Stevens did not seem to sweat – an odd circumstance, in the case of such a big fellow. He must be in A1 condition. He was really frowning over his work, and kept reaching for the directory.
‘What a rigmarole this is,’ he said, more or less to himself.
‘What are you about?’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘ordering track from the Indian government. Like getting blood out of a stone it is.’
Here, then, was proof of the story I’d heard all the way up the Tigris: that the British and the British in India were at loggerheads over Mesopotamian policy.
‘They’ll send it,’ said Stevens, ‘but they’ll send it slowly. They make out they’re having to tear up their own lines to do it, which I don’t believe for a minute.’
‘They think we’re building a railway for the Arabs at their expense,’ I said.
He eyed me steadily for a moment.
‘Just so,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think the camel jockeys are quite up to running their own railway, do you?’
This might have been just another offhand remark, but I thought it unlikely that any Arabist would have said that, even casually. Was Stevens, in this respect, falling in with his governor, Shepherd? If you were anti-Arab, did that make you pro-Turk? Turcophile? If you wanted to let the Turks in again through the back door, you certainly wouldn’t want the formation of an Arab state.
Stevens stood up and walked over to the window.
‘It’s going to be hot,’ he said, and I don’t believe it was a joke. He turned side on, and the thought broke in on me: He’s a boxer; a heavyweight. His nose, in profile, didn’t go as far out as it should have done. And there was no fat on him, for all his bulk. He walked over to my desk, and looked down at the map.
‘We might be riding over that very line – on Monday.’
I frowned at him, thinking of the bruises on the face of Boyd.
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘You, me and The Shepherd.’
‘What for?’ I asked, and he gave a shrug. ‘Can’t remember the word. Oh yes: reconnaissance.’
‘What’ll we use for a locomotive?’
‘The Shepherd has one lined up.’
I thought of the broken-winded engine I’d seen: Elefant. It couldn’t be that one.
‘But . . . who’ll crew it?’ I said.
‘You fire and I’ll drive,’ he said. ‘Or the other way round, I’m easy.’
‘You can drive an engine?’
‘After a fashion.’
It went without saying – since he had public school written all over him – that he had never worked on the footplate, so I asked how he’d come by his driving skills.
‘See . . . my old man has four hundred acres in a little spot called St Keyne.’
‘That’s in Cornwall,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Little railway goes right through our land.’
‘The Lyeskard and Looe line?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, and I could tell what he was thinking: This bloke really is a railwayac. ‘You know it?’ he said.
‘Read about it.’
‘Why would anyone write about the old L and L?’
‘St Keyne was in The Railway Magazine – in a series called “Notable Railway Stations”.’
‘Notable? What’s notable about it?’
‘Its smallness,’ I said. ‘As I recall, the waiting room is the station master’s front room.’
‘That’s right,’ said Stevens. ‘Plays war about it, he does.’
‘He told The Railway Magazine it gave him the chance to meet all sorts of fascinating people.’
‘Old Williams? Did he really? He’s a bit of a pill actually, is that chap, but the other chaps, the drivers on the line . . . They were all right, and they’d give me rides up.’
‘They taught you driving?’
‘Well, gave me a few pointers, you know.’
‘I’d have given fortunes to have cab rides on a branch line.’
Silence for a space.
I asked, ‘How long have you known Shepherd?’
‘Oh, practically for ever you know. His folks know my folks. His dad was at the University with my dad.’
‘And were you at the University with him? With Shepherd, I mean?’
He shook his head.
‘The Shepherd’s a good ten years older than me. And I wasn’t at the University. The Shepherd was, of course.’
‘Oxford or Cambridge?’
‘Can’t recall. One or the other though, I know that.’
‘Why do you call him The Shepherd?’
‘Well now . . . why do I call him The Shepherd? Always have done, I suppose.’ I thought that might be the end of the matter, but Stevens was really thinking about it. ‘It’s his name, isn’t it? So that’s one reason, and then again he’s like a shepherd.’
‘How?’
