For Kingdom and Country (21 page)

There it was again, that initial ‘G’, the same initial that had signed the order for Wassmuss to attack Basra from the Persian side of the border. But more than that was the fact that the document made reference to Godwinson. Colonel Godwinson? Of the Mendips? Was it one and the same? And if so, then what did it mean?

Lock scratched his head and took a deep drag on his cigarette. His brain hurt. It was swimming with questions, but void of any answers.
He looked down at the list again, and again his eye rested on the one name that shouldn’t be there: Godwinson.

Was he on the German payroll? Impossible! Or was it? How was the colonel actually funding his private regiment? Perhaps the fool didn’t even realise it was German money he was getting from … an innocent pearl venture? The rich were involved in all sorts of deals to do with stocks and shares. Oil, gold, pearls … It could be perfectly innocent. But then why was his name on this list, a list that looked to Lock suspiciously like a list of agents or paymasters.

‘Christ, what a mess,’ Lock muttered, scrunching up the paper and leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

But why was this list in the possession of the
liva amiral
in the first place? Was this some kind of game? Was this Wassmuss mocking him? Playing with him? Mocking the British? But to what ends?

‘Bugger,’ he muttered aloud.

A footfall broke Lock from his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see Singh trotting towards him, returning from the shore.

‘Well?’ Lock said, unscrunching and flattening out the list. He folded it up and put it away in his pocket. He then closed the cardboard folder and pulled himself to his feet.

‘The lookouts are posted, sahib. There is not a thing else to report. All very quiet and empty. Johnny did leave quick sharpish. Much much equipment and the usual food left on the stove. It seems they are always cooking, sahib, does it not?’

Lock smiled up at his friend. ‘Yes, Harrington-Brown said he found much the same thing. Still, more for us. Any coffee?’

Singh nodded. ‘I will bring the pot up to you, sahib. We also found many rifles and one boat abandoned further up the shore.’

Lock drew on his cigarette thoughtfully for a moment.

‘All right, Sid. Thanks.’

‘What is next, may I ask, sahib? Do we wait for the
Espiegle
to transfer our prisoners?’

Lock shook his head, and pulled himself to his feet. ‘No, Sid. I’m going on. Wassmuss is not far. I can feel him.’

Singh frowned back at his friend, a look of worry written across his face.

Lock smiled. ‘Don’t worry so, Sid. I’m not being reckless. Besides, I’m still taking the old Turk to one of the launches at the head of the regatta, to put him to work mine spotting. That’s the priority.’

‘Very good, sahib. I shall accompany you.’

‘Thanks, Sid.’

‘And the others?’

‘We’ll take Lieutenant Harrington-Brown, Elsworth and three of the sepoys, in the bellum not the bloody gufa. The sergeant major can stay here until relieved and follow on. Hopefully Sergeant Pritchard and the others will catch up, too.’

‘And Bing Ham Smith, sahib?’

‘He can stay here with Underhill and wait for his uncle to arrive. I’ve had enough of his comp—’

‘Again, Lock, I most certainly am not doing that,’ Bingham-Smith said, stepping out of the redoubt, a look of arrogant smugness written across his face.

Lock glared back at him. ‘You’re not coming with me, Smith, not anymore.’

Bingham-Smith sniffed and jutted his chin out. ‘I shall do as I please, Lock.’

Lock was sorely tempted to swing for him. God, he thought, I really, really should. He clenched his fist and felt a soft jolt as Singh made a poor attempt at pretending to stumble into him.

‘Begging your pardon, sahib.’

Lock shot Singh a black look, then realising what his friend had
done, he calmed himself. He turned back to Bingham-Smith, then was momentarily distracted.

‘Listen,’ Lock said, holding up his hand.

‘What?’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘I hear nothing.’

‘Elsworth.’

‘Sahib?’

‘He’s stopped singing,’ Lock said.

‘Bloody good job, too,’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘One less prisoner to deal with.’

‘Get lost, will you, Smith.’

Bingham-Smith straightened his tunic and adjusted his cap, squinting into the sun. ‘You needn’t worry, Lock. I have no desire to accompany you any further. I’ve seen quite enough. I will be returning to the
Espiegle
to make my report.’

