Lock stepped closer, left hand outstretched, his right low down by his thigh, but still holding tightly on to his empty Webley. He looked into the pair of brown eyes staring back at him, but they were glazed over, as if in a trance. Blood was trickling down the officer’s haggard face.
‘Yüzbaşi, let me help you,’ Lock said in Turkish, hand out in offering. He took another step closer. ‘Please.’
The Turkish officer blinked again and frowned. He was momentarily transfixed by Lock, looking from one eye to the other. He blinked again, shook his head and stared down at the automatic. He looked back up at Lock.
‘Give me the gun, Yüzbaşi. Surrender. We can get you to a doctor,’ Lock said.
The Turkish officer shakily raised his pistol and pointed it at Lock’s heart. Lock froze. He was about to speak when the officer pulled the trigger of his gun. Lock flinched, but there was no explosion of hammer on bullet. The Turk pulled the trigger again. Click, click. Still there was nothing. No kickback, no bullet. He looked from the gun to Lock’s chest, and frowned again. Lock glanced down and realised that the officer was looking at the hole in his tunic, the bullet hole in his left breast. Lock looked up again.
‘No!’
But he was too late. Underhill had thrust his bayonet into the officer’s back.
The Turkish captain coughed blood. His arm went limp and the automatic fell from his hand. Four inches of steel were sticking out of his chest. He tried to raise his hands to touch the foreign object, but he appeared to be paralysed. Then Underhill withdrew the bayonet.
‘No,’ Lock said again, and the sound of the war came rushing back to him. The gunfire had died down and in the distance he could hear whistles blowing and the sound of men shouting in triumph.
The Turkish officer stared back at Lock in hurt surprise. Their eyes held each other for a moment and then the Turk collapsed at Lock’s feet. Singh came out of the smoke, with Chopra and Toor at his heels. Singh glanced at Lock and Underhill, and at the dead Turk on the floor, then the three Indians pushed on.
Underhill spat at the Turkish officer, and glared up at Lock. ‘Well don’t bleedin’ thank me then, will ya, sah?’ He scowled, then a grin spread across his lips. ‘Oh, I see. One of yer ol’ pals from the telephone lines, was ’e?’ he sneered. ‘Never mind. I could so easily ’ave missed. ’Ard to see who you’re skewerin’ in this coal box, eh?’ Underhill hesitated, but when Lock didn’t react, he just grunted and made off down the trench after Singh and the others.
Lock stood where he was and stared down at the twitching body of the Turkish officer. Blood was pulsating from the man’s chest. Then the Turk let out a gentle sigh and was still.
Lock’s gaze fell on the officer’s gun. He bent down to pick it up. It was a new type of sidearm, one he hadn’t seen before. The engraved markings along the barrel read,
Selbstlade-Pistole “Beholla” Cal. 7.65 D.R.P.
The Beholla 7.65 automatic was smaller and lighter than Lock’s Webley, and it was a handsome gun. Lock turned it over in his hand and studied it admiringly. Then he straightened up. He stretched out his arm, aimed into the trench wall, and pulled the trigger.
The gun fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lock arched his back and pulled himself to his feet, away from the fallen tree he had been sitting on. He patted his pockets and fished out a packet of cigarettes. Opening it up he groaned. There was just one left. He put it between his lips and tossed the empty packet aside, struck a match, and stood smoking as he stared into the glorious sunrise of a new day. The sky was burnt orange with hints of pinks and light blues. As far as his eye could see, British and Indian troops were tramping back towards Shaiba. They had beaten the Turks, pushed them from the woods, forcing them to retreat and regroup back at their base near Hammar Lake, a large body of water some fifty miles to the west along the Euphrates River. Or so he had been informed. What he did know for certain was that the fight was over, for now. And he was glad. He was weary, hungry and itching to get back to Amy at Basra.
‘You must be very proud, Lock sahib,’ a voice called.
Lock turned to his left to see Pahal approaching.
‘Proud of what?’ he said with a smile, shaking Pahal’s hand. The Indian officer was bloody and bruised, and his left arm was in a sling.
‘Your plan, Lock sahib. It made a breakthrough and carried the Turks’ first line of trenches some five hundred yards, I believe, in front of the woods. Three howitzers were captured, along with the German officer commanding them.’
