‘For what?’ Lock said.
‘It’s time, sir.’
‘Already? Then I guess I am. Right, lads, jump to it!’
Lock placed his slouch hat in his jacket, put the topi on his head, and brushed down his uniform. The bullet hole above his left breast was still prominent, and everyone he’d met for the first time since arriving at Shaiba had their gaze drawn to it. He quite enjoyed the feeling. It made a pleasant change from the looks his eyes were usually subjected to. The men handed their packs to Bombegy, who would stay behind until the attack was over, and then formed an orderly line, two abreast. Lock nodded his satisfaction, and joined Underhill at the head.
The subaltern led the way out of the camp, along the perimeter wall, and out into a communication trench. This ran the length of the other side of the wall and Lock guessed it was an old dried-up moat. Despite the extensive flooding on the other side of Shaiba, here the ground was dry and dusty. The trench came out into a flat open area crammed with equipment, soldiers and heavy artillery.
The land ran flat for nearly half a mile, until it came to a low wall, about four feet high. This was lined with troops, but there was a gap ready for Lock’s platoon to spread out along. Underhill began to direct the men into position, and Lock glanced back over to his right at a small rock hillock. This had been tunnelled into, with battery points around its base, and obviously there was a stairway of some kind inside for there were men on the summit. It was an excellent observation point.
Lock shaded his eyes against the rising sun. He could make out that the men were some of the company commanders that he had seen in General Delamain’s command tent. Major Hall was up there, too, as was Lieutenant Colonel Chitty. He was carrying something circular under one arm, and from where Lock was, the colonel looked like some ghoul from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale.
‘What’s that under his arm?’ Lock said to the subaltern, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the senior officers.
The subaltern grunted. ‘Oh that. It’s a leather ball. The colonel’s a big football fan. He’s from Liverpool. Owns a business there, I’m told. Some factory or other. Anyway, he loves the game. Believes it bonds men like no other sport. Right, sir. I’ll be leaving you now. Have to report back to my own platoon.’ He saluted.
‘What’s your name, Subaltern?’
‘Mitchell, sir.’
Lock returned the salute. ‘Thank you, Mr Mitchell. Good luck.’
Subaltern Mitchell nodded. ‘And to you, sir,’ he said, and hurried off.
Lock turned his attention back to the commanding officers and tracked Lieutenant Colonel Chitty as he made his way from the observation point and out across the open space to the low wall. He watched as Chitty began to walk along the lines of troops, nodding and chatting affably to the men, reassuring them undoubtedly about the job to come.
All along the section of the defences where Lock and his platoon were sheltered, the soldiers of the 2nd Dorsetshire and the 24th Punjabi Regiments were poised, bayonets at the ready, waiting. He checked his watch. It was a little after half past seven. The guns from both sides had fallen silent a few hours before dawn, and apart from a low general murmur from the ranks, it was now eerily quiet again.
Lock pulled the heavy topi off and wiped his already sweating brow. Despite it still being early spring, he could already feel the heat from the sun begin to prickle his skin. He pushed the topi back on, then scanned the land in front of him, away from the fort. It was an appalling scene, like something out of a nightmare. Wherever he looked, the churned-up ground was littered with the dead men of the 104th, the 7th Hariana Lancers and the 2nd Mendips. Between gun equipment and all the paraphernalia a soldier had to carry on his back, bloody limbs, formless torsos, severed heads still wearing helmets and, worst of all, butchers’ cuts of flesh from both man and beast were strewn everywhere. It was like hell’s own refuse dump.
A pack mule lay nearby, its feet in the air and its belly torn open. Carrion circled overhead, squawking and flapping blackly down to feed on the cadavers. The stench of charred, rotting flesh caught Lock’s throat making him gag. He began to breathe through his mouth and forced himself to look beyond the carnage to where he would run when the time came. He could make out bushes, rocks and the shattered remains of carts that men had used as cover from the Turk gunfire. Soldiers were still lying behind them as if firing upon the enemy. Only now they were dead, forever frozen in the act of battle. An Indian was sprawled a few yards ahead. His turban had unravelled, revealing long, greasy hair matted with blood. His arms were outstretched as if he’d been crucified. Lock turned his gaze away.