‘Report?’ Lock said, suspiciously.

‘Oh, yes,’ Bingham-Smith said, turning his smug gaze to Lock. ‘Remember, I’ve been … observing you and, as far as I can tell, your mission is over. You disabled the electronic switch, yet you have insisted we all keep moving, with important prisoners in tow.’ He paused and smirked. ‘Why, Lock? Is it this ghost chase Amy keeps harping on about? This German fellow everyone presumes is dead, except for you?’

‘You heard what the artillery officer said in there,’ Lock said, jutting his chin towards the redoubt.

‘I don’t speak Turkish, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘So, as far as I’m concerned, you are just telling us what you want us to believe, that this German is alive and just over the next horizon.’ He shook his head mockingly. ‘Pathetic.’

‘He isn’t dead,’ Lock insisted.

‘So you keep saying, Lock. But how in the hell do you actually know?’

‘I just do, that’s all.’

Bingham-Smith shook his head again.

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I understand perfectly that you are reckless, selfish and obsessed. Dangerously so. I also understand that by keeping the … the ghost of this German fellow …’

‘Wassmuss. His name is Wassmuss.’

‘By keeping the ghost of this Wassmuss chappy alive, you think that you can keep his threat to Amy alive.’

‘The threat isn’t a fantasy, Smith. She’s in danger—’

‘Pah! Of course it is, for the more you insist he’s out there, the more you hope Amy will need you, will be scared. But do you know something, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘It’s me that she comes to for comfort. It’s my arms around her when she needs reassuring.’

It was Lock’s turn to shake his head mockingly. ‘Now you’re the one making things up. Amy isn’t that kind of girl. You’d know that if you really knew her.’

Bingham-Smith let out a snort of laughter. ‘Of course she bloody is, Lock. They all are. Gals, I mean. Needy, delicate creatures, looking for protection from chaps like me. Amy’s no different, you deluded fool.’

Lock felt his heckles rise again. He turned away before he did anything he’d later regret and then stopped dead. Regret? What the hell was he thinking? He spun round, fist ready to strike. Singh stepped forward to intervene once again.

‘My, my, Lock, we are touchy today,’ Bingham-Smith smirked. Then his eyes dropped to the folder under Lock’s arm. ‘And I think I should be taking that, don’t you?’ He held out his hand for the document files. ‘I’ll see that Major Ross gets them.’

‘I don’t think so, Smith.’

‘Come, come, Lock. What if something happens to you and the files are lost? Do you know what’s in them? What strategic information they contain?’

‘I have had a read,’ Lock said.

‘And?’

Look hesitated. He didn’t want to entrust the documents to this man, but what choice did he have? ‘They need to get to Ross as quickly as possible,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ Bingham-Smith sighed, ‘then give them to Singh here or that lance corporal, and send them along with me.’

Lock shook his head. ‘I need Singh and Elsworth with me.’

‘Then you have little choice,’ Bingham-Smith said, his hand still held out expectantly.

Look glared back at Bingham-Smith’s smug face. Bastard, he thought.

‘Or you could bring them yourself?’

Lock shook his head and held out the cardboard folder. ‘Straight to Major Ross, you hear?’

‘But of course, old chap,’ Bingham-Smith said, taking the folder, and turning on his heels without another word.

‘Damn you, Smith,’ Lock muttered after him.

‘So you keep saying,’ Bingham-Smith called back over his shoulder. ‘And I’m taking two of the sepoys to row me back to the
Espiegle
. D’you hear me, Lock?’ He strode on down towards the shore like a strutting peacock, chin held high.

Lock threw a foul curse after him, then turned back to the redoubt.

‘Come on, Sid. Let’s get after those launches.’

You don’t often meet people you take an instant liking to, Lock thought. An instant disliking for, yes, but the man he was standing next to on the deck of the
Shaitan
was the exception to that all familiar rule. His name was Mark Singleton, a Royal Navy lieutenant, and commander of the small flat-bottomed launch-tug that, along with its sister ship, the
Lewis Pelly
, was forging ahead of the main body of Townshend’s flotilla. They had been clearing mines and obstructions as they travelled further up the main channel of the Tigris, penetrating deeper and deeper into enemy territory. Only now, the chain linking the two vessels had been disconnected. The
Shaitan
now had an elderly Turk naval officer standing at its bow, a brass telescope occasionally lifting to his eye, as he helped point out the location of the mines he’d spent months previously laying down. Lieutenant Singleton was both delighted and bewildered as to why the Turk prisoner was so amiable, but Lock explained to him that the
liva amiral
felt it was his duty as a captive to assist.

