Kingdom Lock

by I. D. Roberts

  As Lock watched the sun rise above the horizon, a monotonous spiked skyline came into view. Buildings with ugly chimneys and vast boilers belched thick, toxic smoke into the heavens above, and a mass of iron pipes wormed their way out towards the quays. The ship glided on and Lock could now see a camouflaged Admiralty oiler docked close by, loading fuel. The canvas pipes that fed into its side reminded him of the tentacles of some nightmarish underwater creature. It was as hideous as it was fascinating, like nothing he had ever set eyes on before. Then his spirits sank and he cursed, remembering that there was still an uncomfortable one-hundred-mile chug towards their final destination, Basra. Then he remembered the night before. Amy!

  ‘You look dreadful, young man.’

  Lock turned in surprise. Lord Shears was beside him, looking out at the shore. Lock tried to compose himself and stand up straight.

  ‘At ease. No need to be formal.’ Shears held out a canteen. ‘Here!’

  Lock took it and drank heavily, spilling water down his chin and onto his shirt as he did so.

  ‘It’s Lieutenant Lock, isn’t it?’

  Lock nodded as he lowered the canteen again.

  ‘I saw you briefly at the Townshend party. We weren’t introduced.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Shears.’

  Lock shook it. It was limp and dry. ‘I know who you are, sir,’ he croaked, then turned his gaze back to the passing port. He could now see the rear of the complex where two iron pipes ran out of the refinery into the open desert beyond.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’ Lock started, realising he’d spoken aloud.

  ‘Why, Abbadan, the oil refinery in Persia,’ Shears said, matter-off-actly. ‘From this point,’ he continued, pointing at the complex, ‘those two pipes, each no more than fourteen inches in diameter, snake north over the ground to the oilfields of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company at Maidan-i-Naftum, one hundred and twenty miles away. Incredible, don’t you agree?’

  Lock didn’t answer. He kept his eye on the refinery until it disappeared from view, then he turned his gaze out across the land beyond.

  It was a lonely strip of country, bordered by a thick belt of palms that lined either side of the canal. Unlike the land by the oil refinery, which was bleached white and looked dead, this was thickly planted with date groves and seemed to be cultivated. Beyond the palms lay a nondescript khaki belt. It was hard to make out with the naked eye, but it appeared to Lock that it divided the desert from the sown area. Further on still, he could see through the gaps in the trees that, after a mile or so stretching inland, there was nothing but a flat, bleak and, he imagined, unprofitable wilderness.

  ‘Christ, what a hellhole,’ he said to himself, taking another draught of water.

  Shears took a deep breath. ‘Ah,’ he exhaled, ‘the very seat of civilisation! Can you smell the history, Lieutenant Lock?’ He sounded like an excited schoolboy. Lock could smell something, and it wasn’t history. ‘Tell me,’ Shears asked enthusiastically, ‘have you heard of the Roman Emperor Justinian?’

  Lock shook his head and handed back the canteen. ‘No, sir, can’t say that I have. Thank you.’

  ‘Well,’ Shears said, placing the canteen on the deck and taking a silver-and-pearl cigarette case from his pocket, ‘in the time of Justinian, Mesopotamia was one of the richest wheat-growing countries in the world.’

  Lock grimaced. He was in no mood for a lecture. He just wanted to find Amy. Explain to her, make amends. He put his hand to his chest and held in a belch, wincing at the bile taste that rushed into his mouth. He focused on Shears’ thin lips. They were moving, but Lock couldn’t hear the words. He closed his eyes and pulled at his loose shirt, which clung to him like a second, damp skin, and wiped his brow with his rolled-up sleeve.

  ‘… destroyed it,’ Shears was saying, ‘putting its cities to fire and sword. Then, in 541 AD, if I remember correctly, the Roman General Belisarius, the soldier who gave a last flicker of glory to the fading Eastern Empire by retaking Rome and North Africa from the Barbarians, also partially retook Mesopotamia into which he descended as far south as the fortified city of Ctesiphon.’

