by Phillip Rock
“That was one hell of a ride, Colonel.”
Fenton’s smile was wicked. “Wasn’t it just! Four days hard march before lorries and balloon tires. Any irreparable damage, old sport?”
“Not if my testicles drop back into place. Where are we exactly?”
“Close to where we want to be.” He pointed off across the boulder-strewn waste. “The sheikh’s villages are about ten miles due north of here. We’ll march off before dawn. The armored cars will skirt this mess by going east and blocking the loop of the Shatt in case our friends try to bolt for Persia.”
“The Shatt being a river, I take it.”
“Well, a river in the wet season—a nice, flat, dry bed now. We’ll be at the main village by nine in the morning, just in time to have the area surrounded before the planes come over.”
“And then what?”
“My dear Rilke, that’s a question only tomorrow will answer.”
Ten men were left behind with a machine gun to guard the trucks. The rest, Lancs and Punjabis, moved off into the predawn wastes carrying nothing but their rifles, a bandolier of ammunition, and two cloth-covered canteens of chlorinated water per man. The five men of the signals section brought the radiotelegraphy set, the storage batteries, and the twenty-foot bamboo pole to raise the aerial wire. They moved quickly and in silence and reached the steep banks of the dry river shortly after 8:30. They all knew, from long experience, that it was the best possible time. Dawn, to the Arabs, was the traditional moment of attack. When the sun was well up they tended to relax their guard and start going about the day’s business. Fenton, lying flat in the scrub grass, scanned the main village of Sheikh Ali Gharbi, then handed the powerful binoculars to Martin who lay stiffly beside him.
“Tell me what you see.”
Martin saw the village: black tents and mud huts scattered for a quarter of a mile along the riverbank; two hundred or more hobbled camels; a thousand sheep and goats; swarms of half-naked children; women in dark robes clustered about the well or tending the numerous fires. The men, many of them with rifles slung across their backs, strolled together in small groups or stood clustered in front of the largest tent.
“Just a lot of village activity.” He handed the glasses back to Fenton. “Anything unusual going on?”
“Yes. There are half a dozen Kurds down there. I spotted their headgear—kolas. They wouldn’t be hanging about here unless they had brought something the sheikh needed. There are guns down there. No doubt about it. The question is where.” He looked at his watch. “Fam should be here in exactly fifteen minutes. Time for us to get started.”
Fenton drew a brass whistle from his pocket, stood up, and blew three shrill blasts. Activity in the village became momentarily paralyzed as the British and Indian troops rose to their feet and showed themselves clearly against the skyline. The Punjabi subadar-major stepped onto the path leading down to the village and waved a white cloth tied to the end of a rifle.
“Coming down with us?” Fenton asked.
Martin nodded. “That’s where the story is.”
The Indian officer led the way, followed by Fenton, Martin, and the signalers with the radio gear. The Arabs made way for them, staring at them with a mixture of fear and hate. When they reached the tent of the sheikh, Fenton told the signalers to set up the radio.
The Indian officer lowered his rifle. “Well, Colonel, sahib?”
Fenton looked sternly at the Arabs blocking the entrance to the tent. “Tell them I wish to speak with Sheikh Ali Gharbi. Tell them I am calling in the flying machines on the telegraph box and they’d better get the sheikh out here pretty damn quick.”
He turned away as the subadar started talking in Arabic. He watched the signalers attach the radio to the batteries in their leather carrying cases and wind the antenna wire around the bamboo pole. One of the men sat on the ground in front of the set, headphones on, testing the key.
Fenton tapped the man on the shoulder. “Send out code HQS and MBT.”
The Arabs knew the significance of the clicking telegraph key from as far back as their years under the Turks. The clicking brought troops down among them. They knew how to stop it by climbing the poles and cutting the wires, but the radiotelegraph dismayed them. They watched closely as the British soldier worked the key. There were no wires to cut. The wire on the bamboo pole stuck in the sand went nowhere. And yet, even as they stared, they could hear the distant hum of engines.
