‘He’ll wait with Fairuza and head back for Mohammerah.’
Aziz Azoo’s expression changed to that of a man who had stepped in dog excrement, an expression that Lock knew would rile the sergeant major.
‘Not on yer life, you tinpot bleedin’ emperor. I’m gonna be there, rifle at the ready,’ Underhill snarled, and pulled back the bolt of his SMLE.
Aziz Azoo laughed again. ‘Good. I like your anger, Under the hill. You will be a valuable addition. Do not fear for Fairuza. If we die, she will return to our camp and tell of our heroics here today. They will sing songs and write poems about us!’
‘Poems?’ Underhill scoffed.
Aziz pulled his horse about and took a moment to assess his men. He then turned in his saddle and thrust his sword to the heavens. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ he cried, pulling his horse onto its hind legs.
The tribesmen all called out Allah’s name in unison and Lock glanced back at Underhill. The sergeant major nodded stiffly in reply. Then, with a blood-curdling screech, Aziz shot forward, with his men close behind.
With a yell and a kick of his heels, Lock was with them, thundering down the hillside, kicking up a plume of choking sand as they raced at the Qashqai horsemen.
Lock whooped with sheer adrenalin and pointed his Webley at the approaching Persians. He had often wondered as a boy, playing with his toy soldiers and horses, what it would be like to take part in a cavalry charge. He had tried to imagine the feel of blood pumping in his ears, and how his heart would pound in his chest as the beast beneath him would snort as they thundered onwards to their target. And now he knew, because here he was, on top of a camel, admittedly, but alongside real riders, tribesmen and warriors who had spent generations fighting on horseback.
It was as exhilarating as it was frightening, but Lock felt elated. He glanced to his right at the Lur tribesmen who aimed and fired their rifles haphazardly. Even Underhill had his blood up. Whether it was fear or sheer hatred written across his face, Lock couldn’t tell, but when the sergeant major caught his eye, he was reminded of the murderous man he knew ten years previously in Lhasa. And Lock knew he’d have to be extra vigilant with Underhill close by in battle. To Lock’s left Aziz, eyes ablaze with bloodlust and revenge, was screaming and cursing as he charged on, his own sword circling about his head.
The moment of impact took Lock’s breath away.
One minute they were pounding as one towards a screaming, seemingly faceless mass; the next they were amongst them. Qashqai faces contorted in rage, fear, surprise, agony and death. Lock was close enough to reach out and touch them, close enough to smell their earthy odours, to see the sweat dripping from their creased foreheads, to pick out the intricate designs of their colourful tunics and their saddlecloths.
And the noise! Never had Lock heard such bedlam, such power, as metal struck metal and sparks flew. Men yelled and cursed as blood flowed and blade cut flesh, crunched bones and crushed skulls. Shots rang out deafeningly close, muzzle flashes stung Lock’s eyes, and the dust choked at his already dry throat. Everywhere there was dust, kicked up by the horses, horses whose own eyes rolled white as they salivated at the bit, turning this way and that. Soon everything became khaki. All except for the blood, fresh and deep red, spilling and spraying onto man, beast and ground.
Lock’s first bullet found its target at close range. One minute a yelling, bearded face was upon him, the next it exploded into a mist of scarlet. Men fell, horses stumbled, limbs were severed. But on and on Lock rode, they all rode, Lur and Qashqai and Underhill, turning, shooting, maiming and killing.
Aziz’s sword swung suddenly into Lock’s periphery vision and he turned to see a Qashqai rider, headless, slump forward in his saddle. Aziz grinned manically at Lock and then he was gone again. One of the Lurs yelled out and tossed a sword towards Lock. He snatched it from the air and swung to his left, staying a killing blow from a Qashqai blade. Then the Qashqai jerked as a sword embedded itself in his chest. The tribesman’s hands grabbed at the blood-soaked blade, a look of disbelief on his face, and then he toppled from his horse to be lost under countless hooves.
A bullet whistled past Lock’s ear and when he snapped his head around he saw Underhill. Their eyes met. Underhill had his rifle pointing in his direction. Then there was a flash to Lock’s right and he instinctively raised his sword again and stayed another blow from another Qashqai blade. He parried and thrust and the Persian fell away mortally wounded. When Lock looked back, Underhill was gone, lost in the mayhem.
