For Kingdom and Country (18 page)

‘Are you injured?’

Bingham-Smith shook his head. ‘I think not.’

‘Pity,’ Lock said. ‘Well, you best arm yourself again, and sharpish. Take a dead man’s gun. Second thoughts, here.’ He holstered his Beholla, and pulled the
liva amiral’s
cumbersome Parabellum pistol from his pocket and handed it to Bingham-Smith.

‘But this is a bloody Johnny gun.’

‘A gun is a gun, Smith,’ Lock said, glancing back towards the Turkish prisoners. Could Wassmuss be here? he thought, in the guise of
Binbaşi
Feyzi, amongst these captured men?

Lock turned his back on Bingham-Smith and walked over to the prisoners who were being corralled on the western shore by a sergeant from the Oxfords.

‘Sergeant?’ Lock said.

The NCO, a short wiry man with a sour face and dark, humourless eyes, didn’t take his attention from his prisoners as he acknowledged Lock. ‘Sir?’

‘Any senior officers? Here or above?’

‘There’s an artillery colonel or some such.’

‘Where?’

The sergeant jerked his head. ‘Back up top. He’s explaining the layout to your lieutenant.’

‘My lieutenant?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant said, turned his dark eyes on Lock. ‘You’re the Mendips aren’t you?’

Lock nodded.

‘Then he’s yours. Some double-barrelled toff type.’

Lock glanced back over towards his own men. He could see Bingham-Smith standing beside Elsworth. Then he realised. The sergeant had said ‘lieutenant’. It must be Harrington-Brown. How in the hell had he gotten so far ahead?

‘What does he look like?’ Lock said.

The NCO narrowed his eyes for a second. ‘Sir?’

‘The Turk officer, Sergeant. Describe him for me. Young? Old?’

‘Oh, he’s old, sir, older than my grandfather,’ the sergeant said. ‘Old, bald and fat, with one of those moustaches, waxed and pointing up.’ He mimed the description, waving his fingers under his nose.

Lock nodded. Wassmuss’s disguises were good, but he knew that this artillery officer wouldn’t be him. Besides, he reasoned Wassmuss would be somewhere a little more secure than a redoubt under threat of invasion. One of the steamers, perhaps?

‘Thank you, Sergeant. Carry on.’

‘Sir.’

Lock left the sergeant to guard the prisoners, and walked back over to where Singh, Elsworth and Bingham-Smith were standing along with the rest of Green Platoon.

‘Right, lads, back to the boats. This isn’t over yet.’

‘What do you mean, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘We won, didn’t we?’

‘No, Smith, we haven’t won. Not yet. This is just the beginning.’ Lock glanced at his watch. It was a little after 10 a.m. He raised his eyes back up to Bingham-Smith’s face.

It would appear that Bingham-Smith had found himself a new cap, a captain’s cap. Lock thought that only one captain had been wearing a cap, and that captain was now dead. And although he knew it to be irrational, Lock felt a sudden surge of anger that Bingham-Smith had taken Brooke’s cap for his own. Lock rubbed his chin irritably and tried to calm himself.

‘What now, then?’ Bingham-Smith said, clearly mistaking Lock’s silence as hesitation.

‘North. Towards Amara.’

‘But we need to get the prisoner, that
liva amiral
, to the
Espiegle
,’ blustered Bingham-Smith, indicating down the beach to where the gufa and the elderly Turk naval officer were.

Lock shook his head. ‘First things first.’

‘And what in God’s name does that mean?

‘It means, I’m the captain of this mission, and the miss—’

‘Your mission, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith sniffed, ‘was to disable that electric switch. That prisoner is invaluable, and you should—’

Lock took a step forward.

Bingham-Smith instinctively flinched, then straightened up, holding his ground.

Lock flashed a smile. ‘I see, Smith. Desperate to get off the front line. Very well, you take him, then. But you need to get him to the
Shaitan
or the
Lewis Pelly
and fast. He’ll be able to help spot the mines, or at least guide our ships through.’

Bingham-Smith scoffed. ‘And why on earth would he do that, Lock? He’s the bloody enemy.’

‘He’ll do that, Smith, because like you he’s an officer, but unlike you he’s also a gentleman and a man of his word. Besides, he’ll do it because I’ve told him that if he doesn’t, I’ll slice off his eyelids and then tie him to the bow of the lead ship so he’ll be the first to go should it hit one of his mines.’

Bingham-Smith stared back at Lock in mild surprise. ‘Isn’t that a tad … barbaric, even for you?’