‘And so?’ Lock shrugged, drawing on his cigarette. He knew the German officer wasn’t Wassmuss, so he didn’t really care.
Pahal grinned. ‘Modesty, Lock sahib, if I may be so bold to suggest, is not becoming of you. And so, seeing your success, the rest of the bloody British along the line followed suit. Your attack inspired them, and the Turks …’ Pahal flung his good arm up, ‘scarpered pretty damned quickly, like headless chickens. All positions abandoned. The Battle of Barjisiyah Woods is won!’
Lock took another puff on his cigarette. ‘It was all our doing, Pahal. Without you and the others, we’d still be stuck in those damned foxholes,’ he said, exhaling. ‘And will you stop calling me “sahib”? You’re the same bloody rank as me!’
Pahal bobbed his head in the familiar Indian way and smiled.
‘Barjisiyah Woods, you say?’ Lock said, looking back at the trees.
‘Yes, Barjisiyah Woods, Lock sahib,’ Pahal said.
Lock grunted, and at the sound of creaking wooden wheels and shuffling feet, turned his gaze to the wounded men who trundled by in the loaded ambulance carts.
‘When did they get here?’
‘The ambulances, sahib? A few hours ago,’ Pahal said. ‘There are many, many dead and wounded, I am sorry to say. But the men will find hot food and dry clothing waiting for them back at the fort.’
Behind the carts trudged those troops who could still walk. They looked dishevelled and exhausted, but relieved to be heading away from the battlefield.
Marching amongst the soldiers Lock could see the survivors of his platoon: Elsworth, Singh, the three sepoys, Ram Lal, Chopra and Toor, as well as Bombegy and his mangy camel. And Sergeant Major Underhill. Eight men, including himself, Lock thought bitterly, that was all that was left. He let out a deep sigh of tobacco smoke.
‘Good God! You there! Hey, you!’
Lock turned to see what the shouting was. An officer on horseback was cantering towards them.
‘You’d best be getting along, Pahal,’ Lock said. He threw his half-smoked cigarette aside, and he and Pahal shook hands once more and the Indian officer rejoined the walking wounded.
Lock watched the approaching rider, then muttered a curse under his breath as he recognised the distinctive red cap, and pushed his way into the line of dusty troops. The officer on horseback called out again, but Lock didn’t break step, which forced the rider to turn his horse sharply about. The officer began to trot alongside the marching men.
It was Bingham-Smith, still dressed as an assistant provost marshal. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Lock?’ he said. ‘You are supposed to be in custody awaiting court martial.’
‘I was,’ Lock responded blankly, continuing to march and keeping his eyes facing forward.
‘Captain Bingham-Smith! Captain Bingham-Smith!’
A second officer on horseback was calling out as he cantered over to join them. He was using Bingham-Smith’s military rank, not his provost title. Lock stopped and regarded the older man, a silver-haired colonel in his late forties, who, considering there had just been a major battle, appeared to be in pristine condition. He was short of stature, but sat erect in his saddle trying to give the impression that he was taller. His uniform was bright and shiny, and even the cane he carried in his gloved hands was polished. His grey-blue eyes flicked towards Lock and hardened immediately.
‘Don’t you eyeball me, soldier!’ he blurted, slapping his cane against his highly
polished boot. ‘I’ll have you put on a charge, by God! Who are you?’
‘Unc … er, sir, this is Lieutenant Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘I told you about him. Don’t you recall?’
The colonel stared down at Lock. ‘The bloody colonial! But you are due to be court-martialled for assaulting a British officer!’
‘That’s what I was saying, sir,’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘Seems he has wormed his way out of trouble again.’
‘We will see about that!’ the colonel blustered. ‘You may think that you’re protected by Australian law and that White Tab chap, that upstart Major Ross … Be still!’ He suddenly jerked at his reins to steady his frisky steed. ‘And you think you can run around the country when you should have been here, on the front line. Just as Captain Bingham-Smith has been.’
Lock glanced at Bingham-Smith. ‘Been scouring the dead and wounded for potential misdemeanours have we, Smith? Checking that the men are in the correct attire whilst dying in the face of the enemy? You bloody cowards,’ he said, addressing both men, and turned away to rejoin the march. There was a murmur of amusement rippling through the surrounding soldiers.
