‘Ah, there you are, my boy. Sarnt Major,’ Ross called. ‘Come along, no time to dawdle. We’ve got a mission to get underway.’ He gave a broad smile, and turned and led the way back along the quayside, with Underhill marching briskly along beside him.
Lock pulled himself to his feet, hauled his haversack up onto his shoulder and followed. Ross had obviously said something to Underhill for the sergeant major was nodding in response. Lock quickly caught up with them and noticed that Ross seemed more preoccupied than usual.
‘Any news, sir?’
‘Hmm? News? About what? Oh, yes. Well, appears we have a problem.’ Ross fell silent and rubbed his moustache thoughtfully.
‘Sir?’
‘There have been developments. Not only does it appear that your platoon is not here yet, but worse still, our captured spy is no longer in captivity.’
‘Sir?’
‘That’s if he ever was in captivity in the first place. Seems communications are a trifle fuzzy. The telegraph lines are continuously cut and although a rider was sent, the message was so garbled that it just didn’t make sense.’
‘So we don’t even know if it was Wassmuss?’ Lock said. For the first time he was beginning to have doubts about Ross’s organisation. This seemed to be so very haphazard.
‘Don’t look so worried, Lock, it’s war. These things happen. I’m just as unhappy about it as you look. But you’ll have the sergeant major with you. A good man in a tight spot. He’s to be your number two.’
Lock gave Underhill a sidewards glance. Man, maybe. A good man? Never. ‘Major, I think I can man—’
‘Orders, Lieutenant!’ Ross snapped. ‘I give them, you follow them. Now, the prisoner was being held at a small settlement called Daurat al Qaiwain, sometimes called Darkhoveyn. It’s a little east of the river and the pipeline, on the road to Shadegan. I want you to go there and see what the hell is going on. If they have a captured spy, if they ever had a captured spy, if they’ve ever seen a spy.’
‘Wassmuss,’ Lock said.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Ross said. ‘If he’s there, bring him back. If he’s not, find him. You should be there in two days, just follow the troops.’
‘Sir?’
‘The march, join the march.’
‘March?’ Lock was not keen on the idea of a long tramp. ‘What about a boat, sir? The pipeline follows the river most of the way to Ahwaz. We could hitch a ride part way.’
Ross shook his head. ‘We missed the last one by a good six hours.’
‘What about that one?’ Lock pointed to the gunboat berthed at the end of the quay.
‘Doesn’t sail for two days. And even I can’t force them to hurry up. Takes time to load troops and supplies. Besides, they’re heading the other way, to Basra.’ Ross paused. ‘There’s nothing for it than to set out on foot. The 4th and the 7th Rajputs and some of the 2nd Dorsets are already marching, following the pipeline north. Just not enough river transport. Still, it’s not too far. Like I say, you’ll be there in two days.’
‘You not coming with us, sir?’
‘I have a little business to take care of here. I’ll be waiting, hopefully with your platoon. On arrival at the settlement seek out the tribal leader there. Here’s some gold.’ The major tossed a small hessian bag tied with string. ‘Bribe him if you must.’
‘I thought he was pro-British sir?’
Ross grunted. ‘He was. Doesn’t mean he still is. But that bag of coin may remind him where his loyalties lie.’
After a few more paces, Ross stopped. ‘Well, I’ll leave you here. When you get back, look for me at the army encampment north of the town. You’ll pass it on the way out. Right. Cheerio, then. See you in a few days.’ Ross nodded to Underhill, who snapped a smart salute back, then the major waved his hand, turned on his heel and disappeared in an instant amongst the crowd.
Lock and Underhill remained where they were in silence for a moment as if waiting for someone else to come and collect them. Lock dropped the haversack at his feet and turned to face Underhill. ‘What do you want here?’
Underhill frowned back at him. ‘Want, sah? I was assigned.’
‘Don’t give me that. You’re a base-wallah, you like a cushy number at camp. You don’t want to be out in the field. Do you?’
Underhill looked away. It was clear to Lock that the sergeant major was eager to say something in return, but he remained tight-lipped.
Lock stepped closer. ‘Did you put Bingham-Smith and his fat crony up to that … business last night?’
Underhill still kept his mouth shut, but there was a smile upon his lips again.
