by Tony Roberts
Casca picked up a crudely made length of wood that had holes at top and bottom, angled, and mirrors slanted inside these, also angled. He raised it and peered at the bottom mirror, and adjusted the angle of the device until he could see where he was supposed to be going. He pulled a face. Flat, stony, and bereft of cover. In the fading light he tried to memorize every detail, lining up the route to large black shapes in the hills beyond.
“Well?” the captain demanded impatiently.
“I’ve seen enough,” Casca said heavily. “What makes you sure there’s an officer over there easy to hand? I’ll have to be quick and then drag an unwilling prisoner across that,” he jerked his thumb at the open ground, “without waking up the Turkish army.”
“Knock the joker out, Private,” the captain said testily. He believed he was dealing with a slow-witted example of the army. Odd accent too.
“Very well, sir,” Casca said slowly. Everyone was quite clear that he was reluctant to do the job, but orders were orders.
“And if you can grab papers, so much the better.”
Casca stared at the captain again, then looked away. Want me to go and get the fucking Sultan from Constantinople too? he thought sarcastically. He looked at his four companions, all unshaven, rough outdoor types. They retained their Australian army uniforms but were bare-headed. Bush hats were too distinctive a shape. They looked as happy as he felt. “When is zero hour, Captain?”
“Two hours. Go get something to eat and drink, all of you.”
They soon returned, the food available being tasteless and lumpy. The wait was almost unbearable, all five fidgeting and lost in their own thoughts. All reckoned it was a suicide mission, and the other four clearly saw Casca as the cause of their situation. If it wasn’t for the fact he could speak and understand Turkish, then the captain wouldn’t have thought up this hare-brained scheme.
Finally the time came and they were pushed through to the front trench. They silently got to the fire step, a series of half covered wooden boxes, and raised themselves to the sandbags. The captain nodded and indicated they should go. The four others went first; they were expendable. Casca then slid over the hessian bags and passed the barbed wire that had been pushed aside.
He was then in no-man’s land.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ieaun Clark took off his glasses and rubbed his sore eyes. It was sheer hard work in the hospital on Imbros, and so far none of the wounded that had come through the wide open entrance matched the description he remembered of van der Laang. Scars, bulk, those clear blue eyes. It wasn’t much but he was sure he’d recognize him if he came across the man.
He leaned back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks. Those poor devils on Gallipoli must be living in hell, judging by the number of wounded who’d passed through so far. The wounds were ghastly. A man hit by bullets from close range was usually chewed up fairly badly. It was incredible just how destructive a bullet could be. Some rumors abounded that the Turks were using square bullets or flat-nosed ones to deliberately maim the ANZACs and British troops even more.
Clark was only beginning to fully realize the enormity of his task. How he thought he could find one man amongst an army of 50,000 escaped him. He must have been mad. Tiredness threatened to engulf him and his shoulders slumped. What to do? He could just concentrate on what he was skilled at, and that was at treating the wounded. But Captain Hieron here on Imbros and his superiors in Alexandria expected him to keep on searching for their quarry. They’d have him pulled up in front of an inquiry if he backed out now. Maybe even a Court Martial.
Clark sighed. His curiosity had got the better of him and trapped him in this crazy wild goose chase. He hauled himself up and slowly walked out into the night air. The lights were still flickering in Hieron’s office, so Clark made his way over and knocked before entering.
Hieron looked up and waved Clark in. “What brings you here this late, Doc?”
Although not strictly a doctor, Clark was given the title by Hieron as an easy way of addressing him. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to find this man at this rate. There’s too many to pick from. The number of wounded coming here is incredible! Have you seen them?”
“Some,” Hieron nodded. “They’re catching it pretty hard, don’t you think? So our man isn’t amongst them, then.”
“I would have told you right away if I’d seen him.” Clark shook his head emphatically. “We’ll need more of an idea what unit he’s belonging to. We’re getting far too many to look through. If I knew what battalion or regiment it was, rather than an entire damned brigade, it’d make my job much easier!”
