The Thirty Days' War

by Max Hennessy

  They’d all heard of Fawzi ali Khayyam. He had been an officer in the Turkish army in the days of the Ottoman Empire and a military leader in the Arab rebellion in Palestine in 1936. When that had failed, he had bolted to Mandadad where his activities had begun to alarm both the British in Palestine and the French in Syria. He had been on good terms with the Germans ever since they had helped him escape from the Turks during the first war, and the German minister in Mandadad had been supplying him with money and was known to have instructed him to raise a force of his A’Klab tribesmen to attack Irazhi pumping stations and pipelines. Frontiers meant nothing to him and his arms came from a variety of sources, and if he were around to complicate the issues they could well see why the ambassador had paused before speaking his name.

  ‘Fawzi’s a good soldier,’ the ambassador pointed out. ‘And at the moment he has no major project on, so that the devil may well find work for idle hands. We might even find grounds to employ him on our behalf.’

  ‘I doubt if he’s for sale,’ Osanna said. ‘Besides, at the moment he’s receiving money, guns, lorries, even Irazhi soldiers, from Ghaffer.’

  The ambassador gestured. ‘Well, there you have it, gentlemen. All of it. Things are likely to erupt at any time and I’ve called you here to see what means we have at our disposal.’ He looked at the AVM who indicated Group Captain Vizard.

  Vizard rubbed his nose and frowned. ‘Means at our disposal,’ he said slowly. ‘Nothing. This aerodrome’s not an operational one and our aeroplanes are all trainers. Biplane trainers for the most part, at that, and totally out of date.’

  ‘Could we hold on to the place?’

  Vizard managed a smile. ‘We’d have to, wouldn’t we? However, we have a few cards up our sleeves. Major Verity’s levies, for instance, Flight Lieutenant Jenno’s cars, Flying Officer Boumphrey’s legion, and finally, Craddock’s three squadrons of Dragoons.’

  The ambassador turned to Jenno.

  ‘Eighteen cars,’ Jenno said. ‘All old but all very robust. Three men to a car. Together with base details, mechanics and signallers.’

  ‘Major Verity?’

  ‘One thousand men. A few Kurds but mostly Assyrians. Unfortunately, the perimeter here’s a long one and they’ve nothing but rifles and Lewis guns. No Brens or Bren carriers. And no mortars.’

  ‘Boumphrey?’

  Boumphrey blushed as he answered. ‘Two hundred men. Well-mounted. Well-drilled.’ Craddock smiled and Boumphrey’s flush grew deeper. ‘Armed with Lewis guns and rifles. They know their job.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be much good in a charge,’ Craddock observed.

  ‘I wouldn’t use them in a charge,’ Boumphrey said.

  ‘You’d better not. Wouldn’t they run?’

  ‘No,’ Boumphrey answered with spirit, ‘they wouldn’t. Would yours?’

  Craddock’s face grew red. ‘Now look here Mr Damn Boumphrey—!’

  As his voice rose the AVM jumped in. ‘I’m afraid you rather asked for that, Craddock,’ he said sharply. ‘And as far as I’m concerned I didn’t hear it. What about your own men?’

  Craddock got control of himself. ‘My men constitute the only British soldiers in the area,’ he said stiffly. ‘They’re the only regular soldiers allowed under the treaty – to watch British interests in the capital. However, I have one troop near Bisha guarding the northern side of the aerodrome from across the river and keeping an eye on the oil pipeline to Haifa and Tripoli.’

  Vizard turned to the ambassador. ‘The pipelines are dotted with pumping stations but we make sure our training flights are directed along them to check no harm’s come to them. At the moment there’s a small party of Royal Engineers near the fort and oasis at Hatbah. They’re working on the road there, between pumping stations K3 and K2. This base is their nearest friendly point. If trouble ever comes we shall all have our hands full.’

  Boumphrey looked gloomy. ‘And then some,’ he muttered.

  3

  Mandadad, one of the famed cities of the Arabian Nights, had the sound of romantic history but inside it there was little romance. It was smelly, sordid, hot, parchingly dry, and consisted of a dusty, dirty mud-brick-and-reed-matting shambles with scarcely a mosque or a tomb in sight. The main Street, ruthlessly cut through the city by the Turks during the previous war, was the only Street wide enough to take three vehicles abreast, and then only just. It was lined for the most part with uninviting little grey shops set under curious arcade-type buildings which hung out over the entrances vaguely like Tudor streets in England. They were shabby and the dust lay thickly on the interstices of every brick or stone or piece of wood, flattening the colour to a uniform drabness.

  The sukh area was fouled by the droppings of donkeys and mules and, under the overhanging windows of the pilgrims’ caravanserais, the labyrinth of streets seemed to grow dirtier and dirtier the further you penetrated. But you could buy there magnificent carpets, trays and exquisite paintings on ivory, and mother-of-pearl to be made into bracelets. It was different from the main shopping area and the place was always crowded with people arguing over the price of Persian armour, in a friendly unhurried discussion, with Turkish coffee and cigarettes laid on and nobody minding whether you bought anything or not.

