‘No one else?’ Lock said.
‘No one else,’ Hall said. ‘And then a British officer was reported to have stolen an ambulance, which was later seen heading for the front.’
‘That’s him,’ Lock said. ‘That’s the man I’m after. But he’s no British officer, sir, he’s a German spy.’
Hall studied Lock’s face for a moment as if assessing his sanity, then returned his attention to the report he had been reading from. ‘However, I also have a report about another officer, judging from the description of his unusual hat, an Australian officer, having stolen a mule from outside the British Hospital.’
‘Sir, I—’
Hall rubbed his forehead and sighed. ‘Theft from a native to add to your list of crimes, Lieutenant. And for what? There’s nothing to corroborate your story about this spy.’
Lock slammed his fist down on the table. ‘Christ, ask Amy Townshend. She was kidnapped by the bastard!’
‘It’s of no matter anyway, Lieutenant,’ Hall said.
‘Yes it is, sir. I need to get on his trail.’
Hall shook his head. ‘Afraid no can do, Lieutenant. Orders.’
‘Sir, I—’
‘Orders from your commanding officer.’
‘Ross? But he knows how imp—’
Hall shook his head again and handed Lock a second slip of paper. ‘Orders from your regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Godwinson.’
‘But, sir, you told me yourself what an ass the man is, that he should be court-martialled himself!’
Hall grunted. ‘My opinion, Lieutenant, but not my decision. And the last time I looked, a lieutenant colonel outranks a major. Godwinson wants you to abandon your mission and report to him at the front. I’d advise you to forget about this spy and do as you’re told. Things are bleak enough for you as it is. Besides, what harm can the German do now? You said yourself that you thwarted his plans. He’s trapped behind enemy lines, with no hope of escape.’
‘With respect, sir, you don’t know what the hell you are talking about,’ Lock said. ‘This German is a positive Houdini.’
‘Be that as it may, Lieutenant, you will report for duty as ordered. There’s an escort waiting to take you and your men across the floods to Shaiba. Once there your weapons will be returned to you and you will be placed in position. Understood?’
Lock understood. He was trapped, being forced under armed guard to report to the front line. They knew he would try to make for the city to pick up Wassmuss’s trail if left to his own devices. He could still do so, but there were his men to think of. Their lives really were in his hands now. If he disobeyed Godwinson’s ridiculous countermand of his mission, then he had no doubt that Singh and the others would face courts martial and possible execution. They were in the British army after all and therefore subject to British military law. He was cornered, he was checked, and without Ross or Townshend to intervene, he was at Godwinson’s mercy. He cursed and got to his feet.
‘Here, Lieutenant,’ Hall said, handing Lock the Sam Browne belt and holstered Webley. ‘It’s not loaded. You’ll be issued with bullets in Shaiba. If it’s any consolation, I think this is ridiculous, too. But orders are orders, and where would we be if we didn’t follow orders?’
‘At peace?’ Lock said, buckling his belt around his jacket.
Hall glared back at him. ‘Hopefully you and your men will all be killed and we shall not have to worry about any courts martial at all. Nasty business, executing one’s own. Now, get out of my sight, Lieutenant.’
Lock gave Hall a stiff, mocking salute, and turned on his heels and exited the tent.
Sergeant Pike was waiting for him outside, with two armed provosts, the same lance corporals from earlier.
‘Hello, fellas,’ Lock said. ‘Fancy seeing you again.’
‘We’re here to take you down to the floodwaters, sir,’ Pike said. ‘See you safely on one of them bellums and off to Shaiba.’
‘Bollocks, Sergeant,’ Lock said. ‘Bollocks.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The fort of Shaiba may only have been nine miles out of Basra, but it was also located across nine miles of flooded desert, and the only way to get there was by mule or by boat. So, once again, Lock and his platoon found themselves in a bellum punting their way towards a possible violent death.