Hieron began scribbling on a piece of paper. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe my superiors have narrowed it down from their investigations in Egypt. I may make some enquiries here, strictly hush-hush, of course,” he grinned, tapping the side of his nose. “You never gave me a precise description of this man.”
“Ah,” Clark said. “Well, big, muscles everywhere. Scars on his body all over. Light blue eyes, burned on his face, neck, shoulders and upper chest. Should be clear enough.”
Hieron nodded, surprised. “And he’s still in hiding? Bloody hell, if we can’t find a man like that we deserve being sent to the Front in Flanders!”
Clark grimaced. He thought this campaign was bad, but from what he had heard so far the fighting in Belgium and France was even worse. “I was thinking perhaps of getting hold of the medical staff on the beaches on Anzac Cove. Pass the description onto them; maybe he’s been wounded slightly but not enough to bring him here.”
Hieron nodded. “Maybe you ought to go there?”
“Maybe, but I might miss him if he’s sent directly here.”
Hieron agreed. He said he’d send word to Alexandria for an update on the hunt for which unit the fugitive had joined. He’d also send to the first aid posts on the peninsula to look out for a heavily scarred man with burns to head and chest. Maybe now they’d get some progress.
The crawl across no-man’s land was never ending. The stones were sharp and Casca reckoned he found every one on his slow passage across the ground. His four companions had stopped and were lying flat, rifles pointed ahead, hoping to God that nothing went wrong. Casca was ten yards ahead of them, a mere twenty from the Turkish trenches. He could hear the enemy talking. He could smell the acrid cigarette smoke issuing from the trench.
He inched forward again, spreading the gritty soil up in a wave as he pushed his way onwards. He stopped. The sound he made was too loud. He listened for any change in the Turkish conversation, but there was none. He puffed out his cheeks and lifted his right leg and planted it two feet forward, then repeated the same for his left. Sweat trickled down his face. This was insane.
Now he was within spitting distance of the trench. The sandbags of the enemy line lay ahead of him, piled untidily in a low wall that ran left to right across his line of sight. Sounds of movement came to him from the other side of the sandbags. A shape appeared briefly just to his left. A periscope. Casca pressed his face into the stony soil and held his breath.
He hoped to hell whoever was holding the thing was looking at the Australian line and not the foreground. He also hoped to hell the four men behind him had frozen and were making out like rocks. He risked a look. He cocked an eye and saw the square periscope motionless. Whoever was looking through it was taking his damned time. What the hell did he expect to see? A troupe of dancing girls? A herd of camels making their lazy way to the horizon? It was night. There was nothing to see.
Casca began cursing the Turk under his breath, slowly, silently, continuously. Put the damned periscope down, or better still shove it up your ass.
Finally it sank out of sight and he breathed again. He made his way forward so that now he was touching the sandbags. The sounds of movement came to him much clearer now. There was a guard. He’d need to take care of him. Maybe there were two. Or three. In which case it was a bust. He inched forward, his breath held, and his eyes slowl
y cleared the rim. He could see the heads of the Turks. Four of them.
Cursing, he withdrew and sank back to the ground. He couldn’t jump into the trench, not with four of them there. None of them were officers. He would wait for a while, but if no officer came by, then it was a bust and he’d have to make his way back to his own lines.
As he lay there, feeling utterly exposed, the hushed voices of the Turks came to him. They didn’t want to speak too loudly, obviously, for they feared they would be heard by the opposition and bring down fire upon them. Casca cocked an ear and listened intently. They were raw recruits, fresh from Constantinople – or, rather, as they called it, Istanbul – and were discussing life in the army. It seemed the Turks had panicked and grabbed as many able-bodied men as they could to fill the front line. Their armies had been occupied against the Russians in the Caucasus Mountains and the British in Mesopotamia and Palestine, and the landings on Gallipoli had caused as many reserves as possible to be stripped from the other fronts and rushed to prevent a breakthrough. The rest had been made up from recruits, untrained cannon fodder.