‘Well, I don’t mean he keeps sheep. His folks own a fair old patch of Wiltshire, you know, but I don’t believe there’s a sheep on it. But he’s calm, and I suppose a shepherd is taken to be a calm sort of chap.’ He paused for a second, before adding, ‘Not that he doesn’t pull off the craziest stunts.’
I thought: That fits the bill, if what I’ve been told about him is true.
‘What sort of stunts?’ I said.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
And this time, it seemed, he really didn’t.
‘You’re a boxer aren’t you?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I am.’ And he eyed me shrewdly for a while. ‘How the deuce did you work that out?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but said, ‘You met The Shepherd in a hotel didn’t you?’
‘We got to talking,’ I said, ‘and we found we had a mutual interest in railways.’
He nodded. ‘Nuts on railways is The Shepherd. Anyhow, I’m off now.’
‘Where to?’ I said, trying to keep a light tone, for I felt I was exceeding my limit of questions.
‘Oh,’ said Stevens, ‘number eleven Clean Street.’
You’d have thought the place was known to all, but I put off asking about Clean Street in favour of a flurry of quick questions that got from Stevens the following data during his progress towards the door. His battalion had been one of those that had fought at Gallipoli. (Asked whether that show had been as bad as everyone said, he replied, ‘Oh, you know . . .’) He’d then joined the garrison force at Basrah, where he’d headed a team of PT instructors. He’d run into ‘The Shepherd’ practically the moment that he – Shepherd – stepped off the boat. The two had renewed their old acquaintance, and Stevens had accepted Shepherd’s offer to come up to Baghdad and help him run the railways. Stevens had not fought his way into Baghdad, as Shepherd had done, but come up in comfort on a steamer. As to our present work, I ought to remember – not that it really made any difference – that we were ‘Railways (Strategy)’. When I asked what that meant, Stevens said, ‘Search me. I think it means we try out The Shepherd’s ideas.’ He gave me to understand that most of the routine railway operation around Baghdad – not that there was much of that as yet – would fall to the Royal Engineers.
He quit the room, and I lit a cigarette. A moment later, I was standing at the window, watching him walk through the dazzling square, which he did with head tilted back, and face tilted up, as though to prevent his glasses falling off his nose. That was all wrong, I thought. In a place like this, you ought to look about you. But Stevens was not apparently a curious or very intelligent sort . . . which was probably just as well.
As he disappeared into one of the alleyways, my attention was caught by an Arab appearing from another one: red fez, long black coat. I instantly ducked away from the window. It was the station master, and he was approaching the Hotel at a lick. Evidently, he had discovered the secret of the Salon de Thé. There would now be an investigation. Would he supply a description of me? A suspicious white man seen at around the right time. If so, he might be taken to b
e trying to throw the blame away from his own people. Most likely the Arabs would be blamed. If the poor old station master himself should come under suspicion, I would have to speak out, but what would I say? A British lieutenant colonel did this because he was in the pay of Brother Turk, and Boyd knew it.
The call to prayer was coming through the window: a sort of wandering song, rather beautiful in spite of lacking any sort of tune, and which stopped every half minute and started again after a short pause, as if the singer wasn’t happy with it, and meant to try again. It was Friday, and I had the idea that the Moslems did even more praying than usual on a Friday.
I had now written out in pencil all the station names up to Samarrah, and would trace over them in red ink. They were spaced at intervals of about fifteen miles. The first one was Mushahida station; then came Sumaika, Harba, Istabulat, Samarrah. Neither map gave any indication of any settlements, or anything at all, as being located near them. I passed the next half hour in decorating the ‘North’ arrow on the map, and wondering about Stevens. He really was a rather hazy sort of bloke – perhaps he’d boxed too much and had gone ‘punchy’.
Now the map was about finished, and it looked pretty enough. I wrote at the bottom, ‘Prepared by Captain James Stringer’, then wafted it about to dry it, and rolled it into a scroll. I would take it through to Shepherd’s office even though, or rather precisely because, I knew he would not be in there. Delivering the map would give me the chance to have a scout about.
