Lock pushed ahead with his platoon, on through the dense bracken, and came to a line of tents pitched at the very edge of the treeline. Equipment was scattered everywhere: not just weapons, but pots and pans, and sacks of grain. It looked as if it was a field kitchen. A fire of twigs was burning under a large dixie with what appeared to be burghul bubbling away inside. Kulveer Ram paused to dip his finger into the oatmeal mixture. He crumpled to the ground as he was shot.
‘Take care!’ Lock shouted, and fired blindly into the trees.
Harbir Sagoo tripped over a tent rope. As he pulled himself up again Lock heard the sepoy’s shoulder crack from the impact of a bullet. The Indian cried out, then was immediately silenced as a second bullet struck his forehead.
Lock cursed and fired again into the trees. But this time the hammer fell upon an empty chamber. He swore and ran on, zigzagging his way through the bushes to the nearest tree. Only a few feet more, he thought, and then he could reload.
A bullet whistled hot by his cheek. Diving to the ground, Lock rolled, and slammed hard against a tree trunk. He pressed his sweat-soaked back against the rough bark, and swiftly reloaded his Webley. As he slid each new cartridge into its chamber, he watched his men pushing on, firing as they went. He could not see him, but he could clearly hear Colonel Chitty urging the soldiers forward as they moved across the open ground and into the safety of the treeline.
Lock peered around the trunk. He could see Turks fleeing through the thin line of trees. They were heading to the open stretch of plain, beyond which, maybe a half a mile across, was the thicker mass of the woods themselves.
Lock lifted his Webley and followed the run of one of the Turkish soldiers. He watched the man weaving in and out of the trees, getting further and further away. The soldier was an easy target and all Lock had to do was pull the trigger. He watched him until he disappeared from sight, then lowered his gun. He couldn’t bring himself to shoot a man in the back, even if he was the enemy.
Whistles blew and Lock could hear the NCOs calling the men to a halt. He spotted Sergeant Major Underhill on his right kneeling over a soldier. The soldier was screaming with pain. Lock made his way over to them, but stopped before he got too close. The soldier was Private Dunford. He had been shot in the stomach and blood had soaked the lower half of his tunic. Underhill was whispering to the wounded man, softly comforting him. Two stretcher-bearers were hurrying towards them.
Lock caught sight of Singh and Elsworth. He beckoned them over.
‘You all right?’
‘Sahib,’ Singh said.
Elsworth, though looking grey, forced a smile.
‘Any sign of the others?’
‘None, sahib. We all got separated very quickly.’
Underhill, his hands stained red with blood, slowly walked over to them. He shook his head when Lock indicated to Dunford, who was being lifted onto a stretcher.
‘Did we lose many?’ Lock said.
‘I’m not sure, sah.’ Underhill crouched down and began to wash his bloody palms in the sandy soil.
‘What do we do now, sir?’ Elsworth said.
Lock took his hat off and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘We need to find the remainder of our platoon, assess the damage, check ammunition and make our way to the edge of this small belt of trees. This isn’t over yet.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lock lay flat at the foot of a tree, with Singh close behind and Sergeant Major Underhill to his right. He watched the destruction of the woods ahead with bitter satisfaction as the British artillery gave the Turks sheltering there a good pounding. Smoke, fire and debris filled the air, creating a blanket of choking dust that was illuminated sporadically by the colourful explosions of more and more shells. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of freshly chopped wood and newly upturned earth.
Lock’s platoon had shrunk to eleven men now, ten being stretched out along the treeline nearby, and Bombegy safely back at the rear with his camel, making do with the abandoned Turk field kitchen. Further on, the remnants of the Dorsetshire Company were dug in, along with a precious Vickers gun placed under cover of some bracken. The belt of trees they were all sheltered in was fortunately on an incline, and there was a slight ridge at its edge before it flattened out again. There, the trees thinned and gave way to a second flat and open area, before it too came up against the thicker mass of the woods. The plain between was grassy and dotted with tree stumps and small thorn bushes.