They hadn’t seen action yet. They’d just arrived. It gave Casca an idea. He thought it over a moment, then decided it was better than lying there where he could be discovered any moment and get shot. He breathed in a couple of times, then exhaled slowly. It was crazy, but no crazier than what had happened so far.
“Hey, shut up and help me over,” Casca rasped hoarsely.
“What?” he heard one of them say. “Who’s there?”
“Kasim,” Casca whispered furiously. “Do you want the English to hear? Shut up, you’re making more noise than a camel in heat!”
Two heads popped up, wide-eyed and fearful. Bayonets thrust his way and Casca looked down the gleaming blade of one, held inches from his right eye. “Put that away, you cheap Istanbul beggar, I’m coming back over!”
“Slowly, Kasim, and no tricks!” one of the two said, a tremor in his voice. Hell, Casca realized, these were kids. He slid over the sandbags and dropped to the bottom of the trench. Immediately four rifles covered him. Casca sat down and looked relieved, an effort given the circumstances. He put his rifle down and patted his uniform. “Damn,” he said with feeling, “no cigarettes. You got one, kid?”
The four looked at each other with uncertainty. “Who are you and why were you out there?”
“I was part of a night patrol that got lost. My comrades are lost. Either they are prisoners or they are back elsewhere. Is Colonel Ismet close by? He sent us out earlier tonight.”
“Colonel Ismet? No, I don’t know of him,” the taller of the four said. He was still unsure of Casca. “We should fetch our lieutenant.”
“You fetch him, Mehmet,” one of the others said, “I don’t want to be beaten for disturbing him!”
“While you argue over getting him,” Casca said, “someone give me a cigarette.”
One of them reluctantly handed him a hand-rolled black cigarette. Casca knew what to expect. It would be acrid, strong and biting. But he was prepared. It was lit for him and he drew in deeply, resisting the urge to cough. He exhaled a thick, yellow cloud and leaned back with a smile. “Ah, that’s better, now I can think. I have information on the enemy positions. I was able to get close enough to see their trenches and what they have there. It is impressive. Do you think a lowly lieutenant is the correct rank for this information?”
The four looked at each other, clearly at a loss. They would be typical recruits in the Turkish army. None of them would have initiative, they would obey a superior officer or get beaten. Maybe one or two might be chosen by their superiors if they caught their eye to become their personal sodomized favorite. That would guarantee a posting to the local HQ away from the front line.
Casca sighed. “Very well. Go fetch this lieutenant. He will have to pass me onto the next in line.”
This provoked an argument. Basically none wanted to go to the lieutenant, who was notorious in dishing out a beating for any reason, and sometimes for no reason at all. Casca stubbed the cigarette against the trench wall and stood up. “Very well, I shall go to him.”
“I shall escort you,” Mehmet declared. “you others stay here and keep a watch out for the others. Remember the password is ‘yilderim’.” He suddenly looked crestfallen. Casca grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do not worry, Mehmet, as I already know the password it is hardly breaking the rules of secrecy, is it?”
“But you never gave it, I just remembered!”
“If I gave it now, would that suffice?”
Mehmet looked miserable. Casca laughed. “I will not inform the lieutenant of your carelessness, if that’s what you’re worried over.”
Mehmet nodded. The two set off, Mehmet pointing the direction to go. They passed groups of other Turks who gave them a brief look before ignoring them. They turned left down a communication trench and zigzagged to a second trench, then turned off again to a dugout that vanished under the ground. Someone had been busy! Two guards stood at the entrance and crossed their rifles to bar the way. Casca gave the password but the guards didn’t bat an eyelid. “What’s your problem, I gave the password,” Casca said, irritated. He was also feeling intimidated. If things went wrong now he’d be in the shit big time.
“The lieutenant is busy. He sees no one.” The voice came from the guard’s boots.
“I don’t care if he’s screwing the Sultan. I have important information on the enemy lines.”
“You’re rude and arrogant, too much for a mere private,” the guard replied, a hostile look on his face.
“Who says I’m a private? I wear this as a disguise. Captain Kasim Pasha of the 20th regiment. Stand to attention, you foul molester of dogs!”