‘This isn’t a game of cricket, Smith, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Lock had finally come round to Major Ross’s thinking. This was war and sometimes brutality was necessary.

‘But just where are the
Shaitan
and the
Lewis Pelly
? It will take us an age to catch the mine ships in the damned bathtub you’ve got us using. And I’ve had enough of bloody paddling.’ Bingham-Smith nodded over
Lock’s shoulder. ‘No, I think I shall take the
liva amiral
there.’

Lock turned around. The floodwater and the Tigris beyond was full of bellums now, British troops all powering on towards the next Turkish position. And keeping pace with them was the
Espiegle
. There was a crack and a boom, and the
Espiegle
’s guns began to spit more death and destruction upon Alloa and Gun Hill, the next Turkish positions just north of Birbeck Creek that ran westwards.

‘It will be a damned sight quicker, Lock. They can then take the
liva amiral
by launch to the … er …
Shaitan
.’

Lock narrowed his eyes and studied the progress of the flotilla. Bingham-Smith was right, a launch from the
Espiegle
would get the Turk officer to the lead ship far quicker than rowing the gufa ever would.

‘Very well,’ Lock said. ‘But I’m sending Elsworth with you and a couple of sepoys. They can help paddle. You’d be circling around all week if you went alone.’

Bingham-Smith stared back at Lock in silence, his mouth a tight, thin line. Lock beckoned Elsworth over. The young sharpshooter had been standing a discreet distance away with Singh and Underhill.

‘Yes, sir?’ Elsworth said.

‘Get back to the gufa. Take two sepoys with you to paddle, and escort our Turkish friend to the
Espiegle
. Then take him and that cardboard folder I gave you straight to Major Ross. He’ll know what to do.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Elsworth snapped a sharp salute and turned about.

‘Oh, and Alfred …’

‘Sir?’

‘Don’t take any shit off anyone. Straight to the major, you hear?’

Elsworth grinned and saluted sharply. ‘Sir. Yes, sir.’

‘No, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said, ‘we will report straight to my un … to Colonel Godwinson. He’s our commanding officer—’

‘
Your
commanding officer.’

‘He’s a senior officer in—’

‘He’s a senior moron, Smith.’

‘I’d ask you to stop insulting my uncle, Lock.’

‘Why? He does nothing but insult me.’

‘That’s different. You’re …’ Bingham-Smith cleared his throat and fell silent.

Lock glared blackly back at him, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Bingham-Smith’s eyes fell to Lock’s hands, then flicked back up to his face. ‘Er … very well, Lock,’ he swallowed. ‘Officers together, and all that … I’ll report to … Major Ross as you … suggest.’

Lock gave a slow nod, but didn’t take his eyes off Bingham-Smith’s for a second. He knew he was lying.

‘Right then,’ Bingham-Smith said, ‘lead the way, Lance Corporal.’ He hesitated, then gave a stiff nod to Lock in return, and headed after Elsworth, back down to the shoreline.

Lock was standing, binoculars in hand, up at the highest point of One Tower Hill, on the baking flat roof of the tower itself. It was difficult to breathe up there such was the concussive heat being thrown up from the surface. Sweat was already pouring down Lock’s face, stinging his eyes and making his neck smart. He removed his slouch hat, wiped his brow with his sleeve. He unfastened his canteen, and swilled his mouth with tepid water. He spat it out, then raised the binoculars to his eyes again.

On Townshend’s Regatta went, steadily encroaching the Turkish ribbon of defence. Gun Hill, Shrapnel Hill and the village of Alloa were receiving a merciless pounding from the British artillery, both from land and sea. The 4.7 guns of the flotilla had a devastating effect on the Turkish resistance and morale. There were white flags appearing everywhere Lock turned his gaze, from all along the banks of the Tigris to the redoubts themselves, and long before any British or Indian troops even got close.
The 22nd Punjabis had joined the main thrust, moving across from One Tree Hill on the east. The distant thump of artillery to Lock’s left made him turn his attention to the redoubt of Shrapnel Hill, the furthest Turkish defence to the west. He could make out the report of gunfire coming from the Turks’ position and watched as the 103rd Mahrattas pushed on up through the thick reeds. But just as the first of the British bellums landed, the white flags appeared and Lock watched as dozens of Turks emerged from the buildings, their hands and weapons held high as they quickly surrendered.