Shrill whistles cut through the still air as all along the line the signal was given to advance. The shelling was over.
‘Now, lads,’ Lock said, ‘don’t bunch up! Twos and threes. Keep your heads down. Any sign of the enemy, fire, cover, reload. Keep it simple!’ He steadied his grip on the Webley, blew his whistle and scurried forward. He was thankful for the smokescreen that the artillery bombardment had created. If there were any Turks left alive within the woods then they would not be able to see the British and Indian soldiers. Not until it was too late, anyhow.
Lock and the others advanced carefully into the open. It was oddly peaceful there, just the sound of his own heartbeat and the swish of hundreds of feet passing over the carpet of long grass. He glanced along the line. The Dorsetshires were a little advanced to his left and the 24th Punjabis were over to his right.
Lock turned his attention to the smoke up ahead. It was beginning to thin out. Something made him stop. He raised his hand. The men halted. He waved them down, and Underhill quickly moved to his side.
‘What is it?’
‘There!’ Lock pointed. He could see a figure through the smoke. It was running. ‘And there!’ He turned to the Dorsetshires to warn them, but they were already too far forward. ‘Christ.’
Lock looked back at the smoke. It was rapidly dissipating and he could see a number of figures rushing towards them, then dropping down as if disappearing into the ground.
‘Holy mother of God, trenches! Fall back! At the double!’ He waved the men back.
Underhill shoved Elsworth back to the trees, pushing past the hesitating sepoys. On his left, Mirchandani knelt down to give covering fire.
‘Move!’ Lock screamed, taking a blind shot at the Turk positions.
Singh cursed at the sepoys in Punjabi. They got the message, and wheeled about and ran back towards the belt of trees they’d just left.
Lock blew a warning with his whistle. But just as he did, the Turks opened fire and the smoke in front of him turned into a deadly firework display as muzzle flashes lit up the entire line of the woods. Lock dived flat and began to crawl as fast as he could between the tree stumps and bushes, his jacket snagging on the thorns, back to the relative safety of the first treeline. Bullets whizzed overhead shredding the trees and branches nearby, sending debris showering down on his back.
‘Retreat! Retreat!’
Lock could make out the screams of the platoon leaders as the other companies were cut down by the Turk gunfire.
Then Turk shells fell among the British troops trapped in the open and in the treeline, and beyond.
Lock scrambled back to the first of the trees and dived into a foxhole surrounded by bracken, low branches and raised roots. Underhill, Singh, Ram Lal and Elsworth were already there.
‘The others?’ Lock said.
‘To our left, sahib,’ Singh said.
Underhill swore. ‘Bloody farce, this! I thought we’d smashed Johnny’s bloody artillery?’
Lock didn’t answer. He had thought the same thing only moments earlier.
‘Definitely trenches, sir,’ Elsworth said, scanning the Turk line through his scoped rifle.
The shelling continued for what seemed an eternity, as the ground shuddered around them and the air became thick again with the smell of wood, earth and blood. The five men kept their heads down and Lock prayed that a shell wouldn’t land in their foxhole.
Ten long minutes of continuous pounding elapsed and then the shelling came to an abrupt halt. There was a moment of stil
lness, followed by the sporadic crack of rifle fire.
Lock raised his head and peered through the bracken. There was nothing to see except another scarred and battered field. He could make out bodies, but it was impossible to tell who they were. He looked to his left, along the line of undergrowth at the edge of their treeline. About seven yards or so away he thought he could make out a turban. ‘Mirchandani?’ he called, and waited.
‘Perhaps—’ Underhill started to say.
‘Shh! Listen!’ Lock hissed.
A twig snapped and there was a sudden movement in the undergrowth as Mirchandani’s grubby face peered over the edge of the foxhole.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ Underhill spat, lowering his rifle. ‘Could’ve blown yer bleedin’ ’ead off!’
Mirchandani sniffed and crawled down into the foxhole. He looked tired and there was a criss-cross of scratches across his cheeks and hands. ‘Sahib,’ he said, and saluted Lock.
‘Well?’ Lock said. ‘How many?’
