A Kind of Courage

by John Harris

  ‘Thank ye, sorr,’ he said. ‘It’s verra welcome.’

  It was only then that they remembered Minto, and Pentecost found him inside the improvised hospital where, under his instruction, a couple of Toweida women and the Toweida interpreter were putting a plaster cast on his ankle.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  Minto looked up, his face pale and twisted with pain. ‘Coping,’ he said shortly. ‘I think we’ve fixed it between us.’

  He nodded at the two women who bobbed their heads nervously at Pentecost.

  Pentecost said nothing for a moment and Minto went on.

  ‘Sorry and all that, Billy,’ he said.

  Pentecost managed a smile, but he was a little shaken by the loss of one of his officers so early in the struggle. ‘Better get some sleep,’ he said.

  Chestnut put his head round the corner as he turned away. ‘Mr Lack on the field telephone, sorr!’

  Pentecost picked up the instrument and at once Lack’s voice came harsh and full of anxiety.

  ‘What was all that racket about?’ he asked.

  ‘They were after the water tower,’ Pentecost said. ‘They blew a hole in the wall and nearly brought it down.’

  ‘Anybody hurt?’

  ‘Nothing to speak about,’ Pentecost said, more lightly than he felt. ‘Freddy got a broken ankle.’

  There was silence for a moment from Lack then his voice came again slowly. ‘That’s bloody tough tit for Freddy!’

  ‘Yes. How about you?’

  ‘Keeping my pecker up. I got a few of the bastards as they went past.’ Lack sounded pleased with himself. ‘But I’m beginning to smell like a pigsty and I’m not sure I like standing here like a hen’s bottom turned inside out.’

  8

  All round Lack’s post in the old stables there was a great deal of noise but none of the Hejris seemed prepared to come close enough to try conclusions with the machine guns on the walls. It was impossible for either side to do much damage in the dark and for a long time Lack stared out into the blackness, aware of his own insignificance. His heart was thumping wildly and he was fully aware of what might happen to him if he relaxed.

  No one was shooting at him now, though he was well aware that even if someone could stir up the Hejris enough to accept a few casualties, his small post in the stables was well fortified and able to hold them off. His only worry was the Toweidas. They had run for the main gate that first night when the wire had been snatched from them, but he had with him Int-Zaid Mohamed and half a dozen Dharwas to strengthen the uncertain Levies, and he felt reasonably secure.

  He peered out again, aware that the firing had died away. Alongside him, one of the Dharwas was sneering at the Toweidas and he told him to be quiet in an abrupt manner.

  Listening again, conscious that his fingers were trembling and sweat was trickling from his armpits, he decided that the Hejri riflemen who’d been peppering the mud walls of the stable had disappeared. No one had been hurt and they had not had much difficulty in hanging on to their position. Nevertheless, despite his bluster, he was not as confident as he pretended. He didn’t look forward to more nights away from the main body of the men in the fort. Numbers gave him confidence and Pentecost so far had showed no sign of nervousness.

  He already detested Hahdhdhah with all the fibre of his being. If he had disliked it before because it was comfortless, hot and a long way from luxury, he loathed it now because it had suddenly also become very dangerous, and he decided to recommend that the outpost in the stables be withdrawn. Then he felt it might look too much as though he were afraid and decided against it after all, because he was also afraid of appearing afraid.

  ‘Abassi—’ Int-Zaid Mohamed appeared out of the shadows ‘—I think this is not a good place to be.’

  His doubt curiously made Lack feel more sure of himself. ‘Dry up, Mohamed,’ he said. ‘We’re all right.’

  As he stared through the sandbagged window, though, he wished he could feel as confident as he sounded.

  ‘Abassi—’ Mohamed was alongside him again ‘—I think we are surrounded.’ Mohamed was nervous. He was a Toweida and his wife was in Hahdhdhah village and Lack suspected that he was anxious to change sides.

  Mohamed jerked a hand. ‘I hear them over here, sir. I hear them on all sides.’

  In the shadowy interior of the stable, Lack stared round him.

