Scorpion Sunset

by Catrin Collier

  ‘We know how rough. We heard about it last night from the men who came in with you.’

  ‘Some of the men we left behind are in an even worse state than us.’

  ‘So I gathered.’

  ‘We need to make an official protest.’

  ‘I delivered medical reports on you and the others to our colonel and the Turkish commandant after I operated on you. The colonel was framing a demand for an official enquiry into the Turkish treatment of our POWs by both the Allied and Ottoman commands when I left.’

  ‘It will be too late for most of the poor beggars in the camp I was in. I have to get back there …’ Crabbe struggled to sit up as if he were getting ready to leave.

  ‘No you don’t.’ John pushed him back down. ‘Lie still and quiet and give your lungs a chance to heal. I dug around in them quite a bit.’

  ‘The ranks back in the camp …’

  ‘Have Captain Vincent looking after them. He’s a good man and hopefully once our colonel’s complaints reach the Turkish command that camp will be closed.’

  ‘How are the boys who came in with me?’

  ‘Exhausted, starved, sick with beriberi and dysentery. Three have syphilis.’

  ‘Bloody raping Turkish guards. The boys are too weak to fight back.’ Crabbe looked at him. ‘What’s this camp really like? Don’t bother sugar-coating it. I intend to recover so I can go back and strangle the bastards who put me in this bed.’

  ‘Before I saw you I would have complained about this place. The food’s monotonous, my fellow officers are bored witless, and we lack essentials, especially medical supplies. But since I’ve been here no one’s been beaten, and although the food isn’t great we get Red Cross parcels and even the occasional letter from home.’

  ‘So,’ Crabbe managed a grin, ‘although you’ve nothing to really complain about you still gripe.’

  ‘You know me so well.’

  The door opened and Mrs Gulbenkian bustled in carrying in a tray. ‘Dira said the patient might try some clear chicken broth.’

  John rose and smiled. ‘As I’m only the doctor I wouldn’t dream of arguing with Dira. Your English is improving, Mrs Gulbenkian.’

  ‘Rebeka’s father taught me languages in school so all I had to do was – how does Dira say it – “brush up”.’

  ‘You’ve brushed up very well. Major Crabbe, meet Mrs Gulbenkian, she and her friend Rebeka are our Armenian nurses, so I’ll leave you in her capable hands.’

  ‘We’ll talk later?’ Crabbe asked.

  ‘Of course, and courtesy of the Turks we have all the time in the world for conversation.’

  British Relief Force

  December 1916

  ‘That’s Kut, sir?’ Peter’s adjutant Lieutenant Sweeney was taken aback. ‘That miserable dilapidated little village is Kut al Amara?’

  ‘That’s it, the place we called home sweet home.’ David ducked, although given that he was lying on the ground, and the country was a flat as a pancake, he couldn’t go much lower.

  Fortunately for him, and Peter’s command, since the order for them to halt had been passed down, the Turkish shells were falling a hundred yards or more short of their intended targets and the bullets were even more off course than the shells.

  ‘You ever get tired of this.’ David took advantage of the temporary respite in the advance, rolled on his back and pulled out his cigarettes.

  ‘The rain or the fighting?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Both, but of the two the fighting irritates me more.’

  ‘I grew tired of it after my first battle in 1914. You?’

  ‘I was never enamoured with the thought of active service even before I saw it. The reality was worse than I expected, and that’s saying a great deal.’

  Peter took the cigarette David offered, lit it, and passed the match on to David. ‘What the hell are you doing in the army?’

  ‘Told you, second son of a second son.’

  ‘You studied medicine.’

  ‘Only because my uncle, who incidentally was the first son of a first son, told me that doctors didn’t have to go to Sandhurst to get a commission. What he didn’t tell me was that we still had to do a certain amount of boring military square-bashing.’

  ‘You’re the laziest sod and worst soldier in this man’s army,’ Peter laughed.

  ‘Not when it comes to the hospitals.’

  ‘I’ll grant you, when you finally do decide to go on duty you look after your patients.’