Mirchandani frowned. ‘Two, sahib. Pahwa and Indar. Kapoor’s dead.’
Lock cursed. ‘Pass the order down the line, Sepoy. Dig in. Pick targets. Don’t fire willy-nilly! Then you get back to your foxhole. Stay alert and keep your heads down! Got that? Good, now go!’
Mirchandani grabbed his rifle, clawed his way up out of the foxhole and darted down the line of the ridge.
‘You are getting the hang of this, sahib!’ Singh smiled at Lock.
‘Of soldiering?’
‘Of leading, sahib.’
Underhill grunted.
Lock fell silent. He was surprised by Singh’s words; but, yes, he had to admit to himself that he was getting used to leading. And, if he was honest, he was even starting to enjoy it a little.
They ducked down quickly as the ridge just above their heads jumped with machine-gun fire sweeping over their position.
‘Can you make out that gunner, Elsworth?’ Lock said above the clatter.
Elsworth waited for the bullets to pass by, then cautiously lifted his head and gently slid his rifle between a raised tree root. He fixed his eye to the scope and waited.
The Turk machine gun rattled away as it continued to spray the British positions. Elsworth licked his lips, took a deep breath and held it. He paused and then squeezed the trigger. His rifle kicked back into his shoulder and, at the same time, the spent shell flew out of the chamber.
The machine gun stopped.
Elsworth grinned and lowered himself back down.
‘Good man,’ Lock said.
Then the machine gun started up again.
Elsworth shrugged. ‘There’s always someone else to take their place, sir.’
Lock sighed. He didn’t like being pinned down. It felt hopeless. He wanted to press on. He checked his watch. It was just after noon.
Lock stifled a yawn and shifted his aching limbs. It was now three in the afternoon and the British had been trading blows with the Turks for nearly seven hours. The sun had arched to the right of their position and was now shining directly on the treeline opposite. Elsworth, Underhill, Singh and Ram Lal were still with him in the claustrophobic foxhole and they were keeping up a sporadic fire on the entrenched Turks opposite. Bombegy had crept up and provided them with some welcome coffee and foul-tasting but hunger-stifling burghul, before scuttling back to his precious camel. ‘Most nervous, sahib,’ he said, with an anxious bob of his head.
Lock opened and shut his right hand, trying to get some life back into the stiff joints and ligaments. Was it all from the shooting he’d been doing? Or was it still smarting from when he gave Bingham-Smith that right hook? He scoffed and told himself he should have hit the assistant provost marshal harder. He holstered his Webley and took out his field glasses, blew on the lenses, then pressed them to his face and slowly scanned the terrain in front of him. He could make out three howitzers hidden deep within the thick canopy of leaves, and the occasional flash of a white uniform worn by the Turk artillerymen. He adjusted the focus, trying to get a better look at the officer directing them. Lock couldn’t be certain, but he appeared to be wearing a German uniform. His stomach tightened and he momentarily thought it could be Wassmuss. But he did know that was impossible. He may well have escaped, but there was no way he could be here. Still …
‘Elsworth?’
‘Sir?’
‘In the trees, about eight, maybe nine hundred yards in … eleven o’clock …’
‘Sir. I see them.’
‘Can you hit that German officer by the second gun?’
There was a brief pause.
‘I don’t know, sir. Range is a little far for an accurate shot.’
Lock heard Elsworth pull back the bolt of his rifle, and then the young marksman swore. He turned to see Elsworth slump down from the lip of the foxhole. ‘What’s the matter? Target too difficult for you?’
Elsworth was sucking his fingers. Lock could see that they were raw and blistered.
‘Bloody barrel’s on fire, sir. And the bolt’s stuck fast. Jammed, sir.’ He impatiently tore at his weapon. ‘No good, sir. Firing mechanism is fouled up with grit. It won’t budge. Sorry, sir.’
There was a sudden boom, like distant thunder, and a high-pitched whine filled the sky.
‘’Ere we bloody go again!’ Underhill said, pulling his topi tightly down over his head.