Sergeant Pike and the two provost lance corporals had escorted Lock down to the edge of the floodwaters where already a large task force was either wading or ferrying across to Shaiba. Singh, Underhill and the others were there, under the armed supervision of a provost sergeant and a corporal, waiting beside two bellums. Lock caught the sergeant major’s eye, but he just turned to the side and spat. That was his only comment on the situation Lock had gotten them into.
‘Welcome back, sahib,’ Singh said, and Lock gave him a half-hearted smile in reply.
‘Elsworth, how did you manage to stay with us?’ Lock asked.
‘Told the truth, sir,’ he said. ‘That you recruited me into the 2nd Mendips. Seemed to believe me. So here I am.’
‘Good lad,’ Lock said. ‘All right, chaps, in the boats. We have an appointment with the devil to keep.’
There were a few grunts, but nobody laughed. The men piled aboard, seven in one bellum, eight in the other, with a provost also sat in each one, the NCO with Lock’s boat, the corporal with Underhill’s.
‘I’ll see you on the other side, sir,’ Pike said to Lock, helping the two provost lance corporals to push their bellums out.
Lock nodded, then turned to face the direction of travel.
There wasn’t a landmark in sight and in every direction the plain, stretching to the horizon, flat and still, was nothing but open water. Lock and his platoon arduously poled across the mosquito-infested, foul-smelling sewer-brown water, with each man taking it in turns to do the punting, Lock included. The provosts just kept a watchful, if bored, eye on them. Underhill was the only one with a timepiece and at twenty-minute intervals he would shout across from the other boat, ‘Change!’ The work was monotonous, but after a while Lock fell into a kind of trance.
He tried to picture Amy again. But the more he did, the more his mind kept pulling him back to Wassmuss. He was certain that he’d shot him. But the report said there was only Al-Souk’s body in the launch. And if so, then where did the German go? How far would he get in an ambulance, if that was him who had stolen it? But if he was still dressed as a British officer then he could easily make it to the Turkish lines and then slip across. He desperately wanted to go after him.
Lock glanced at the provost NCO sat next to him on the gunwale at the rear of the bellum. He could easily overpower him, push him overboard, and then turn this boat around and head north. But what about the men, his men? They were his responsibility, Major Hall had made that perfectly clear. Prison, penal servitude and possibly death awaited them if he deviated from his orders to report to the front. That fool Godwinson’s direct orders. Lock cursed. It really did look like he had little choice but to join the regular troops.
It was not what he had in mind on accepting Townshend’s ‘offer’ of a commission within the AIF. Keeping away from the front lines, working for the White Tabs, was the kind of war he hoped to keep on fighting in. But now, sat in this boat and heading for the fort under armed arrest still, despite Major Hall’s reassurance to the contrary, Lock feared that he would soon become mere cannon fodder after all.
A tap on his arm brought him back to the moment, and Singh took his place at the pole. Lock slumped down on the wooden cross-beam and massaged his aching biceps. He opened his canteen, swilled his mouth out, and spat over the side. Then he had another sip and swallowed. The water was warm and stale.
‘Time, Sergeant Major?’ Lock called across to the other bellum, which was about ten yards away.
There was a pause before Underhill gruffly replied. ‘Ten after five. Sah.’
Lock grunted. They had been travelling for a little over two tedious hours now, but it felt more
like ten. He should try and sleep as he could feel his legs twitching. He closed his eyes, then cursed and slapped at his neck.
‘Here, sir.’ Elsworth was holding out a pack of Navy Cut. ‘The smoke’ll help to keep the mosquitoes away.’
‘Thank you, Elsworth.’ Lock took one of the cigarettes and the offer of a light, and sat back.
‘What do you think we’ll find there, sir?’ Elsworth said.
Lock stared ahead and exhaled softly. There was the beginning of land just about visible on the horizon. ‘More bloody mozzies, no doubt.’ He slapped his neck again. ‘Bloodsucking bastards!’
Elsworth grinned. ‘How about a tune, sir?’
‘If you must,’ Lock said.
Elsworth put his mouth organ to his lips and started to play. The tune to the familiar recruiting song ‘I’ll Make a Man of You’ filled the boat, and Lock found himself humming along to the music. The others began to join in, and then Underhill’s group softly took up the tune. With a grin across his face, Dunford sang with gusto,
On Monday I touched her on the ankle.