From where Lock was standing, the scorched land ahead of him slowly rose up a steep incline to the mound, five hundred yards away. Dotted all the way up were bombed-out, wrecked dwellings, broken walls and gnarled tree stumps, until it reached the summit where more buildings were clustered. This was where the Turks were dug in, and this was where Lock and his men had to go.
The silence was broken by the British artillery. Delamain had stuck to his promise as Colonel Cleeve’s guns began to pound the Turkish positions mercilessly. Smoke and dust filled the air, coupled with a sudden rush of machine-gun bullets and the crack of rifle fire. The fight back had begun.
Lock passed down the line of his men. He said a few brief words of encouragement to each one, firstly to the Indian boys, the serious Ram Lal, the ever-eager Indar, and the reliable Mirchandani, on to Prajit Pahwa and his ridiculous waxed moustache, the nervous Chopra and his bosom-buddy Toor, to the serious Daljeet Kapoor, the black-toothed Harbir Sagoo, and Kulveer Ram, the old man of the group. Next along the line were the English lads, the clumsy Private Dunford, and the musical Elsworth.
‘Still glad you came along with me, Alfred?’ Lock said.
Elsworth smiled nervously. ‘Hope so, sir.’
Lock winked and moved on. He passed Sergeant Major Underhill, but neither man looked at the other. Lock finally came alongside Singh.
‘Well, Sid, think I’d rather chance an arm in a bellum again than this.’
Singh nodded in agreement, keeping his gaze on the open, scarred ground before them. ‘Sahib, I think you are right. And thank you, sahib.’
‘For what?’
‘For calling me “Sid”, sahib,’ the Indian grinned.
Lock patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
All of a sudden the shelling intensified, drowning out all sound of the retaliating Turkish guns. Lock checked his wristwatch. The minute hand was ticking ominously towards eight. He produced the whistle from his breast pocket and put it to his lips. He pulled his Webley from his holster, tightened his grip on the handle, and took a deep breath. He looked back along the line of his men: all stooped nervously, bayonets glistening in the morning light. His eyes met Underhill’s and the sergeant major gave a curt nod, then turned his gaze away. The shelling stopped and an eerie quiet descended on the battleground. Even the Turk guns had ceased firing.
‘Keep low, make for the first house on the right!’ Lock said. He checked his watch one last time. The second hand clicked to the hour.
‘Tally-ho, boys!’ came a cry from behind, cutting through the silence. Chitty stepped forward and booted his football high into the air towards the Turks. He drew his sword, and bellowed, ‘Next stop Crystal Palace for the final!’
The company commanders blew their whistles in unison and then, like a wave crashing over a sea wall, the men of the 2nd Dorsets and the 24th Punjabis, with Lock’s platoon from the 2nd Mendips amongst them, poured over the defences.
Cleeve’s artillery started to bombard the mound and the houses ahead of them once again. Lock knew this would keep the Turk heads down and give the British and Indian troops a few valuable seconds to cross the marshy, open plain before them and make for cover.
Lock ran. His heart was thumping in his chest, and his boots were slipping and sliding as he weaved in and out of the debris of the previous engagements. On he pressed, head instinct
ively ducked low between his shoulders. Already the chinstrap of his topi was beginning to chafe.
When he and the rest of the charging, screaming soldiers were within about one hundred yards of the first mound, the trajectory and range of the British shells altered, and the first Turkish heads popped up from their shelters. They opened fire.
Blinded by the smoke from the artillery guns, Lock stumbled over corpse after corpse as he continued his way forward. A cacophony of noise pounded in his ears, and time seemed to slow as hundreds of boots thundered on. The bullets came relentlessly. They cut up the ground at Lock’s feet and buzzed around his head like a swarm of angry bees.
A bombed-out house loomed up ahead, and Lock felt relief that some shelter was near to hand. There were only a few more paces to run now. He headed for a low wall and jumped over the carcass of a horse that was slumped at its base. To his horror the other side of the wall was piled with the dead. His boot squelched sickeningly as he landed, releasing a cloud of black flies and an acrid stench. He gagged and held his arm up over his mouth and nose.
