A Kind of Courage

by John Harris

  ‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘Bring Rhamin Sulk’s guns.’

  He remained standing silently by the fire, still holding the Mannlicher, aware of defeat and heedless of the shouts around him as everyone leapt to their feet and began to hurry away. There was little he could do now, except to try to prevent a massacre.

  3

  Not far to the south, the Khadari had ambushed Wintle’s truck convoy in one of the few savage gorges the Ridwha Pass contained, and the armoured cars could use neither their weapons nor their mobility and the column had taken casualties. They had withdrawn a little now, and Wintle had brought up mountain guns to blast the Khadari from their perches, and at the end of a bitter day’s fighting the guns had gone into action and they had driven ahead another few miles.

  Satisfied, they had halted for the night and fires had been lit and the cooking pots filled when they heard a heavy thud somewhere to the north. It made the air contract and the shock seemed to travel through the earth to where they stood.

  Wintle looked round, frowning, but Beebe could see nothing that could cause them any immediate worry. Groups of Khaliti troops were preparing for their evening meal, and he could see the smoke of fires and the reddish-yellow colour of their vehicles among the rocks. The bleak landscape was empty. Ahead lay the mountains, the slopes touched with shadowed purple where the sun failed to reach, and there were a few mud houses at their bases where Wintle had established his headquarters.

  Again the thud came and he stared round him, puzzled, but unable to see anything.

  ‘That’s a gun,’ Wintle said. ‘To the north.’

  Then Beebe remembered the excitement he’d seen in Hahdhdhah and the man who’d been drawing on the wall of a house with a stick of charcoal snatched from the embers of a fire, and he knew what it meant. The Hejri had at last brought up the artillery Pentecost had been afraid of.

  ‘They’re firing at Hahdhdhah,’ he said.

  Wintle snapped round. ‘Of course they’re firing at Hahdhdhah,’ he said.

  He strode off, calling for his officers, and immediately the cooked food was issued and Beebe saw the Dharwas bolting it as fast as they could, while others began to throw equipment into the lorries.

  Wintle returned. ‘We move at first light,’ he said. ‘We can’t do a damn’ thing here in the dark. But we’ll make a few more miles before we have to stop for the night.’

  He paused again, staring up at the mountains, as though calculating what the resistance might be, and again they heard the thud to the north.

  ‘Thank God they don’t seem to have much,’ Wintle said. ‘Or else they’re short of shells.’

  Almost at once, there was another thud and the men climbing into the lorries paused, their heads lifted, their ears cocked.

  ‘Well, that’s four of the bastards,’ Beebe said bitterly. ‘I guess they’re not that goddam short!’

  4

  The first shell arrived without warning, fired from the slopes near the Addowara Pass. The fortress was settling down to its evening routine of boredom, and the sentries, already beginning to shiver with their empty bellies against the increasing chill, had been placed for the night. Despite the discomfort, though, there were no complaints. Wintle was coming and they only had to hang on until he broke through the Ridwha, and even the Toweidas were beginning to think themselves great warriors.

  The Dharwas were chattering on the walls on the dangerous south side where the ground sloped upwards and the walls were shallower, and Pentecost, his rounds made, was just sitting down to a spartan meal with Minto when they heard the shriek of a shell, and heard it whine overhead, and the crack as it exploded in the plain to the south.

  ‘What in God’s name’s that?’ Minto said.

  Hurrying to the walls, they stared out over the plain. A puff of smoke near Hahdhdhah village was still hanging in the air and they could see figures running among the rocks and gullies like a lot of disturbed ants.

  They were still watching when they heard another distant thud and another whine overhead, close enough to make them all duck. As they lilted their heads again, they heard the crack of an explosion and once more the puff of smoke, and rocks and dust were flung into the air to the south. Again the distant figures moved agitatedly and they saw a horseman galloping madly away and disappear into a gully. As the horse reappeared at the other side, still galloping at fall speed, they noticed its rider had vanished.