And then it was over.
One minute the Qashqai seemed to be everywhere, a choking, swarming nightmare, and then they were gone. All Lock could see now was a thick blanket of dust. The odd riderless horse walked into view; a Persian, arm severed at the shoulder, staggered and fell. Lock trotted on, eyes scanning for Underhill.
As the dust began to settle, Lock could see that the Qashqai were retreating back to Daurat.
Aziz emerged from the dust cloud and trotted over to Lock.
‘Ya Kingdom Lock!’ he said. ‘You ride well. Your Under the hill ride well!’ He waved his hand in the air. ‘The Qashqai dogs have fled. They are poor sport.’
Lock nodded. ‘They’ll regroup, bring reinforcements. We’d better not hang around here.’
‘This is true. I have lost five men. Now I must get my daughter safely home. Come, we will escort you back to river.’
Then Lock saw Underhill again. He had a bleeding gash above his left eye, but was sat still, his camel picking at a scrawny bush.
‘Sergeant Major, time to leave,’ Lock said.
The Qashqai didn’t appear again and they saw no one as they travelled the road to Shadegan, or as they made their way down the sheep-herders’ trail that weaved south. They continued on until eventually the pipeline loomed up ahead of them. And there it was, the road back to Mohammerah and the Karun River, as empty as before. Lock had thought that they might come across the marching British troops, but there was no sign.
‘Do you think we’ve missed ’em?’ Underhill asked.
Lock looked north. There was a large dust plume on the horizon. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But not like you missed me.’
Underhill frowned, but made no comment.
Aziz Azoo trotted over. ‘This is where we must part, ya Kingdom Lock.’
Lock held his hand out and he and the Lur leader gripped each other’s forearms once again in farewell.
‘This is not my war,’ Aziz Azoo said, ‘but I promise you this, as Allah is my witness, we will, from this moment on, wage war on any Ottoman that crosses our path. They shall not find the Kerkha River to the north a safe place to travel!’
Lock bowed his head. ‘I am unable to express my thanks to you and your people for what you have done.’
Aziz pulled his horse about. ‘No thanks are needed when one performs a duty. Mak toub,’ he said, switching to Farsi.
‘Maa as-salaamah.’ Lock held up his hand in farewell.
‘Ensha Allah, ya Kingdom Lock, ensha Allah!’ Aziz nodded to Underhill, then galloped away north with his tribesmen and his daughter, who waved back, a smile upon her lips.
‘God willing indeed,’ Lock said, returning Fairuza’s wave. He removed the sheepskin, folded it neatly and stuffed it behind his back on the saddle, and then rolled up his sleeves. It was going to be another hot day.
As Lock watched the Lurs go, Underhill cantered up. ‘Mohammerah?’
‘Mohammerah,’ Lock said, wheeling his camel about.
‘About bleedin’ time,’ Underhill said.
CHAPTER NINE
The day was already half over by the time a dusty and saddle-sore Lock, with a weary Underhill at his side, rode up to the army encampment. It was pitched in a godless spot, an open space of fly-ridden, barren and scorched, rocky earth outside Mohammerah. A number of tents and campfires had been set up near to the river, whose muddy brown water ran indifferently along the western perimeter. There was more open, colourless land beyond, and to the
north and east of the camp dusty hills scant of vegetation squatted like broken giants.
Lock and Underhill handed down their passes to the Indian sentries on duty at the entrance barrier, which was little more than a simple hinged pole, painted red. It was balanced across an opening in the crude wooden fence that enclosed the eastern perimeter.
‘Christ, what an ’ole!’ Underhill said to nobody in particular.
‘A home from home then, Sergeant Major.’ Despite his tiredness Lock couldn’t resist the jibe. Underhill grunted, but even he seemed too jaded for another verbal duel.
‘I wonder if Ross is around,’ Lock said, lighting a cigarette. He turned to one of the Indian sentries. ‘Where can I find the Mendip Light Infantry, Corporal?’
The naik gave a quick salute. ‘Mendips, sahib?’
‘There’s a battalion from the Somerset Regiment here, I believe.’