Quickly he gathered his bearings and saw that he was in some kind of corral, a dusty square enclosed by a low wall. It was a grim morgue open to the elements, piled with animals and soldiers from both sides. Lock forced himself onwards, slipping and stumbling over more cadavers, to the wall on the opposite side. He caught a muzzle-flash in the corner of his eye and something hot passed his neck. Slamming against the pockmarked wall, he breathed deeply and put his hand up to his throat. There was no blood but, feeling lower, he discovered that a bullet had cut the collar of his tunic and grazed his neck.
Leaning against the wall, only a few feet away from where Lock was crouched, was a fair-haired lad from the 104th. He was painfully young and appeared as if he was kneeling in prayer, hands clasped together. Lock was about to call out to him, but the words stuck in his throat. The soldier’s face told him it was pointless. It was twisted and red and his eyes were open but glazed and unseeing. An ugly gash was cut across his temple.
A deafening clatter burst forth from the house on the other side of the wall, not fifty yards from where Lock sheltered. It was as if the Turks had decided to attack with a fleet of motorcycles, such was the mechanical din. Bullets struck the top of the corral wall sending shards of stone raining down on Lock, forcing him to duck down lower.
From his position Lock could only watch helplessly as the Turk machine guns callously cut into the still-advancing Indians of the 24th. He prayed that the masonry in the wall about him would hold, and then there was a blinding flash and a deafening thump. All the sound was sucked from his ears. His eyes smarted. His lungs filled with suffocating dust, and he began to cough uncontrollably. He spat and, without thinking, went to stand. Heat from a nearby flame hit him. He was thrown to the floor as the house where the Turk machine guns had been dishing out their mortal punishment disintegrated into a ball of fire.
After a few moments, Lock tentatively raised his head. His ears were singing with a high-pitched tone. He coughed and slowly sat himself up. Pressed against the wall, not five yards away, was Singh. He still had his hands over his head. The big Indian coughed and cautiously straightened up, dusting himself down. He looked up and spotted Lock. His lips moved, but Lock couldn’t hear the words.
Lock put his hand to his head. It was bare. He scanned the ground for his topi. He found it, but there was a gaping hole in the crown. He shook the dust from his hair and pulled his slouch hat from inside his tunic, knocked it into shape, and put it on. He scrambled to his feet and picked his way through the debris over to Singh, passing Mirchandani on the way. The sepoy was bleeding; a piece of jagged shrapnel was sticking out of his arm above the elbow. But the Indian indicated that he was all right, and Lock moved on.
Singh was saying something.
Lock shook his head. The ringing in his ears was subsiding, but he still couldn’t hear properly.
‘Sahib,’ Singh shouted, ‘do the British artillery know that we are here?’
‘I bloody well hope so, Sid,’ Lock bellowed in return, slumping down next to the Indian. ‘That was too bloody close for my liking!’
Through the billowing dust Lock caught snatches of the other men from his platoon, scattered about the corral. He spotted Elsworth, Ram Lal and Indar on the far side. They, as did the six other sepoys, seemed shaken, but miraculously unharmed. There was no sign of Underhill or Dunford.
Lock hacked and spat thick and brown. His wrist ached from the kickback from his Webley, and he sucked his teeth as he changed the weapon from one hand to his injured one. As he stretched and flexed the fingers of his right hand, he thought he could hear cheering. The sound was faint but distinctive. He pinched his nose, closed his mouth, and blew. It didn’t help. He couldn’t make out where the noise was coming from above the constant ringing in his ears.
Singh tapped Lock’s arm and pointed. As the dust settled, Lock could see Underhill pulling Dunford along behind him. They were in the middle of the men of the 2nd Dorsets and the Indians of the 24th Punjabis, who were all pushing on. A stretcher-bearer was attending to Mirchandani’s wounded arm.
‘Jildi, Sid,’ Lock shouted, pulling himself to his feet. ‘No time to dawdle!’
Singh, Elsworth and the sepoys all scrambled up. They moved on to the pile of smouldering rubble that was once the house on top of the mound, and stopped.