  ‘Cheeky blighter! That’s like me saying when you do finally decide to lead your men into battle you pick up your gun.’ David shivered. ‘I’m colder than a polar bear’s arse. Not to mention wet through.’

  ‘At least you’re wearing serge. Spare a thought for the men who are still in their summer khaki. Supplies can never get anything right.’ Peter spotted a lieutenant slithering through the mud towards them. ‘Orders?’ he asked.

  ‘Dig in and hold fast until morning, sir.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, high command, for the joys you bring.’ David rolled his eyes.

  ‘Take no notice, Lieutenant, water has got into Major Knight’s brain.’

  ‘And rusted it,’ David said mournfully. ‘Is there no one who can tell me what we’re doing here?’

  Peter passed him his flask.

  ‘We’re here just to get drunk.’

  ‘The drink is to silence you.’ Peter called down to his second in command. ‘Dig in until morning, every man roll out his blanket.’ He raised his voice. ‘Bearers, officers need their blankets.’

  ‘Dry blankets, if possible,’ David added.

  ‘No point,’ Peter took the sodden blanket his bearer handed him and rolled himself into it. ‘It’ll be damp in no time once the rain gets to it.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Basra

  December 1916

  Georgiana waited until their driver had stopped the carriage, dismounted from the box, and was holding the horses steady before opening the door and helping Angela down on to the unpaved street.

  ‘I could have come here with Mariam and bought whatever you needed for the baby,’ Georgiana admonished as Angela reached ground level.

  ‘I want to see the quality of the fabric they have for myself, both for baby gowns and Mariam’s winter wardrobe.’

  Mariam held out Angela’s handbag, which she’d given to the child for safekeeping.

  ‘You are a darling, Mariam. I don’t know what we’d do without you. Perhaps we can find a ready-made dress for you to wear to the church service on Christmas morning. If not we’ll have to buy some material and get one made. But you have to choose the fabric yourself.’

  ‘Red?’ the child asked hopefully.

  ‘Most certainly, if they have a shade you like.’ Georgiana pushed the door open. The assistant took one look at Angela and rushed from behind the counter to bring her a chair. Within minutes the counter was covered with a bewildering array of bolts of cloth and ready-made girls’ dresses. Georgiana smiled when Mariam made a beeline for a red velvet smock and stroked it as if it were a kitten, while Angela debated the relative merits of cream winceyette against white brushed cotton. Georgiana told the assistant to set the dress aside in Mariam’s size and asked to see silk stockings. She heard a footstep on the internal stairs and turned. The door opened and Reggie Brooke and Major Cleck-Heaton strode in. They saw her and Angela and doffed their caps.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Dr Downe, Mrs Smythe, and who is this?’ Reggie bent down and tickled Mariam under her chin. The child shrank back behind Angela’s chair.

  ‘Mariam,’ Angela introduced the girl, who curtsied behind the chair.

  ‘Charming,’ Cleck-Heaton gushed insincerely. ‘A relative?’

  ‘My foster child, Major Cleck-Heaton.’

  ‘Christmas shopping, I see,’ Reggie commented.

  Bored by the exchange of pleasantries, Georgiana nodded.

  ‘Have you heard from Major Smythe, Mrs Smythe?’

  ‘I
had a card this morning, Major Cleck-Heaton. Thank you for enquiring.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s rough up there.’

  ‘As have we,’ Georgiana said shortly.

  ‘Major Cleck-Heaton and I have been posted upstream and will be leaving first thing in the morning. If you have messages for friends or relatives who are with General Maude it would be an honour to take them.’

  ‘Thank you, Major Brooke, but Lieutenant Grace called this morning. We gave him our letters and parcels,’ Angela replied politely.

  ‘Then it appears we can’t assist you ladies in any way.’ Reggie Brooke looked coolly at Georgiana.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t. Major. Major Cleck-Heaton. I wish both of you a good journey.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Downe.’ Reggie turned his attention to Angela. ‘Your very good health, Mrs Smythe.’

  Georgiana watched the men leave the shop before joining Angela. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Have you written to tell Peter about the baby?’