  Lock nodded, as he guessed he was supposed to. But he wasn’t listening. He put his hand up to wipe his face and froze. It was caked in dried blood. He dropped it down again and his mind suddenly returned to the night before, to Bingham-Smith and Gingell. He closed his eyes and shuddered. He saw Bingham-Smith’s bloodied face. He remembered Amy’s handkerchief being taken. He saw it covered in blood, pressed to Bingham-Smith’s bleeding face. He would have to get it back. And then he saw Amy’s disapproving face, the hurt in her eyes.

  Shears had stopped talking for a moment and was lighting a cigarette. Lock patted his pockets, feeling that a smoke would help clear his nausea. No, he cursed under his breath, they must be in his jacket, which was back on his bed mat, rolled up as a pillow.

  ‘Now, today, contrary to popular belief,’ Shears said, ‘the Arab threat there is far more significant than many of our commanding officers realise. Back in November our forces captured Basra and the Fao Peninsula. But British command refused, stupidly I might add, to make a clear declaration of support for local Arab independence. Do you know, because of that stupid decision, we have turned their friendly neutrality into widespread hostility?’

  Lock winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. Christ, where was Bingham-Smith now? And that fat bastard? He should try and find out. He turned his face away and stared down at the dirty waters below.

  ‘… Turkish soldier is no fool,’ Shears said, blowing sweet smoke in Lock’s direction. ‘He is a hardened fighter and has been battling over Mesopotamia and Persia since the times of the ancient Greeks, probably earlier. He is used to guerrilla warfare, as are his Arab cousins, and his faith, as we know from the Muslim uprisings and unrest in India, makes him a formidable foe. We also know that high up the Turk chain of command are German officers, and those German officers have been training the Turkish troops for a number of years now.’

  Lock nodded in agreement as he tried to concentrate on controlling his stomach, taking his mind off it by thinking about how the sweat was running down his back.

  ‘… will be to our peril if we regard them as such,’ Shears droned on. ‘It’s clear the Ottoman government has their own agenda that often conflicts with that of the Germans.’ He turned away from the rail. ‘Why, Lieutenant Lock, even the Kaiser recently declared himself a convert to Islam so as to call all the Muslims out in a holy war against us and our allies.’ Lock gave a non-committal grunt and imagined diving into the canal below and letting the water envelop him.

  ‘It’s total hogwash, of course,’ Shears said, ‘but I pray that the Turks and the Muslim Arabs and, indeed, our Muslim Indians, are not foolish enough to believe it. What a mess we’d be in then, heh?’

  Shears fell silent again and Lock wondered if he was supposed to reply. He looked across at him, but he was still staring out at the passing landscape.

  ‘History will repeat itself, Lieutenant Lock,’ Shears said, tossing his cigarette butt over the side. ‘You mark my words! For we are a fading empire—’

  ‘Yet, maybe we can stop that from happening,’ a familiar voice interrupted, ‘as we will fight where Belisarius fought!’

  Lock and Shears turned to see Major Ross approaching. Ross nodded courteously at Lord Shears.

  ‘Possibly, Major. Possibly,’ Shears said. But all the passion was gone from his voice.

  ‘Good morning, Lord Shears,’ Ross said.

  Shears smiled thinly. ‘Lieutenant Lock and I were talking history.’

  ‘So I heard, so I heard.’ Ross turned to Lock. ‘Did you learn anything?’

  Lock didn’t respond and just closed his eyes. Ross grinned and slapped him on the back. ‘Come along, time for your briefing. There’s some coffee brewing in my cabin. I think you had best have a cup or two. If you will excuse us, Lord Shears?’

  ‘By all means, Major. Good day to you, Lieutenant Lock. Perhaps we ca
n continue our discussion another time?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ Lock croaked.

  ‘Oh, and Lieutenant Lock?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I would be grateful if you would refrain from conducting your … little moonlit debates from outside my porthole in future.’

  Lock managed a weak smile and nodded politely. He turned away from the guard rail, leaving Shears to his dreams of ancient history.

  Ross’s cabin bore no resemblance to the mess it was in the night before. Everything was spick and span, bunk made, chair straight, all in order. If Ross had a batman, Lock had never seen him. But someone had been hard at work. A pot of coffee was steaming on the tabletop. It smelt wonderful.

  ‘Sit down,’ Ross said, closing the door and moving over to the tabletop. He poured two cups of coffee and then took a seat opposite Lock, who perched on the trunk again.