Directly opposite, Gun Hill was now silent. Lock scanned across until his eyes rested on Alloa. It was a tiny settlement just a mile to the northeast, sitting on the banks of the Tigris. Again there was no sign of life down there, just more white flags fluttering in the wind from various embrasures in the south-facing walls. If he and his platoon left now, Lock thought, they would get there long before the
Espiegle
and the rest of the flotilla. Admittedly, there was more reed marsh to negotiate either side of Birbeck Creek before they hit the southern shore of Alloa, but there was a small channel that Lock could see and he estimated that it would just allow his two boats to move up in single file. The flotilla, in the meantime, would have to follow the bend of the river, the reed marsh being too impenetrable for so many of them to take a short cut.

Lock lowered the binoculars and stood gazing out into the mirage.

‘Where are you?’ he muttered, his thoughts turning to Wassmuss. He checked his watch. Time to get going.

He stepped over to the eastern edge of the tower. Below he could make out his platoon at work by the water’s edge, loading up their equipment in the bellum and the gufa, all under the watchful eye of Sergeant Major Underhill.

Lock made his way down the open stairs to the dank lower levels, and emerged out onto the main courtyard of the tower. It was busy with
conversation and activity as British and Indian troops checked through the stockpiles of ammunition and food supplies that had been captured from the Turks. As Lock glanced to his left, he spotted the familiar figure of Harrington-Brown. He was standing in the shadow of a stack of grain sacks, engaged in an animated conversation with an Indian
naik
.

‘Lieutenant?’ Lock called.

Harrington-Brown disengaged from the Indian and walked briskly up to Lock and saluted. His face was grimy and there was a cut across his left cheek.

‘Sir?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Got separated in the push up the beach, sir. Found myself in the thick of the throng bursting into the redoubt,’ he said, pointing to a breach in the redoubt wall. ‘Over there.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing, sir. Light resistance with some ancient artillery officer in command. Seems it’s either old men or young boys in charge of hapless Arab irregulars left to defend the line. Poor resistance, really.’

Lock studied Harrington-Brown’s face. He didn’t trust this man. He hadn’t since the first time he’d met him.

‘Yes, it would appear so. All right, Lieutenant. Go and give Sergeant Major Underhill a hand loading up the boats. We’re moving on to Alloa.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Harrington-Brown gave a quick nod of his head and trotted off.

Lock lit himself a cigarette and watched the lieutenant go. He thought he saw Harrington-Brown glance briefly in the direction of the Indian
naik
, but he couldn’t be certain. The Indian
naik
caught Lock’s eye and quickly went about his business of counting off the grain sacks. Lock drew in a deep lungful of tobacco and sighed. Everywhere, it would seem, there was some conspiracy going on.

‘It’s enough to make a man paranoid,’ Lock said to himself, and scoffed.

Lock made after Harrington-Brown, picking his way through the troops and the debris and abandoned Turkish equipment, down towards the shore. As he hit the scrubby sand, a voice called out to his left.

‘Sahib! Sahib!’

Singh was scrambling down the sand towards him.

‘What is it, Sid?’

‘You had best come. Trouble with Bing Ham Smith, sahib.’

‘Oh, for fu—’ Lock tossed his cigarette aside and trotted up the bank with Singh at his side.

When they crossed back over to the southern beach, Lock could see that most of the Oxfords had set off again to join the main flotilla of bellums. Only the gufa was still there, tied to the shore.

Bingham-Smith had the Parabellum pistol raised and Elsworth was standing, ankle-deep in the water, between the officer and the
liva amiral
. The elderly Turk naval officer was sat, stony-faced, in the back of the gufa, still clinging on to the Union flagpole. Two of the new sepoys were standing a little further up the bank, watching with wide, worried eyes.

To Lock it appeared that Elsworth was trying to stop Bingham-Smith from shooting the
liva amiral
.

‘I’ll have you court-martialed for this, Lance Corporal,’ Bingham-Smith barked. ‘Now, I shan’t ask again, move!’

‘What the bloody hell is going on, Alfred?’ Lock said.

Elsworth had his hand held up facing Bingham-Smith, as if he was a policeman holding up traffic. ‘The
liva amiral
refuses to budge, sir. Just keeps saying “
hayir
”, which I’m guessing is “no”.’

‘But just paddle off!’ Lock said in exasperation.

‘Can’t, sir. He keeps whacking me with that bloody flagpole.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Lock said, knocking Bingham-Smith’s pistol
upwards. The gun went off and Lock shoved the aristocrat away. He pushed past Elsworth, jumped into the gufa, and stormed towards to the elderly Turk. He ducked as the naval officer swung the flagpole at his head, grabbed hold of it, and shoved the Turk forcefully back.