‘Afdal be-katheer,’ the Arab smiled.
Lock glanced down at himself and had to agree. He did look much better. He looked up over towards the sentry post. ‘What to do?’ he thought. He could slip away, down to the water’s edge, find a boat, then row into town under the cover of darkness. Or he could just bluff and bluster his way through this sentry post.
The Arab pulled out the pack of Fatimas and offered one to Lock. Then he took one for himself, and Lock lit them both.
Lock glanced again at the sentry post. ‘Sod it,’ he muttered. He held his hand out. ‘Maa as-salaamah, my friend.’
The Arab shook Lock’s hand, nodded and grinned. ‘Wa-alaykum as-salaam.’
Lock gave a short nod back, patted the elderly Arab on the shoulder, then turned and strode towards the sentry post. He held his head up, puffed his chest out, and began to scrutinise the line of waiting Arabs as if he were searching for someone.
The three nefers were busy with one particular tradesman, a carpet seller, who was angrily complaining about how his wares were being tossed about during the search of his cart.
‘Kes sesini!’ the junior officer growled at the Arab tradesman, as his men continued to throw the carpets aside peering underneath them.
Lock walked on towards the barrier.
The junior officer glanced up as Lock approached. But instead of challenging him, the officer snapped to attention and threw out a smart salute. Obviously Lock looked smarter and more pissed off than he had hoped.
‘Korvet Kaptani,’ the junior officer said, with a trace of alarm in his high-pitched voice.
Lock was pleased to see that the officer was actually a basçavuş muavini, an assistant sergeant major, notable by the two cross bars on the shoulder boards of his khaki uniform, and not some pompous yüzbaşi angry at being assigned to such a tedious duty. It should be easy to pull rank now and bluff his way through.
Lock gave a stiff nod and glanced back along the line, taking a puff on his cigarette. ‘What is all this, Basçavuş Muavini? I was out for a quiet stroll along the river and heard the commotion.’
‘Merely routine, Korvet Kaptani Bey.’
‘No trouble, I hope?’
‘None, effendim. All very quiet.’
Lock snorted. ‘Not quiet enough.’
He gave the junior officer as steely a glare as he could with his one uncovered eye. A trickle of sweat had run down under the patch and the eye underneath was stinging like crazy. He waved his hand irritably at the barrier blocking his path.
‘Oh, I am sorry, effendim.’ The basçavuş muavini rushed over to lift the barrier himself.
Lock passed underneath and turned back. The basçavuş muavini dropped the barrier down again and stood stiffly to attention. Lock jutted his chin down the line at the elderly Arab he’d walked in with.
‘I know that man. At the back. He is a good friend of Binbaşi Feyzi. I’d advise you not to delay him.’
The basçavuş muavini glanced down the queue of Arabs and nodded eagerly. ‘I understand, Korvet Kaptani Bey. He shall not be held up.’
‘Do it now, Basçavuş Muavini,’ Lock said coldly.
‘I …’ The basçavuş muavini hesitated, then snapped a quick salute and scurried off down the line.
Lock quickly pushed his finger under the patch and wiped the stinging sweat from his eye. He swore and grimaced, then adjusted the patch so that it was a tighter fit over his eye socket. He watched the basçavuş muavini gesticulating as he tried to direct the elderly Arab to move out of line with his camels, and to follow him.
‘So,’ Lock thought, as he took a final puff of his cigarette and then tossed it aside, ‘the name Feyzi is known even to a humble basçavuş muavini on sentry duty. Which means he’s here. Somewhere.’
The basçavuş muavini was shouting at the elderly Arab now and had drawn his pistol from his holster. Lock was about to intervene, when the Arab took the hint and finally stepped out of the line with his camels in tow. The basçavuş muavini waved his pistol and marched back towards Lock with the Arab trotting after him. He lifted the barrier once more, and Lock stepped aside as the elderly Arab and his gurgling camels were hurried through.
‘Hizlan, hizlan!’ the basçavuş muavini said impatiently.
Lock gave the elderly Arab the briefest of nods and watched until he and his camels had made their way down the street and had been swallowed up by the gloom. He turned back to the junior officer.
‘Thank you, Basçavuş Muavini,’ he said with a watery smile. ‘Ours not to know the reasons why some men are favoured.’
The basçavuş muavini smiled appreciatively. ‘Yes, effendim. Thank you, effendim.’
‘Well,’ Lock said, pulling at the hem of his jacket, ‘duty calls. Good night.’ He gave a quick salute, turned on his heels and headed off down into the town.
