For Kingdom and Country (17 page)

Lock looked back at the table. It was a charred mess of scorched wood, the parasol was on fire and the chair had a large, round, blackened hole where its back used to be.

‘I assure you, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said, ‘my w … word as a gentleman, it was an accident. It just went off in my … my hand.’

Lock pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself down. Whether or not Bingham-Smith had fired the Very pistol intentionally didn’t matter now, they needed to get away from the little sand island and join up with the main assault as quickly as possible. He glanced over at One Tower Hill. The redoubt was taking a terrific pounding from the British artillery, and Lock didn’t want to hang around for a stray shell to obliterate their little island. He picked up the electric keyboard, walked over to the burning parasol, and tossed the keyboard into the flames.

‘In the boat everyone, quickly,’ he said, turning back.

Elsworth steadied the gufa as the
liva amiral
, still clinging to his telescope and book, climbed awkwardly in. Then he helped Lock push off, before they both scrambled on board. Lock snatched up a paddle and thrust the other one into Bingham-Smith’s hand, and they both began to row like crazy. The
liva amiral
sat down at the back, and Elsworth moved to take up his position at the front of the boat, rifle at the ready.

As they moved away from the little sand island, Lock watched the bombs fall on and around One Tower Hill. Why were the Turks not returning fire? he thought.

‘I’m truly … mortified … Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘I know we … have our … differences … but I … would never … you know?’

Lock gave Bingham-Smith a withering look. ‘Forget it … just paddle … There’s a rain … of shells … heading … our way … that will do … a lot more … damage … than your … inept … signalling.’

A shell dropped not ten feet away from them, spraying the gufa with muddy water.

Bingham-Smith flinched, pulling his oar up out of the water. ‘Christ, Lock. We’re done for!’

‘Just … paddle … Smith,’ Lock said.

Elsworth started to whistle one of his many tunes and then the young sharpshooter began to softly sing,

‘Oh, do shut up … Lance Corporal!’ Bingham-Smith snapped over his shoulder.

Elsworth stopped singing.

‘Leave him … alone,’ growled Lock, ‘and … row.’

Another shell whined down and exploded even closer than the last, spraying them all with more muddy water, then Elsworth returned to his song,

He suddenly slapped his hand nosily against the gunwale of the gufa. Bingham-Smith flinched again, but kept paddling.

‘—
hits you
.’

‘Very good, Alfred,’ Lock said. ‘Now shut up … and keep your … eyes peeled.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Elsworth said.

‘Where the … bloody hell … are we … going, Lock …? This is … madness!’ Bingham-Smith said.

‘We need … to scoot around … to the south … west … try and avoid … the artillery … fire … and the main … thrust … of the attack,’ Lock said. ‘We should … meet up … with the Ox … and Bucks … as they … head for … One Tower … Hill … providing … they’ve overwhelmed … Norfolk Hill.’

‘If that’s Norfolk Hill on the horizon there, sir,’ Elsworth said, ‘then I’d say it won’t be long. It’s taking a hell of a pounding.’

Lock craned his neck around. He could see the same. There was black smoke trails and clouds of debris rising up into the clear morning sky from the redoubt that was nearest to the British lines.

All around them, the air was angry with the rumbling booms of shell impacts, and Lock just hoped that they could get through unscathed. At least any mines they had missed, not to mention those further up the Tigris, couldn’t be detonated remotely. That was a huge relief, despite the fact that he nearly didn’t make it to the electric keyboard in time.

‘I was lucky … that you were … asleep … old man,’ Lock said. He spoke in English to the
liva amiral
, not knowing or caring if the elderly Turk officer could understand him or not.

Liva Amiral
Özel blinked back at Lock and then gave a shrug. ‘I am old man, Capteen,’ he replied in broken English. ‘I sleep more than wake. War is very … How say you? Tired?’

‘Tiresome.’ Lock grinned as he continued paddling. ‘Tiresome … is a perfect … description …
Liva Amiral
.’

There was a huge explosion off to their left and everyone instinctively ducked down again as they were showered with more water and debris. Lock looked up to see that the tower of One Tower Hill had disappeared in a billowing cloud of black smoke and fire. Suddenly, the noise above their heads increased to a terrific, continual roar, as if thousands of shells
were hurtling through the air all at once.

‘They’ll have to rename that redoubt soon,’ Lock shouted to Bingham-Smith with a smile, putting his oar back into the water ready to start paddling again. ‘Won’t be any tower left.’

