For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  Amara was little different from twenty-four hours earlier, Lock thought, just a lot more boats on the water. The rest of Townshend’s Regatta had evidently arrived.

  It had been easy enough to disarm and encourage the three sleepy members of the flying boat’s aircrew to get their craft ready and up into the air. Lock spotted the odd conspiratorial glance between Shears and the Afrikaans pilot, but nothing happened and the flight was uneventful. Lock settled at the very back of the cabin and, with one eye on the crew and the oilmen, he overcame the overwhelming desire to sleep by studying Wassmuss’s notebook.

  The Curtiss H-4 spluttered down towards the river like a giant, egg-laden pelican searching for a nesting sight. They turned and slowly dropped down, passing low over the damaged bridge of boats, which Lock could see was now busy with engineers going about repairs. The flying boat skimmed the choppy surface of the Tigris, bounced, shuddered and finally sighed as it settled on the water. The pilot eased off the throttle and glided the craft towards the main quay and the Customs House. Already there was quite a crowd standing on the river’s edge and out on the muddy foreshore staring and pointing out at the strange boat with wings.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Lock said to the aircrew as he got to his feet. ‘Lord Shears, Herr Grössburger and myself shall be leaving you now.’

  ‘What about us?’ the Afrikaans pilot growled, twisting round, his knuckles white as they gripped the back of his seat.

  ‘I’m a man of my word,’ Lock said. ‘You are free to do as you wish. You’re civilians. Fly off or stay, it makes no difference to me. Unless you try something stupid that is.’ He raised the Beholla to make it clear how serious he was.

  The pilot’s eyes dropped to Lock’s pistol and he licked his lips. ‘You’ll have no trouble from us.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I imagine we will be needed before long,’ the pilot added, glancing at Shears.

  ‘As you wish,’ Lock said. ‘I’d just ask that you stay here until we have safely reached the shore. Just so there’s no misunderstandings.’ He smiled. ‘You,’ Lock said, pointing to the navigator, ‘open the hatch.’

  The navigator, a slim man with an acne-scarred complexion, glanced uncertainly at the pilot.

  ‘Go ahead,’ the pilot said, ‘let some air into this stinking box.’

  Lock stepped back and watched as the navigator climbed the ladder at the back of the cabin, and opened up the rooftop access hatch. He climbed back down, and returned to his seat.

  Lock picked up the jewellery box, climbed up the ladder himself and out of the access hatch. A warm breeze hit him in the face and it was a welcome relief from the stuffy cabin. He waved his arm, signalling to the shore, and soon spotted a flurry of movement along the quayside. A moment later a motor launch was bouncing its way towards him across the water. Lock stood to one side and called down into the cabin.

  By the time Shears and Grössburger had climbed up out of the cabin and stepped down onto the wing, the motor launch, manned by a single marine, a corporal with a black beard, had reached them. The marine corporal skillfully glided close to the wing, and Lock steadied the launch while Grössburger and Shears climbed in.

  ‘Captain Lock, with two prisoners.’

  ‘I know who you are, sir,’ the marine corporal said, with a nod. ‘There’s a Major Ross on the quay waiting for you.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get going.’

  ‘Never seen one of these before, sir,’ the marine corporal said, running his eye over the flying boat. ‘Thought you were going to crash when we saw you dropping down to the water.’

  Lock jumped down from the wing into the launch. ‘It’s the best of both worlds, Corporal,’ he said. ‘Albeit a little cramped.’

  The marine corporal smiled, then opened up the throttle and, in a spray of water, spun the launch about and sped off back towards the shore.

  Major Ross was standing, arms folded, pipe clenched between his teeth, a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck, waiting on the quayside. There were two Red Caps at his side, rifles slung across their bellies, and a small crowd of curious natives and off-duty soldiers, all chatting and pointing out towards the flying boat. The aircraft had evidently caused quite a stir.

  The marine corporal steered the launch up to a wooden jetty where a native dockhand was ready to tie the boat off. Lock waved his Beholla directing Shears and Grössburger to climb out, and he then prodded them towards the wooden steps.

  The two Red Caps immediately stepped forward to take the oilmen in hand.