  ‘Yon’s a shell.’ Chestnut had appeared on the walls now and was staring thin-faced and narrow-eyed towards the collapsing fountain of dust. ‘Seventy-five or eighty-eight millimetre, or one o’ yon Russian guns they’ve got.’

  ‘Not very big,’ Minto observed with studied off handed-ness.

  ‘Wi’ respect, sorr, big enough tae do a lot of damage tae the walls.’

  As they watched, another shell screamed towards them and they ducked again. This time the shell exploded on the outskirts of Hahdhdhah and they saw fragments of timber hurled into the air as it demolished a hut.

  ‘Direction’s fine,’ Fox commented dryly. ‘Elevation’s a bit out, though.’

  There was a long silence broken only by the nervous chattering of the Toweidas around them, but no more shells, then they saw a horseman appear from the village and gallop at full speed across the plain towards the Addowara Pass.

  ‘The mayor,’ Chestnut grinned. ‘Off tae register a complaint.’ Pentecost was staring at Hahdhdhah village. ‘I take it the artillery’s arrived,’ he said. ‘I hope Wintle isn’t wasting time.’

  5

  As it happened, Aziz’s emissaries were doing better with the Khadari than anyone could have expected, and they had pinned Wintle down again five miles further on from his night encampment.

  They were on a bare ridge now above the river and, no matter how carefully Wintle sited his lorries, it proved impossible to prevent the Khadari sniping on to the face of the slope. Aziz’s threats had certainly put fear into the Khadari headsmen.

  After the day’s sun, the sickly smell of death hung over the place, and as they tried to move forward again, Beebe passed three mules lying in an open grave at the side of the road. The Khaliti troops had not had time to bury them properly but there had been some shallow excavations there, where rocks had been dug out for wall-building, and they had used them for the mules.

  Something cut the air over his head with a sharp whip-crack slap and a moment later a dull smack and a high-pitched whine sounded from the rocks behind him. He glanced upwards, unafraid. After Hahdhdhah this seemed trivial.

  Wintle glared at him. ‘Get your head down, Beebe,’ he snapped. ‘You’re not behind the walls at Hahdhdhah now.’

  Calmly the sniper probed the convoy, firing twenty or thirty rounds, and a platoon of men went off to the left in an attempt to search him out. It was too easy for men riding in lorries to be picked off to allow him to remain hidden. After a while, there was a flurry of firing and a shout from above, and Beebe saw the platoon returning down the slopes among the rocks.

  The column moved on again, passing the traces of the battle that had been fought by the vanguard. There were more dead mules by the road, their legs stuck out, stiff and ugly, and here and there the splash of blood on the white stones, and ridges scorched by the shells of the mountain guns. Eventually it started to rain and the Khaliti faces around Beebe became puckered with misery. Almost immediately, however, it stopped again, and the wind dropped and the heat in the gorge made the stones steam. Again they ran into hidden snipers, and had to halt the main column round the bend while the advance guard shot it out with them and another section made a detour up the slopes to get behind them.

  They moved off eventually in full darkness, the pace painfully slow. Beebe was fidgeting with nervousness. His injured ankle had been strapped up by a medical officer and while it was painful it was possible now to walk. Although he had abandoned his turban, he still wore the rags in which he had escaped from the fort, and, with his unshaven face and the r
emains of the boot polish that clung to his skin, they made him a weird sight among the neat uniforms of the officers.

  The column began to splash and rustle through a stream across the road. The wooden bridge had been destroyed and none of them enjoyed being wet. All day they had listened to the steady thud of the guns to the north, not a rumble so that they knew there were not many, but a regular thud so that Beebe had begun to grow worried.

  ‘The bloody place’ll be full of holes now,’ he said. ‘Can’t they do anything to help from Khaswe?’

  ‘Hold your water,’ Wintle soothed him. ‘I’m aware of what you’re feeling.’

  ‘Even a few goddam bombs would help.’

