Winds of Eden (3 page)

‘It would be lovely if we could forget it for a few hours,' Clarissa agreed.

They walked out of the station into a group of eager, excited recruits fresh from training, embarking for France. Georgiana didn't have to look far to see the long line of ambulances. She knew from the times she'd attended the medical convoys, the maimed and wounded were always unloaded at the back of the railway stations. Out of sight of ‘new blood” lest it “rattle” them before they reached the front.

Despite Helen's exhortation that they wouldn't think about the war, she couldn't help recalling the pages of close-printed casualty lists she'd seen in the
Times
that morning.

First List – Second List – Officers – Ranks – ‘The Killed' ‘The Died of Wounds' ‘The Missing' ‘The Dangerously Wounded' ‘Wounded-Shock-Shell' ‘Wounded-Concussion-Shell' ‘Wounded and Missing' – she felt the last category must be torture for relatives and friends as there was no indication who was wounded and who was missing in the closely printed lists of names that followed.

‘Taken prisoner' ‘Wounded' ‘Accidentally Killed' – that meant the family received less compensation than if their loved one had been killed in battle – 'Died of Wounds' … British, Canadian, Australian, Newfoundland Contingent, New Zealand, South African, and whenever she reached the end of the names and thought there couldn't possibly be any more, the evening paper was delivered to the doctors' rest room with a new and even longer tally.

She glanced back at the volunteers crowding through the station doors and wondered how many of the impossibly young, fresh-faced boys were destined to be wrapped in army blankets and lowered into pits dug in French soil before New Year's Eve ushered in 1916.

Chapter Three

Marseille, Sunday 5th December 1915

‘The
Royal George
, Sahib Downe. Sami and I have placed your and Sahib Mason's luggage marked “Wanted on Voyage” in your cabin. The rest we personally stowed all safe in the hold.' Adjabi pointed to a transport vessel moored alongside a ship filled with Gurkhas.

‘Thank you, Adjabi.' Michael and Tom had acquired bearers within twenty-four hours of reporting to the duty officer at Marseilles. Heavy casualties among Indian Army officers in France had cast many bearers adrift. Reliant on their “officer” for wages, they needed to be placed to draw army rations and uniform. Anxious to avoid a second winter in France, Adjabi and Sami had left the front and made their way south as soon as they heard transports were heading east out of the port. Aware that ‘Eastward Bound' could mean anywhere in East Africa, Egypt, Salonika, Gallipoli, or India, they hoped for warmth, if not home.

Michael had a feeling both Indians would be disappointed when they found themselves in Mesopotamia.

‘Do you know where we're heading?' An officer of the Black Watch greeted Tom when he set foot on the deck.

‘East?' Tom answered.

‘Even I know that much.' The lieutenant turned away in disgust.

‘There's a whole bundle of different regimental uniforms for a single transport,' Michael observed. ‘Isn't that the 61st Howitzer Battery?'

‘It is,' Tom agreed. ‘The Indian troops seem to be in high spirits.'

‘Their Izzat is high. Welcome aboard.' The man extended his hand. ‘Captain Boris Bell, 6th Indian Cavalry.'

‘Captain Tom Mason, British Field Ambulance Medical Corps.' Tom shook Boris's hand.

‘Michael Downe, war correspondent.'

‘War correspondent to where?' Captain Bell enquired artfully.

‘East,' Michael hedged.

Boris laughed. ‘You've been trained well, but once word gets out we've a war correspondent on board who knows where we're bound, you'll be mobbed.

‘Not until we're at sea and then it won't matter.'

‘If you'll excuse us, we're off to hide in our cabin until we cast off.' Tom touched his cap to Bell and followed Sami to the inside decks.

After a route march down endless metal-walled corridors the bearer proudly opened a door. ‘I trust the sahibs will be comfortable in here.'

Michael inspected the cramped quarters which were a quarter of the size of the preserves pantry in Clyneswood. A double bunk filled half the space, a drop-down table hung from wall to bunk beneath the porthole. Beneath it, their bearers had stowed their kit bags, Tom's regulation sword and helmet case and his medical bag.

Michael asked, ‘What's Izzat, Adjabi?'

‘Dignity and honour, Sahib.'

‘The India troops have dignity and honour?' Tom checked.

‘They are pleased to be leaving the cold of a French winter to go east, sahib. East will be warmer than this. It will also be nearer home, and the fighting will be better.'

‘How can fighting be better?' Tom was bemused.

‘In France, the sahibs who fight underground are killed in holes like my Captain Bennett was. I've heard the sahibs who fight in the air or on the water are also killed. In the east I've been told that war is carried on according to the old methods, on the ground like civilised soldiers. That has to be much better.'

