The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  He was woken the next morning before dawn by a hand shaking his shoulder. He looked into the face of Alice, a few inches from his own. She was wearing no perfume but he remembered with a little lurch of the heart her warm, feminine smell. ‘I am sorry to wake you, Simon,’ she whispered. ‘But I had to tell you that I am being allowed to report the battle and I am on my way now with the army.’

  He struggled to sit but she restrained him. ‘No. Don’t get up.’ She smiled, her face still close to his. ‘I understand that you are to stay here. Covington has told me that it was your intervention with the General that made him change his mind and allow me to go. I came to thank you and to tell you where I was,’ she lowered her gaze for a second, ‘in case you were worried.’ She kissed him quickly. ‘Thank you, my dear. Stay and rest, and if all goes well, I shall see you tonight.’

  ‘But Alice, Alice . . . Are you . . . are you all right now?’

  Her voice was quite even. ‘Yes, perfectly all right, thank you.’ Then she was gone.

  A black moustache rose for a moment from the bed roll on the other side of the tent. ‘Well,’ said Jenkins, ‘she sounded better’n yesterday, I’ll say that. Let’s ’ope she doesn’t go and get ’erself killed, eh?’

  ‘Shut up. I’ve had enough of battles. We’ve got the day off, so go back to sleep.’

  In fact, neither of them could do so. Simon lay watching the tent canvas turn gradually white as the sun came up, and shortly afterwards he heard the sound of firing from the west. He cupped his ear the better to listen. But there was no deep booming from heavy ordnance, only the distant sharp cracks of light artillery: the screw guns that Roberts had brought with him across the mountains and the manoeuvrable cannon that the Afghans had put in place behind the village walls. He was relieved. It sounded as though the bigger Afghan guns up in the hills had not been brought into play.

  Simon sat up. ‘We can’t just lie here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see what’s happening.’

  Jenkins threw back his blanket and pushed his fingers through his spiky black hair. ‘Not until we’ve ’ad some breakfast, bach,’ he said, ‘and not until I’ve dressed that arm of yours. We’ll not be ’avin’ another fever, now, will we?’

  The camp had a deserted air. Cooks and a few band boys were preparing strange concoctions in huge cooking pots, ready for the return of hungry troops. A medical post had been set up near the site of Roberts’s HQ tent and everywhere, doolie bearers and other native non-combatants were going about their leisurely business. In the distance, towards the west, Simon could make out mounted piquets moving on the plain. Detachments of men from regiments that he did not recognise - presumably from the Kandahar garrison - were formed up behind primitive defences facing west. Obviously Roberts did not contemplate defeat and he had made no elaborate plans to defend his baggage. The general tenor was that of a base camp on Salisbury Plain whose regiment was away on a day’s exercise.

  It was not until well after noon, in fact, before Simon could find anyone with sufficient seniority to allow him to borrow two rather elderly horses to ride out towards the fighting. In their civilian clothing they were not challenged by any of the piquets that were patrolling the plain near the city and they headed towards the distant firing, the intensity of which had now decreased markedly. As they rode, the noise of battle seemed to recede before them until, after they had been riding for less than an hour, it disappeared altogether. They passed several ambulance wagons, carrying wounded back to Kandahar, but no steady stream of such vehicles denoting fierce fighting. A small figure in the distance soon revealed itself to be a horseman, galloping towards them and leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. As he approached, Simon recognised the blond-moustached young ADC who had served him tea in Roberts’s anteroom, and he waved him down.

  ‘What’s the news?’

  The young man looked quizzically at the two men in their dusty linen suits and then his eyes lit up. ‘Ah, Captain Fonthill. Didn’t recognise you in your mufti for a minute.’ A broad smile extended his moustache. ‘Great news, sir. Bobs has won the day. I am just dashing back to the city to tell the old ladies of the garrison there that they can stop shakin’ and come out of their boudoirs. Oh.’ His smile disappeared for a second. ‘Sorry. Speakin’ out of turn there for a minute. But,’ the smile returned, ‘I’m sure you know what I mean. What?’

