For Kingdom and Country (14 page)

‘All right you lot,’ Lock said. ‘Listen up, and listen up good.’

Hush fell over the men and Lock waited until all eyes were on him.

‘We have a task set us by our dearly beloved Major Ross,’ Lock said with a wry smile. ‘One in which he probably hopes I won’t come back from.’

There were a number of knowing chuckles from amongst the men, plus a few concerned glances from the new sepoys. But Lock didn’t let this worry him, they would all be up to speed soon enough once out in the field.

‘However,’ Lock continued, ‘we do get to be the first to push through enemy lines. Now,’ he said, pointing at the relevant sections of the map, ‘it seems our German friends have been encouraging their Ottoman allies to litter the Tigris with mines. While most of them will be cleared up to the bridge of boats, the rest of the river north of Fort Snipe is inaccessible, seeing as Johnny has redoubts on both banks. But, although there will be minesweepers leading the attack, there is a rumour that Johnny has gone and connected all the mines together via a telegraph wire and that he can set the whole bloody lot off with the throw of an electric switch.’

The men began to mutter excitedly to one another.

‘Shut it!’ Underhill bellowed, to instant effect.

‘Our first objective is here,’ Lock said, pointing to the map once more, ‘One Tree Hill, on the east bank. Once this is taken, a squad will be left to guard any prisoners, while the rest of us move on upriver in search of the switch. As soon as the switch is located,’ Lock continued, ‘we disable it and then send up a flare signal. This will be the trigger to start the main assault by our forces on the Turkish positions. We will then drop back and await Lieutenant Colonel Blois Johnson’s 22nd Punjabis to arrive, then we too will join up with the main thrust. Hopefully we’ll be in Amara by this time tomorrow. Questions?’

It was an unusual thing for an officer to ask his men if they had any input or queries. The new recruits looked taken aback, but the others were used to Lock’s style of leadership. He would rather any worries or gripes were aired now than later, particularly from Underhill. He set his gaze on the sergeant major, but Underhill just stared blankly back.

Pritchard raised his hand. ‘Do we know how well fortified One Tree Hill is, sir?’

‘A garrison, Sergeant, consisting of no more than twenty Arab irregulars.’

‘And what if this … switch is at One Tree’ill?’ Underhill said.

‘Then, Sergeant Major, we shan’t have to risk our bloody necks going further behind Turkish lines on a damned fool treasure hunt.’

Underhill grunted, but seemed satisfied that caution was an option.

Lock scanned the men and his eyes rested on Singh.

‘Sid? You look troubled.’

Singh looked up and bobbed his head. ‘Not troubled, sahib, merely struck by a thought.’

‘Which is?’

‘Will the Turks not hear our gunfire when we attack One Tree Hill? It will raise the alarm, this is for certain.’

Lock indicated to the map. ‘Norfolk Hill is here, two miles to the south-east, and One Tower Hill – here – is on the opposite bank, about a mile away. So even if a sentry or lookout at one of these redoubts happens to be looking in the direction of One Tree Hill rather than at the British lines, he may only catch a muzzle flash. The plan is to overcome One Tree Hill in relative silence. However, if we are overheard, then I am hoping to give the impression that it is a Marsh Arab raid, nothing more.’

Underhill shook his head, but was careful not to voice the exasperation that Lock could see written across his face in front of the new recruits.

‘Trust me, Sergeant Major,’ Lock said, ‘it
will
work.’

Underhill turned his scoff into a cough, and put his clenched fist to his mouth.

The sepoys began to mutter again and Lock quickly snapped them out of it by clapping his hands.

‘Enough.’

The men quietened down once more and Lock waited until he had their full attention.

‘This is war, lads, and we are soldiers. This is our duty and this is our mission’ – he tapped the map with his finger – ‘whether you think it stupid, suicidal or just plain impossible. But together we can, and we will, succeed. I will be with you all the way, at the front, the first into any building, the first into any firefight. The RSM and Havildar Singh will be at your side, Sergeant Pritchard and Lance Corporal Elsworth will have your backs.’

Lock let the words sink in for a moment, then gave a quick, winning smile.

‘Besides, I’m not impressed with Qurna. It’s supposed to be the site of the Garden of Eden, but as far as I can see, it’s just a collection of filthy lanes and mud and reed hovels, with a few brick houses, barracks and a Customs House thrown in. And I’ll be damned if I can find any bloody apple trees here. Just sodding dates.’