‘Halt, damn you!’ shouted the colonel, as he moved his horse dangerously close to Lock. ‘You will not talk to a superior officer like that! And just where the hell have you been, Lieutenant? I believe I ordered you to report to me.’
Lock stopped and turned back angrily, grabbing hold of the bridle of the colonel’s horse and pulling its head aside. ‘I’ve been fighting a war. Sir. And I lost seven good men today. Sir. What did you lose, apart from the shine on your boot leather? Sir.’
‘How dare you, soldier! You will not get away with addressing me in that manner, not in the Mendips. There’s no special treatment for White Tab men in my regiment. Or colonials, for that matter. Do you hear me?’ He smacked his cane against his saddle with such force that Lock saw Bingham-Smith flinch out of the corner of his eye. ‘You don’t even sound Australian. There’s something fishy about you, boy, and I intend to see you put straight. D’ya hear?’
As the colonel spoke, Lock noticed two more officers on horseback rapidly coming up the line towards them. Bingham-Smith spotted them, too. He cleared his throat. The colonel glanced up, saw the two riders, and gave a snort of satisfaction. Lock let go of the bridle and stepped back.
The two officers, one Lock recognised as the football fancier Colonel Chitty, the other being a fresh-faced adjutant sporting a blond moustache, pulled up in a flurry of dust. They returned the salutes of Lock and Bingham-Smith, and the nod of recognition from the colonel.
‘Ah, Godwinson,’ Chitty said to the officer who had been scolding Lock, ‘I see you have caught up with your man!’
Lock raised an eyebrow. So the blustering lieutenant colonel was his infamous and legendarily incompetent regimental commander. Now he really was in trouble.
Bingham-Smith noted Lock’s look of surprise and grinned. Lock glared back, but the assistant provost marshal had averted his gaze and was giving a nod of recognition to someone amongst the marching men. Lock saw that Singh, Underhill and the rest of his platoon had stepped out of the march and were standing, watching the confrontation. Lock’s eyes met Underhill’s. The sergeant major looked, as was his habit of late, to be highly amused.
‘Yes, Chitty,’ Godwinson said, ‘my nephew, Captain Bingham-Smith here, has filled me in on … Lock’s record and I’m about to—’
‘Congratulate him, I hope,’ Chitty said, cutting Godwinson short. ‘You should be mighty proud. Lock is a stout fellow and a credit to your regiment. Considering their earlier disaster. Mentioned in dispatches and all that. I’ve recommended him for promotion. He did a splendid job for us today. Deserves a medal.’ He smiled down at Lock. ‘Only you White Tab chaps can’t accept baubles, can you?’ he added. ‘Glad to see you made it, Lock.’
Lock tipped his head in thanks, then glancing at Bingham-Smith, he smiled to himself. The blond officer’s face was a picture of disbelief.
‘Chitty, I …’ Godwinson frowned in confusion.
‘I’ve had word from your Major Ross,’ Chitty said to Lock.
‘Sir?’ Lock was worried it was bad news.
‘He’s making a speedy recovery, and is waiting to debrief you back at Basra. Get back there as soon as you can. Borrow a horse.’
‘I’m sorry, Colonel Chitty,’ Godwinson said, ‘but the lieutenant here is to make a full report to me in my command tent at 7 a.m. on the dot tomorr—’
Chitty shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, old chap. General Townshend has finally arrived from Karachi.’
‘I know that, Colonel. Casper and I had supper with the man,’ Godwinson blustered.
‘He’s requested to see Lock in person,’ Chitty continued. ‘Hush-hush and all that. Your report will have to wait.’
Godwinson was now bright crimson, but he remained tight-lipped.
Chitty looked back to Lock and indicated up the line at Singh and the others.
‘So, Lock, who’s that little rabble?’ he said.
‘All that’s left of my platoon, sir.’
‘Well, you should be proud of them, Lock,’ Chitty said.
‘I am, sir. Lock, stock and gun barrel.’
Chitty snorted. ‘Jolly good. Well, don’t let me detain you … Captain Lock. Carry on!’ He winked, and lifted his cane in salute to Godwinson and Bingham-Smith. ‘Gentlemen.’
Bingham-Smith saluted. Chitty pulled his horse about, and he and his adjutant cantered off back in the direction of Shaiba.