  ‘Not here,’ Wintle said. ‘We haven’t been fighting Aziz for twenty years not to know that. And in any case, I suspect they’ve got their hands full down there already.’

  Wintle didn’t know the half of it. It seemed to most of the people in Khaswe that the place was in flames from one end to the other again. The Intercontinental Hotel had also had its front blown in now and the press were camped in the rear dining room, a little shocked by the fact that two of their number had been killed by a mine. Cozzens had imposed a strict censorship when he had discovered that certain foreign newspapers were busily dispensing news of his plans and that they were being sent out from Europe to the Nationalist leaders by sympathetic embassies. He had also got rid of all extraneous people and had gladly shunted the Bishop of Harwick home at last, determined not to be responsible for his safety, and was now trying to get rid of the women and children.

  By the grace of God none of them had yet been hurt, but he had withdrawn them all inside a compound controlled by the army, which included his headquarters and the palace. It wasn’t possible to stop infiltration even into this, however, and there had been a little sniping, but he had the main points well guarded, though he was fully aware that, even with the extra men sent out from England, they were not gaining any ground. They were merely holding on and, despite what was being said in the House of Commons, their chances of remaining indefinitely were remote. The Khaliti Nationalists had not gained the initiative yet but they were encouraged by their successes and Cozzens was well aware that most of his own moves were only in answer to theirs.

  He felt old as his problems crowded in on him. He had heard that the first messages from Gloag up near the Dharwas – and God alone knew how he had got there! – had been answered with a furious cable from his company demanding that he change his attitude. His later messages – their attitude unchanged – had been received in noticeable silence, however, because questions were suddenly being asked by responsible people. They had finally provoked a flood of new instructions from Whitehall and Cozzens was now fighting with his hands tied, knowing he couldn’t hit back hard enough to discourage further incidents.

  As the telephone rang, he almost jumped.

  ‘Cozzens,’ he snapped, snatching it up.

  ‘Alan—’ it was Southey’s voice ‘—I think we’ve found a way round.’

  ‘It’s a pity we have to indulge in diplomacy to help young Pentecost.’

  Southey’s voice sounded harsh as he replied. ‘I didn’t make this situation and my orders state categorically that Hahdhdhah’s no affair of mine,’ he pointed out. ‘For that matter, it’s none of yours. It belongs to Tafas.’

  ‘Tafas is saying nothing,’ Cozzens growled. ‘He’s lying low. I think the old bastard’s considering abdicating after all.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘He got a report from that American oil expert he sent up to Hahdhdhah. He got out. He’s with Wintle now and he sent down some preliminary notes. Besides, we’re not going to win this battle, are we? No matter how we look at it.’ Cozzens sighed. ‘What have you worked out?’

  ‘We have rockets. We ought to be able to land them right where they’re wanted.’

  ‘Are you going to fly them up?’

  ‘Not on your life!’ Southey’s voice was full of determination. ‘I’ve told you my orders and I’m sticking to ’em. But I’ve found a way round them. Some of them have been here a long time. We can declare half a dozen or so of them dangerous. It ought to be enough.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Normally, the bomb-disposal people would attend to them but I’m quietly handing ’em over instead to Tafas’ people. They can use ’em on Aziz.’

  ‘Do they know how?’

  ‘We’ve shown ’em. They’ve been practising.’

  ‘When do they go?’

  ‘About midday tomorrow. There’ll be no shadow then and they’ll be able to see more.’

  ‘Very well. Can they do the job?’

  ‘They’ll blow Aziz’s whiskers off without even singeing him. There’s just one thing—’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They’ve asked for some information about where Aziz’s people are. They want to make their fireworks count.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  Southey paused. ‘What about this Yank who got out of the fort? He’ll know. Can we contact him? Get him to identify a few points.’

  6

  Boots rang on stones, hooves struck sparks. As they had floundered among the rocky outcrops, several more animals had broken legs and had had to be shot.

