Kingdom Lock

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘I …’ Townshend was clearly uncertain, but from the look on Ross’s face there was no argument to be had. ‘Hmm … it’s just not the done thing, Ross … Could cause a bit of an upset with the other young officers coming through, don’t you think?’

  ‘All the more reason for his commission into the AIF rather than a British regiment, sir. Better cover if – when – he bumps into other new officers who’ve never seen him at OTC,’ Ross said, pulling an envelope from his breast pocket. He gave it to Lock. ‘Here, it’s official, signed and agreed to by General Bridges.’

  Townshend plucked at his moustache. ‘Very well, Major, but on your head be it.’

  ‘Naturally, sir, isn’t it always?’ Ross knocked back his brandy and put the empty glass on the mantle. ‘Well, sir, we must be off. A visit to the tailor’s for young Lock here, and I have some paperwork to catch up on.’ He held his arm out for Lock to lead the way out.

  ‘Sir, I did promise Miss Amy a dance. She’ll be very disappointed if I leave without even saying goodbye.’

  ‘Won’t be the first time, Lock, and it won’t be the last,’ Townshend said. ‘And I think you’ve riled young Casper enough for one evening without whirling his girl around the dance floor to boot, what?’ he grinned. ‘I’ll explain to Amy. She’ll understand.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Goodbye.’ Lock, unsure whether to salute the general or not, half lifted his arm then dropped it again and followed Ross over to the door. He would get a message to Amy later, arrange to meet her before he set sail.

  ‘Oh, and Lock …’ Townshend called after him.

  Lock stopped and turned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go see a barber and posh up, there’s a good chap! Even Bridges’ Australian Infantry Force has standards, I believe. Chin-chin!’ He raised his brandy glass in salute.

  Lock smiled wryly and followed the major out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two days later, Lock felt strangely self-conscious as he approached the wharf, dressed as he was in officer’s service dress, consisting of a pale khaki shirt and an irritatingly restrictive olive-drab necktie, a dark-khaki open-collar tunic, light-coloured cord breeches with brown leggings and ankle boots. As well as the smart sunburst badge and the Mendips’ three hills on each collar point, both arms bore the bronze shoulder title ‘Australia’ and his shoulder straps the single brass pips of his rank. The patches below them were a bit of a mish-mash, however, being the plain block of purple signifying the 1st Div. Engineers, as a nod to his civil engineering experience in Turkey, but with an additional white square, for the White Tabs, in the centre. It would add a little confusion, Ross said, but would also stop any cases of mistaken identity. Lock doubted this greatly, but what did it really matter? He was just another young officer amongst many. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette aside, hitched his haversack up on his shoulder, and adjusting his slouch hat, followed the train tracks that ran the full length of the dock to the towering cranes in the distance.

  As Lock strode on, his mind drifted to Amy. He had tried to see her, get word to her, but all his efforts had been blocked. She either wasn’t at home, had gone sailing, or he had just missed her. If he didn’t know better, he would say she was avoiding him. He had left countless messages, but all had gone unanswered. Surely she couldn’t have been that angry at him for leaving her party without saying goodbye, for not giving her that promised dance? And now time had run out.

  Lock walked on and to his left, looming large, black smoke billowing out of its two funnels, was the monstrous form of the RIMS Lucknow, the 650-foot-long, 19,500-ton troopship with steam turbines and three propellers that would be steaming him to Basra and the war. All along its length was a hive of activity as Arab and Indian dockhands worked the cranes and pulleys, busily loading supplies into the ship’s hull. And stretched out before Lock, surrounded by piles and piles of trunks, kitbags and sacks, milled hundreds of British and Indian troops. They were doing nothing more than hanging around, waiting. Some were smoking and laughing, others just sitting quietly, eyes wide as they took in the sheer mass of the Lucknow, noses flaring at the heady mix of brine, coal and oil. And despite the early hour, the air tingled with a mood of anticipation. Lock caught snatches of conversation as he wormed his way through the men, most of it relating to rumours about Indian troops from Egypt and France having been ordered to Mesopotamia, and whether or not there were German officers in Baghdad.