‘I hope you're right, Adjabi, although I've yet to see any evidence of civilised behaviour in war.' Michael dropped his attaché case on the bottom bunk.

‘The Indian troops say we should reach Basra within the month, do you think they're right, Sahib?'

‘Who told them we're going to Basra?' Tom demanded.

‘That is what they say, Sahib. That General Townshend has got himself and his troops into a pickle and a jam because he ran out of supplies and we are going there to take him and his men what they need. But first we have to fight and overcome the Turks who have built a circle around them.'

Michael laughed.

‘Even before the war, John wrote from India that the bearers always knew more about what was going on than the officers.' Hemmed in by their bearers and Michael, Tom climbed on the top bunk and stretched out.

‘Would the sahibs like tea?' Sami flattened himself against the wall when Adjabi opened the inward-facing door.

‘Please, Sami,' Tom answered, ‘and any biscuits or cake on offer.'

‘Adjabi and I will forage, Sahibs.' The bearers left.

Tom's disembodied voice floated down to Michael. ‘Do you think we should tip off intelligence? Tell them to give up paying spies in favour of planting an agent among the bearers. That way we'll know everything that's about to happen before it does.'

‘I was thinking of moving down to the Indian deck so I could get the news before I write my copy.'

‘An excellent idea. I might actually have enough room to breathe if you do.'

‘Considering I'm half your size, you've no cause for complaint.

‘I can't help my size and I'm not complaining about you but the accommodation.' Tom stretched down his hand and offered Michael a pack of Golden Dawn and a box of Lucifers. ‘Smoke?'

‘Thanks.' Michael took one and handed the pack and matches back up. ‘You think a tent's going to be roomier than this?'

‘At least we won't have to share.'

Michael remembered Harry's description of camping in the desert. How the only saving grace in blistering heat, freezing cold, and relentless rain was the companionship of his fellows. He wondered how long it would be before he and Tom felt the same way.

Kut al Amara, Thursday 9th December 1915

Major Warren Crabbe approached the north-eastern bank of the Tigris shortly after dawn. The last of the Punjabis were gingerly withdrawing from the dug-outs that had guarded an exposed – as it had turned out dangerously exposed – make-shift boat bridge. One of the first things the engineers had done after the Expeditionary Force had occupied Kut was cobble together the bridge from battered danack rafts lashed together with forty-foot beams and liberal lengths of Major Sandes the chief engineer's first-class manila rope.

Crabbe found Sandes standing at a safe distance from the bridge monitoring the Punjabis' retreat. He joined him, and together they watched the column's painfully slow progress from the floating planking on to a sandbank that had been pounded into quicksand.

‘My men worked all night in freezing water to secure that last twenty-yard stretch of bridge for the retreat and it's still not stable,' Sandes complained.

Crabbe decided there was no way he could deliver the message he carried tactfully, so he plunged in. ‘General Townshend has received orders from General Nixon in Basra HQ.'

‘And?' Sandes, whose men had worked tirelessly to improve the defences and sanitation in Kut since the Force had retreated to the town, sensed bad news.

‘General Nixon and HQ believe that Indian Expeditionary Force D …'

‘Namely us.'

‘Would do more good digging in and engaging the Turks in a siege situation, than retreating downstream. They've issued finite orders for us to do so, on the premise that we'd tie up more of the Turks' troops and resources if we remain exactly where we are.'

‘So we're not following the cavalry, camelry, and tanks and are being abandoned here to rot?' Sandes winced when a young Punjabi took a bullet in his back from a sniper and fell into the river. He was hauled out quickly but not before one of his rescuers was also hit.

‘Rotting implies inaction. We're here to take Turkish bullets and brave Turkish artillery shells and bombs.' Crabbe ducked instinctively as a sniper shot whistled from what until a few minutes ago had been the Punjabi-manned defensive lines. ‘I've also been instructed to order you to dismantle that magnificent boat bridge before it's commandeered by the enemy and used by them to access our defences.'

‘Has Command any idea of the work I and my men put into building that bridge?'

‘The precise orders the staff told me to convey are, “Major Sandes is to demolish the bridge the moment the last of the Punjabis are safe behind our lines lest the enemy utilise the structure.” ʼ

‘I'd like to see the red collars destroy their work willingly. Oh dear, I forgot,' Sandes said caustically, ‘the staff don't do anything as demeaning as work.'

‘I have another order for you.'

‘Yes?' Major Sandes eyed Crabbe warily.

‘General Townshend would like you to build a pontoon bridge a mile downstream connecting the fort to the right-hand bank of the river.'

‘This boat bridge is built. It's as serviceable a bridge as he's likely to get given the materials I have to work with.'