The sheikh protested. He was an old man, crippled in one leg from an ancient wound. His small black eyes burned like coals in the leathery seams of his face.
“He says they have done nothing,” the subadar said. “He says they have lived up to the treaty in every word and deed.”
“Tell him he lies like a Buddhoo,” Fenton said. “Tell him I know there are more guns and ammunition in the village than allowed by the treaty. Tell him if he doesn’t show us where they are I’ll have the flying machines drop bombs.”
A panic was spreading through the village now as the silver biplanes came into view, nine of them in three V-shaped waves coming low over the sand hills.
“Message from the planes, sir,” the radio operator called out. “Codes HGL and KDS.”
Fenton removed a slim notebook from the top pocket of his jacket and glanced at the code lists.
“Send affirmative—and code QLP.”
“What does that mean?” Martin asked.
“QLP is circle and fire into the wilderness. Just to let these rogues know we mean business.” He glowered at the sheikh and then said to the subadar: “You can tell the chief I’ve ordered the planes to test their machine guns. Tell him he knows what will happen to his people if they swing the guns on the villages.”
The Bristol fighters swung into a line-ahead formation and began to circle, banking sharply so that the rear gunners could swing their twin Lewis guns toward the barren ground beyond the dry riverbed. Only the lead plane, bearing a radio operator in place of a gunner, did not fire. The others cut loose and tracer slashed downward, churning yellow plumes of dust and sending clots of bullet-chewed earth into the air. Empty shell cases spewed downward like a brass rain.
The old sheikh stared at the sight like a man in a trance. Then he moaned and sat down limply on the ground and began to speak in a low, choked voice.
“The guns and cartridges are buried in the sand,” the Indian officer said, smiling. “They’re in the center of the riverbed—between those two white boulders.”
“Good,” Fenton said crisply. “Send code WQT.” He stepped away from the tent and blew three notes on his whistle. A squad of Lancs came running down from the slopes, rifles slung over their shoulders.
“See those white boulders about three hundred yards up the bed?” he said as a corporal ran up to him. “Mark the spot between them with smoke and then get the hell out of the way.”
The planes continued to circle, like lazy silver hawks against the vivid blue sky. When the smoke canisters had been set alight and the squad had dispersed, the planes dipped into shallow dives and dropped their two-hundred-pound bombs with great precision on top of the smoke. Geysers of sand and the shattered fragments of wooden crates and rifles spewed upward in the scarlet-and-black explosions. And while Martin took pictures with his little folding Kodak, ten thousand rounds of Mauser ammunition went up as well, popping and cracking, turning the riverbed into a churning maelstrom of whipped sand.
Fenton looked at his notebook. “What the hell’s the code for ‘job well done’ and ‘hurry on home’?”
“VLK and PVW,” the radio operator said.
“Send it—and then call Lieutenant Baxter and tell him to withdraw the armored cars.” He draped an arm about Martin’s shoulders. “And that’s just about that, old boy. We’ll poke about in the riverbed and make sure all the guns have been destroyed, then hightail it for barracks, beer, and bed. I hope you got a little something out of all this to write about.”
“A little.”
&
nbsp; “You might remember to note in your story that we left a lot of angry Arabs here, but no dead ones. Some of your more gentle readers might like to know that.”
“Yes,” Martin said quietly. “I think they would at that.”
THE Daily Post seaplane cut the turgid waters of the Nile and soared over the rooftops of Cairo. There were only four other passengers—the Post’s Egyptian-affairs correspondent and his family on their way back to England on holiday—so Martin could stretch out in comfort across four of the wicker seats and read through his shorthand notes. It would be a good, exciting article, he felt sure. One that would please Kingsford, especially if the photographs of the soldiers using the radio came out. It would help soften Kingsford’s annoyance when he received the letter of resignation along with it. The article, and a carbon copy of Fenton’s theory on modern warfare, should provide Jacob with the kind of material he needed to convince the War Office that Lieutenant Colonel Wood-Lacy might be a thorn in the side, even a pain in the arse, but was too original a thinker to be wasted in a desert.