  ‘I know I said I would, but once I heard that hostilities had broken out I couldn’t bring myself to do it. You know how Peter worries about me. If he knew I was having a baby he’d only worry all the more.’ She looked through the shop window at the two officers who were climbing into a carriage. ‘You don’t think either of those odious men would tell him, do you?’

  ‘I think they’d have no compunction about telling him, and adding that you looked ill. I have no idea why they dislike Peter and John so much, or why they disliked Charles and Harry. I only know that every time I see them they go out of their way to be obnoxious. When it comes to Peter finding out about your baby, it would be far better if he heard the news from you.’

  ‘We’ve already given Lieutenant Grace our letters and parcels.’

  ‘Write another letter when we get home and I’ll send a boy to deliver it to Lieutenant Grace’s quarters. He’s not embarking until the morning.’

  ‘I really wanted the baby to be a surprise.’

  ‘After it’s born?’ Georgiana questioned in amusement.

  ‘I thought it would be better because then I could write and tell Peter we’re both well and healthy. But you’re right. I’ve kept it secret long enough. I’ll write to Peter today.’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am, I couldn’t help overhearing. If you’d like to write a letter, we have comfortable rooms upstairs. We could supply you with writing materials and bring you tea while we pack up your purchases.’

  ‘And we can drop the letter off on our way home. Wonderful idea. You’d enjoy having tea here, wouldn’t you, Mariam? They have the most wonderful cakes and sandwiches and scones and jam.’ Georgiana set the stockings she’d chosen aside.

  The door opened and two ladies entered, both carrying babies. Angela rose unsteadily from the chair and held out her hand. ‘Mrs Greening?’

  ‘Mrs Smythe, how kind of you to recognise me!’

  ‘Not at all, I remember you from your days before the war with Mrs Perry and Maud.’ Angela embraced the sergeant’s wife. ‘We were just about to go upstairs and have tea. Please, join us.’

  Harriet Greening turned to Georgiana. ‘We wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be,’ Georgiana assured both women. She held out her hand. ‘If you knew the late Mrs Perry and Maud, you must have known my brother Harry Downe and my cousin John Mason.’

  ‘Harry Downe was such a kind, wonderful man.’ Tears started into Harriet’s eyes when she mentioned his name. ‘And Captain Mason – Major Mason now of course – was very good to me when I worked for Mrs Mason.’ She shook Georgiana’s hand and introduced her companion. ‘Mrs Ida Jones, her husband was at Kut with my husband, Major Smythe, and Major Mason.’

  ‘Then your husbands are …’

  ‘Prisoners, in Turkey.

  ‘It appears we have a great deal to talk about, ladies. Those are both adorable babies. Is yours a boy or girl, Mrs Greening?’

  ‘A boy. I wanted to name him Alfred Greening for my husband but when I sent a wireless message to Kut when he was born, Alfred sent a message back, insisting I name him John Mason Greening after the finest man he knows. That should tell you what my husband thinks of Major Mason.’

  ‘So this is John Mason Greening.’ Georgiana looked down at the baby.

  ‘John Mason Alfred Greening,’ Harriet corrected. ‘I don’t think it’s good for husbands to have it all their own way.’

  Georgiana held the door open for Angela, Mariam, Mrs Jones, and Harriet. ‘No, Mrs Greening, it certainly does not. I can’t wait to make young Master John’s acquaintance.’

  Turkish Prison Camp

  New Year’s Eve 1916

  ‘Here’s to the New Year and whatever 1917 will bring to us.’ John lifted the tin mug Greening had handed him high in the air.

  ‘The end of the war I hope.’ Crabbe took one of the mugs of raki Greening was distributing among the patients in the ward and waved it at John.

  ‘That would be the bonus we’re all hoping for,’ John agreed.

  ‘If our boys take Baghdad, it will be over, won’t it, sir?’ asked Lieutenant Johnson, who was recovering from an appendicitis operation.

  Crabbe drank his raki and made a face as the liquor percolated down his throat. ‘Despite any miracles General Maude performs in Baghdad, there won’t be an armistice until the Germans surrender on the Western Front and that could take months,’ he warned.

  ‘Years,’ Jones echoed gloomily from the other side of the ward where he was filling water jugs. ‘My daughter will probably be married with children by the time we’re released from here.’