‘Good night, effendim,’ the basçavuş muavini called after him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lock followed the line of illuminated lamp posts, catching and passing his shadow over and over, as he made his way through the increasingly populated streets. There were a lot of people out and about, and turning a corner, Lock suddenly found himself in a busy area where beggars and German officers, tinkers and traders, camels and open-top Gräf und Stift staff cars, jostled with one another for space. Off-duty Turkish soldiers and officers were perusing the various shopfronts and stalls that were selling everything from onions and dates to brass trinkets and what appeared to be pieces of stone. The pavement cafes were doing a roaring trade, and Lock’s stomach grumbled as he strode by, the enticing smells of fresh coffee, cooked meat, grilled fish and overripe fruit assaulting his senses. It was tempting to pull up a chair, but he had to find Wassmuss and make it back to the British lines. But where to find him? Staff headquarters would be the best bet, but he couldn’t very well ask for directions without raising suspicion.
In the near distance, Lock could see the tall minarets and domes of a nearby mosque jutting up above the surrounding trees and rooftops, their brickwork and tiles tinged deep orange against the darkening sky. But no telltale flagpole. He checked his watch and then stopped dead in his tracks.
Someone collided into his shoulder, and Lock turned to see an irate German officer glaring back at him through a monocle.
Lock stepped aside and saluted. ‘Guten Abend, Herr Major,’ he said, hoping the officer wouldn’t say too much in return, as his knowledge of the German language was limited to but a few pleasantries.
The German, a major on the general staff judging by his crimson collar patches, narrowed his blue eyes and Lock was momentarily taken aback. Then he quickly collected himself. This man was tall, at least six feet, and very slim, with smooth skin and baby-blond hair just visible under his peaked cap. He wasn’t Wassmuss.
The major’s blond moustache twitched, and he gave a stiff nod. ‘Korvettenkapitän,’ he grunted, and pushed on.
‘Jesus, Kingdom,’ Lock hissed to himself, ‘calm down. Wassmuss can’t be every blue-eyed German you meet.’
He pulled at his collar and straightened the hem of his tunic, but couldn’t help thinking what a strange feeling it was being up close to so many German officers.
If only he had one of Pritchard’s jam-tin bombs, he thought as he looked about at the busy cafes and stalls, and at the laughing faces of so many enemy officers.
‘Just think what I could do for the war effort by taking
out all these Boche officers,’ he muttered. ‘Still … Oh, shit.’
Lock remembered why he had pulled up so suddenly. His watch. It was a British trench watch. Not noticeable from afar, but it could be awkward if seen close up, or someone happened to ask him for the time. Lock pulled his sleeve down to cover the timepiece and turned his attention back to the road ahead. He soon spotted the German officer who had bumped into him, quickly darting across the road and disappearing up a side street.
‘You seem in rather a hurry, Herr Major.’
Lock skipped across the road making after the German officer. He dodged by a team of camels and narrowly avoided being struck by a toot-tooting staff car. A bewhiskered Austro-Hungarian generaloberst was sat stiffly in the back seat, a tall shako jammed on his head. His eyes momentarily met Lock’s, and the car sped by in a cloud of dust. It too turned down the road after the German major with the monocle.
‘Two Big Noises in rather a hurry …’
Lock made his way down the same side street and caught the rich and earthy smell of the nearby river again, carried on the light breeze blowing towards him. A troop of Turkish infantrymen led by a painfully fresh-faced mülazimi sani, a second lieutenant, was marching towards him on the other side of the road. The soldiers looked to be well equipped and well dressed, with German-style packs on their backs and standard issue Ottoman Mauser M1893 rifles at their shoulders. The mülazimi sani gave Lock a smart salute as he and his men trudged past.
A shrill tinkle of a bicycle bell warned Lock to step aside just as an Arab messenger cyclist swerved by and disappeared around the corner up ahead. There were two staff officers walking a few paces in front of Lock on his side of the road, and so Lock slowed his pace down, not wanting to catch them up. But he needn’t have bothered for the German hauptmann, captain, and the Turkish mülazimi evvel, a first lieutenant, barely registered their surroundings, so deep were they in conversation. They turned the corner and Lock paused, before following on.
He found himself stepping out into a pleasant, tree-lined square. The white brick, flat-roofed buildings on two sides were of two storeys, with the ground floor being a series of open archways, and the floor above being one long open terrace. The larger building over to the left was a grander affair of three storeys. Jutting out from the top of the latticed balcony on the second floor was a flagpole from which, flapping limply in the breeze, hung the red and white crescent moon and star of the Ottoman Empire. It had to be the Command Headquarters.
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