‘My God, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith bleated, ‘what the blazes is there to joke about? If the 17th don’t recognise us as friendlies then … What if they open fire on us? We’ll be cut to pieces!’ Bingham-Smith was rapidly losing whatever dignity he had, and was nearing blind panic.

‘Calm yourself, Captain,’ Lock snapped. ‘Show some self-respect. You’re an officer in His Majesty’s Britannic Army. What will our guest think?’ he said, indicating with a subtle jerk of his chin to the elderly Turk.

‘Damned that blasted tinpot admiral!’ Bingham-Smith spat. ‘What about that?’ He pointed a wavering finger to the south-east where a dark mass was creeping ever closer over the water.

‘
Liva
Amiral
,’ Lock said to the elderly Turk, ‘
may I?
’ He held his hand out.

The Turk looked momentarily dumbfounded, then his face lit up in understanding. ‘
With pleasure, Yüzbaşi
.’ He passed Lock the telescope.

Lock gave a nod of thanks. ‘My binoculars are in my haversack,’ he said to Bingham-Smith, ‘and that’s with Sid, somewhere …’ He unfolded the ’scope, twisted round, and stared long and hard at the horizon to the south-east.

‘What a sight,’ he breathed. Up ahead, as far as the magnified eye could see, hundreds of bellums were powering towards them. ‘Extraordinary.’

‘What is? What is it, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith bleated.

Lock lowered the ’scope and passed it to his fraught companion. ‘See for yourself.’

Bingham-Smith struggled to focus the telescope, mumbling a complaint, and then he sucked in his breath and fell silent for a moment.

‘Oh … my … Lord,’ he gasped. ‘We’re heading right for them, Lock! We need to take evasive action! Signal them! Something …’

‘We will be all right as long as you do as I say,’ Lock said calmly. ‘Firstly, kufiyas off, regulation headgear on.’ He had already pulled his slouch hat from inside his jacket and was moulding it back into shape.

Elsworth snatched off his kufiya, tossed it away into the water, and put on his topi.

‘What about the Buddoos, though, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said, fumbling with his own topi.

‘Hopefully we won’t run into them,’ Lock said. He reached inside of his jacket as he spoke, and pulled out the blue folded cloth Singh had given him when they were working on the bellums back at Qurna.

‘They’re mostly installed in the marshes and thick reeds on the west flank of Gun Hill.’

‘But what about between here and Norfolk Hill?’ Bingham-Smith said, staring off into the reed marshes.

‘We’ll stick to the deeper water, the less dense patches of reeds. But now that the shelling is well and truly underway, I doubt the Marsh Arabs are even there anymore.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’

Lock shrugged. ‘We won’t know for certain until we get closer.’

‘We won’t know for certain!?’ Bingham-Smith gasped.

‘Just keep your head down and your voice to a whisper,’ Lock said. ‘Alfred, hand me that pole down by your feet there.’

Elsworth reached down and felt around in the briney slosh that was swilling about in the bottom of the gufa. He pulled out a long wooden pole, which was usually used to push the gufa out of thick reeds and off of sandbanks, and passed it to Lock.

‘Now,’ Lock said, ‘let’s hope the 17th have good eyesight.’

He began to unfold the blue cloth to reveal that it was, in fact, made
up of three colours: red, white and blue. He threaded the pole through the eyelets that ran along one edge of the cloth, then raised it up.

‘
Liva
Amiral, if you would be so kind?
’ Lock said, holding the pole out for the elderly Turk to take.

The
liva amiral
squinted up at the unfurled cloth and gave a shrug. He took a firm grip of the pole, resting it between his knees, then raised it up in the air and wrapped his arms around it to keep it steady.

Bingham-Smith gave a huge sigh of relief and smiled. ‘I have to say it. It galls me so, but … bravo, Lock, bravo.’

‘Now, paddle, Smith,’ Lock said, ‘paddle.’

The British Union flag opened up and began to billow and flap above the
liva amiral’s
head as it caught in the light, warm breeze.

‘You there!’ came a shout from the armoured bellum at the head of the small flotilla that was rapidly moving north from Norfolk Hill. ‘Are you Captain Lock?’

‘That’s right. You the Oxfords?’ Lock called back across the water, through his cupped hands.

‘At your service,’ came the reply.