There was a ripple of laughter, added to a few words and nods of agreement.

‘But,’ Lock continued, ‘I hear that the Turks have fruitful orchards in Amara and I’d like to see those for myself. Anything to get away from these goddamned floods. And Amara’s that way,’ he indicated over his shoulder, ‘through the Turkish lines. So are you ready to lead the way out of this mosquito-infested biblical hellhole?

‘Sahib!’ came the uniform cry.

‘Good, then let’s get to work.’

… To work. The clang of metal on metal brought Lock back to the moment and his eyes refocused on the men battling at changing the configuration of the armour plating on the bellums. His gaze fell on Jawad and the dog. They were a little away from the work detail, playing with each other, the gurgling, steaming urn resting on the bank beside them. He would have to make sure that the lad didn’t try and follow them on the mission.

Underhill arched his back and swore. ‘Oi, Abdul, let’s be havin’ some char. ’Op to it, you little runt.’

Jawad jumped to his feet, grabbed the urn and hoisted it up onto his back. He jangled across to the boats. The men downed tools and gathered round the Arab lad as he began to pour hot, steamy tea into tin mugs and pass them out.

‘Captain Lock?’ a clipped voice called.

Lock turned and was surprised to see that Carver and Bingham-Smith were still down by the water’s edge. He didn’t say anything, but instead hunted out his pack of Moguls. He struck a match against the rough worn part of his Sam Browne belt, and cupping the flame, lit a cigarette. He blew out a long, slow trail of blue smoke and waited for Carver to say his piece.

‘I note,’ Carver said after an awkward pause, ‘that you have no lieutenant. Since your promotion to … er … captain, that is.’

‘Sergeant Major Underhill and Havildar Singh are more than capable of fulfilling those duties,’ Lock said, guessing what was coming next.

Only Lock’s guess was way off. Carver wasn’t about to land him with some spotty aristo subaltern. No, he was about to be a damned sight more vindictive.

Carver shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, old chap. Orders. You may be White Tab and all that, but you’re still in the Mendips, and the chain of command must be upheld. I’m now in command of A-Company, naturally …’

‘Naturally,’ Lock said.

Carver glared back, then continued. ‘Which leaves a vacancy at the top of C-Company.’

‘Yes …’ Lock said with an element of hesitation and dread.

‘Bingham-Smith here—’

‘Is to be my lieutenant? Very well, if you in—’

Carver was shaking his head again and his thin mouth had curled up into a smug grin.

‘No, no, Captain, quite wrong, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Harrington-Brown is to be your lieutenant, Bingham-Smith here,
Acting Major
Bingham-Smith I should say, is your new company commander.’

It took all of Lock’s willpower to keep his face blank, to keep his hands from scrunching up into hard fists, but inside he was raging. He knew of this already, of course, as Ross had broken the news, but he still felt as if he had been punched in the guts, and his head was swimming. He took a long pull on his cigarette, holding the smoke in until it stung his lungs.

‘Two hyphens for the price of one. How very decent of you. Sir,’ Lock mumbled, as he exhaled.

‘Eh? What’s that Lock?’ Carver said.

‘I said, “acting
major
?”,’ Lock lied.

Bingham-Smith was standing a few paces away, beside the water, face half in shadow. But even from where Lock was, he could see the arrogant smirk on Bingham-Smith’s lips. Lock ran his eyes over Bingham-Smith’s uniform. He hadn’t noticed before, but the young faux aristocrat was no longer dressed as an assistant provost marshal, but in the khaki of the regular army. He wasn’t wearing a tunic with shoulder insignia, either, but one with the older style cuff insignia. However, it still only had the two rings of braid and three stars indicating a captain.

Bingham-Smith caught Lock’s puzzled expression and self-consciously folded his arms behind his back.

‘My … er … my promotion isn’t … you know, official yet,’ he said. ‘But it will be. In time for my engagement party, Lock.’

‘Like uncle, like nephew,’ Lock said.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Bingham-Smith said, stepping over to him.

‘Your uncle, Godwinson, a lieutenant colonel who likes to pretend he’s a full colonel. And now you, his nephew, an assistant provost marshal who is, somehow, now a captain. But a captain who is pretending to be a major.’

There was a flash of anger in Bingham-Smith’s eyes and he took a futher step towards Lock, fist half-raised. But he stopped himself from reacting fully, the memory of their last encounter in the brothel still smarting. He forced a thin smile and dropped his hand again.