  The Toweidas were clearly uneasy, but the Dharwa Scouts seemed unmoved, waiting with the placid imperturbability of hill men, their weapons – their fathers and mothers, they called them – in their hands.

  He looked again at Mohamed. ‘Are you sure? he asked.

  ‘Abassi, I hear them.’

  For a long time, Lack debated what to do, then they heard a voice outside not far away, calling softly.

  ‘Tell Int-Zaid Mohamed that we have his wife and daughter,’ it said.

  Mohamed was silent for a moment, his eyes staring, then he groaned and sat down abruptly on an ammunition box, as though his legs had given way.

  ‘We are thinking of giving them to the young men,’ the voice continued, and Mohamed’s agonised expression changed to one of fury and he snatched up his rifle and fired wildly through the slits they’d knocked in the walls.

  Lack pushed him aside. ‘Stop that,’ he snapped. Mohamed dropped the rifle and collapsed again, turning enormous tormented eyes to Lack who stared back at him, aware of a new factor suddenly intruding, and began to be afraid again.

  He glanced at Mohamed who seemed limp and exhausted with emotion, as if the spine had been drawn out of him, then the Toweida began to moan, rocking from side to side.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mohamed,’ Lack said awkwardly.

  ‘Abassi—’ Mohamed lifted his eyes as though they were heavy ‘—my daughter is only thirteen years old. Let us give up.’

  ‘Oh, God, Mohamed,’ Lack said, ‘we can’t even think like that!’

  Mohamed began to moan again and Lack began to imagine a frightened child in the centre of a ring of fierce Hejri reims who grinned and snatched at her clothing.

  Jesus, he thought, always less of a brutal and licentious soldier than he liked to imagine, how much did the stable – or even Hahdhdhah – matter against a child’s agony? What did anything matter? Who was going to benefit if they were all wiped out?

  Awkwardly, nervously, his hand felt the door. It was barricaded and solid but Lack found his heart was thumping again and he wished Pentecost were there because he felt sure Pentecost would know what to do. Then Mohamed, his face tortured, lifted his head, listening. One of the Dharwas touched Lack’s arm and pointed silently through the embrasure.

  Lack stared, seeing nothing, but the Dharwa pointed again, as though he were aware that men were close upon them.

  ‘Abassi—’

  As the Dharwa spoke, there was a wild flurry of firing outside, and the Dharwas leapt to their embrasures and started shooting back. Occasionally, Lack saw flashes outside and his nostrils were filled with the smell of cordite, then a lighted torch was thrust through a window and the dry hay that remained on the floor flared immediately, filling the place with a red glare. Two of the Dharwas began to beat at the flames with blankets and for a while the interior of the stable was bedlam, then Int-Zaid Mohamed began to yell in a wild voice and, rushing to the door, struggled to open it. Seeing him, three of the Toweidas joined him, and before Lack could stop them, they had vanished into the darkness outside, and Lack was bowled over as more of them bolted for the door.

  One of the Dharwas joined him and they tried to push the door to, but the Dharwa staggered back, a bullet in his throat, and as Lack fought on his own, a rush of figures from outside hurled him back into the stables.

  Seven

  1

  In the bar of the Intercontinental Hotel, the press were waiting for something to happen. It didn’t pay to go wandering around on your own any more, because the terrorists couldn’t tell the difference between a sympathetic newspaperman
and a soldier in civilian clothes so they shot at anything that moved and asked questions afterwards. It was much safer to wait until Cozzens or one of his staff was prepared to give information, or to badger the army press relations office and demand that something be laid on. In the meantime, they criticised each other’s work, drank the cheap liquor and, if they got a chance, slipped into bed with one of the few women left in the hotel.

  At that moment, Mike Diplock, the UP man, was none too sober, and Fay Bulstrode, of Time-Life, who spent most of her time living on the fact that she had once parachuted into the jungle in Vietnam, was arguing fiercely with one of the London men on the merits of getting to the forward areas.

  ‘We’re not here to tell them at home how Sergeant Bloggs from Huddersfield ties his bootlaces when some wog’s shooting at him,’ the London man was saying. ‘We’re here to give them the overall picture.’