Lock could now see a tall British officer standing at the bow of the lead bellum. There were about thirty manned bellums spread out behind him, but his was the only one flying a red flag.

Townshend in his memorandum issued to all senior officers had given each attack group a coloured flag as identification. Brigadier General Dobbie’s advanced guard group, consisting of the 17th Infantry Brigade, were allocated red flags, No.1 Group, the 16th Infantry Brigade under Brigadier General Delamain, flew green flags, while No.2 Group in general reserve had yellow flags. No.3 Group, the artillery under Brigadier General Smith, were allocated blue flags.

Lock had voiced his dismay to Ross about the use of red flags, far too similar to the Ottoman flag. But the decision had been made.

Bugger that, Lock had thought. There was no way he was going to rush back towards his own troops, following his
Kommando
raid, from behind enemy lines flying a red flag! His own side would open fire on
him. Hence the reason he’d insisted on Singh finding him a Union flag. There’d be no mistaking that for an enemy standard.

‘Are the Mendips with you?’ Lock called, the gufa getting ever closer, Elsworth now sharing the paddling with Bingham-Smith. Lock was standing at the head of the boat.

‘Bringing up the rear. Chap called Carver has a company, I believe.’

The two vessels bumped to a halt next to one another, and the British officer gave a warm smile as he held his hand out to Lock.

‘Captain Brooke. Major Ross said we may bump into you.’

‘How very astute of him,’ Lock said.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Lock. Damned good show at Barjisiyah Woods.’

Lock shook the youthful captain’s firm grip.

‘Saw your flare, Lock. Then my sniper spotted your flag. Little confused by the Johnny general holding it sat in the stern. But, well … here you are,’ Brooke said, eying the elderly Turk naval officer sat with the Union flagpole still held tightly in his hands.

Lock nodded. ‘Well, Captain, that was the idea.’

‘I’m Captain Bingham-Smith, commanding officer of C-Company in the Mendips,’ Bingham-Smith said, thrusting his paw rudely out in between Lock and Brooke.

Brooke took the offered hand and gave it a brief shake. ‘Two captains make for an unhappy ship, do they not?’ he said with a raised eyebrow.

‘You wouldn’t believe,’ Lock said.

‘So, what’s the situation?’ Brooke said, indicating to One Tower Hill and beyond.

‘The redoubts are taking a pounding, as you can see, but don’t seem to be retaliating,’ Lock said. ‘We took One Tree Hill over on the east bank easily enough. Just a small garrison of twenty Arab irregulars and a young Turk officer. There was some minor resistance, but we haven’t suffered a single casualty.’ Lock removed his slouch hat and rubbed his head. ‘So far
it’s been the strangest attack I’ve ever been involved in. This chap,’ Lock waved his hat at the elderly Turk officer, ‘was all alone on a tiny sand island just to the west of One Tower Hill. He was manning an electric switch that should have set the mines off.’

‘Mines?’

Lock nodded and put his hat back on. ‘Whole string of them from Qurna to God knows where. I’d already removed a number of them, but the switch was the worry. I cut the wires. Mind you, they looked so corroded from having been in the water that I doubt they would have worked anyway.’

‘Good Lord,’ Brooke gasped, ‘I had no idea.’ The Oxfords captain looked momentarily stunned as he turned his gaze back the way he had come.

‘I think, Captain,’ Lock said, ‘that the majority of the mines are in the deeper waters of the Tigris itself. But it can’t do any harm to warn your lookouts.’

Brooke gave a nod of agreement. He removed his topi and passed a hand through his sweat-damp mop of fine brown hair. ‘Marsh Arabs?’

Lock shook his head. ‘Not a sign. But I’m not surprised with all the shelling.’

‘Well, as soon as we reached Norfolk Hill,’ Brooke said, ‘the general’s spotters would have told the artillery to switch their firepower to One Tower Hill. Now,’ he checked his watch, ‘we’ve already signalled our success, so the artillery will start concentrating its fire on Gun Hill and Shrapnel Hill. Are you joining us?’

Lock gave a wry smile. ‘Well, we don’t have any prior engagements.’

‘Good,’ Brooke said, ‘then let’s get this show on the road.’ He twisted round and waved his hand forward, then gave Lock a quick salute.

The bellums wavered, then slowly gathered speed again as they moved off.

‘Should we not wait for Major Carver, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said.