All around lay Turkish and Arab dead. There must have been ninety or more enemy bodies there. Only their uniforms showed that they were any different to the British and Indian corpses, just as hideously broken and twisted, just as ghostly silent, like so many discarded rag dolls. But the mound was now clear and the British and Indian boys were cheering. Lock looked beyond them at the plain below. The artillery had turned what other buildings there were into bombed-out shells; black, smouldering and dead. And further on still was a small belt of trees. They acted like a barrier or a border to a farmer’s field. After that was another large stretch of exposed ground, about half a mile across, which eventually came to the main body of the woods, a huge bank of trees that filled the horizon. It was here where the Turkish defences lay, stretching all along the length of the woods. And heading towards this was a throbbing grey mass. The enemy were pulling back.
Whistles calling the men to order echoed around the mound, and soon the troops were marching on towards the trees. Lock, his ears still humming dully, signalled for his men to follow, and he too set off towards the enemy.
Miraculously, he had lost none of his platoon so far; even Mirchandani’s wound had proved to be superficial as the Indian had caught up with them again. Lock’s gaze fell on Underhill’s back. The sergeant major was a little way ahead, striding purposefully forward. He was caked in dust like the rest of them, but otherwise unscathed.
Behind Underhill marched Dunford, nervously glancing to his left and right. Elsworth was at his side, as jovial as ever, whistling ‘Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire’. Singh was next in line with Indar beside him. Ram Lal, Mirchandani, Kapoor, Sagoo, Pahwa, Chopra, Toor and Kulveer Ram followed behind them in twos. Bombegy had joined them now, bringing up the rear, walking with an equipment-laden mangy camel.
Lock rubbed his neck. It was beginning to feel prickly. He removed his hat and fished Amy’s soiled handkerchief from his pocket. Tying the corners, he placed it on his head, drooping it down to his collar, and put his hat back on. The handkerchief offered a little shade, but not much. He stumbled as his boot tangled in the rapidly thickening undergrowth. The landscape was starting to change the nearer they got to the treeline and the barren ground was giving way to a covering of harsh bracken and spindly bushes.
A rifle shot rang out and one of the Tommies from the Dorsetshires collapsed in a heap only a few feet to the left. Lock swore and instinctively ducked down. Immediately the air was angry with bullets again. They hadn’t reached the belt of trees yet, but had come upon the first of the new line of Turkish defences. The enemy machine guns opened fire and L
ock, with the mass of British and Indian troops, began to move off at the double. NCOs bellowed and company commanders blew their whistles. Lock fumbled for his, but when he put it to his lips, he didn’t blow. Already there was too much confusion. Voices cursed and cried out in pain as all around men were cut down. But on Lock ran with the soldiers, weaving in and out of the bushes, desperate to remain under cover. They were running fast now, screaming as they headed straight for oblivion. Lock couldn’t see the Turk guns, but he could feel their hot bullets fizzing about his ears.
He looked across the jagged line of troops just as Major Hall took a bullet in the thigh. One minute he was there, standing tall, revolver out, waving the men onwards, the next he collapsed to his knees, gasping in pain. And still he kept waving the men on. Lock urged his own men onwards and glanced back to see Sergeant Pike helping Hall to his feet. Then a spray of Turk bullets hit both officers.
Lock roared for the soldiers of the Dorsetshires to continue moving forward, and then he ran on after his own men as the bushes around him were shredded by enemy gunfire.
The blood was throbbing in Lock’s ears. He mentally counted the seconds he and his platoon were out in the open. He could see a machine-gun nest up ahead, the dark mass of foliage with the gun turret sticking out like a deadly metal arm, and he could make out the Turks manning it, two men and an officer. The gun was firing to their right and as it began to arc back, Lock levelled his Webley at the officer. The Turk spotted Lock’s small group of British soldiers running straight for him. Lock could see the officer’s mouth open to shout a warning, and the soldier at the machine gun start to look in his direction. A bullet from Lock’s revolver smashed through the officer’s left eye, and the Turk’s head kicked back. Bullets peppered the Turkish gun post and both enemy soldiers jerked in death. Lock heard Singh yell on his right, and heard a distant whistle and roar as Chitty’s men stormed forward. And then Lock was at the gun post, jumping over the bracken and sandbags, with Singh in front of him, his kirpan flashing down and cutting into a Turk soldier who had his hands raised in surrender. But it was too late for him. There were three other Turks in the machine-gun nest, huddled in fear, unarmed, begging for mercy. Underhill shot one in the chest and the rest fell in bloodied heaps under Singh’s slashing blade.
Kingdom Lock Page 28