“VLK,” he whispered. “A job well done.” He tried to give some thought to his own future, but the engines droned and the clear Mediterranean sun streamed through the round windows and he fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
XII
PAUL RILKE STOOD on the promenade deck of the Cunard liner, one pudgy hand resting on the top of his homburg to keep it from blowing away in the wind. It was a brilliant May morning, the Hampshire hills and New Forest bathed in sun, the waters of the Solent a deep, almost painful blue. He breathed deeply a few times, expanding his broad chest, then walked briskly around the deck before going into the saloon lounge for a morning bracer of Cognac and seltzer water.
He was a man that people noticed. Not so much for his looks—a fat, bald man of average height—but for the air of success and self-confidence that flowed from him like an electric charge. He was sixty years of age and looked exactly like a man who was worth fifty million dollars and who had every intention of making fifty million more. As he sipped his drink in the lounge he felt a fleeting regret that the voyage was nearly over. But there was always the return trip to look forward to. He loved ocean travel—the freedom and the fun of it, the abundance of good food and liquor, the long, pleasant nights of poker, and the inevitable—and sought-after—adventure. His wife of thirty-three years never accompanied him on his twice-yearly trips to Europe. She suffered from totally incapacitating seasickness, an affliction for which he thanked the Almighty.
When he entered his stateroom the woman was still there. She was only partially dressed, in a provocative black lace garter belt and a short, flimsy chemise, over the top of which peeked one large, firm, mauve-tipped breast. She was no more than twenty-five and claimed to be the wife of a Portuguese diplomat, but she had all the sexual refinements of a professional adventuress plying her first-class trade on the transatlantic run. He had an eye for the type and had never slept one night of an ocean crossing alone.
“I am so sorry to see land,” the woman said, pouting. “So sorry it is over.”
“So am I, honeybunch.” He sat on the edge of the bed and motioned to her. She came with the eagerness of a spaniel and sat on his lap. He stroked her naked breast and tweaked the nipple.
“There’s a little something in my coat pocket, honeybunch. Call it a gift.”
After the woman had gone, he went into the bathroom, washed lip rouge from his face, and straightened his clothing. It had been a fine trip and he felt a wondrous sense of contentment. He was by nature a faithful husband; unlike many men he knew at the Union Club in Chicago, he had no sugar baby stuck away in an apartment. But he excluded the high seas from his moral conscience.
He spotted Martin in the crowd as he came down the gangway.
“It was damn good of you to meet me.”
“No trouble, Uncle Paul.”
Paul traveled light—a steamer trunk and a suitcase. Banes, with the aid of a Cunard porter, secured the luggage to the rack at the rear of the car.
“I saw Hanna and Tony in Chicago,” Paul said as he squeezed his bulk into the back of the Rolls. “California-bound. I understand Alexandra’s in the family way.”
“That’s right,” Martin said as he got in beside him. “Six months along.”
“Are you caretaking at the Pryory?”
“Houseguesting. I’m writing another book, and it’s more peaceful here than in London. And I enjoy Charles’s company.”
Paul bit the tip off a cigar and spat it out the window. “I saw your ex-boss in New York. I’m a heavy investor in his Consolidated Broadcasters setup. He still can’t figure out why you quit. Why did you?”
“I’m not sure. Just got tired of it, I guess.”
“What do you do for money?”
“I had enough saved—and I sell a few articles.”
“Why don’t you work for me? I need an agent in Germany I can trust.”
“Thanks, but no. Sounds like a good job for Karl.”
Paul snorted and lit his cigar. “I wouldn’t trust that son of mine to go out and buy me a newspaper. A Yale man! Jesus Christ. I stuck him in the advertising department of Rilke Metals—kitchen stove division.” He puffed on the cigar and squinted at Martin. “You don’t give a damn about money, do you?”