‘No we should not. The war will be over by the time he gets here,’ Lock said. ‘We follow Captain Brooke. Besides, my platoon is liaising on the east shore and I want to keep moving forward.’

‘But I really feel that we should be escorting our prisoner here to the command ship wher—’

‘No, Smith. We’ll wait for the
Espiegle
to come to us rather than try to weave our way back against the advance. Now get paddling.’

As the sun rose, the advance of bellums powered on. The three RN sloops, the
Espiegle
, the
Odin
and the
Clio
, were close by now, keeping pace with the main flotilla, their guns continuously pounding in order to keep the Turkish redoubts silent. Lock knew Townshend, Ross and Godwinson were on board the
Espiegle
, and he knew that he couldn’t let Bingham-Smith delay him or insist on transferring the
liva amiral
to the command ship. He had to keep moving forward, whatever happened; he had to keep chasing Feyzi, he had to keep chasing Wassmuss.

The forward advance of the Oxfords sped on, with Lock only two boats behind Captain Brooke’s lead vessel.

‘Look, sir.’ Elsworth said, jerking his head to his left. ‘It’s our … lot.’

Lock was happy to see that a bellum flying a Union flag was rapidly approaching from the east. Singh had used the flag in the same way as Lock had, as a clear indicator of whose side they were on, and now the rest of Green Platoon were on their way.

‘I see them, Alfred.’

A whistle blew and Lock’s attention was drawn back to the shore of One Tower Hill. Up ahead Brooke was waving his arm, signalling the advance.

‘Come on, boys,’ the captain shouted, ‘off we go!’

The lead bellums slammed into the shore and the men sprang out, rushing towards the buildings on One Tower Hill, their bayonets glistening in the dawn sunlight. All around the troops sprang out of their bellums as one by one the boats ran ashore. The men splashed through
the last few inches of floodwater until they hit the sandy beach. A shrill whistle blasted from the right, and Lock could see Green Platoon’s bellum judder aground just a few feet away. The men of Green Platoon, with Underhill and Harrington-Brown at their head, stormed ashore. Singh and one of the sepoys splashed over to Lock and helped drag the more cumbersome gufa up out of the water.

‘It is good to see you, sahib,’ the big Indian beamed.

‘You, too, Sid. Put your man on guard with this chap, would you?’

Lock unholstered his Beholla and turned to the elderly Turk naval officer. ‘
I’d kindly ask you to stay put, Liva Amiral
,’ he smiled. ‘
Wouldn’t want you getting shot now, would we?
’

The elderly Turk nodded his head in agreement and sat rooted to the raised platform at the rear of the gufa, clinging dearly to the Union flag on its pole, knuckles white with the force of his grip.

‘Good,’ Lock said. He turned about and leapt over the edge and into the shallows, with Elsworth at his heels.

‘Any trouble at One Tree Hill, Sid?’

‘None, sahib. The 22nd came quick sharp and began to shoot their machine guns at Norfolk Hill. We then saw a signal flare and guessed that you had found the electrical switch.’

Lock nodded. ‘Something like that.’

He glanced over his shoulder to see that Bingham-Smith was still in the gufa.

‘Shift your overprivileged arse!’

Bingham-Smith was fumbling with his rifle as he tried to climb out of the gufa. He slipped and landed on his hands and knees, dropping the rifle in the water. He fished it out, cursed, and stumbled on after Lock, Singh and Elsworth.

Lock laughed and ran up the sandy shore, troops running to his left and right all stooped, rifles at the ready. There was very little cover, just
a scattering of stumpy reeds and scrub grass leading all the way up to the redoubt wall. Over to the eastern edge of the island, Lock could see a small mud-brick hut, exposed and alone, with a wooden jetty jutting out, similar to the layout at One Tree Hill. But the redoubt up ahead was an ominous mud-brick mound some two storeys high. There was a track that weaved its way round the western side, and there was a carved stepped footpath leading directly up from the hut. Lock could make out two more buildings on top of the mound, as well as the Ottoman flag standing tall and proud, flapping in the warm breeze.

Singh was running alongside Lock now, his kirpan sword drawn, his face fixed in a grimace of concentration. Or pain. Lock knew that his Indian friend was suffering with the wound to his ribs.

‘Better than lying in hospital, Sid?’

Singh’s eyes momentarily darted to Lock. ‘Better, sahib.’