Lock angled forward and glared into the sergeant major’s twitching face. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did in Lhasa, Underhill,’ he said softly. ‘I know the kind of man you really are, even if Ross doesn’t.’ He then smiled and backed off. ‘Bring my haversack with you, there’s a good fellow!’
Underhill muttered a curse and unclenched his fists, but he didn’t rise to the challenge. He picked up his own haversack, as well as Lock’s, and as Lock walked off, Underhill hurried after him.
Lock pushed on through the hot, sweating crowd of troops, and continued to worm his way along the quayside to the far end of the dock. The heat and the flies were a mild irritation he could easily ignore, but it was difficult to do the same with the sand in the wind. It was getting into everything; his eyes, his nose, his mouth, even his ears. He glanced back at Underhill, huffing and puffing and shoving his way on with the two packs on his back. Lock smiled to himself and moved on through the sea of men, passing the plain wooden custom halls, hoping that soon he would come to the end of the docks and find some space to breathe.
‘Good God! This is worse than Karachi,’ he said, scanning the body of Indian and British troops swarming near to the sentry posts and the checkpoint at the entrance. They were at the edge of the city itself, a festering, crumbling collection of mud-brick buildings and stinking piles of rubbish, and very little charm. But it wasn’t just soldiers they needed to cope with now; there were just as many camels, horses and oxen carts to deal with, as well as local merchants, street hawkers and the inevitable beggars.
‘There!’ Lock said above the noise, pointing to a motor vehicle not one hundred yards away. It was parked under the shade of a palm tree, next to an official-looking building.
‘Where are you goin’, sah? The major told us to join the march,’ Underhill panted, pulling up next to Lock.
‘You really want to walk all the way? In this heat? For two days? A motor vehicle will get us there in a few hours,’ Lock said.
Underhill scowled at him, brow contorted in thought. He nodded reluctantly.
‘Good,’ Lock said and pushed forward, crossing the rough track of a road.
As they got closer, Lock could see that the vehicle was a Rolls-Royce armoured car, with an enclosed cab and a gun turret. There was a barrel of fuel loaded in the open flatbed at the back, but it still offered plenty of space for possible passengers. A scrawny soldier of about twenty-five, with a square face and small, furtive eyes, was slouched nearby smoking a cigarette, sheltering from the sun. He sported a single stripe on his arm and a peaked cap with a pair of tinted goggles pushed up over the band.
‘Ah, Lance Corporal … this yours?’
The soldier drew on his cigarette and studied Lock and the panting, sweat-soaked sergeant major beside him with suspicion. ‘Aye, what of it?’ He spoke with a thick Irish accent.
‘Nice rig,’ Lock said, nodding at the turret. ‘Looks frightful.’
The soldier narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘You just off the boat, then?’
‘Yes. I’m Lieutenant Lock and this is Sergeant Major Underhill. We’re newly attached to the 6th, but we urgently need to get to Daurat. It’s on the road to Ahwaz.’
The soldier was nonplussed. ‘I know where it is, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard all the begging stories from new arrivals wanting a free ride to spare their boot leather.’
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p; Lock could see by the twitch at the side of his mouth that Underhill was itching to step in and use some parade-ground tactics on the Irishman. But Lock knew that this man needed some gentle persuasion, not aggression. ‘You not heading for Ahwaz yourself?’
‘Nope. Just back from patrol. Been refuelling.’ He patted the barrel.
‘Patrol?’
‘Aye. Keeping a look out for bloody Abduls trying to wreck the pipeline. The road to Daurat’s a particular trouble spot.’
Lock nodded. ‘I see. Well, Lance Corporal, that’s what we’re doing. Sergeant Major, my bag if you please.’ He held out his hand expectantly.
Underhill hesitated before handing Lock his haversack.
‘I have the authority from Major Ross to requisition this vehicle. Somewhere …’ Lock began to rummage in his pack. He pulled out a book and then a pint bottle of brandy. ‘Hold this a moment, would you?’ he asked absent-mindedly as he continued to hunt for the mythical orders.
The lance corporal’s face lit up when Lock passed him the brandy bottle. ‘Orders, you say?’