  ‘You should cut down on the booze, my boy.’

  Lock grunted and put the coffee cup to his lips. It was hot, bitter and strong and burnt his tongue as he sipped at it.

  Ross pulled his pipe out of his pocket and tapped it against the chair leg. ‘There’s some hot water in that jug next to you. When you’ve had your coffee I suggest you wash that blood off your hands.’

  Lock peered over the rim of his coffee cup at the major and pondered if he should tell him about last night.

  ‘Guess where I’ve been?’ Ross said. ‘No? Sickbay. Seems there was a little bit of trouble last night. Lieutenant Bingham-Smith was brought in by his friend Lieutenant Gingell and a nurse. Appears Bingham-Smith walked into an open porthole. The medical officer doesn’t believe a word of it, of course, and neither do I, but I’ve told him to keep quiet and leave it to me.’

  Lock gazed into his coffee while the major spoke.

  ‘His face looks pretty messy, Bingham-Smith I mean. Nose flattened and split, cheek lacerated, one eye hidden behind a swollen lid.’ Ross sat forward and Lock’s eyes flicked up. ‘What exactly happened when you left here last night?’

  Lock took a sip of his coffee avoiding giving an answer. He needed to get out of here and find Amy. The major sighed and sat back in his chair.

  ‘Gingell corroborated the story when I confronted him. Seemed a little shaken, though. Still, it’s a good job you and I are disembarking at the next port.’

  Lock nearly choked on his coffee. It couldn’t be, he thought. ‘Are we not going to Basra?’

  ‘Change of plans. We’re getting off at Mohammerah.’

  ‘Why? What’s there?’

  ‘Your new platoon.’

  Lock frowned. His mind was tumbling with thoughts. How long did he have before they jumped ship? Would he have time to see Amy? Could he even get to her in the day?

  ‘I’ve set up a unit within the Mendips, nominally under your command. The main bulk of the 2nd Battalion is in Basra, yes, but two of their companies have been earmarked for Ahwaz. A section of our forces are moving up the Karun, following the pipeline to the oil-pumping station at Ahwaz. Things are hotting up, Lock. There’s intelligence that a substantial Turkish force is moving towards there, and I need to take a look.’

  ‘And me? There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  Lock could tell by Ross’s agitated body language, the way he kept toying with the folded piece of paper on the desk in front of him, that there was another reason for this earlier disembarkation.

  Ross stopped messing with the paper and looked at Lock. He smiled.

  ‘Quite right, my boy.’ He tapped the paper. ‘The real reason is this. I received a cable from Mohammerah half an hour ago. A German spy has been captured by a pro-British tribal leader at one of the settlements along the pipeline.’

  Lock could see the excitement in Ross’s eyes. ‘Wassmuss?’

  Ross’s smile broadened. ‘It’s a strong possibility, yes. But we can’t be certain until we take him – you take him – into custody.’

  Lock nodded, put down his coffee cup and went over to the jug of water. He began to wash the blood from his hands and face. ‘How long?’

  ‘Fifty minutes, maybe less.’

  ‘There’s something I need to do.’

  ‘Write her a letter. I’ll see she gets it.’

  Lock picked up a towel and patted his face dry. ‘I need to see her, sir. There’s something I must—’

  ‘No, Lock, that’s an order. Pack your stuff and meet me down at the gangway on the saloon deck. You’ve got half an hour.’

  An hour later, as the little launch bounced its way towards the port of Mohammerah in the south-west of Persia, Lock watched RIMS Lucknow take up steam and slowly crawl away from them, continuing on her journey up the Shatt al-Arab to Basra.

  He had disobeyed the major and gone straight to the nurses’ section of the ship only to be met by hostility and stubbornness. They wouldn’t even try and find Amy for him. And, by the time he’d hurried back to the compass deck to gather up his belongings and then got himself to the gangway and the waiting launch, he realised that he had forgotten to even write a note for her. He had not had the chance to find Bingham-Smith either or, indeed, retrieve Amy’s handkerchief. But he had a sickening feeling that he would get another opportunity to confront the young officer again soon.