  ‘To the detention cells,’ Ross said. He didn’t even look at Shears.

  Lock holstered his Beholla and passed a hand through his damp hair.

  ‘I thought for a minute those Red Caps were for me,’ he said, nodding after the two provosts as they marched Shears and Grössburger towards the Customs House.

  ‘Aye, laddie, they very nearly were,’ Ross said, taking his pipe from his mouth. ‘And then I saw who you had for company. I nearly fell off the quay in shock.’

  ‘A dead man and a fat man,’ Lock grinned, looking about. He spotted what he was after. ‘Hey, Private,’ he called to one of the Tommies standing nearby, ‘can I bum a smoke?’

  The private fished out a pack of Navy Cut. ‘Sure. You look like you need one, pal.’

  Lock nodded his thanks. The Tommy struck a match for him and then stepped away again.

  ‘So no Feyzi? No Wassmuss?’ Ross said.

  Lock shook his head. ‘Dead.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Coup de grâce,’ Lock said through a sigh of tobacco.

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Not so, sir,’ Lock said. ‘Those two,’ he nodded in the direction of Shears and Grössburger, just as the two oilmen entered the Customs House and disappeared from sight, ‘were with Feyzi, Wassmuss, whoever he bloody was, and a bunch of senior enemy officers. APOC are involved in some serious shit, sir. Colluding with the enemy, taking bribes, paying bribes. Who knows what exactly.’ He paused and put his cigarette between his lips. ‘But I did retrieve this,’ he mumbled, taking Wassmuss’s notebook from his pocket and handing it to Ross. ‘Makes for very interesting reading. Most of it’s in code, as we know, but there’s a list of names at the back very similar to that list I gave you mentioning payments and locations and names relating to that pearl company. Only this list has sub-lists, and Harrington-Brown’s name is among them …’

  Ross was flicking through the notebook with a frown of concentration etched upon his face. He looked up realising Lock had stopped talking. ‘I see.’

  ‘You see?’

  Ross nodded and closed the notebook up, putting it away in his pocket. He steered Lock away from the quayside and they walked side by side towards the Customs House.

  ‘What about the investigation?’

  ‘Investigation?’

  ‘The assassination, this Turk officer I’m supposed to have murdered in cold blood.’

  ‘Oh, that. Don’t let it bother you, laddie.’

  ‘What?’ Lock pulled Ross to a halt. ‘Don’t let it bother me?’

  The Major smiled. ‘Kaymakam Süleyman Askerî Bey committed suicide. At least that’s the official line coming out of Constantinople now.’

  Lock just gaped back at Ross at a loss for words.

  The Major took him by the elbow, and pulled him on. ‘Politics, laddie.’

  Lock grunted and they both continued walking in silence. More mind games, he thought. Would they ever end?

  ‘I worked out who shot me, by the way,’ Lock said after a while.

  ‘Oh?’

  Lock pulled the Luger from his waistband and gave it to Ross.

  ‘Wassmuss,’ the major said, turning the gun over in his hand. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Lock said. ‘That belongs to Shears. It seems I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was on his way to fetch Grössburger from the brothel. When I stepped out with Singh, Shears panicked. Or so he says.’
>
  As they arrived at the foot of the steps running up to the Customs House entrance, Ross paused and glanced back out across the water towards the anchored flying boat.

  ‘Interesting. I know the Admiralty are looking into those flying boat contraptions for use over the North Sea. But as far as I was aware, they were still in the developmental stage.’

  ‘Shears told me that APOC had obtained it from America,’ Lock said. ‘It would seem that the oil company are better equipped than the British forces.’

  Ross snorted and his gaze fell on the jewellery box under Lock’s arm.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Lock pulled the box out and considered it for a moment. ‘Oh, this. Just my shaving kit, sir. Supplied by Bet …’

  ‘Well you best go use it,’ Ross said. ‘You have a party to attend this evening.’

  ‘A party? I’d rather not, sir, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘All the officers are expected to attend, laddie,’ Ross said, pulling his pipe from his mouth and jabbing it towards Lock. ‘No exceptions. The general’s throwing it to celebrate our victory. Besides, I think it best you are there, to show certain … persons that you’re back in the fold, as it were, all forgiven.’