Having left Sergeant Major Underhill in charge of Green Platoon back at Alloa until relieved once more, Lock had set off in the bellum. Along with the
liva amiral
, Lock had Singh, Harrington-Brown, Elsworth, Ram Lal and Sepoys Addul Tarin and Karamjeet Singh for company. They rowed on up the Tigris, passing the settlements of Jala, Halla and Bahran, now all flying white flags, eventually catching up with the
Shaitan
and the
Lewis
Pelly
at the mouth of Rotah Creek. The two launch-tugs had been delayed there, having found the way obstructed by a sunken lighter. Luckily only half of the channel was blocked, but the other half was strewn with mines. Already the crews from both tugs were in the fast-flowing water up to their chests, cutting away with hatchets at the cables linking the mines.

Lock had hailed the officer he could see directing operations from the deck of the
Shaitan
, and had been invited aboard.

The launch was a small vessel, some 65ft long with a 12ft beam, and now with Lock and his men aboard, it was rather cramped. There was a central funnel and wheelhouse and a large wooden deck. Fortunately, the deck was covered by a large canvas awning, which stretched from bow to stern, with only the afterdeck exposed to the elements. She was armed with a single bow-mounted 1-3pdr gun, that boasted an 8ft barrel and which could fire off twenty rounds per minute. A Union Jack flew proudly from the mast at her stern.

Her commander, Lieutenant Singleton, was a clean-cut man in his early twenties, well-built, with light-brown hair, a square, rather bright face with wide-set chestnut-brown eyes and a mouth that smiled easily. When he spoke his voice was calm and surprisingly tinged with a subtle Portsmouth accent that replaced any ‘ow’ sound with ‘ay’. He welcomed Lock and his men aboard with a salute and a firm handshake, as well as a puzzled but bemused expression upon seeing Elsworth help the
liva amiral
clamber up from the bellum. Lock explained who the Turk officer was, and then why he needed to get upriver as quickly as possible.

‘Well, Lock, I can tell you, I’ve seen no sign of the Turk ships, not in a physical sense,’ Singleton said with an air of mystery. Then he smiled at Lock’s reaction. ‘Sorry, what I mean to say is we’ve seen their smoke, but when we round a bend in the river, there’s nothing. They’re always just out of sight. I’d say they’re fleeing pretty sharpish.’

Lock nodded. ‘It certainly looks that way, Lieutenant. Resistance
has been pretty light and, as I’m sure you’ve seen, there are white flags everywhere.’

Once the crews in the water called out that the cables were clear, Singleton invited the
liva amiral
to go and stand at the bow and point out the mines to his midshipman. Lock translated, and with a click of his heels and a bow, the Turk officer set about his task with diligence. In less than a quarter of an hour, they were underway.

Lock glanced back to see that the
Lewis Pelly
, though keeping pace, was tending to drift over to the opposite side of the river. Risky, Lock thought, particularly as they weren’t certain how heavily mined this section of the Tigris was. The
liva amiral
was keeping a constant watch from the bow, shouting a warning in broken English now and then, to which the coxswain would swing the wheel, steering the launch to the left or right as needs be. But there was always a chance …

A huge blast made everyone rush to the port side. Astern, the
Lewis Pelly
was just passing under a shower of muddy water, having narrowly missed a mine. Fortunately, it looked as if no damage was done. But it was a close thing.

‘Our wake luckily pushed the mine into the bank,’ Singleton said. ‘It must have exploded just as the
Lewis Pelly
drew level.’ He turned his head and scowled at the
liva amiral
. ‘Are you sure about this fellow, Captain? I only have a crew of eight. But I intend to still have a crew of eight by journey’s end.’