On Tuesday I stroked her on the knee.
On Wednesday a sweet caress,
And I felt inside her dress.
On Thursday she was smiling sweetly.
On Friday I had my hand upon it.
On Saturday she gave my tool a tweak.
And on Sunday after dinner
I had my dingus in her.
Now I’m paying seven and six a week.
Those who were familiar with the words joined in heartily, even Underhill, who found great pleasure in shouting out the dirty lines towards the end. The others whistled and hummed, and the song floated around like a welcome breeze in summer, carrying them on to Shaiba. Lock tossed his cigarette stub over the side and closed his eyes.
He awoke with a start as the boat bumped into something. Blearily looking about, Lock saw that they had arrived at the British fort of Shaiba.
It was an ancient, crumbling structure of sandy bricks made of stone and mud, with reinforced walls of sandbags everywhere. The buildings looked like something from the Crusades; so ancient and decrepit were they that Lock could not see how the place could be called a fort at all. Surely one direct hit from a Turkish artillery shell would send the whole thing back into the dust from whence it came.
‘Time, Sergeant Major?’ Lock said thickly.
‘Just after six, sah,’ Underhill said, clambering out of his bellum.
Lock did the same, and as he waited for all his men to disembark and collect their equipment, he gazed out across the shore of the fort to where hundreds of bellums were tied up, bobbing together in the water. He thought of Wassmuss’s plan and of the boats Singh had scuttled, and scoffed.
‘Lead on, Sergeant Major,’ Lock waved.
‘Right, let’s get a move on!’ Underhill snapped, and the men fell into line, and with the two provosts bringing up the rear, they began to march up the makeshift wooden dock, over to the sentry point and the fort itself.
They halted at the closed barrier, and the provost NCO marched up to the British corporal sentry on duty. He spoke a few words to him, then turned back to Lock.
‘I’ll be leaving you here, sir,’ the provost NCO said. ‘You are to report to the western perimeter.’
‘And then what?’ Lock said.
The provost NCO hesitated. ‘I don’t know, sir. Wait for further orders, I presume. Sorry, sir, that’s all I was told.’
‘Very well, Sergeant. What will you do now?’
‘Wait by the bellums, sir.’
‘Guard them you mean.’
The provost NCO averted his gaze.
‘Off you go then, Sergeant,’ Lock said.
The provost NCO snapped a smart salute, then he and his colleague marched back down towards the bellums.
‘Bloody Red Caps,’ Underhill spat. ‘Now where? Sah.’
‘The western perimeter,’ Lock said.
The British corporal sentry lifted the barrier pole and eyed them suspiciously as they walked through, but saluted smartly when Lock glowered back at him.
On he and his men wearily trudged, along the mud-caked road, through the entrance arch and into what Lock could only think of as total bedlam.
It was a nightmare place overflowing with British and Indian troops, most belonging to regiments Lock didn’t recognise. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of khaki soldiers there, all similar except for the varying colour flashes of their topi patches. The troops that did stand out were the Scots in beige and tartan kilts. There were just as many Indians of all castes, from infantrymen to lancers, as there were British, and there was even a small squad of Australians, sweating away as they rolled a number of cumbersome fuel drums in the opposite direction.
One of the men tipped his slouch hat at Lock. ‘G’day, Loot,’ he said with a jovial smile as he passed by. They must be part of the Australian Half-Flight General Delamain mentioned, Lock thought.
There were flatbed field ambulances carrying haunted-looking wounded back from the front, travelling in the opposite direction to the ox-drawn carts full of artillery shells, their smooth iron casings glinting in the sun. These were closely followed by donkey trains. They were lugging tin barrels of water, and what appeared to be kitchen paraphernalia. The traffic had turned the earthen tracks between the sandy-coloured walls of the fort to sludge. The noise was grating, a shrill symphony of motorised, animal and human cries, underpinned by the continuous thump and whine of battle in the near distance. The air was thick with the smell of explosives and rot, and Lock could see rats scuttling along the foot of the walls. But whether they were retreating or just arriving, he couldn’t tell.