  ‘But what about the general, sir? The last time I saw him—’

  ‘He’s the one who insisted, Lock. He knows what you’ve done, what you’ve been doing. Most of that … bluster the other day about murder and court martial was for show, for the benefit of Colonel Godwinson.’ Ross shrugged. ‘Like I said, politics. You know?’

  Lock nodded and stamped his cigarette out. ‘I’m beginning to, sir.’

  EPILOGUE

  Lock hated parties. He just felt so out of place and uncomfortable. He’d rather be with Singh and the others. But orders were orders and, besides, Amy was to be in attendance. Singh had told him so when he’d left Ross and trudged up to the barracks, the same barracks where he’d recently taken the surrender of the regiment of the Constantinople Fire Brigade. That’s where he’d found his men, in their new digs, all sat around cleaning their rifles, reading letters, dozing, and all under the stern, watchful eye of Underhill.

  ‘Back is ya’, sah?’ was all the greeting he got from the sergeant major.

  But the others were all there, Elsworth, Pritchard, Ram Lal and the rest of the sepoys, Jawad Saleem, and even the dog. And they were, at least, pleased to seem him. But, more than that, Lock was delighted to find that Green Platoon had suffered not one casualty during the advance up the Tigris from Qurna. Apart from Harrington-Brown, of course.

  After a welcome meal of chicken and flat bread washed down with strong coffee, Lock had retired to the room Singh had made up for him. He’d slept on the small bunk there for six hours solid and following a hot bath, had shaved and dressed in his own uniform. It had been waiting for him, hanging on the back of the door, cleaned and pressed. There was even a fresh pair of leather riding boots at the foot of the bed.

  ‘An Australian pilot dropped your uniform off, sahib, along with the battalion mail,’ Singh said.

  ‘Good old Petre,’ Lock said.

  ‘I managed to find the boots, sahib, in the stores. I think they are German. And this carton of cigarettes, sahib.’

  Lock grinned at Singh and gave him a friendly whack on the arm. He tore open a fresh pack of Fatimas. ‘Pass the rest around the lads.’ He gave the carton back to Singh and lit himself a cigarette.

  ‘How are the ribs, Sid?’

  ‘They are fine, sahib. They only hurt when I laugh now.’

  Lock then checked himself over once more in the grubby, spotted mirror that was propped up against the wall. Satisfied, he pulled on his slouch hat.

  ‘How do I look, Sid?’

  Singh nodded his approval. ‘Very fine and smart, sahib. She will not be able to resist you.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Memsahib Amy, sahib,’ Singh said. ‘She is here. Arrived on the hospital ship with many, many nurses, sahib, and the Memsahib Lady Townshend.’

  ‘Bugger. Then they’ll both be there tonight,’ Lock said, straightening his tie. How he hated wearing the things.

  ‘Sahib?’

  ‘At this bloody party, Sid. It’s the last thing I want to do. But …’

  ‘Orders is orders, sahib,’ Singh grinned.

  It was a more intimate affair than the last party he’d attended of Townshend’s, and was being held outside in the courtyard garden of the Customs House. The sun had gone down and the sky above was clear and full of bright stars. It was a warm, but comfortable evening. There was a buzz of insects, but thankfully the mosquitoes were few and far between. Light was spilling out from the open French windows of Townshend’s office, and there were candles dotted about amongst the potted plants and around the edge of the water fountain. An unseen gramophone was playing light classical music. The whole set-up looked eerily similar to Feyzi’s office back in Nasiriyeh, down to the murmur of conversation and the gentle tinkle of glasses. Four or five marines in white jackets were acting as waiters, weaving in and out of the guests with trays of drinks and canapés in their hands.