In the corridor, an Arab was sweeping the spotless carpet with a broom. He stopped and smiled at me, and I said, ‘Salaam alaikum,’ which seemed to amuse him no end. I knocked on the door of 226; no reply. I looked back at the Arab, who was still watching me, still smiling. He said something in his native tongue, perhaps ‘It is perfectly in order for you to go in.’ Anyhow, that’s what I did.
The room was just as dark as before, but hotter. A desk stood in the middle of it, but the bed remained, and Shepherd had spread some papers over it. I turned about. I had left the door ajar, and it wouldn’t do to close it – that would be to claim possession of the room. I moved over to the bed, where I saw a plan of Baghdad station and environs, written half in German: ‘Bahnhof of Baghdad’. I identified on the plan the blockhouse in which the station master apparently lived, and there was a tiny note next to this, which I could not read, and might have been hand-written on to the printed map. This map lay at the foot of the bed. Going up towards the bolster, there were documents in French, all bearing the same stamp or seal. I saw the word ‘Decauville’ – that was a French make of light railway track. There was a pack of playing cards in their box, perfectly normal British ones; there was also a novel. I picked it up: The Good Soldier by a certain Ford Madox Ford. I flicked through the pages. It was not about soldiering.
There were two steel cabinets by the wall. I walked over and tried the handle of the first – locked. I tried the second, and it opened – nothing whatsoever inside. I moved towards the desk. Eight drawers in it. I looked towards the door, and tried the first. It held a service revolver. I stared down at the gun.
‘Captain Stringer,’ said Shepherd, and I slammed the drawer and saluted.
He seemed thinner than before – browner too, of course, but still with the redness beneath. In fact our exchange of glances had sent the colour rising as fast on his cheeks as on my own.
‘Excuse me‚ sir,’ I said. ‘I’d just come to show you this map.’ I waved the scroll about stupidly. ‘It combines two other ones. I was looking for an India rubber because there’s a mistake on it.’ I unrolled the map, held the two ends apart on the desk.
‘Very good,’ he said, examining the map. He looked up at me and smiled. ‘And what is the mistake?’
We both studied the map. There was no mistake to be seen. Out of sheer gentlemanliness, it seemed to me, Shepherd broke the silence:
‘It seems to be absolutely . . .’
‘It’s just that I put an “h” on “Samarrah”,’ I said.
We both looked at the ‘h’. It seemed very tiny and inconsequential, and was evidently worth no further remark for Shepherd said, ‘Well now, how would you like a ride up there?’
I let the map curl up again. ‘Captain Stevens said we might be going.’
‘Do you fancy the trip?’
Did I have any choice in the matter? Instead of putting that question, I enquired, ‘What do we use for motive power, sir?’
‘An engine,’ he said, and this time he was embarrassed at himself, at the smallness of the joke. I knew that any information withheld by Shepherd, or any query deflected, would cause guiltiness in him, so that a fuller disclosure of data would follow. And so it proved. ‘A DS 18,’ he said, ‘to give the technical designation. It’s a rather large German locomotive.’
I nodded. ‘I saw . . .’
But what had I seen? I could not let on I’d been to the station. Once more, he came to my aid: ‘I think you’ll enjoy the run, Jim. The stations along the line could hardly be more varied in their appeal. I believe one or two even have a platform.’
‘Will we go beyond Samarrah?’
‘Oh, I hope so, a little way.’
You’d think we were in for a holiday jaunt.
‘But the line gives out up there,’ I said.
‘It does,’ said Shepherd. ‘Runs into the sand.’
‘Will there be any Turks thereabouts, sir?’
‘We might run into the odd stray patrol or two,’ he said, and he smiled kindly.
He was fishing in his tunic pocket, bringing out smokes. He offered me one, and I looked down at the packet: the couple walking along the beach, the four stars exactly, the unreadable script. There did seem a kind of damnable pride in his face as he offered them, a kind of defiance. But perhaps this brand was common throughout Asia Minor. Perhaps these were the Woodbines of Baghdad. I took one with slightly shaking hands, and Shepherd lit it for me.
‘Now tell me about your long journey,’ he said, perching on the desk. ‘What sort of a voyage did you have?’
He seemed to want all the details, and when I’d run out of them he said, ‘By the way, we have our own Railway Club here in Baghdad.’