The naik’s face lit up. ‘Ah, yes, sahib. Try the 2nd Dorsets. Down the slope a little way and over to the left. The camel enclosure is just there also, sahib. Follow your nostrils!’
Lock saluted nonchalantly, then he and Underhill urged their camels onwards and slowly lumbered their way down through a series of bivouacs, all neatly lined up, row upon row. As they passed through, Lock saw soldiers engaged in various activities to either keep themselves busy or to just while away the time. A few were stripped down to the waist and were playing cricket; others were meticulously cleaning their rifles, whilst some spent their time writing, reading letters or just lazing in the sun. Lock steered his camel on past the kitchens where a number of Indian natives were surrounded by steam and smoke, cooking fish caught from the river. Lock’s stomach grumbled and he realised that he had eaten nothing in the past twenty-four hours but a piece of bread and a couple of eggs.
A few yards further on, they found the camel enclosure where a frustrated lance corporal was shouting and cursing as he desperately tried to get one of the beasts to lower itself down. Nearby, watching with amusement, were two Tommies. They were sat cross-legged, attempting to outwit one another at cards. Lock and Underhill dismounted and left their camels with the flustered lance corporal, who was less than pleased to have an additional pair to add to his worries.
Lock stretched and rubbed his backside. ‘You the Dorsets?’ he called to the card-playing Tommies.
‘Blimey, is that an Aussie officer?’ one of them said a little too loudly. They both got to their feet and saluted. ‘Yes, sir! We’re with the Dorsets,’ they said in unison. The Tommies looked like farm labourers, big lads in their late teens, with rugged faces and rough hands. One of them, Lock could see, was red-raw with sunburn.
‘I’m looking for the Mendip battalion. Where can I find them?’
‘Sir, about four rows down,’ said the sunburnt Tommy, accent thick with a West Country drawl. ‘Bright flag outside a big tent, that’s the Mendip battalion commander’s quarters. Can’t miss it.’
Lock nodded, and with Underhill following close behind, continued on.
‘Did you see that officer’s eyes?’ Lock heard one of the Tommies mutter.
‘Bloody weird,’ the other said. ‘Come on, your deal.’
Passing another section of tents, Lock soon spotted the flag, a gaudy green-and-gold pennant with the familiar Mendip insignia, three hills, emblazoned across it. As he and Underhill approached, a fresh-faced sergeant of about twenty-three, who was sat at a trestle table by the entrance flap to the tent, rose to his feet.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Lock said, ‘is this the Mendip Light Infantry?’
‘That’s right, Lieutenant. Well, part of it. C Company, Second Battalion.’
‘Good. My name’s Lock, this is Sergeant Major Underhill. We’re here to report to the company commander. Is he here?’
‘Down at the mess tent, sir,’ the sergeant said, taking in Lock’s Australian slouch hat. ‘If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you.’ He stepped forward, hand open.
‘You’d best wait here, Sergeant Major. Guard the bags,’ Lock said.
Underhill was about to protest, but Lock turned on his heels and followed after the sergeant. They walked a little way through a row of canvas to an open-sided tent. Here a group of rowdy junior officers, all of a similar age, in their early twenties, were seated around a long wooden table, eating, and discussing, Lock gathered very quickly, the finer qualities of polo. There was a raging fire nearby where an Indian cook was standing over a large steaming cauldron. The smell of spicy food made Lock’s stomach growl.
‘Who the devil are you, sir?’
Lock turned to the major at the head of the table, whom he took to be the company commander. Lock raised his hand in salute, but his reply was cut short by a familiar voice.
‘Ah, gentlemen, let me introduce Lieutenant Lock.’
From the other end of the table, Major Ross pushed his chair back and stood up. The officers broke off their conversation and nodded politely, although Lock could see amusement written across their faces.
‘Did you bring Captain Flannigan’s motorised patrol vehicle back? He’s not a happy chappy, I can tell you!’ Ross said.
There was a general chuckle across the table and Lock felt a twinge of irritation, wondering if he had been the butt of Ross’s jokes for part duration of the meal.
