The Baghdad Railway Club

by Andrew Martin

  Even so, I gave Manners my account of the meeting at the Midland Grand, ending by saying, ‘I believe Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd must have decided to take me on there and then, knowing the job he had in hand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Manners said when I’d finished. ‘Well, let nobody say the British Army officer is incapable of improvisation. Tell me, Captain Stringer, what do you think it was that the lieutenant colonel saw in you?’

  ‘I suppose he felt I’d talked sense about the railway logistics of the Western Front.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Manners.

  On his desk was a red pasteboard folder and a buff envelope. I looked at this stationery for a while, and he watched me doing so. Presently, he said, ‘There is no blinking the fact that we believe Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd to be in league with the enemy.’

  ‘Which enemy?’ I said.

  Now Manners evidently did not think this a clever question – and I could tell the Chief was embarrassed at it, by the way he suddenly crossed his legs, which left him sitting in a position to which he was not at all suited.

  ‘Captain Stringer,’ said Manners, ‘it might be as well for you to know in advance of your departure for Mesopotamia that the gentry we are fighting over there are the Turks. Have you got that straight? The Turks.’

  ‘But the Germans as well?’ I said.

  ‘The occupiers of Baghdad were Turkish, I don’t think there’s any room for doubt on that score. It was the Turks that we banished from the city; it is the Turks who may attempt to reclaim it, and it is the Turks who are occupying the territories to the north and west of Baghdad. Certainly, there are German officers on the Turkish Army Staff – but not many, and their role is advisory rather than executive.’

  ‘And the Arabs?’

  ‘The Arabs?’ he said.

  You’d have thought they were completely out of account.

  ‘It’s their country, after all.’

  ‘I see you are an expert on the region. There is Arab soldiery in the Turkish Army, and there is a cadre of Arab officers. The loyalty of these men to their Turkish masters may be doubted. The position of the Arab citizenry of Baghdad, incidentally, is that they welcome us as liberators . . .’

  I nodded.

  ‘For now,’ he added. ‘As of this week.’

  He pushed the red pasteboard folder my way. It held my itinerary and passports for travelling east.

  Shepherd had seemed to stick up for the Turks at the Railway Club meeting; he had certainly been partial to Turkish cigarettes, and he’d seemed quite thick with the Eastern cigarette-and-coffee man of the Midland Grand, but I could not believe he was a traitor. He’d seemed such a thoroughly decent sort. My thoughts raced in a circus as I leafed through the documents, one of many imponderables being: where did the Chief fit in? How had he heard of the suspicions against Shepherd?

  Manners was speaking again.

  ‘The essential data is as follows. Expeditionary Force “D” of the British Indian Army – which is to say, General Maude – took control of the city of Baghdad some six weeks ago – on the night of March 11th to be exact. Maude’s army advanced on the city by the left and right banks of the River Tigris. In the van of the forces of the left or the west bank was a unit of infantry under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Shep—’

  ‘But hold on a minute,’ I said, ‘what was he doing in the fighting? Wouldn’t he have been just travelling in the rear to take up his job on the staff?’

  ‘Do feel free to interrupt me with questions, Captain Stringer. Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd got himself attached to the unit as a supernumerary. Perhaps he found the idea of steaming up to Baghdad in the rear to be rather a bore. Or perhaps he had some other scheme in mind.’

  ‘How did he get himself attached?’

  ‘He knew the commanding officer of the unit, a man called Blake.’

  ‘How did he know him?’

  ‘How does anyone know anyone? He met him at a party in London – for all I know at the Midland Grand Hotel. They met again in Basrah, prior to the advance. Anyhow, in the push for the railway station, the unit came under fire and Blake was killed. Shepherd then took command of the unit. He was the only white man left . . . I see you are frowning.’

  I was.