The
liva amiral
shrugged at Lock apologetically. ‘
I cannot be one hundred per cent accurate, Yüzbaşi. There are many mines. But I would advise that the boat behind stays directly astern and stops drifting to our port side
,’ he said, before turning back to face the direction of travel, pressing his telescope to his eye once more.

‘I’d let your fellow commander on the
Lewis Pelly
know that he should stay in our wake,’ Lock said.

Singleton gave a small smile. ‘Yes. I guess it was his own fault. Let’s just hope it doesn’t happen again, though.’

The journey continued without further incident, but progress was slow. The
Shaitan
would normally be a fast vessel, but now, against a strong headwind and current, she could barely make four or five knots an hour. The river was full of mudbanks and the narrowing channel wound to and fro in such an unexpected manner that one of Singleton’s men had to constantly sound to help gauge where to steer the ship. There was no way, Lock thought, that they would be able to travel after dark.

As the sun began to drop down towards the west, the heat just grew and grew. Lock felt his spirits wilt. He sat down beside the hot metal of the
Shaitan
’s gun, and pulled off his slouch hat. There was some breeze created by the movement of the boat, but the rushing waters of the Tigris did little to placate the raging thirst he felt. He rubbed his rough palm over his face and winced. His lips were cracked and sore again. He swallowed dryly. His stomach grumbled.

Elsworth remained at the bow with the
liva amiral
and the
Shaitan
’s midshipman, while Singh and the sepoys Addul Tarrin and Karamjeet Singh sat dozing nearby. Ram Lal was somewhere towards the stern and Harrington-Brown was standing portside staring off at the distant landscape. There wasn’t a blade of vegetation to look at, but there were a large number of birds, mostly sandpipers, egrets and cranes, picking through the mudflats.

Lock yawned and rubbed his eyes. He watched the launch’s crew shuffle about the deck performing the various tasks necessary for the smooth running of their ship, but from what Lock could see, with minimal effort. Still, he didn’t – he couldn’t – blame them. It was too hot to exert oneself. Besides, Singleton didn’t seem to notice.

The Royal Navy lieutenant was standing in the open wheelhouse, scanning the river ahead with an intense concentration etched across his
smooth features. Clearly, after the incident with the
Lewis Pelly
, he didn’t trust the
liva amiral
not to run them straight into another floating mine. Perhaps Singleton was right not to trust him.

Lock twisted round, but the
liva amiral
was still there, studying the Tigris through his telescope.

Lock turned back with a yawn. Singh stirred and caught his eye. The Indian smiled, pulled himself to his feet and wandered over to Lock’s side.

‘May I, sahib?’ Singh said, asking permission to sit down next to Lock.

‘Don’t be daft, Sid,’ Lock said, shifting over slightly.

Singh sat himself down and wiped his brow. ‘How are you feeling, sahib?’

‘I’m fine, Sid. My head wound itches like crazy, but apart from that and a continuous raging thirst, I’m all right,’ Lock smiled. ‘How’s the ribs?’

Singh bobbed his head. ‘They do not trouble me at all, sahib.’

The two men fell silent. Lock felt his mind wandering, a combination of the gentle throb of the
Shaitan
’s engines, the gentle pitch and heave of the water around them, and the intense heat.

Lock scoffed to himself.

‘What is it, sahib?’ Singh said.

‘Oh … what? Nothing, Sid. Sorry, I drifted off for a moment. The heat … I was just thinking how quickly it took me to lose a full-strength platoon.’

‘But, sahib, you have not lost any of the men to death.’

‘True, Sid, true. But we are seven now and at dawn we were twenty.’

‘Sahib, that is the nature of this very strange battle, if one may call it a battle. Men are being separated or left to guard redoubts or … deserting us like that Bing Ham Smith. If I may be saying so, sahib.’

‘You may, Sid.’

‘So what I am meaning, sahib, that when this is over it will be seventy men or more that you are having.’

Lock gave his Indian friend a sideways glance. ‘A company? Ha! I doubt that very much, Sid.’

‘Why not, sahib? You are bloody fine officer.’

‘Thanks, Sid, but I cannot imagine Colonel Godwinson agreeing to that. Can you? Besides, they still want to court-martial me for this bloody assassination nonsense.’

Singh bobbed his head again. ‘That is rubbish, and well you are knowing it, sahib.’