  The guests were mostly high-ranking officers, those men who had led the various attacks from Qurna, and a few senior nurses. Godwinson was there, deep in conversation with the artillery commander, Brigadier General Smith, and the commander of the 22nd Punjabis, Lieutenant Colonel Blois Johnson. Captain Nunn and a portly lieutenant colonel, whom Lock didn’t recognise, were standing at the far end of the garden, near to a wrought iron gate that was set into the high wall. Lock could see the stableyard beyond. The officers were sharing a joke with Lady Townshend, who was dressed in her Sister’s uniform, and another middle-aged matron. Nunn caught Lock’s eye and gave him a brief nod of recognition. Lock’s gaze passed over the rest of the guests and eventually fell on Amy. She was in her nurse’s uniform, too, and was standing over by the water fountain. Bingham-Smith was at her side, his hand resting on the small of her back. The couple were talking with Major Winsloe of the Engineers, and Lock’s former company commander, Major Carver.

  ‘Pink gin, sir?’

  A waiter was offering out a tray of drinks.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lock took a glass. He sniffed the contents and had a wary sip. He grimaced at the spicy taste. ‘Christ, I’d rather drink my own piss.’

  ‘My sentiments, exactly.’ Ross had come up alongside him. ‘I have some decent whisky in my pocket if you’d rather, laddie.’

  Lock dumped his pink gin out into a nearby plant pot without hesitation, and held his now empty glass out. Ross poured him a good measure of whisky from a hip flask.

  ‘Hello, handsome.’

  Lock turned to see Betty sauntering over, looking very smart in her white uniform.

  ‘Father,’ she nodded to Ross.

  The major cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  ‘You made it, then?’ Betty said to Lock.

  Lock was about to offer some witty response, when another familiar voice called out from across the garden.

  ‘There you are, Lock.’ It was General Townshend.

  Lock nodded affably at the general as he approached and was then suddenly rather taken aback. Townshend was as white as a sheet and had dark rings under his eyes, and there was a thin film of sweat across his brow that glistened in the candlelight.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ Lock said.

  ‘It appears I … we all’ – Townshend said, raising his voice slightly above the general murmur of conversation – ‘owe you an apology, my boy.’

  ‘That’s really not necessary, sir,’ Lock said, knocking back his whisky.

  ‘Nonsense. You’ve been treated in the most ghastly manner,’ Townshend said. ‘So please, accept my hand in gratitude and respect. I am sorry to have doubted you.’

  Lock took the general’s hand in his. ‘Just glad to be of help, sir.’

  ‘You’re a good sport, Lock,’ Townshend smiled, ‘a good sport. I …’ The general broke
into a coughing fit.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Lock said, putting a reassuring hand on the general’s shoulder.

  Townshend waved his hand as if to say he was fine, but the coughing continued, and then suddenly his legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor. There was a gasp of concern from those nearest, and Lock knelt down immediately, pulling the general over onto his side. He was alive, but unconscious, and the breath was rasping in his chest.

  ‘Charles! Charles!’ Lady Townshend came rushing over. ‘Mon dieu! Charles.’

  ‘He just collapsed, Lady Alice,’ Lock said.

  Lady Townshend felt her husband’s pulse and then put her hand to his forehead. ‘We must get him to the hospital.’

  Ross clicked his fingers and two of the waiters put down their trays and hurried over.

  ‘Carry the general outside and summon his staff car,’ Ross said. ‘Get him to the hospital at once.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ Lock said, getting to his feet.

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Lady Townshend snapped.

  But Lock wasn’t to be brushed off so easily. He stood above her, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lady Townshend reluctantly took his hand in hers and let him help her up.

  ‘Maman, qu’est-ce qui se passe? Qu’est-ce qu’il a?’ Amy said, pushing through the concerned guests. She glared at Lock as if it was his fault.

  ‘It is a fever,’ Lady Townshend said. ‘Do not worry child. I shall take care of your father. You must stay and attend to our guests.’

  ‘Mais, maman …’

  ‘Non,’ Lady Townshend snapped. Then she smiled and put her hand lightly to her daughter’s cheek. ‘He will be all right, ma fille.’

  The two waiters lifted the general between them, and the guests parted to let them carry the stricken commander out of the garden and back through the French windows. Lady Townshend gave a curt nod to Lock and hurried after the waiters. The music had stopped, and there was now just the click-whirr-click of the gramophone needle caught in the final groove of the record drifting out from the office.