  Lock moved on towards a large stone warehouse situated to the right of the wharf. It had been converted into a makeshift embarkation hall and inside it was claustrophobic, moist and fetid, heavy with the stench of sweat, tobacco and gun oil. He followed the moving crowd and made his way to the far side where there was a row of wooden desks. Soldiers and low-ranking officers were queuing up waiting for their papers to be checked. Lock joined the officers’ line and waited patiently for his turn. When he got to the front he put his haversack down and was greeted by a gruff sergeant with cropped grey hair and a neatly trimmed bristle moustache. Lock tried to lighten the mood by asking the sergeant if there was hot water in his cabin.

  The sergeant didn’t even smile. ‘Very funny, sir. Haven’t heard that one before,’ he said, holding his hand out for Lock’s orders.

  A couple of regular Tommies lounging nearby laughed at the sergeant’s sarcasm, but swiftly went about their own business when Lock caught their eye.

  ‘Lock, K., Second Lieutenant, AIF … Hmm … attached to the 2nd Mendip Light Infantry … Ah, yes. Here we are, sir. Compass flat. Sign here.’ The sergeant held out a dip pen and swivelled a thick ledger round for Lock to put his signature next to his name on the immaculately written list.

  Lock dipped the nib in the bottle of ink on the desk. His hand hovered over his name. ‘Compass flat?’ Lock knew the journey up the Persian Gulf to Basra would take about six days, and the prospect of spending it all out in the open didn’t thrill him in the slightest.

  The sergeant cleared his throat. ‘Compass flat, right at the top, behind the funnel, that’s for NCOs and officers under the rank of major, sir. Most of the ordinary soldiers will be on the forecastle and upper deck, some on the saloon decks, and some in the hold. The top brass, they get the promenade deck, mid-ranking officers the boat deck up to the midships, then the aft of the boat deck and the saloon deck, including the poop deck, that’s for the lasses.’ This was clearly a conversation the sergeant was well versed in.

  ‘Lasses?’

  ‘VAD, sir, nurses for the military hospital. The best cabins, all gone to the top brass, as well.’ He leant forward a little. ‘That Lord Shears has taken two.’

  Lock held the sergeant’s gaze for a moment, then flashed a smile and scribbled his signature. ‘Of course. Thank you, Sergeant.’

  He handed the pen back, picked up his haversack and moved away. He stopped and turned back, much to the irritation of the lanky British captain who was next in line. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Lock said to the officer. ‘By the way, Sergeant, has Major Ross, political officer, boarded yet?’

  The sergeant glanced back at his ledger, running his finger down the alphabetised names. ‘Yes, sir. He signed in an hour ago. You’ll find him on the promenade deck, sir, cabin 22.’

  Lock gave the sergeant a jovial salute with a finger, nodded his apologies to the captain, and made his way back out of the embarkation hall. As he crossed the wharf, Lock spotted a shiny black motor car parked beside the gangplank. When he got to within a few feet of the vehicle, the driver’s door opened and a uniformed chauffeur, a man in his late sixties with a flushed complexion and watery eyes, stepped out. He turned and opened the rear passenger door. From the darkness within a familiar voice called out.

  ‘Kingdom?’

  Lock stopped in his tracks. ‘Amy?’ He peered into the passenger compartment and the chauffeur stepped discreetly aside.

  Amy’s face loomed out of the shadows, radiating warmth, all smiles and sparkling eyes. ‘You left without saying goodbye, without giving me that
dance you promised,’ she chastised.

  Lock grinned down at her. ‘I’m sorry. My knee was giving me trouble.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Amy said. ‘You left because of Casper. How that boy infuriates me, sometimes. He was so rude to you.’

  ‘Yes, he was a little curt,’ Lock said. ‘But jealousy will do that to a man.’

  Amy scoffed. ‘I’m beginning to have second thoughts about him. Here.’ She held out her hand and Lock helped her to step out of the automobile.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Lock said, looking her up and down.

  Amy was dressed as a VAD nurse, in a dress of mid blue with a stiff white collar and cuffs, a white apron with the distinctive red cross on the chest, a stiff white cap and a navy greatcoat.