The others pinned themselves to the edge of the foxhole and froze as the Turk artillery unleashed hell upon the British sheltered in that first line of trees. Lock closed his eyes and tried to block his ears from the noise, but it was impossible.
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ Elsworth screamed, as all around them the trees were lit up like Christmas decorations. At the same moment, the earth trembled beneath Lock’s body and their little foxhole was showered with hot clods of soil and splinters of wood.
On the shells came, raining down like angry hail. The ground shuddered and thumped and all sound was drowned out by a string of explosions. Lock peered up briefly and saw a tree disintegrate into a million matchsticks and others around it smashed to the ground. He ducked his head lower and waited. He allowed his thoughts to turn to Amy. Christ, if only this would end, so he could get back to her, to see that she was all right.
The shelling continued for another five minutes, then abruptly stopped. Lock tentatively raised his head. The air was thick with dust and the smell of smoky bonfires. There was a pattering like rain on his head and, looking up, he watched captivated as the sky was filled with floating charred leaves and ash. A hush fell and the distant, plaintive cries and groans of the injured and dying rose up from all directions.
‘Stretcher-bearers!’
‘Sergeant!’
‘Mother!’
Lock spat the dirt from his mouth. ‘Christ! The Vickers gun!’ It was silent now and Lock knew the Turks would soon seize the opportunity to move out without its firepower pinning them down.
‘Singh, go check on Mirchandani and the others. The rest of you, stay here!’ Lock said, then scrambled out of the foxhole and picked his way over burnt and shattered trees to where the Vickers gun was dug in.
But when Lock got there, he was met by more destruction. The Tommy who had been manning the machine gun was lying on his back, eyes staring blankly ahead. His companion, a lance corporal, was next to him, head resting on his arms, leaning forward as if asleep.
Lock shook the soldier’s shoulder. He toppled to the side and Lock could see a bloody hole the size of a cricket ball where the lance corporal’s ear used to be.
Lock swore bitterly and flung himself on the Vickers gun. He pulled at the trigger. Nothing. He hit it hard, and pulled at the cocking handle. But it was jammed fast. ‘The bloody magazine won’t rotate!’ he spat. He rattled the gun and slammed his fist into its hot metal.
‘Sahib?’
Lock was aware of Singh crouched at the edge of the foxhole, but he didn’t turn to face him.
‘Sahib, Mirchandani and Pahwa …’ Singh trailed off.
/> Lock looked back at the big Indian.
Singh shook his head. ‘They are gone, sahib.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘Just gone,’ Singh whispered and lowered his head. ‘There is nothing there, sahib, not even a turban or a topi or a weapon. I think they took a direct hit. It is just a blacked-out hole, stinking of scorched earth, sahib.’
Lock swore again and again, feeling the rage explode in his chest, as he repeatedly thumped the Vickers gun in frustration.
‘Chopra and Toor are all right, though, sahib. They were in a foxhole further over,’ Singh said. ‘And so is Indar. He moved just before the barrage.’
‘If you’ve finished your little tantrum, sah, there’s more pressin’ matters over the way.’
Lock jerked his head to the side. Underhill was sheltered behind a nearby tree stump, coolly looking down on him. He threw his chin to the Turkish trench across the grassy opening. Lock could see that there was a lot of movement from that direction now. As he feared, by silencing the Vickers gun, the Turks seemed to have gained some fresh courage.
Lock tried the cocking handle one last time, willing it to work. Then he ran his eye along the barrel casing to the sights and stopped. The muzzle was frayed and splintered. The gun was dead.
‘We had best be getting out of here, sah. Retreat back to our lines,’ Underhill said.
‘No, Sergeant Major, we are not going anywhere,’ Lock grimaced, getting to his feet. He glanced across the grassy opening towards the Turk positions, and then grabbed Singh’s offered hand and let the Indian haul him up out of the foxhole. ‘Follow me!’
With Underhill and Singh close behind, Lock scampered back to his own foxhole, where Elsworth and Ram Lal were continuing to keep up a constant fire on the trench opposite.
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