  Ross was next to him, and on the other side of the launch, much to Lock’s disgust, stood Sergeant Major Underhill, the soldier from his past whom he had bumped into on the gangway at Karachi. Lock glared at him, but Underhill kept his eye on the ever-nearing port. Lock looked to Ross, who was concentrating on lighting his pipe against the breeze. As the tobacco caught, he puffed away contentedly, and then pointed the pipe over Lock’s shoulder. Lock turned to see a second launch a little way behind them. It began to peel off to the right. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see the distinct figure of Lord Shears standing at its stern. Was it just a coincidence that the oilman had disembarked also? Or was there something else Ross wasn’t telling him? Lock turned to ask the major that very question, but instantly changed his mind. Their own launch was slowing down and it came to a rest against a steep wooden staircase rising up to the quayside.

  ‘Welcome to the Sheikhdom of Mohammerah,’ Ross shouted above the noise of the launch’s spluttering engine.

  ‘Not Persia?’

  Ross pulled himself onto the greasy staircase and turned back. ‘Well, technically, yes,’ he said, ‘but we call this bit Arabistan.’

  Lock followed Ross up the stairs, looking up at the quayside towering above him as he climbed. At the top he was greeted by a dry, hot wind full of sand and a cacophony of noise made by machinery, animal cries, and thousands of troops. It was a daunting sight, seeing so many bodies in such a small space, more so than the dockside at Karachi. But he didn’t mind, and as he moved off the final step, he was just glad to be on terra firma once again. Underhill stopped a few paces away, pulling off his heavy topi, and wiping his wet brow. Lock dropped his haversack and turned to say something to Ross, but the major had disappeared into the crowd.

  Lock lit a cigarette. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  Underhill’s eyes snapped towards Lock. ‘Sah?’ He almost spat the word out.

  ‘The major?’

  Underhill shook his head.

  Lock blew smoke through his nose and scanned the dock. A first-class gunboat was berthed at the far end, belching thick black smoke into the stifling air. Soldiers were moving about everywhere below it, but it was impossible to tell whether they were embarking or disembarking. The odd shout raised itself above the general chatter as NCOs tried to form some kind of order. Lock spotted a hawker up ahead, weaving his way through the crowds, selling chai to the parched troops. Lock threw his half-smoked cigarette into the slimy water lapping at the quayside and licked his dry lips, then put his fingers to his mouth and let out a harsh whistle. The hawker waved his bony hand, and trotted over to where Lock and Underhill were standing. He quickly set about pouring Lock a glass of chai from the urn strappe
d to his back, and then waited patiently for him to drink up.

  The sergeant major cleared his throat. ‘Give me one of those, you black bastard.’

  Lock quietly sipped at his milky drink, while the hawker nervously poured Underhill a tea.

  ‘Sod this,’ Lock said, and downed the rest of the chai. He gave the hawker a couple of coins, handed the glass back, and began to walk off.

  Underhill put his hand out to stop him. ‘Sah. We’re to wait ’ere.’

  Lock turned sharply back. ‘So you do know where the major has gone?’

  ‘No, sah. I do not. ’E just instructed me to wait.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘And to keep you ’ere with me.’

  Lock glared at Underhill. ‘You’re one of his, aren’t you?’

  Underhill stared blankly back and sipped at his chai. The hawker stayed a few paces away. He fidgeted nervously, averting his eyes from the two men, and waited for the return of his other glass.

  ‘You bloody are! I should have known,’ Lock said.

  ‘Maybe ’e’s gone to check on the whereabouts of your platoon. Sah.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he send you to do that, Sergeant Major?’

  ‘No, no ’e wouldn’t. Sah. The major … ’e likes to do things for ’imself. I imagine ’e will be trying to locate some brass ’at, too.’

  ‘You imagine?’

  ‘Sah.’

  Lock fell silent again. What Underhill said was probably true; after all, it was clear to Lock now that the sergeant major knew Ross better than he had originally thought. He nodded grudgingly and moved over to the edge of the quay, and sat down with his legs dangling above the fetid, brackish water below. He put his face to the sun and closed his eyes. ‘So we wait.’

  The sergeant major finished his chai and handed his glass back to the hawker, along with a coin. The Indian nodded his thanks, then scuttled back to the throng of the troops. As he pushed on, calling out his wares, Lock spotted Ross emerging from the crowd.