  ‘Don’t act so surprised, I told you I’d signed up as a nurse. But look at you, a soldier. And so handsome, too.’ She gave a stiff salute.

  ‘I thought I’d upset you,’ Lock said.

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘You never replied to any of my messages.’

  Amy frowned. ‘What messages? Damn my father, always interfering.’

  ‘I see. But you’re here now,’ he smiled.

  ‘I’m here because I’m sailing on this very ship with you.’ She indicated over Lock’s shoulder.

  He turned and further down the quay he could see another gangway where about fifty other VAD nurses, all dressed as Amy was, were milling about waiting to climb on board.

  ‘I’ve been posted to the military hospital at Basra,’ Amy said.

  ‘Are you certain this is what you want? Running away is not the answer.’

  ‘I’m not running away,’ she snapped. ‘It’s my duty to go to war. As it is yours.’

  Lock grabbed hold of her hand. ‘I know more than you think. I lied about my age to join up, too. I know nurses are supposed to be twenty-three, to serve near the front lines, but I guess you managed to convince the right people. I was only sixteen when I ran away to war.’

  Amy stared up into his eyes, and Lock could see the spark of anger had faded.

  ‘Is that true?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, and I’ve regretted it ever since.’

  ‘Why? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m in uniform again, something I vowed I’d never do.’

  ‘But Kingdom, this war is too important … For all of us. Listen …

  And only the Master shall praise us.

  And only the Master shall blame.

  And no one shall work for money.

  No one shall work for fame.

  But each for the joy of the working,

  And each, in his separate star,

  Shall draw the Thing as he sees It.

  For the God of Things as They Are.

  ‘I memorised it,’ Amy said. ‘It’s a poem given to all nurses from Katharine Furse, the Commandant-in-Chief of the Women’s VAD. It’s very profound, don’t you think? Besides, how handsome you look, particularly in that hat.’ She paused, frowning. ‘It’s a strange uniform.’

  ‘Australian.’

  ‘Why, Mr Lock,’ Amy smiled, ‘you’re a colonial!’

  Lock laughed. ‘And you’re wonderful.’

  An awkward silence fell between them.

  Lock glanced up at the ship and the faceless officers staring down at the wharf.

  ‘I had better be getting on board.’

  Amy pulled Lock down to her, quickly looking to her left and right. She then kissed Lock fiercely, open-mouthed, and he found himself responding. She tasted wonderful and he felt his body tense with desire as their tongues met. He pulled away, despite wanting to pull her closer.

  ‘You’re a better kisser than Casper,’ she whispered.

  Lock stared down into her pale emerald eyes, aflame with desire. He put his hand to her soft white cheek and pushed a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

  ‘Miss, you’d better be getting along.’ It was the chauffeur. He was holding Amy’s haversack for her.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Hector.’ She turned back to Lock. ‘Perhaps I will see you on board?’

  Lock nodded. It would be difficult. Nurses would be segregated, particularly with so many eager, lusty young men on board. But he liked a challenge. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps.’

  She kissed him again, quickly, on the lips, stuffing something in his pocket, then taking her bag off Hector, hurried off towards her fellow nurses.

  ‘Good luck, miss. Be safe.’ Hector waved after her. Amy glanced back and smiled.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Lock said.

  Hector turned to face Lock and smiled. ‘That I don’t doubt, Mr Lock, sir. I’ve known Miss Amy all her life … headstrong, stubborn, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, and fiercely determined. Maybe it’s the French part of her, from her mother. Her father was furious when the miss announced she’d joined the suffragette movement last year, and he’s none too pleased about this little venture, I can tell you. Still, better a nurse than a soldier. She’d be in khaki if she could find a way.’

  Lock laughed. ‘Well, I must report myself.’ He hoisted up his haversack. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Lock, sir,’ Hector called. ‘Before you go, I have a message for you.’

  ‘A message?’

  ‘Yes, sir. From the general’s wife, sir.’ Hector handed Lock an envelope.

  Now what? Lock thought as he put down his bag again and tore open the message. The note was short and had clearly been written in a hurry. The ink was smudged and it had been folded at an angle.