“No.”
“Like father, like son. Willie was the same. When we were kids, Papa gave us fifty cents a week. I’d put aside a quarter and when I had five dollars I’d buy a share on margin from Papa’s broker. Willie’d blow his half-buck in a day.”
“Well,” Martin said lamely, “that’s how it goes.”
The problem with being around Uncle Paul was that he was always dredging up the past. A reminder here, a remembrance there. Martin gazed out of the window as the car rolled out of Southampton. Happy-go-lucky William Frederick Rilke—a myth shared by both Paul and Hanna. The bohemian brother who had tossed away his inheritance to run off to Paris and become a painter. Martin’s only memories of his father were of a morose, yellow-bearded man who had slipped in and out of their apartment in the rue Lepic like shadow and smoke. He was buried in the cimetière de Montmartre in a walled-off section reserved for suicides.
It was difficult to equate Uncle Paul now with the slender man who had come to Paris in the winter of that year of death, the winter of 1898, and had offered to take his brother’s wife and son back to Chicago with him. His mother, speaking painful English, had agreed, and back they had gone. Paul had been kind and generous, buying a little house for them and paying a monthly allowance even after his mother had built up a modest business as Madame René, Modiste. It had been Paul’s money that had sent him through the University of Chicago, and he had lived in his uncle’s North Side mansion after his mother’s death. He had many reasons to be grateful and he genuinely liked the man even though they disagreed on practically everything.
Banes turned off the highway at Godalming and down a narrow twisting road toward Abingdon.
“Abingdon Pryory,” Paul said. “I remember the first time I ever saw the place. Came over with the old man for Hanna’s wedding. Jessie and I had only been married a year. That was Jessie’s first and last sea voyage. She was sicker than a hound.
“Well, let me tell you, Martin, there was no man on God’s sweet earth tighter with a penny than your grandfather. I worked for him, of course—managed two of the breweries—and all he paid me was fifty dollars a week. Jessie and I lived with him, in the big old house on Prairie Avenue that was torn down before you were born. He deducted twenty-five dollars from my pay for room and board. Oh, he was something, the old man. They broke the mold after he came into the world. The only person he was ever generous with was Hanna. She just had to hold out her hand and he’d plunk a ten-dollar gold piece into it. That sure burned your Aunt Jessie, I can tell you.
“So, anyway, here we were in England, coming down this very road in a coach and pair—a victoria, I guess it was—the grooms in the Greville livery a
nd Jessie just fuming inside. I mean, here she was, married to a man bringing in fifty dollars a week—and handing half of that back—and here was her sister-in-law, who she had never liked anyway, about to be married to a bona-fide English lord who had grooms in livery and matched grays. She burned even more when she caught sight of the house. Back home we lived in three rooms. Three small rooms in that ramshackle barn of a house—and here was Hanna about to be the mistress of a goddamn castle!
“Anyway … the old man pointed to the house and said in his crazy katzenjammer English how happy he was that his Hanna was marrying a nobleman, but that it was a pity the old earl had squandered so much of the estate before he died. ‘You mean he’s broke?’ Jessie asked—sounding a bit pleased. ‘Oh, ja, ja,’ the old man said, then shouted proudly: ‘But vun million dollars cash I haf for der dowry given!’
“Martin, I swear to God, I thought Jessie was about to drop dead right there on the seat. And let me tell you, a million dollars was a million dollars in those days. Poor Jessie. She never got over the shock. I think that’s why she has fourteen fur coats and seven cars and solid gold plumbing in every bathroom in the house. It just unhinged her mind.”
CHARLES MADE A spectacular carom shot and then leaned on his cue as though oblivious to what he had done.
“You know, Martin, I like Uncle Paul. He has such a zest for life—and is absolutely unabashed about his love of money. I find that refreshing. So many of the men who make fortunes these days try to atone for it in good deeds. Homes for impregnated mill girls or something. I can’t imagine Paul giving anything away.”