There was a shocked silence, then the guards snapped to attention. Mehmet stood, his mouth open. “A-A captain? Sir!” he became rigid, like a statue.
“You come with me. You two,” and he glared at the two unshaven, filthy guards, “remain here on duty!” He strode past the two men brusquely into the dark interior. Two dull candles in glass bowls provided illumination. There was a cloth screen draped across the width of the room, and sounds of grunting came from behind. Casca’s mouth went down. He knew damn’ well what was going on behind it. He picked up a club he saw lying on a bench and passed his rifle to Mehmet.
Taking a deep breath, he ripped aside the screen to reveal a scene that sickened him. Tied to a table by his hands and legs, face down, was a naked young man. His uniform lay in an untidy heap on the floor. Pushing into him from behind was a lieutenant, still wearing his jacket. He was naked from the waist down. The tied man had a gag in his mouth and his eyes were wide and rolling.
“Lieutenant!” Casca snarled.
The officer roared in outrage and sprang back. Mehmet stared in stunned disbelief. Casca gripped the club and stepped up to the helpless man. “Untie him,” he said to Mehmet.
“Who in the name of Allah are you?” the lieutenant shrieked. He looked at Casca’s uniform. “A pig of a private? You dare to interrupt my leisure? I’ll have you whipped for this, you insubordinate….”
Casca’s hand moved rapidly. The club struck the officer across the face, crushing his lips. The lieutenant screamed and staggered back, his hands to his mouth. Casca stepped after him. “You attack your men? You rape soldiers of the Sultan? You are unfit to command!”
The lieutenant grabbed for his holster, hanging by a belt from a peg set in a post. Casca gave him no chance to pull out the pistol. The club blurred again. It struck the Turkish officer above the ear and he sagged to his knees. “You are a disgrace to your uniform! You will be sentenced to the Caucasian Front! With luck the Russians will capture you and rape you from Tiflis to Yerevan!”
Mehmet untied the victim and the grateful soldier collapsed sobbing in a corner, arms over his head. Casca grabbed the officer by the lapel and hauled him up. “You raper of soldiery, you will come with me! We will report your conduct to your captain. Get your uniform on!�
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The lieutenant shakily grabbed his trousers, his head whirling. He was too dazed to argue or resist. Besides, his captain would support him, for his captain had raped him when he’d first joined the unit. This insolent man would hang! He played at being docile. He’d wait to see what his captain would do. Captain Abdullah would sort this pig out. Captain Abdullah was strong, Captain Abdullah was decisive!
Mehmet stood uncertainly in the middle of the dugout. “Captain Kasim?”
“I’m going to this man’s superior officer. Return to your unit.”
Mehmet saluted and glanced at the sobbing soldier in the corner. “Sir, what about him?”
“Get a medical officer. I doubt there’s much that can be done, but he needs some help.” With that he pushed the lieutenant out ahead of him. He had the club in one hand, and the lieutenant’s pistol in the other. His rifle he left with Mehmet; he didn’t need it anymore. The two walked on along the second trench and turned right down a new one. Halfway down was a large clearing with tents and more dugouts littered around left and right. He couldn’t see much beyond the cleared area, but he had an impression more trenches led off left and right. Turkish soldiers were on guard everywhere. Casca breathed in deeply. This would take some balls.
The lieutenant, still holding his head, gestured to a tent on the left. Two guards stepped aside as the two passed and Casca found himself in a plushy decorated officer’s quarters. He was reminded of some of the great steppe nomad warlords he’d met in the past; Genghis Khan, Kubilai Khan, Tamerlane. All had such tents or yurts, filled with riches. But this was a mere captain in the Turkish army. Much of this must have been looted. It gave him an idea of what the man was like.
“Sir!” the lieutenant said, standing up straight, saluting.
Ahead of him was a short, balding mustached captain, with a huge girth. With him were two servants. They weren’t supposed to be servants, but Casca recognized them for what they were. The captain wore a fur hat and held in his hand a short fly whisk. Casca hated him on sight.