  Simon smiled back. ‘Yes. Don’t worry. Look. I mustn’t detain you. Just tell me the main details. Did he manage to clear the guns from the hills up ahead?’

  ‘Oh yes. Old Mac had no problem. Then the 1st and 2nd Brigades went straight down the plain, and after a bit of a shindig at Pir Paimal and then the back of the Baba Wali Kotal, they advanced on old Ayub’s camp and found that the bird had flown. Buggered off back to Herat with what’s left of his army. The cavalry are out after them still. We took thirty-two pieces of artillery at his camp. A damned good day’s work, I’d say.’ The young man gathered in his reins. ‘Must get on, sir.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Where’s the General now?’

  ‘Straight ahead. About two miles. Must go.’

  He dug in his heels and was off in a cloud of dust. Jenkins wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Well now. And they did all that without us. Amazin’, isn’t it?’

  Simon nodded slowly. ‘That surely must be the end of it in this country. The Afghans have had three substantial defeats in different parts of this godforsaken place. They won’t be able to put another army in the field. They’ll probably make old Bobs a field marshal now.’

  ‘Do we ride on now and see ’im to pick up our medals?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to be roasted for leaving camp. Anyway, we have something more important to do. Come on.’ He turned his horse’s head to the north, to where the slopes of the Baba Wali Kotal rose from the plain. Soon they passed the orchard where they had so nearly met their deaths the day before, and shortly afterwards they found what they were looking for.

  W.G.’s body lay where it had fallen, one arm crumpled beneath him and flies crawling round the neat blue hole in his forehead. Rigor mortis had set in and he was difficult to lift, but between them they were able to wrap the big Sikh in a horse blanket and then lay him across the saddle of Simon’s horse. Simon climbed up behind Jenkins and slowly they made their way back to Kandahar, provoking a few curious glances from piquets and returning ambulances but nothing more. No one queried their mission and they arrived back in the late afternoon to find the camp already buzzing with the news of the great victory.

  They rode through the camp until they came to the lines of one of the Punjabi regiments. Here they found an elderly rissaldar, his beard grey and his blue turban faded, but his back straight and his manner courteous. Because of his age, he explained, he had been detailed to remain behind to prepare the reception of the seriously wounded, but so far none had come back from the battlef ield. He nodded to the blanket-swathed figure on Simon’s horse. ‘Is this, sahib, the f irst?’ he enquired with grave dignity. Simon explained a little of W.G.’s background and how he had met his death.

  The old man inclined his head. ‘Is this, then, one Inderjit Singh, who used to ride to the north with Captain Cavendish of the Guides?’

  ‘Ah.’ Simon was surprised but relieved. ‘I believe that was his name, although I called him by another. You knew him, then?’

  For a moment the black eyes of the rissaldar lit up. ‘He was the best batsman in his regiment,’ he said. ‘I knew his father and I know his wife. There will be great sadness.’

  ‘Where can I find his wife?’

  ‘She is at Amritsar. Anyone at the great barracks there will tell you how to find her. Does the sahib wish to visit her?’

  ‘Yes. We both wish to pay our respects to her and to tell her how much we admired her husband.’

  The Sikh nodded again. ‘It is fitting. You may leave his body with me. I will attend to it. It must be bathed and properly swathed.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Jenkins.
‘We would both like to attend the . . . er . . . burial or whatever. When will that be, then?’

  ‘We do not bury, sahib. We shall cremate his body tomorrow shortly after dawn, together with the other shells, if we are unfortunate enough to have any after this battle.’

  ‘Shells?’ Jenkins looked puzzled.

  The rissaldar inclined his head again. ‘The body is not important,’ he said. ‘It is merely a shell for the soul. Death is a natural process - even sudden death in war - and it is God’s will. We do not approve of a public display of mourning nor of erecting gravestones. We shall scatter his ashes in the river and begin the reading of the Sri Guru Granth Sahib.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Simon, a little uncertainly. ‘Well, thank you, Rissaldar. It is good for us to know that W.G. . . . er . . . Inderjit Singh - or his shell, that is - is in good hands. We shall join you, if we may, in the morning. In the background, that is, of course.’