‘So this is the young colonial who rescued Major General Townshend’s daughter?’ the major said. His barking voice was monotone and, despite his distinguished, albeit greying face, Lock guessed that he was in his early forties, judging by the touch of silver in his neatly trimmed brown hair. He had an air of aristocratic arrogance about him, from the way he held his knife and fork, to the way he was looking down his thin, straight nose.
‘He is indeed,’ Ross said. ‘Lock, this is Major Janion, C Company commander in the 2nd Battalion of the Mendips. And this miserable lot,’ he added, waving his hand over the table, ‘are his platoon commanders.’
Janion chuckled, placing his knife and fork down and dabbing at his mouth and bushy moustache with a napkin. ‘Quite, quite. And you, Lieutenant …’ He twitched his nostrils. ‘Good God man, you stink to high heaven! And shirtsleeves in the mess … it’s just not done. This isn’t the outback now!’
The officers sniggered and whispered between themselves.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. That will be my camel—’
‘Filthy things!’ Janion said, clearing his throat, something he did repeatedly when he spoke. ‘Can’t understand why the blasted things are used. Horses are much faster!’
‘Aye, but camels are smarter,’ Ross said.
‘Rot!’ Janion spat. ‘A camel is a horse designed by committee, and well you know it, Ross!’ He screwed his face up and waved Lock away. ‘Step back a pace, will you? Now, Captain Carver there is the senior platoon commander. What say, Carver?’
Lock’s gaze met the hazel eyes of the young man seated at the far end of the table. The left side of Carver’s thin mouth curled up into a mocking smile, made all the more elaborate by the obligatory officer’s pencil moustache resting above his top lip.
‘That’s correct, sir,’ Carver said, voice resonating with impeccable diction, as he passed a hand through his pristine, silky mop of brown hair. ‘Our Mister Lock here … well, I think it best we give him Green Platoon for the time being, sir. Rather apt, I thought, as he’s an inexperienced man.’
Janion let out a snort of laughter, joined by the other officers. ‘Jolly good. Cheer up, Lock,’ Janion said. ‘Green was the late Lieutenant Peters’ platoon and he was a brave officer. We miss him. But you have got … How many?’ He turned to Carver for help.
‘Eleven, sir,’ Carver said. ‘But all fully dressed, I can assure you.’ Again there were a few guffaws from amongst the officers.
‘Quite,’ Janion said. ‘Eleven good men under you. Mostly bloody idol-worshippers,’ he added almost apologetically, ‘but I believe your sergeant major …’ He paused again.
‘Underhill,’ Ro
ss said.
‘Yes, yes, Underhill,’ Janion scowled. ‘He’ll soon beat them into shape for you. It’s little more than a section, I’m afraid, but that’s all I can spare for this business Ross has been going on about.’ He picked up his knife and fork again and returned to eating, nodding in satisfaction as he chewed. He stopped suddenly and made an elaborate performance of wrinkling his nose again. He glanced at Lock. ‘You best run along and get cleaned up. The AIF may tolerate dirty, smelly, half-dressed officers. But you’re in the Mendips for now, and we most certainly do not!’
Lock saluted Janion, who dismissed him with a wave of his fork before returning to his meal. The conversation started up again and Lock, much to his annoyance, became invisible once more.
‘I’ll catch up with you in a while,’ Ross said.
‘He knows.’
Ross frowned.
‘Wassmuss. There’s a rat wearing white tabs.’
‘Not here,’ Ross said.
‘And you’ll want to see what I have,’ Lock insisted.
Ross pursed his lips. ‘Very well, give me ten minutes to make my excuses.’ Lock must have inadvertently shown his exasperation, for Ross tutted. ‘Manners, dear boy! I’ll be with you in a wee while. You’ll find your belongings in your tent. Trunk arrived from Karachi.’
‘I say, Lock?’ Carver called, smirking. ‘What say you about polo?’
There was a general snigger from the table.
‘I’ve only ever played with the hill tribes of the Himalayas,’ Lock said. ‘Gets a little messy when the ball starts to fall apart.’
‘Fall apart?’ Carver said, curiosity aroused.
‘Yes, there’s only so much a severed head in a Hessian sack can take.’
There was a stunned silence. Lock nodded to Ross and, with a wry smile, he exited the tent.
The sergeant was still waiting for him outside.
Kingdom Lock Page 14