  ‘There are entirely British units within the British Indian Army,’ Manners ran on, ‘and entirely Indian ones. But in most cases the men are Indian, the officers British. The unit we are concerned with was Indian except for Blake and Shepherd.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Now the picture is confused. It was dawn – the light uncertain, a sandstorm rising. Communications were, so to speak, “in the air”, and the forward patrol on the left bank was rather a jumble. But it seems that its chief elements came from the unit Shepherd was with, and a machine-gun company, the 185th. As these units pressed on, the enemy fell back on the Baghdad railway station, which lies on the outskirts of the town. For days, the Turks had been sending men, armaments and stores from there to Samarrah and points north. The last train to leave the station departed at about four o’clock in the morning on March 12th, and it carried both materiel and men – the last of the Turks put to flight. What concerns us here in this department is that immediately before the departure of that train, a parley occurred within the station between Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd and a Turkish bimbashi.’

  ‘What’s a bimbashi?’

  ‘A major, let us say.’

  ‘What language would this have been conducted in?’

  ‘Almost certainly French. The Turks speak their own version of Arabic, but any well-born Turk speaks French, and we know Shepherd is fluent in it.’

  Another score chalked up to his name. He had seemed a remarkably modest man, considering.

  ‘Was Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd taking the Turkish surrender?’ I said.

  ‘Receiving the chap’s pistol and sword you mean?’

  Evidently, I was wrong.

  ‘Don’t you think it would have been for General Maude to take the surrender?’ said Manners. ‘And for somebody higher than a major to give it? The Turks did not in any case surrender the city of Baghdad, but merely fled from it. Our concern, however, is that Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd did take something from the Turkish officer, and that the Turkish officer was given something in return.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A certain amount of . . . treasure.’

  Manners eyed me levelly.

  ‘What form did this treasure take?’ I enquired.

  ‘We believe gold coins, possibly other articles as well.’

  ‘A large quantity?’

  ‘We think so. What was the quantity in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve never read the story?’ He seemed to be quite staggered.

  I had in fact gone with the wife and children to see a film of the story at the Electric Theatre in York, and it had been very prettily hand-tinted but completely baffling as to plot.

  ‘. . . An amount large enough to be weighed,’ said Manners in a heavy sort of way that told me he must be quoting.

  ‘And what did the Turk get in return?’ I asked.

  ‘Perhaps his own freedom for one thing; permission for that last train to depart – and it is believed that certain undertakings may have been made on both sides.’

  ‘Undertakings of what nature?’

  ‘Of an unknown nature.’

  ‘How do you know Shepherd took this treasure and made these undertakings?’

  Manners said, ‘Any information touching on this affair might be dangerous, both to you and others. I’m sorry if I appear to be obtuse, but there’s no point in telling you the little I know at this stage. You’ll find out more from a Captain Boyd who is out there, and who is known to this office.’

  (An intelligence man on the side, most likely – I knew there to be a good sprinkling of those in the officer class.)

  I asked, ‘Was Boyd on the spot at the time? Did he see what went on
?’

  Manners made a slight head movement, which I took to mean ‘Yes’. I further reasoned that the man Boyd must have been with the machine-gun company – the 185th – since there were only Indians left in the infantry unit. (Unless of course he actually was Indian. Could you have an Indian called Boyd?)

  ‘This fellow Boyd,’ I said. ‘How did he get into touch with you? By telegraph, I suppose. Or did he telephone? Can you telephone from Baghdad?’

  ‘At a pinch, but it’s a great performance, involving about half the telephonists in India. No, Boyd wrote to us.’

  ‘He wrote you . . . a letter?’

  Manners looked at me for a long time before responding: ‘You know what they say, Captain Stringer: “as safe as the mail”. And Boyd’s letter was particularly safe, since he sent it via the diplomatic bag.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be any quicker that way. It takes nearly four weeks to get a letter from Baghdad,’ I said, thinking of the letter sent to Quinn in France by Shepherd.

  ‘General Maude himself communicates mainly by post with London,’ said Manners.

  ‘But that means he must take weeks to get his orders?’

  ‘Slow and steady wins the race, Captain Stringer.’

  And at this, I finally realised the truth about Manners: he was humorous.

  ‘I still don’t see why Boyd didn’t send a wire,’ I said.