‘Yes. Look, be a pal. We don’t have time for this. The major has gone to square it with your captain …’
‘Flannigan,’ the lance corporal said, his gaze fixed on the brandy bottle. He gently shook the bottle and ran his pink tongue along his dry lips as the liquid sloshed about seductively inside.
‘Yes, Captain Flannigan. So let’s not dilly-dally.’
The lance corporal rubbed his chin, still uncertain. ‘I’ll just check with the captain.’
‘No time. Orders are to leave now. Keep the brandy. I’ve plenty more,’ Lock said.
The lance corporal’s eyes shot up. ‘Sir. Well, thank you.’
‘Splendid! Let’s get off then!’ Lock heaved his bag into the flatbed and hauled himself up next to the spare barrel of fuel.
‘You sure about the captain?’ the lance corporal said, dropping his cigarette and popping the brandy bottle in his pocket.
Lock smiled down as Underhill clambered up onto the flatbed next to him. ‘I told you, it’s an emergency.’
The lance corporal hesitated, uncertainty still clouding his face.
‘What’s your name, Lance Corporal?’ Lock said.
‘Connolly, sir. Seamus Connolly.’
‘How long will it take, Seamus? To get to Daurat, I mean?’
‘About five hours, sir.’
‘Good. Well, stop worrying and let’s get a move on. These orders come from Major Ross. He will back you up if there’s any trouble, isn’t that right, Sergeant Major?’
Connolly looked to Underhill as if for confirmation, but the sergeant major just grunted non-committally and sat down opposite Lock. Connolly shrugged, pulled his tinted goggles down over his eyes, then clambered up onto the turret, opened a hatch and climbed into the cab.
‘Stupid Micks, all the same,’ Underhill muttered. ‘Do anything for a tipple. Drunken, bog-trotting sons of whores.’
The engine kicked into life sending out a belch of black smoke that startled a passing team of camels. Then, with a crunch of gears, the armoured car lurched off.
‘Hey, you there! Stop! Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
Lock glanced back to see that a young captain, clutching a pair of goggles and a sheaf of papers in his hands, had appeared from the official building.
‘Orders, from Major Ross, sir!’ Lock called back. ‘We need to borrow your vehicle!’
The captain trotted after them. ‘Orders? What bloody orders? Who the hell is Ross? Connolly? Connolly? Stop this instant!’
But Lock knew Connolly would be unable to hear his captain’s shouts above the noise of the engine. He cupped his hand around his mouth. ‘Major Ross, sir,’ he shouted, ‘you’ll find him at Command HQ.’ He sat back again, grinning to himself and gave a cheery wave as the armoured vehicle picked up speed. The captain threw down his goggles in anger and stood, hands on hips, watching them pull away onto the main road and join the troops marching north away from the dock.
‘Think you’re real smart, don’t ya, sah?’
‘I got us a ride, didn’t I?’ Lock shifted his weight and faced away from Underhill. But yes, he had to admit, he was rather pleased with himself.
The road they were travelling along was rocky and full of potholes and followed, as did the River Karun, the course of the oil pipeline. Lock thought how ridiculously vulnerable the raised iron tubes appeared, helpless and exposed to attack from anyone as they stretched out across the stark desert. He was then struck by the fact that Persia wasn’t a desert at all, in the traditional, romantic sense. What he remembered from the Arabian Nights tales he read as a child was that deserts were all soft sand and oases of palm trees. This was an arid terrain, with a vast rocky plain bleeding off to the bleak horizon.
Lock’s eye was distracted by the wind whipping up dust clouds in the distance and his thoughts turned to how devastating sandstorms could be. He’d never witnessed one, only heard the tales, and hoped that they wouldn’t have to go through one any time soon. The dust and sand kicked up by the wheels of the armoured vehicle and by the marching troops was bad enough. It was beginning to catch the back of his throat and he was feeling a thirst coming on again.
Lock glanced at Underhill. The sergeant major was dozing peacefully, with his topi pulled down over his eyes, oblivious to the bone-shaking ride and the heat of the sun baking down on them. Already the flatbed was hot to the touch. How had he ended up alongside Underhill again after all this time? Lock thought he’d seen the last of him in Tibet. How many years ago was that? Ten? The man was as odious as ever. He shook his head. Best watch your back, Kingdom, he told himself.