  ‘We’ll be home before then.’ Reverend Spooner slapped Jones gently on the back and he took one of the mugs from Greening’s tray.

  ‘No gloomy predictions allowed on New Year’s Eve. This is the one time of the year optimism is compulsory,’ John insisted. ‘And we’ve a lot to be optimistic about. Everyone here is recovering. The only disease that’s rampant in the camp is boredom …’

  ‘Thank to the measures you insisted the Turks take,’ Reverend Spooner interrupted.

  ‘Most importantly of all, we have all the raki we can drink,’ Crabbe held out his mug to Greening for a refill.

  ‘Make that a small one for, Major Crabbe,’ John warned Greening.

  ‘Spoilsport.’ Crabbe winked as he spoke to show John there were no hard feelings.

  John opened his watch and watched the second hand move towards midnight in line with the other two hands. ‘It’s here, gentlemen,’ he raised his tin mug again. ‘May 1917 take every one of us back to our families and loved ones.’

  ‘And may God watch over them until we return,’ the Reverend echoed.

  ‘As I am first and foremost your medical advisor, gentlemen, finish your raki …’

  ‘That a medical command?’ Crabbe joked.

  ‘It is, because Greening will put out the lights in five minutes. I say five minutes because I know that Sergeant Greening will give you five minutes’ grace. I wish you all a healthy New Year because I know for all of us the beginning will not be a happy one. Goodnight to you all, gentlemen.’

  ‘And to you, sir,’ the patients echoed.

  John took a candle from the hall, lit it in the flame from an oil lamp, and climbed the four flights of stairs to his room. He lit his oil lamp and blew out the candle before sitting at the battered desk he’d scrounged from the Turkish commandant.

  There were six unopened letters on his desk, all of which he’d kept for that evening, Tom, Georgiana, Maud, and his sister Lucy had all written to him, and to his surprise so had Angela Smythe. The last letter was from his parents, but he knew his mother had penned it as his father had never written to him, even before he’d been taken prisoner.

  He checked the date on the missive from Maud. As there hadn’t been time for her to reply to his letter telling her he intended to divorce her, he tucked it unopened at the bottom of the tin.

  He opened Tom’s letter first. It was fa
irly cheerful when he considered that it had been written in the middle of a war. Tom had taken over their father’s London practice and he and Clary were living in their father’s London house. Most of Tom’s patients were injured soldiers and he was doing a fair amount of surgery in a London hospital that had been requisitioned by the military.

  Tom mentioned that he and Clary had recently visited their parents and his father had persuaded two of his ex-colleagues out of retirement to help him with the clinic on the estate, which now almost exclusively catered for wounded officers. Their mother and Lucy had turned over half of the house to convalescent soldiers. He finished by telling him he was much loved and missed and could expect to become an uncle in the summer of 1917 and he and Clary hoped that he would be home in time to stand godfather to their child.

  Georgie’s letter was much in the same vein, and he imagined his cousin sitting back in a chair conjuring entertaining and positive thoughts for the poor prisoner. He was surprised to hear that Georgie had moved in with Angela Smythe. Not on Angela’s account, because Angela was one of the kindest, sweetest women he knew, but because Georgie was so driven and dedicated to her profession he’d expected her to move into the Lansing Hospital for the duration.

  Lucy’s missive was an elegant Christmas and Happy New Year greeting, with the addition of, ‘It’s odd to be sending you this in May. I hope it reaches you and 1917 is the year we see you.’

  Angela wished him a Happy Christmas and New Year and said she often thought of him, that he was missed by his Basra friends.

  His mother’s letter, the one he’d most looked forward to opening, was devastating. It reminded him so strongly of her presence he could almost hear her reading the words.

  Dear Darling John,

  The last thing I want to do is upset you or make you unhappy, especially now when you are a prisoner and incarcerated so far from everyone who loves you. I don’t want to alarm you, and I want to reassure you that everything that can be done is being done for your father, who is dying. Tom and Lucy know and Lucy especially is taking it very hard. Your father diagnosed himself as suffering from inoperable cancer some months ago, although he only recently told me.