‘Maybe so, Lock. However, I will remind you that assistant provost marshal is of equal rank to major. So, technically, I do not need a promotion. I am a major already, to all intents and purposes. Just some tedious paperwork to be sorted out. But at least I am made to be an officer. It’s in the breeding, you know. Ever since I was head boy at Trent College—’

Lock sighed heavily. ‘Spare me the personal history lesson, Smith.’

‘That joke’s wearing a little thin, old chap,’ Bingham-Smith said.

‘It’s not a joke. Smith.’

‘Enough, gentlemen,’ Carver said, raising his hand between the two men. ‘It is, as Bingham-Smith says, Lock, a matter of formalities.’

‘So he’s actually a captain?’ Lock wasn’t ready to let the matter rest just yet.

‘Er … yes. But—’

‘Then as senior captain, this is my command.’

Carver went silent. He was blustering, trying to find an intelligent response, but couldn’t quite work out the words. ‘Look here, Lock, I—’

‘Until his promotion comes through,’ Lock added. He knew he wasn’t going to win this argument.

Carver stared back at him, eyes narrowed. ‘Very well. But as the
pending
company commander I insist that he accompany you—’

‘On this mission? Are you serious?’

‘Deadly.’

‘It will be,’ Lock said, giving Bingham-Smith a withering look. ‘However, I will remind you, sir, that this is a White Tab mission. It’s not a place for—’

‘Godwinson’s direct orders,’ Carver interrupted.

Lock shook his head in disbelief. The stupidity and arrogance of these officers was astounding. They’d get them all killed. He glanced back to Bingham-Smith. His face was half in shadow, but Lock could still see the smirk on his lips. He turned his gaze back to Carver.

‘All right,’ Lock said, ‘but he’s not up to speed with the way we do things in my platoon, so for now Bingham-Smith will work under my sergeant major’s guidance.’ His tone made it quite clear that it wasn’t a debatable suggestion.

Carver glanced at Bingham-Smith, who narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but then gave a curt nod. ‘Agreed,’ he said.

‘One last thing,’ Lock said.

‘Yes …?’ Carver said with trepidation.

‘
My
mission,
my
command.’

Carver put his hands behind his back and slowly raised himself up on his toes and then back down again, making a show of considering Lock’s demand.

‘Very well, Captain,’ he said. ‘Your mission, your command. But Bingham-Smith goes along. As an observer.’

‘You leave me with little choice, Major.’

‘Jolly good,’ Carver said, with an audible sigh of relief. ‘I’ll send
Harrington-Brown down to you. Bings,’ he nodded to Bingham-Smith. Then he turned on his heels and made his way back up the muddy bank as quickly as he could should Lock try to complain any further.

Lock watched the major go with contempt, cursed aloud and leant to one side and spat to the ground.

‘You really are the most vile man.’

‘Piss off, Smith.’

Bingham-Smith chuckled and moved a little closer to Lock. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Such breeding. It is little wonder that Amy chose me.’

Lock glared back at Bingham-Smith’s obnoxious face. His left eye was puffy and half-closed, and although his nose was swollen, it didn’t look broken. For now, Lock thought wryly.

‘She didn’t choose you, though. Did she? Her parents did.’

Bingham-Smith smiled thinly. ‘The bloodline must remain pure, old chap.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ Lock was using all his will power to keep his voice calm, to stop himself from grabbing hold of Bingham-Smith and pitching him head first into the Tigris. He clenched his jaw.

‘The future, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said, with an airy wave of his hand. ‘Heirs and all that.’

‘You mean you and Amy.’

‘Why, of course, Lock. Amy and I shall breed, breed fine, strong babies. We shall provide England with future dignitaries, prime ministers, upstanding pillars of society.’

‘Like your good self?’

Bingham-Smith ignored Lock’s sarcasm. ‘It’s more than just a marriage of two people, don’t you know? It’s the union of two distinguished families, a forging of houses, a duty to God, a duty to King and country.’

‘For King and country? My god, you really do believe that crap, don’t you?’

Bingham-Smith turned his body to face Lock, and put his hands behind his back in a very relaxed pose. He was smiling and shaking his head softly as if addressing an irksome child.

‘Whereas you, my dear fellow, are all for Kingdom and country, aren’t you?’ He snorted at his own joke.