‘I know, Sid. But the colonel and Bingham-Smith have got it in for me. Christ knows what that slimy bastard is saying now back on the
Espiegle
with his “report”.’

Singh bobbed his head. ‘Maybe the colonel will not be around to disagree …’

Lock grinned. ‘Maybe, Sid. There’s always hope he finds himself in the way of a Turk or Arab bullet.’

‘Or a British one, sahib,’ Singh whispered.

‘Havildar Singh!’ Lock said in mock surprise, then pressed his head back against the hot metal base of the gun. He squinted across at the sun and a trickle of sweat ran into his eye. He winced, wiped it clear and tried to focus on the sky again.

Lock turned his head to the right, facing east. There was something high up, moving slowly towards them. He wondered if it was a bird of prey at first, but the object was moving too true. He frowned and cocked his ear slightly. There was something else, something above the noise of the chugging of the
Shaitan
’s engines; a distant rattling buzz, not unlike a child blowing an intermittent raspberry. Lock sat forward and put his hand up to shield his eyes and stared long and hard at the dark object in the sky.

‘Do you see that, Sid?’ Lock said, getting to his feet. He pulled his slouch hat on and by now most of the crew had heard the same noise and were looking over to the eastern horizon, pointing at the object that was moving parallel to them.

‘I see it, sahib …’

‘Well, I’ll be …’ Lock said and turned his smile on Singh.

‘It is an aeroplane, sahib. Where has it come from?’ Singh was shading his eyes, too, and peering hard up at the sky.

‘Don’t you remember, Sid? Back in Shaiba? Those AFC boys we saw lugging fuel barrels?’

‘AFC?’ It was Singleton. He had stepped out of the wheelhouse and was now standing next to Lock and Singh, a pair of binoculars in his hands.

‘Australian Flying Corps, Lieutenant.’

‘I didn’t know that there were any aircraft in this part of the world.’

‘Just three, hence their name: the Australian Half-Flight,’ Lock said.

‘I see,’ Singleton said, putting the binoculars to his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘it looks as if this one is heading our way.’

The aeroplane was now clearly visible to the naked eye as it banked slowly and moved towards them. The beat of its engine grew louder and within minutes Lock could make out the blue, white and red stripes on its double tail fins and the shape of the pilot and his observer in the centralised, open-air nacelle. This aeroplane was different from the ones Lock was familiar with from his time in China in that, though it was still a two-seater biplane with a wood frame covered in tight canvas, this was a pusher aircraft, so called because the engine was located in front of the rear-facing propeller in the rear of the nacelle. The slab-sided nacelle had a rounded front end topped by a small windscreen, and was sat suspended within a network of struts connecting the upper and lower wings. The pilot and the observer sat well forward of the wings, making it ideal for spotting and, Lock guessed, bombing. The large registration ‘20’ was daubed in white numerals just below the observer’s seating position.

The windscreen caught the sun and flashed brilliantly as the aeroplane putted overhead. The observer waved down to them, then dropped something that fell onto the afterdeck with a clang. One of the seamen
scooped the object up and handed it to Singleton. It was a metal canister.

The aeroplane backfired as it climbed again, hacking and spluttering its way back downriver towards Qurna. Lock’s eye followed the plane as it swooped and banked down once more. There was another ship that had just rounded the corner of the river some 500 yards behind. It was the
Espiegle
. The aeroplane appeared to drop another object to them, then swooped and coughed its way up again and continued on its way south.

Bugger, Lock thought. Townshend was bound to hail the
Shaitan
to hold now that they had caught up with them.

Singleton unscrewed the canister and removed a folded paper from inside.

‘Well, this confirms my suspicions, Lock,’ Singleton said, as he read the note. ‘Listen. “Enemy in full flight northward”.’

Lock nodded, but he didn’t smile. The
Espiegle
was right upon them and Wassmuss was slipping away. He squinted after the rapidly receding aeroplane. If only he could get in it and fly back on up the Tigris, catch and somehow stop the
Marmaris
. One of Pritchard’s jam-tin bombs dropped from the cockpit would be all that he’d need. But Pritchard wasn’t here, and the aeroplane was heading in the opposite direction.