  Manners sighed, and looked to the Chief: ‘A regular terrier this man, Weatherill. In the first place,’ he continued, turning back to me, ‘he did wire. The day after the fall of Baghdad, he reported to us that he had an urgent and important matter to mention, and that he required a confidential channel of communication. Without any reiteration of his message, we replied by wire to the effect that he should seek direction from a certain other officer out there.’

  ‘A more senior one?’

  Manners blanked the question with a slight look of pain, continuing: ‘After speaking with this other officer, Boyd set down his concerns on paper in greater detail – although still not so very great.’

  ‘And he sent them to you in a letter.’

  ‘Which we received on April 15th. Mr Henderson-Richards of this department had sight of the letter. Four days later, he happened to be at York station – his mother has a place in the country nearby – when he bumped into Chief Inspector Weatherill here, who is of course a trusted man, known to this office. The two fell to gossiping.’

  ‘Exchanging intelligence,’ growled the Chief, and Manners, for the first time, actually grinned.

  ‘The name of Shepherd in Baghdad was mentioned to the Chief Inspector,’ said Manners, ‘who only a few moments before had by an unfortunate accident – which in fact was very fortunate – read the letter indicating the job offer to you from Shepherd.’

  Manners now slid the buff envelope towards me.

  ‘Open it,’ he said.

  ‘Is it the letter from this Captain Boyd?’

  ‘No, although it arises from his letter. It was written for you by one of my superiors, and it relays to you an arrangement made with Boyd.’

  Inside was a typed note, headed – ridiculously to my mind – ‘Top Secret’. It went on in peremptory fashion: ‘Captain Stringer to rendezvous with Captain Boyd outside the Salon de Thé (restaurant) at Baghdad railway station at 11 p.m. on Thursday May 24th. Stringer to observe, “It is closed.” Boyd to reply, “The coffee houses by the bridge of boats will do you very well if you don’t mind the walk.”’

  So I had a little under a month to get to Baghdad.

  I handed back the note. Since this arrangement must have been made in the few days since I came into the picture, it must have been made between the Intelligence office and Boyd via telegram. I asked if this was the case and Manners (with the greatest reluctance) nodded. I said, ‘How secure were those wires?’, for there must have been two: one proposing the arrangement, and one confirming.

  Manners said, ‘You need have no anxiety on that score. Boyd did not know the military codes, so his telegrams were sent, as we say, “clear” – that is in plain English – but you were not named in the wires, and nor was the rendezvous point named. In his letter to us, Boyd had already nominated that particular spot as “safe place” – the station being some way out of town – in which to confide his anxieties should we wish to assign a man to the case. A return to the station would also allow him to show exactly what he’d seen on the night in question.’

  ‘So the telegrams were to the effect X will meet you at Y place?’

  ‘You’ve caught on splendidly,’ said Manners, who now stood up, walked over to his fire, and dropped the note detailing the arrangement on the low flames. Since it was on the very flimsiest paper, it disappeared immediately.

  ‘By the way, I trust you committed that to memory,’ he said, with the hint of a returning smile. ‘Boyd’s a good chap – he’ll put you in the picture. You’ll take your place in Shepherd’s office. You’ll gather evidence and you’ll report back.’

  ‘And the aim is to bring Shepherd to book.’

  ‘Or put him in the clear,’ said Manners. ‘We’ll settle for either. But there is another aim equally important, and that is the uncovering of the treasure, and the securing of same for His Majesty’s Government.’

  I’d forgotten about the treasure.

  ‘You will spend a month in Baghdad.’

  ‘Not very long,’ I said, and I knew I sounded relieved, which in fact I was.

  ‘At the end of that period, you will be recalled as a matter of urgency to your unit in France.’

  All of this raised so many questions that, in the end, I didn’t ask any.

  ‘Can I press on you the need for absolute discretion?’ Manners said. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd is a popular man and highly rated by the command. There would be a scandal in Baghdad if it was found he was being investigated, and that would sap morale badly. Discretion must be absolute. Have you packed yet?’