  The wind that blew from the north was cold now and as they probed further to the summit of the pass the shelter of the bushes and trees grew thinner. The snipers were still troubling the column and every single one of them had to be winkled out, and it was a slow and laborious task because Wintle knew as well as the Khadari that he couldn’t afford to arrive at the other end of the pass with half his men casualties. There were reported to be ten thousand Hejri and Deleimi and associated tribesmen in the Toweida Plain and hostile Shukri and Muleimat and Jezowi in the Tasha and Fajir Passes who would turn round if he emerged weak and come down on him from behind.

  As the bullets of a new flank attack began to ripple along the crest held by the Khadari, Wintle was called to the radio. As he read the messages, his lean face softened.

  ‘They’re laying on a strike,’ he said to Beebe. ‘Two aeroplanes with rockets.’

  He spread a map of the Toweida Plain on the bonnet of a scout car. ‘They want us to pin-point where the Hejri are,’ he said. ‘They want you to tell ’em.’

  Beebe stared at the map, then his hand moved across it. ‘Here,’ he said, and Wintle marked the points where his finger jabbed with a pencil. ‘In these folds of land here. In the Addowara Pass. And here.’

  Wintle began to make out a message to Khaswe, glancing at the map, and they waited impatiently while the operator sent it.

  ‘Christ knows where Tafas got the rockets,’ Wintle said. ‘He hadn’t any when I was last in Khaswe.’

  They had not heard the guns from the north for some time now, chiefly due to the noise their own column was making. A group of wounded came back, and a corpse lashed to a Khadari donkey, the body shrunken, its hands dark with dried blood. As it bounced past, a Dharwa rifleman at the side of the road shook one of the dangling hands, watched by his grinning comrades, and the corpse passed out of sight. Then a mountain sheep, bewildered by the shooting, appeared and rifles cracked. It fell as it was galloping flat out, down among the rocks, and a Dharwa sergeant requested permission from Wintle to fetch it in for cooking.

  The radio began to chatter again and Wintle turned back to the operator who was scribbling on a pad. Eventually, he handed the pad to Wintle who stared at it, frowning.

  ‘They say this isn’t enough,’ he said to Beebe. ‘They’re afraid of putting their fireworks into peaceful Toweidas. They don’t want to stir up trouble for the future. Is there any way they can identify the Hejri, they want to know?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Beebe said. ‘What do they want me to do? Run ahead of the bastards and wave my arms?’

  Wintle’s grin died quickly. ‘A good point,’ he said. ‘But you have to remember we have to administer this bloody frontier, even when Hah
dhdhah’s relieved. We don’t want to make the Toweida hostile, too. We have to live with ’em.’

  ‘They wear different clothes. Different colours.’

  ‘You can’t tell what colour a chap’s wearing when you’re flying at four hundred miles an hour five hundred feet up. You can’t tell how he ties his turban or the way he twists his girdle. Isn’t there anything else? Did he have his horsemen camped anywhere special? Did they have anything to identify them?’

  ‘Yes, by Jesus!’ Beebe remembered the green banners they had seen whenever the Hejri had appeared, the banner Aziz always carried for his parleys with Pentecost, those banners he had seen in his sleep. ‘The bastards carry green flags.’

  Wintle stared at him. ‘They never carried flags before.’

  ‘It was some stunt of Aziz’s. He always carried one when he came to parley. There were dozens of ’em. Big ones.’

  Wintle studied him for a moment then he turned to the signaller and scribbled the information on to the pad. As the set began to squawk again, he swung back to Beebe.

  ‘Just keep your fingers crossed,’ he said. ‘We haven’t heard those damn’ guns lately. I just hope they aren’t making life too much like hell in Hahdhdhah because we shall be through in two days now and up there in four, and somebody in Khaswe’s finally pulled his finger out to hold Aziz off till we arrive.’

  Beebe grinned. ‘I’m glad I’m not Sister Hannah carrying the banner,’ he said.

  Thirteen

  1