  One of the French photographers was snoring in an armchair by the wall. He had chosen a corner sheltered from the window by a pillar, just in case one of the lunatics from the Wad area came screaming past in a fast car and slung a grenade through the glass. By the look of him he was drunk.

  Arriving through the door from the street, Gloag stared round them all with jaundiced eyes, deciding he didn’t like any of them much.

  He found a chair and lit a cigarette, cynical about them all. He remembered Cozzens’ press conference that morning, and the note of wariness the General had allowed to creep into his voice when he had announced that although Hahdhdhah was besieged he had every faith in its defenders. It had obviously been hard to announce the loss of Umrah and Aba el Zereibat, and Gloag had had a feeling that nothing Cozzens had said had disguised the fact that they had been lost through a mistake.

  It had not been the most successful of conferences and Gloag had followed it with a boring tour of the town in a convoy of jeeps, well escorted by a Saladin armoured car, and a Saracen troop-carrier – load of infantry armed to the teeth, laid on by the Army Press Relations Officer. They had gone round the outposts where the units of the British Army were keeping back the hostile Khaliti youths simply by standing still behind barbed-wire enclosures and looking grim. Nobody had pulled a trigger. Nobody dared. The Khaliti because of what they might get in return. The British because of what they might start. It had been stalemate and while he had run off a few feet of film and made a snappy commentary for his programme, it didn’t really make good TV coverage. His viewers expected him to produce the sort of thing other TV commentators didn’t manage to produce.

  He was just wondering what he could do about it when a Khaliti waiter approached him with the cringing humility of all Arab waiters, to announce that he was wanted in the lounge.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

  ‘A Mrs Pentecost, Abassi.’

  Gloag wondered who the hell Mrs Pentecost was and had just let his mind drift idly into wondering if she were lonely and found the hot nights trying, when he jumped. Pentecost! Of course! The chap in Hahdhdhah!

  ‘I’m coming now,’ he said.

  The lounge was crowded with bored people, most of them waiting for a plane out of Khaswe. A lot of them were drinking too much – they had invested money in businesses or property there, and most of them were already aware that they were considerably poorer than they’d been when they’d arrived.

  Charlotte Pentecost was sitting alone near to the window, he noticed, as though she couldn’t care less whether some clot threw a bomb through the glass or not. He noticed with satisfaction that she was pretty, young and just his type.

  He sat down beside her, putting his hand on her wrist as she made to rise. She made no attempt to pull her arm away and he warmed to her. Plenty of women had offered themselves to him. Alter all he was Alec Gloag, worth a small fortune, famous, notorious even, and young and good-looking enough in a hard way to be interesting to women.

  She didn’t waste time beating about the bush and Gloag very quickly realised she wasn’t interested in him. What she had to say, however, soon made up for the fact. What she was presenting him with was a ready-made crusade, the sort of thing he always dreamed of. Not just a news story, but something he could really go to town on. She wanted him to stir up pressure for her husband and she had facts that no one else had got.

  ‘This is for your ears only, Mr Gloag,’ she said, and he had a feeling that she knew she was being a traitor to her own side – that normally she would have regarded him as the enemy but that she was so concerned for her husband she was prepared to treat with anyone to help him. ‘Please don’t quote me and please be careful or they’ll jolly soon track it down, and then not only will I be in trouble, but so will my husband.’

  Gloag nodded. ‘You can count on me.’

  She gestured, her hands moving tiredly so that he realised what she was going through. ‘It seems to me,’ she said, ‘that the British Government, despite their insistence that they’re supporting the Sultan, is only giving him limited backing.’

  Gloag eyed her cautiously. ‘The place’s full of troops,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Khaswe,’ she said. ‘Not the frontier. Hahdhdhah’s no concern of ours and General Cozzens has to leave my husband to look after himself.’

  ‘At this place up in the hills?’

  ‘Exactly. And if he can’t send troops up there, the only person who can help is the Sultan. I’ve been to see him.’

  Gloag looked at her speculatively. ‘And will he?’