A frazzled-looking subaltern was rapidly approaching, carrying a clipboard and weaving in and out of traffic. Lock grabbed his arm and yanked him back as he passed by.
‘Sir?’ the subaltern said, his face a picture of exasperated impatience.
‘We were told to report here and to set up camp for the night.’
The subaltern shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I haven’t a clue.’
‘To Lieutenant Colonel Godwinson?’ Lock said.
The subaltern frowned, pursed his lips, then just shook his head again.
‘The western perimeter?’ Lock said. He was beginning to get annoyed himself.
‘Ah, keep on heading the way you’re going,’ the subaltern smiled. ‘At the wireless station take a sharp left and go all the way down. You will see the bivouacs. Find a space,’ he shrugged, ‘and wait.’
Lock nodded and let go of the young officer’s arm. The subaltern saluted briskly, then darted off, narrowly avoiding being crushed by one of the Australian Half-Flight team’s oil drums.
‘Mind where yer bloody goin’, ya drongo!’ shouted an Aussie private after him.
The subaltern gave a wave and a shout of ‘sorry’, but didn’t break step.
‘Right, lads,’ Lock said, ‘some hot food and a good kip’s in order. We’ve a busy day tomorrow.’
Lock stared into the fire Bombegy had made at their temporary camp in their designated spot by the western perimeter, and watched as the pot of sweet-smelling curry bubbled away over the flames. It was early morning now, a little over twelve hours since they had arrived, and nothing much had happened except that their weapons had been returned to them. So, his platoon were still sat around the fire, and each man was now meticulously stripping and cleaning his rifle under the watchful eye of Underhill. Singh was sharpening his kirpan with a whetstone, the rhythmic to and fro of the scraping of the blade melding with Elsworth’s soft voice as the young marksman gently sang another of his army ballads.
I’ve lost my rifle and bayonet,
I’ve lost my pull-through too,
I’ve lost my disc and my puttees,
I’ve lost my four-by-two.
I’ve lost my housewife and hold-all
I’ve lost my button-stick too.
I’ve lost my rations and
greatcoat –
Sergeant, what shall I do?
So lost was Lock in watching the dancing flames that he didn’t notice the subaltern with the clipboard from earlier walk right up to him.
‘Sir?’ the subaltern said. ‘Sir?’ he repeated.
Lock started. ‘Sorry … Yes?’
‘Your men are fully armed? Their weapons returned?’
‘Yes, although my lance naik is not happy at the condition of his kirpan,’ Lock said, getting to his feet.
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind. What’s that?’ Lock indicated to the upturned topi the subaltern was carrying.
‘Oh, yes. This is for you, sir. Standard issue on the front line for officers in the Dorsets.’
‘I’m not in the Dorsets, I’m in the 2nd Mendips.’
The subaltern hesitated. ‘You and your platoon – well, section – are attached to the Dorsets, Lieutenant Lock, sir. For the time being Lieutenant Colonel Godwinson, your regimental commander, he’s been told the same, sir, with what’s left of his er … regiment after the … er …’
Lock nodded. ‘Yes, I know all about that.’
The subaltern smiled nervously. ‘Very good, sir. Here, you’ll be needing these.’ He handed Lock a watch and a whistle on a chain. ‘Compliments of Major Hall.’
Lock studied the watch. It was a silver-cased François Borgel trench watch with a wide leather strap and steel pin buckle. He strapped it over his wrist and placed the nickel-silver trench whistle in his breast pocket.
The subaltern then handed Lock the topi. ‘There’s going to be a hell of a barrage, sir. You’ll be needing more than that slouch hat to protect your brains, sir.’
Lock reluctantly took the cumbersome helmet. ‘And the lieutenant colonel? Where is he?’
‘That’s still not terribly clear, sir,’ the subaltern said.
Lock shook his head slowly. This was ridiculous.
‘Well then, if you’re ready, sir?’ the subaltern said.
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