A volley of rifle fire suddenly spat forth from the top of the redoubt and the men instinctively ducked down. Bullets zipped and fizzed about their ears like angry hornets, thumping into the ground and kicking up the sand at their feet. Then Captain Brooke, urging his troops on at the head of the company, was hit. He was thrown back off his feet and disappeared from sight.

‘On, men, on!’ Lock bellowed, immediately taking over should the attack falter. But they were good men with good NCOs amongst them, and not one soldier hesitated. Lock’s battle cry was taken up, and the Company of Oxfords swarmed up the path like an army of ants, following the track up into the redoubt.

Elsworth knelt down, rifle levelled, the butt jammed hard into his shoulder. He began to fire calmly, with deadly precision, at the enemy manning the walls above them. Bingham-Smith, skin grey with fear, was stumbling on behind, his rifle held out in front of him awkwardly.

‘Use it, Smith, use it!’ Lock shouted, grabbing the young officer by the shoulder and shoving him on.

Bingham-Smith pushed his ill-fitting topi up out of his eyes, raised his rifle, and let off a wild shot.

Lock urged the troops coming up behind him forward, turned to run with them, then paused. Captain Brooke was lying at his feet, arms flung out to his side, legs twisted at an odd angle. He looked like a broken doll. His half-open eyes were glazed and still, and there was a small hole in his forehead.

Lock ran on, raising his Beholla, firing up to his left at the high point of the redoubt. He saw two bullets strike and splinter the top of the brick wall, a third hit home, snatching a Turk back and out of sight. Lock’s gaze fell on Bingham-Smith’s back. It was tempting. He licked his lips, gripped his Beholla tighter, but he kept moving.

All of a sudden the shooting from above stopped. Lock had reached the foot of the stone steps. He moved to one side and crouched low, looking back down the length of the beach. The last of the men were running up, and Lock indicated for them to move both to the left and right, to take cover at the foot of the redoubt wall. There were surprisingly few casualties, much to his relief, and a blessed absence of the plaintive calls for mothers, gods or sergeants from the wounded men. Movement in the corner of his left made Lock turn. Underhill was scrambling towards him.

‘What’s ’appenin’, sah?’ the sergeant major said, breathlessly, his face red from exertion.

Lock leant out cautiously, and peered up the stone steps. ‘I’d say it was over, Sergeant Major.’

At the top of the flight of steps, Lock could see a British NCO. He was waving his arm from side to side.

‘All clear,’ the sergeant shouted down.

Lock got to his feet and slowly the rest of the men around him followed suit. Elsworth lowered his rifle, but kept scanning the walls above, ever watchful and untrusting. Lock fished out his Woodbines and lit one. He turned to Underhill.

‘Casualties? Ours, I mean?’

‘None, sah. Not even a scratch.’

‘Good,’ Lock said, exhaling a trail of tobacco.

‘Lieutenant’s missin’, though.’

‘Harrington-Brown?’ Lock said, his cigarette dancing between his lips as he checked the bullet clip of his Beholla. Satisfied, he slammed it back home again. ‘Well, see if you can find him, Sergeant Major, there’s a good chap.’

Underhill shouldered his rifle and gave a curt nod.

‘Then prepare the men,’ Lock added. ‘We’re heading north.’

Underhill turned back. ‘Sah? We not joinin’ the
Espiegle
and the rest of the regatta?’

‘Not yet, Sergeant Major.’

‘Look, sahib,’ Singh interrupted, pointing to the track.

Marching down, two abreast, their heads dropped and their hands held up, were a number of Turkish troops. They were all dishevelled, disarmed and despondent. Lock studied their faces for a moment searching for the familiar looks of Wassmuss, then his eye was drawn up the track to the flagpole at the top of the tower. It was bare now, but as he watched, the British flag was hoisted high. A cheer rose up.

‘Where the hell is Bingham-Smith?’ Lock said, looking about him.

Elsworth pointed off to the right, down the beach. ‘There, sir.’

Bingham-Smith was hobbling slowly towards them.

‘Where’s your bloody rifle, Captain?’ Lock said. He kept his face as hard and as straight as he could, but he was smiling inside. Bingham-Smith looked like he’d had a torrid time. He’d lost his topi, his face was blackened and streaked with sweat, and his tunic was torn all the way down the left sleeve.

‘Bloody thing exploded in my hand, Lock! I knew I should not have listened to you and left my Webley behind,’ Bingham-Smith croaked.