  The Sikh bowed again and Simon and Jenkins carefully lifted W.G.’s body from the horse and took it to a little cleared area behind the tents. Then, wearily, they made their way back to their own tent. Simon thought of attempting to find the correspondents’ quarters and of seeing Alice, but rejected it. The task of finding W.G. and bringing his body back had induced a feeling of sadness and of rejection of the whole process of warfare - even the reporting of it. He wanted no further part in it, and the sounds of celebration from the lines as the victorious army returned drove him into his bed roll long before dusk fell.

  This feeling of lassitude returned in the morning as, just before dawn, Simon and Jenkins made their way to the Punjabi lines. Sixteen other bodies had been brought back from the plain after the battle, and the funeral pyres crackled and lit up the early day as the warriors were committed to the flames. A sepulchral hymn began to be half chanted, half sung, and, feeling out of place, the two crept away, their heads bowed.

  At their tent, a small note was handed to Simon. It was written in pencil and had obviously been hurriedly scribbled:

  I have returned safely from the battlefield and have been up all night writing my story - or rather my stories. I felt that I had to cover for Johnny Campbell too, so I have also filed a story to the London Standard. It was the least I could do. I am now attempting to get some sleep and hope perhaps to see you later, if you wish. A.

  Simon had hardly tucked the note into his pocket when an orderly arrived, asking him to report to Brigadier Lamb. With a sigh, Simon attempted to brush some of the all-pervasive Afghan dust from his new but now-crumpled suit and followed the man through the British lines. Despite the early hour and the fact that he had obviously been in the thick of the battle yesterday - a bandaged hand testified to that - Lamb had clearly been at work for some time. Papers were strewn across his camp table in a fashion Simon remembered well.

  ‘Right,’ said the little man. ‘Take a pew.’

  Simon sat down and looked into the familiar bright blue eyes. The gaze which met his was not smiling but nor was it unfriendly.

  ‘Bobs has asked me to see you, Fonthill, and to express his thanks for the information you gave us. Saved us a lot of time and trouble yesterday, and, in all probability, lives too.’

  Simon nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Glad to hear it, sir.’

  The Brigadier pursed his lips and nodded back. ‘Yes. Good old Mac had no trouble in clearing the hills, mind you, but it was good to be forewarned.’

  Good to be forewarned! Simon frowned. In gaining that information, that forewarning, W.G. had lost his life. Once again the arrogance of this army struck home. The loftiness, the other-worldliness of the officer caste in its dealings with the native troops; its sanguine acceptance of the need to lose life to gain an objective; its extension of the ethics of the playing field to the field of battle (‘good old Mac’) - he hated it all, with the passion of the convert. God, was he becoming a pacifist? No, some fighting was necessary. But was this? He swallowed and looked at the roof of the tent.

  Lamb followed his gaze, partly puzzled and partly exasperated at Simon’s lack of enthusiasm at the victory. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the table, as a schoolmaster would to regain the attention of an erring pupil. ‘Now, Fonthill,’ he said, ‘the General believes that you and your Welshman, 362—’

  ‘Nearly got it this time, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody impertinent, young man.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘The General believes that you have earned some reward for your efforts, even though you have left the army.’ The Brigadier coughed. ‘He has therefore awarded you both an extra month’s back pay. In addition, your Sikh has been promoted with effect from the time that he began working with you, so that his widow will receive a considerable sum - by Indian standards, that is.’

  ‘Now that will be appreciated.’

  The irony in Simon’s tone was not lost on Lamb. His nutmeg face crinkled into a hatch of lines as he frowned in annoyance. ‘I have to tell you, Fonthill, that the General does not know what to make of you. In fact, he does not like you and has always been rather suspicious of your motives and your methods. He wants you out of Afghanistan as soon as possible.’