Lock lowered his own arm. He had been ordered to return to Basra, to see Ross and the general. But it also meant that he could seek out Amy and try to get things right with her.
‘You can wipe that smile off of your face … Lieutenant,’ Godwinson barked.
Lock didn’t respond, he just slowly raised his eyes and fixed them to the colonel’s.
Godwinson twitched uneasily. ‘Look at the state of you,’ he blustered. ‘When was the last time you had a shave? And what the hell kind of hat is that?’ He pointed with his cane. ‘It’s not befitting of an officer in my regiment to set such a poor example. I don’t care if you are in the damned AIF, you are attached to me and will dress accordingly. I still want a full report from you, in person, in my command tent at 7 a.m. on the dot tomorrow. Balls to what Colonel Chitty says. You’re under my command, and you will obey my orders. Do you understand, Lieutenant?’
Lock still didn’t say anything as he held the colonel’s glare. Then he slowly, mockingly, raised his hand and saluted. ‘Yes. Sir.’
‘Come, Casper,’ Godwinson snapped. He steered his horse furiously around, nearly knocking Lock off his feet, and cantered after Chitty.
‘You’re finished, Lock. Do you hear?’ Bingham-Smith said with a sneer.
‘Do you know, Casper, I don’t give a bog-floating turd what you think. I’m going back to Basra, I’m going to take a long, hot soak, find a fresh uniform, and then I’m going to take Amy …’ Lock stopped. Bingham-Smith’s face had broken into a wry smile.
‘Oh, my dear chap. You haven’t heard, have you?’
‘Heard what?’ Lock had a sudden ill feeling that something had happened to Amy. Wassmuss?
Bingham-Smith chuckled. ‘Why, about Amy, of course.’
‘Smith … What?’ Lock said. ‘What about Amy? Is she all right?’
Bingham-Smith slowly shook his head. ‘You’ll find out soo—’
Lock made a sudden grab for Bingham-Smith’s stirruped boot and shoved the blond officer off his horse, sending him tumbling unceremoniously to the ground. Lock pulled himself up into the saddle, yanked the horse around, and kept it pacing about the prostrate Bingham-Smith. The assistant provost marshal remained on his backside, scrambling desperately from side to side to keep out of the way of the menacing hooves.
‘Lock, please … Stop it!’ Bingham-Smith coughed as the dust rose about him. By now a good number of the marching soldiers had stopped to watch the confrontation
.
Lock smiled wryly down at the blond officer. ‘You heard Colonel Chitty, Smith. Borrow a horse. I choose yours.’ He tipped his hat. ‘Much obliged.’
Lock twisted in the saddle and called back to Singh and the others. ‘You lads get a well-earned rest, food and drink on me. I’ll see you in a few days, back at Basra. Any trouble, ask for Major Ross. He’s back on his feet. Sergeant Major?’
Underhill scowled up at Lock. ‘Sah?’
‘You heard me … Food and drink for everyone. You see to it. And if those boys come to any harm, end up in a provost cell, you will have me to answer to. Understood?’
Underhill licked his lips and glanced down at Bingham-Smith.
‘Sah,’ he said.
‘Good. Elsworth?’ Lock said.
‘Sir?’ The young sharpshooter stepped forward a pace.
‘Music for the marchers, I think.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Elsworth said, and he put his mouth organ to his lips and began to play.
Within moments the marching soldiers around them took up the tune and they began to sing with new-found gusto,
Here’s to the good old beer.
Mop it down, mop it down!
Here’s to the good old beer.
Mop it down!
Here’s to the good old beer that never leaves you queer.
Here’s to the good old beer.
Mop it down!
Lock wheeled the horse about again, and with a loud ‘Ha!’, he kicked his heels into the beast’s flanks, and tore up the line of troops, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
It was early afternoon by the time Lock arrived back in Basra, sweat-soaked, thirsty and saddle-sore. His journey to Shaiba and then out across the floodwaters was uneventful, if laborious, but he chose to remain in the saddle rather than find a space on one of the many bellums. As it was, the boats were heavily laden with the wounded, as hundreds, if not thousands, of troops were ferried back to Basra. Nobody bothered him, nobody stopped him, and so he guided his horse towards the British Hospital and to Amy’s digs in the Street of Allah’s Tears.
Kingdom Lock Page 31