Lock unpinned the upturned left brim of his slouch hat and fished out his packet of cigarettes. He held his jacket up over his chin to protect the match flame from the wind, and then tossed the spent match over the side of the car. As he smoked, his mind was filled with the rhythmic march of the soldiers, clearly audible above the rattle and hum of the Rolls-Royce engine. He couldn’t believe how many men there were here, snaking behind him as far as the eye could see, all the way back to the dock.
There were hundreds of them; the English boys in their short KD trousers and topi helmets, their faces, arms and bare knees already red with heat and sunburn, and the Indians, all in similar uniforms, but with a bewildering variety of headdress styles all according to the individual’s religion, race or caste. Some wore turbans, either bound directly around the head or around a pointed cap known as a khulla. Each man was marching in the same direction, and each man looked hot and exhausted, as the heat sapped his energy with every step. There was no colour to be seen as everything was caked in dust, save for the odd flash of red from a sepoy’s turban. It was a khaki, faceless mass tramping on, on to meet the Turk and to shake hands with death.
They passed a camel train and Lock was amused at the sight of ‘the ships of the desert’ plodding along, their riders sitting high above their fellow soldiers, just glad, no doubt, as Lock was, to save on boot leather and blisters.
The Rolls slid to a halt, throwing Lock and Underhill to the floor of the flatbed.
‘Now what?’ Lock said, pulling himself to his feet and peering over the edge. An ox-drawn gun carriage had lost a wheel and spilt its load, crushing three sepoys who must have been marching close behind it. ‘Jesus!’
A number of soldiers were frantically trying to shift the cannon but were finding it hard to get a foothold in the marshy ground between the river and the road. Two of the sepoys beneath the collapsed gun were dead, their upper torsos crushed to a pulp, but a third had his lower half pinned underneath the gun’s barrel. He was screaming in pain as an English sergeant tried desperately to organise five men with wooden joists, ripped from a nearby fence, to lift the gun. He was shouting at them to take the strain but was barely audible above the trapped sepoy’s cries.
‘Shut up, soldier! Do you hear me?’ the sergeant bellowed at the trapped Indian be
fore turning to his men again. ‘Lift, damn you! Lift!’ But the gun would not shift. Then the sepoy stopped screaming altogether. He convulsed. His mouth oozed blood, and then he was still. The sergeant and his men hadn’t noticed and continued in their vain attempt to heave the gun up.
Lock sat down again as the Rolls jerked back into life and slowly manoeuvred around the carnage.
‘There’ll be worse to come,’ Underhill said.
Lock ignored him. He’d seen enough sickening sights in his time already. But Underhill was right. There would be worse to come. He went to relight his cigarette and noticed that it was broken. Prising it away from his bottom lip, Lock tried to straighten it out again, but it just broke up in his fingers. ‘Bugger.’
Underhill chuckled and, pulling his topi back down over his eyes, settled back down to sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘I don’t suppose you’d be having any eggs in that pack o’ yours, Lieutenant? Fresh ones?’ Connolly said, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He was staring forlornly down into the engine cavity of the armoured Rolls. Steam was smoking out from the overheated radiator and water was spilling at his feet and quickly evaporating into the bone-dry ground.
‘Eggs?’ Lock nearly laughed.
‘Aye,’ Connolly said seriously. ‘Crack a couple into the radiator, once it’s cooled, and they’ll fill the leaks.’
‘Really?’
‘As God is my witness, sir.’ Connolly peered back down at the leaking radiator. ‘Hose has split, too.’
Lock sighed. ‘So we walk.’
The Irishman closed the inspection hatch of the Rolls’ engine with a loud clang. ‘Aye, looks that way. Sorry, sir.’
‘How far is it?’
Connolly peered down the rocky, empty road. He shrugged. ‘Ten miles. A little more, a little less. Can’t be certain.’
‘Four, five hours’ march.’
‘Aye, sir, but it’ll be getting dark in a few hours.’
Lock surveyed the length of the road, the way they had come. It had been hours since they passed the head of the marching troops and they too would soon be looking to set up camp for the night. He turned to the direction of travel. The sun was still burning down on the barren road and the shimmering horizon appeared as harsh and unforgiving as always.
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