‘I saw the notice,’ I said.
‘Come along on Saturday. Anybody can have the floor, as long as they speak on a railway subject. You’ve missed my party piece by the way, luckily for you. I spoke last week.’
‘On what, sir?’
‘Oh, a very out-of-the-way subject: the passenger railways of Turkey.’
Chapter Six
I lunched alone, on a kind of stew with currants in it. I was only one of half a dozen blokes in the canteen, which was in the grand dining room of the Hotel, half of which had been given over to the storage of packing cases. Reaching into the inside pocket of my tunic, and touching a certain envelope that I’d kept close about me since my arrival, I revolved the idea of going off to the British Residency to communicate with Manners, but decided I’d better put in a full day’s work beforehand.
Recrossing the lobby, I saw the police team, and I was itching to ask, ‘What did the station master tell you?’ but discretion prevailed. I walked over to Part One Orders, and there was a new notice: officers were to wear their guns at all times.
Stevens returned to room 227 half an hour after me, and continued writing his letters to the Indian government. After his polite enquiries about my voyage, Shepherd had put me to writing a report on the very Decauville light rail systems he’d been reading about himself. He’d said he wanted to know how they would adapt to desert conditions. I said I didn’t know desert conditions. What I knew was mud. He’d said‚ ‘You will do after Monday,’ and told me to make a start anyhow. It seemed to me that, for all his politeness – and on the face of it, he was about the most considerate officer I’d ever come across – he hadn’t much interest in anything I might write, but that he’d brought me out here because I could drive and fire an engine. I guessed that he’d taken Stevens on fo
r the very same reasons – unless the fellow was his partner in crime.
Shepherd had said I might knock off at about four, and when the time came, I went up to my room, and had a wash. Jarvis had already packed my things prior to our move to new quarters, but there was no sign of him, and I had two hours until our rendezvous on Park Street. After my adventure of the night before, I was all in. I went down to the mess where I put my hands on an electrical fan. The moment I got the thing started, it blew the ash off the cigar of a fellow smoking on the other side of the room. Luckily, he was only a Second Lieutenant. I put my hand up to signal an apology and he waved back as if to say, ‘Don’t mention it, old man.’ Satisfied by this, I immediately went to sleep, and dreamed of what looked like rain clouds appearing over Baghdad, much to the relief of all the men on the ground. Only they were not rain clouds but dirigibles, Turkish ones, and they began dropping bombs. I was awoken by the roar of the motor on one of these dirigibles, which turned out to be the noise of the fan. I turned it off, drank down two glasses of the boiled water, moved over to the window. There was a little less dazzle to the day, and the men were working on the wires again.
I set out for the British Residency, which was the second HQ of the Corps, so to speak. Getting there was a matter of following the wires along the riverside alleyways. As I walked, alternately through dazzle and shadow, I took the envelope from my pocket. ‘Now as to communication, and encryption thereof,’ Manners of the War Office had told me, ‘we have decided in your own case to take the simplest possible approach.’
The thin booklet I had been handed by the boy scout summoned by Manners – and which I took from its envelope as I walked now – was headed ‘Railway Clearing House Code Book’.
‘Secret code,’ Manners had said, keeping an absolutely straight face, but letting me know it was costing him quite an effort to do so.
‘Not very,’ I had said.
I’d seen this booklet, or close variants thereof, lying about in many a railway office. Anyone sending a standard sort of railway message was supposed to make use of it, not so much for secrecy as for money-saving. It was drilled into any clerk that telegraphy was expensive, and brevity essential. But in practice the book was not much used, for the messages represented by its codes were too simple, and it was regarded as a rather comical production. Opening the book at random, I saw – under the list of code words related to ‘Duty’ – the word ‘Chute’. ‘Chute’, I read, meant ‘Proceed to the following station for relief duty’. Why did it mean that? No reason. There was seldom any obvious connection between the word and the message, although I’d always thought that railway clerks with time on their hands must spend long hours trying to make one. The bloke required for the duty at the other station would be sent down a chute to take up his position.
The Baghdad Railway Club Page 8