‘The orders are “It's to be constructed a mile downstream”.'

‘Why?'

Crabbe offered Sandes his pack of cigarettes. ‘You have your choice of two rumours.'

‘The first?'

‘In the case of an overwhelming attack by superior Turkish forces, General Townshend can retire our force to the right bank and from there we can make our way downstream and on to Ali Gharbi.'

‘In direct contradiction of Nixon's orders for us to keep Johnny Turk tied up here. I discount that rumour.' Sandes produced a box of Lucifers and lit their cigarettes. ‘What's the other?'

‘General Townshend's intention is to use the bridge as a thoroughfare to either bank so our force can engage the enemy on either side of the river.'

‘As that rumour suggests imminent battle, I don't like it. The staff do realise I'll need infantry cover for my men while they dismantle this bridge and construct another?'

‘I asked. The request was refused.'

‘They want me and my men to play sitting duck targets for Turkish snipers?'

‘Brass has taken the line that the men are exhausted and need to rest. Orders have come down that the only duties to be carried out are the bare, necessary minimum to secure the town.'

‘What about my exhausted men?' Sandes raged.

‘It's common knowledge engineers don't require rest, sleep, or food, but if you promise to keep quiet about it, I'll find you some Dorsets who aren't afraid of shooting Turks.'

‘“Keep quiet” – “Off the record” – that's all I'm hearing. Do the brass ever move outside of their improvised HQ and temporary messes to take a look at the hole we've dug ourselves into?'

‘Not that I've seen.'

‘Why did I join the Engineers? Why didn't I demand a cushy berth with the red tab collar brigade?'

‘Because you're not the shirking sort? I'll round up volunteers to cover your men.' Crabbe tossed his cigarette to the ground and headed for the forward trench the Dorsets were digging.

‘Crabbe?'

‘Yes?'

‘Thank you.'

London, Thursday 9th December 1915

Georgiana charged into the foyer of the nurses' home. Breathlessly she gasped, ‘Is Clarissa Amey still here?'

The porter left his desk and opened the inner door that led to the rooms. ‘Sister Amey went upstairs to pack half an hour ago, Dr Downe. We were all very sorry …'

Georgiana didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. She ran through the door and up two flights of stairs. Panting, she knocked on Clarissa's door. When there was no reply she tried the handle.

Clarissa was sitting on her bed. An open tapestry weekend bag was beside her, a jumble of clothes on her lap. White-faced, dry-eyed, she was staring into space.

Georgiana shrugged off her wet coat and gloves and tossed them to the floor. She kneeled and grasped Clarissa's hands. ‘I'm so sorry, Clary. What can I do?'

Clarissa's eyes were wide, burning with unshed tears. ‘I have to go home.' She spoke slowly, mechanically.

‘I'll help you pack and go with you.'

‘You're on duty.'

‘I've organised cover. I don't have to return to the hospital until midday tomorrow. I came as soon as I heard you'd had a personal telephone call on the ward.'

Everyone knew the only calls Matron allowed the switchboard to put through to working staff were ones that conveyed news of family bereavement.

‘My father said Stephen was killed in the battle of Ctesiphon on the 22nd November. That's over two weeks ago. For seventeen days I've been complaining Stephen hasn't written and all that time he was dead and couldn't … couldn't …'

Realising Clarissa was in shock Georgiana took her coat from the back of the door and wrapped it around her.

‘I'll help you pack. Then we'll get a cab to the station.'

‘You'll come with me.' Clarissa gripped Georgiana's hand.

‘Of course.'

‘You have to help me.'

‘Any way I can, Clary.'

‘My father said I have to come home.'

‘That's understandable. Your parents will want to arrange a memorial service for Stephen.'

‘You don't understand, Georgie. My father says my mother's had a nervous collapse and as Penny's married and Stephen's gone, I have to be the one to stay at home and look after her. He insists my duty as a daughter takes precedence over my career.ʼ

Kut al Amara, Friday 10th December 1915

‘Almost done, sir.' Lieutenant Davies saluted Major Sandes and Crabbe as they approached the river. ‘Men are tightening the lashings on the pontoons now.'

‘Planks look uneven.' Sandes squinted sideways.

‘Captain Harris's men are seeing to that, sir.'

‘It's as fine a pontoon bridge as I've ever seen, Major Sandes,' Crabbe complimented.

‘Breakfast for the workers, gentlemen?' Captain Peter Smythe strolled down the riverbank with a basket of rolls. Behind him, his bearer carried a tray of tin mugs and two jugs of steaming coffee.

‘You Dorsets know how to live.' Sandes helped himself to a roll.