  Anger began to mount within Simon. ‘Well, that’s fine by me, Brigadier,’ he said. ‘I shall be glad to leave this sad country. But it is damned unfair of Sir Frederick to doubt my motives and my methods. I am here because you blackmailed me to do a job which I did not want - that was my motive. And as for my methods, it is impossible to play by the Horse Guards’ rules of etiquette when your balls are being burned off or when pompous line officers try to throw the best soldier in the world off a train just because he doesn’t wear stars on his shoulder. Anyway, those methods brought the results that the General wanted. He should be satisfied.’

  Simon’s anger had prompted him to half rise from the chair, but a twinge of pain as he thrust his hand on to the table forced him to sit again and bestowed a sullen note to his closing sentence, which he immediately regretted. But he held Lamb’s gaze defiantly until, characteristically, the face opposite broke into a smile.

  ‘Damn me, Fonthill,’ chuckled the Brigadier. ‘I think it’s just as well you’ve left this army, otherwise we would have been forced to shoot you.’ Lamb stood. ‘Look. I’ve told you the General’s view. Now, mine is that you’ve done a damned fine job under difficult conditions, and I would like to thank you and your Welshman, whatever his damned number is.’ He extended his hand. ‘Good luck to you in whatever you are going to do.’

  Simon rose and took the hand. ‘Thank you, sir. When do we have to get out, and how do we go?’

  ‘There is a column leaving tomorrow with wounded who are able to travel but need treatment in India.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Simon’s face betrayed his surprise. Would he be able to see Alice before he left?

  ‘Yes. Sorry about the short notice, but Bobs wants you out before you shoot Covington.’ His smile was steely. ‘Start shortly after dawn. See the quartermaster about gear and clothing - he may be able to better that suit. You won’t have to slog back the way we came. The column will march through the Bolan Pass and you can pick up the railway which takes you through to Rohri on the Indus. What are you going to do, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Haven’t had much time to think about it. Jenkins and I want to visit W.G.’s widow. Then we will decide.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you again. Good luck, Fonthill.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  Outside the tent, Simon stood for a moment in indecision. His mind was a mixture of emotions. He wanted to get out of Afghanistan and shake off the confines of the army as quickly as possible, but this abrupt departure was redolent of expulsion. He disliked the implication of wrongdoing which that prompted. Also, he wanted to see Alice. In fact, he wanted to see her very much - but what to say to her? He frowned, as his brain tried to be logical and handle the questions that came flooding in. Which Alice would he meet: the warm, worldly and slightly cynical woman, or
the frightened, disturbed girl? How should he pose his question? Was this the time? Was it the place? Well, damn it, it had to be. He kicked the soil angrily and strode off back to the tent.

  There, Jenkins heard the news of their departure stoically. ‘Time to go is time to go, see,’ he said, with that air of native wisdom he wore on occasions and which always infuriated Simon. Seeing the warning signs, the Welshman sniffed and nodded towards the city. ‘I’ll wander off to see the QM, then, and pick up our ’Avana cigars for the journey. Oh, by the way,’ he turned at the tent flap, ‘the newspaper people ’ave been moved into the city. Their quarters are just off the main gate. Thought you might like to know, see.’ Then he was gone.

  Simon waited for two hours, lying on his bed roll, then he threw his few personal possessions into a bag, before washing, brushing his hair and walking towards the massive gate that gave entrance to Kandahar. A sentry showed him the low house that had become the working centre for the correspondents covering the campaign and he sent a note through to ask if Alice was available to see him. He hoped she had recovered from her night’s labours. From the deserted look of the press centre, her colleagues had been similarly employed.

  But she came to the door quickly enough and it was clear that she had been up and about for some time. The makeshift dye had been scrubbed away from her face and only traces now showed in thin brown lines under her eyes. She was wearing her hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, wound round with that familiar lime-green scarf, and for once, she had forsaken riding breeches and had somehow acquired a simple shift-like dress of khaki cotton which gave her a girlish air of unsophistication. The haunted look had left her face, though the grey eyes looked strained and sad and there was a slight hint of melancholy in the smile with which she greeted Simon.