  Dear M. Lock,

  Amy is determined to go to war against her father’s and my wishes. I know no matter what I do she will find a way, so I have arranged for her to be posted to the British Hospital at Basra. I shall be travelling to the same place myself at a later date, but I would ask you a great favour. Please watch out for her in the meantime. I know this is a lot to ask given your duties, but you have already proven yourself a more than capable guardian and I would ask you to be so again.

  Je tiens à vous exprimer notre gratitude,

  Lady Alice Townshend (née d’Anvers)

  ‘Any reply, sir?’ Hector asked.

  Lock shook his head. It was ironic that he had been asked to look out for Amy. Guardian, indeed! If only Lady Alice knew his true feelings towards her daughter, would she still ask him then?

  ‘Just tell Lady Alice that I will do what I can,’ he smiled thinly.

  ‘Very good, sir. The young miss has always been a handful, sir. But I can see that she likes you.’

  Lock nodded, gathered up his bag and, stuffing the note in his pocket, made his way onto the gangplank.

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ Hector called and got back into the automobile. The engine coughed into life and Lock glanced over to the VADs. He couldn’t make out Amy amongst so many similarly dressed young women, but he told himself he would find a way to see her later.

  As he trotted up the gangplank leading to the saloon deck of the Lucknow, the sound of men singing filled the morning air.

  We are Fred Karno’s Army,

  The Poona Infantry.

  We cannot fight,

  We cannot shoot,

  What earthly use are we!

  And when we get to Berlin,

  The Kaiser he will say,

  ‘Hoch, hoch! Mein Gott,

  What a bloody fine lot are

  The Poona Infantry!’

  A cheer rose up and more voices joined in as the ditty was repeated. Lock watched the Townshend motor car pull away and manoeuvre slowly through the sea of troops. He then remembered that Amy had stuffed something in his pocket and putting his hand in, he pulled out a lace handkerchief. He pressed it to his nose, breathing in her scent. But as he turned from the gangway and stepped onto the deck, he bumped heavily into a soldier standing directly in his path, and dropped his haversack and the keepsake.

  ‘’Ere, ’ere, mind yerself!’

  Lock could feel the goosebumps rise on his skin
as he bent to pick up the handkerchief and his bag. He knew that voice from a lifetime ago, from a life he had buried, had forgotten, had hoped had forgotten him.

  Sounds of gunfire, of burning buildings, of women and children screaming, of English voices jeering and egging others on filled his mind. And that voice, sneering and grunting.

  ‘Oh, beg pardon, sir. Didn’t see you was an officer.’

  Lock slowly straightened up and lifted his head so that his face was out of the shadow thrown from the brim of his hat. The man he had collided with was a stiff, short, red-faced and bristly-whiskered sergeant major.

  The NCO’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything at first as he stared back into Lock’s eyes, first the left and then the right. The corner of his mouth started to twitch, and then it broke into a sneer.

  ‘Well, well, well. If it ain’t Private bloody Lock,’ he spat. ‘Fancy seein’ you ’ere.’ His voice was trembling with barely controlled rage. ‘Bet you thought I’d forgotten you?’

  Lock held the NCO’s glare. ‘Corporal Underhill. How are you?’

  Underhill thrust his chin forward. ‘Sergeant Major Underhill,’ he hissed, spraying Lock with spittle, as he tapped the stripes on his upper arms.

  Lock smiled thinly. ‘Lieutenant Lock.’

  Underhill scowled and his eyes quickly took in Lock’s uniform. His brow furrowed deeper still as his gaze rested on the ‘Australia’ flash on Lock’s shoulder.

  ‘No salute, Sergeant Major? How very … ill disciplined of you,’ Lock said. ‘I may have to put you on a charge.’

  Underhill’s eyes flicked up to Lock’s. He was biting his lip and the vein on his forehead was throbbing.

  Lock shook his head in mock disappointment and gave a deep sigh. Now wasn’t the time to renew old acquaintances. Time enough during the voyage, and this little man wasn’t worth the trouble. If he saw him again maybe he would settle old scores, maybe he would even kill him. But for now he had someone else he needed to talk to. So, he shouldered his haversack, stuffed Amy’s handkerchief back in his pocket, pushed roughly past Underhill, and went in search of Ross.