  ‘I’ve only just found out I’m going.’

  ‘You won’t be needing a top-coat. I recommend mosquito cream, quinine, malaria tablets and a well-oiled service revolver.’ He offered his hand. ‘Enjoy yourself out there. Give my regards to Captain Boyd, and we have a message for him from his lady wife . . .’

  ‘Which is?’ I said, scowling rather.

  ‘Oh, just that she loves him, and will he please write to her?’

  Manners had now walked over to the door, and was holding it open for me and the Chief.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ I said, ‘how do I get in touch with you before the month’s up?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Manners, and he leant into the corridor and called, ‘Boy!’

  Part Two

  Mespot

  Chapter Three

  On our third day of sailing up the River Tigris, I resolved to step from under the tarpaulin overhanging the aft deck of the small British Naval gunboat, Mantis, and to remain in the open for some time. I had been told to acclimatise to the sun. Stretched out on a long deckchair some way beyond the tarp was a fellow called Dixon. He was reading a magazine called The Wide World, and he had been reading exactly the same magazine in exactly the same spot the day before. He was already acclimatised.

  Under the tarp, I tried to predict the heat, but when I stepped into it my prediction was as usual exceeded by an amazing amount. Into the dazzling white sky overhead flew ragged gouts of smoke from the oil-fired engines of the Mantis.

  Oil-fired . . .

  From the quay at Basrah, at the head of the Shat-al-Arab waterway, the refineries of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company had been pointed out to me, but they were only so many low, white drums wavering in the heat haze on the other side of the water, like something burning in white flames. They seemed hardly there at all, and yet ten thousand men of the British and the British Indian Army were in Basrah on their account. Another forty thousand were in Baghdad. There were in addition garrisons posted along the five hundred miles of river connecting those two spots
. In short, the hundred and fifty soldiers and thirty crew aboard the Mantis were not in any imminent danger of attack – not from Brother Turk anyhow. He’d been driven north of Baghdad by the forces of General Maude. And if any Arab tribes encountered on our way might be thinking of having a crack at us . . . Well, they would have the six-inch gun on the foredeck to reckon with, not to mention the machine guns on swivel stands.

  On the Shobak Castle, the government-controlled liner that had carried me from Southampton to Port Said, then to the Persian Gulf via the Suez Canal and the Red Sea . . . that three-week voyage had not been quite so relaxed an affair. The tub was well worth a torpedo, and in the Med there’d been half a dozen crew on deck with binoculars at all times.

  But on the Mantis, opera glasses for sightseeing rather than binoculars were the order of the day. On either bank of the Tigris, green wheat grew under the burning sky, but the river being below the wheat, I could not make out the desert that I knew lay beyond. Occasionally, I would glimpse the roof of a reed hut or the top of a stone-built building like a windmill without sails, and these, I believed, were to do with the control of the irrigation canals – and the system evidently worked, for everything was besieged by the wheat.

  The man Dixon took The Wide World and laid it over his face. He had an easy time of it, being batman to an amiable major called Hartley. Both were old for serving men, being somewhere around the early fifties. Hartley hadn’t seen much in the way of action, but he was a brainy sort, who knew all the angles on Mesopotamia.

  I would listen to him of an evening, as we all sat holding our drinks and smoking in the cramped and sweltering mess. His main topic was the Arab Revolt. Apparently this was already under way in the Ottoman territories of Syria and the Hejaz, and the War Office was all in favour of it. At least, some parts of it were – the parts allied to the British Intelligence Bureau in Cairo, where the plan for stirring up the Arabs had been hatched by some ‘fiercely clever’ young British agents. (Hartley said ‘fiercely’ in a very fierce way, spraying half his drink over me.) These British agents – the Arabists – were now bent on extending the revolt to Mesopotamia, which Hartley always called ‘Mespot’. Not all the Arabs were keen on it, however. A few were pro-Turk, and some – perhaps the majority – just ‘generally incredibly bloody-minded and indifferent’.