  ‘He told me he would. But I don’t believe him. If they fetched Billy out, the Toweidas wouldn’t stay. Billy told me so – more than once. They’d have to give up the frontier, as well as the fort.’

  Gloag frowned. ‘I can’t see the Sultan doing that.’

  ‘Neither can I.’ She gave him a tired smile. ‘So no one’s helping.’

  Gloag was silent for a moment. ‘Will your husband hang on?’ he asked eventually.

  She nodded. ‘He’ll try. But he’s not the type to believe in dying for a lost cause.’

  Gloag stared at his cigarette. ‘It seems to me,’ he said slowly, ‘that the real story’s not here in Khaswe but up in Dhafran.’

  She gave him her tired smile again. ‘That’s what I hoped you’d feel,’ she admitted.

  He looked quickly at her, realising that for once it was he who was being manoeuvred. ‘But I can’t go up to Dhafran,’ he said. ‘They won’t give us permission.’

  ‘Army lorries go,’ she pointed out ‘It takes two or three days.’ He began to catch the drift of what she was suggesting. ‘And could I get a lift on one of these lorries?’ he asked.

  ‘So long as you keep it quiet and kept your head down. There’s a Khaliti sergeant who fixes things. I’ve sent things up to Billy. He’ll need bribing but I could give you his name and tell you where to find him.’

  He studied her warily. ‘This is all very useful, Mrs Pentecost,’ he said. ‘What are you wanting out of it?’

  She looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘Only that someone does something to make sure my husband’s safe,’ she said. ‘You might say I’m trying to mount a rescue operation.’

  Gloag grinned, suddenly liking her for her forthrightness. It made a change from the normal toadying he got from people who tried to persuade him to use his programme to make money for them.

  They talked for a while then Gloag rose. ‘I’ll do what I can, Mrs Pentecost,’ he said. ‘How about dinner tonight? I could arrange a car to fetch you.’ He still hadn’t given up hope and she was a very pretty woman.

  He guessed wrong again. ‘I’ve two children to look after, Mr Gloag, and no Khaliti woman’ll sit in for me. Come to that, neither will any army wife. They’re all too scared of leaving their own children. And in any case, I’d much rather you were on your way to Dhafran.’

  2

  As the thin light of early morning increased and the pearliness vanished and turned silvery with the dawn, they were able to pick out the stable as it emerged from the darkness. With the roof burne
d away, it had a skeletal appearance, like a blackened set of ribs among the rocks where the Hahdhdhah had once scratched a living. The land and the huddled hamlet beyond looked parched, the colours strident browns, yellows, crimsons and purples. Beyond that the plain seemed empty and the silence thunderous, only the yellow grasses and thorny bushes moving in the gritty wind.

  Brooding on the rampart above the gate, Pentecost frowned, his mind nagged by the disappearance of Lack. He felt sick with guilt about it. Yet the stable had been a sound and solid fortification and should have been held, and only Mohamed’s forgiveable agony had started the chain of events that had caused it to fall. He had been icily furious with Mohamed, cold and deliberately cruel, but it was impossible not to be sorry for him, especially when a Hawassi frog pedlar from Addowara appeared outside the fort, with his tiny flayed wares strung on a stick like spread-eagled naked human beings.

  ‘This is what your wife and daughter will look like after we’ve raped and killed them, Mohamed,’ the chant went up.

  Old Fauzan, his face grim, shot the pedlar between the eyes with a borrowed rifle and he vanished head over heels into the rocks, but no one was surprised when Mohamed vanished over the wall the next night.

  It hadn’t brought Lack back, either, and the sporadic firing from the trees it had started had driven them out of the courtyard into the shelter of the walls. Forty-eight hours had elapsed now since the loss of the stables and they were all waiting for daylight, knowing that when the sun rose and the night colours vanished they were once more reasonably safe for another day.

  ‘I think, Sergeant—’ Pentecost stood on the ramparts, in the increasing light, watching the chattering Dharwas in the square below, and talking over his shoulder to Fox ‘—that we’ll have to set up a sortie to get one or two of those trees down. We’ll make a note today which are the most troublesome and send a strong patrol out with saws.’