  There were stalls – surrounded by women in their enveloping black abbas – containing melons, small oranges or sticky drinks, which the Europeans never bought for fear of cholera. The taxis had a habit of falling to pieces as you rode in them, shedding a wheel or a mudguard or coming to a halt in a cloud of steam or smoke. Ragged Arabs rode side-saddle on limping donkeys, litter and refuse lay everywhere, and every building – even, for that matter, the RAF messes – was riddled with cockroaches. There was no air conditioning apart from ceiling fans. Where they weren’t Irazhis, the inhabitants were desert Arabs, Jews, Christians, Persians, Iraqis, Syrians, Sabaeans and Kurds, who wore Arab or western clothes, or even both in the shape of shoes without socks or a European jacket over Arab robes. The river was crossed by ugly iron bridges and on the western bank there were a few old Turkish houses, built around tiled and mosaic courtyards where doves perched like fruit in the trees. It was never a good idea to go anywhere without arms – not even to the pathetic nightclubs that existed.

  As Jenno drove in, the streets were almost empty save around the few hotels where the Europeans could gather for passable meals. Once the beer had been Japanese but now it was Canadian, and the Scotch, though it arrived in what appeared to be unopened bottles, was clearly watered. Most white people stayed on the main streets because on any of the others you were liable to get a knife in the back and robbed.

  As the car headed down Muaddam Avenue, it passed a group of young men in sports jackets and flannels, all blond and pink-faced, a few of them with peeling noses.

  ‘Germans,’ Jenno said. ‘Tourists, they call ’em.’

  ‘Agents, I’d jolly well call ’em,’ Boumphrey said indignantly. ‘Why don’t we kick ’em out?’

  ‘No case to do so, Ratter, old lad,’ Jenno smiled. ‘This is a neutral country. We can’t dictate who comes here and who doesn’t. We can’t even do a damn thing about the fact that there are German advisers behind old Ghaffer and his pals of the Golden Triangle. Nothing, that is, except be ready for when the bastards move. At the moment my job’s simply to ensure that the out of bounds red light areas are proof against entry by the troops.’

  Sitting alongside him, Archie, the dog, at his feet, Boumphrey nodded. ‘Must be a touch embarrassing at times,’ he suggested.

  ‘Not at all,’ Jenno said. ‘They’re better than those in Naples or Marseilles and they’re managed with proper decorum. Most of the women are fat and frowsy and too heavily made up – perhaps that’s how the Arabs like ’em – but I sometimes think the brothel area’s the cleanest part of the city. Doesn’t do much good, anyway. If a man wants a woman he’ll always find one somehow and if govemment parsimony preeludes married men having their wives with ’em, something’s bound to go, i
sn’t it? It means that the only white women here are the wives of civilians who are all members of the Lafwaiyah Club, and those are industriously chased when they’re not too closely guarded.’

  Boumphrey nodded solemnly. It was a fact that he well knew because the Lafwaiyah Club was where he had met Prudence Wood-Withnell, with whom he had what he liked to think of in the old-fashioned way as an understanding. But Boumphrey was old-fashioned, with old-fashioned manners, old-fashioned graciousness, old-fashioned shyness and morals and an old-fashioned sense of honour. Jenno, he knew, didn’t feel the same way and he’d heard that he’d been having an affair with Colonel Craddock’s wife, a shapely blonde who somehow seemed to have slipped through the government restrictions on officers’ wives by coming out to pay a visit to friends in Mandadad just before the war and then claiming it was impossible to get home. She had set up house there and was looked on with some alarm by the old inhabitants because, for the most part, with Craddock assiduous in his duties, she largely lived alone, something which was considered highly suspicious and was heartily disapproved of.

  The Lafwaiyah Club – known somewhat smugly to its members as the Live Wire – was where the European residents of Mandadad liked to gather. It was surrounded by an iron fence, which had been put up in recent months as the anti-British feeling had begun to grow, and was close to the British embassy, a large white, two-storeyed building with a wide verandah running all the way round both floors. Hot water came through the taps, and there were English lawns, luxuriant trees and, at that time of the year, a tumult of flowers.

  It was typical of all British clubs all over the Middle and Far East. There were wicker chairs and outside a Persian garden and a swimming pool surrounded by flowers. Inside there was a library, a billiard room, a bar, a wide verandah and a large reception room for dances and social evenings. Barefoot servants served whisky and soda and there were six-month old copies of The Times and English magazines. Launches could carry you there along the river and when you arrived you didn’t use money but signed chits for everything.

  The main hall and lounge were cool and bright with English chintzes, the settees and armchairs standing among potted palms and huge bowls of flowers prepared by silent Irazhi servants. There was an urgent buzz of conversation going as Jenno and Boumphrey entered – Boumphrey to find Prudence Wood-Withnell, Jenno to talk to her father. Colonel Wood-Withnell, formerly of the Indian Army Medical Corps, was now retired from the army but he had fought his way up the Euphrates through Iraq to the gates of Kut in the last war and had returned to Mesopotamia in the late twenties to get a job with one of the oil companies in Irazh. He had been due for return to England in 1939 but had been persuaded – without much effort – to stay on. He loved the desert and had forgotten what green fields looked like. Most of the Irazhis respected him as an honest man and, because of this, he insisted – mistakenly, Jenno thought – on continuing to live in a house on the Bandamar Road on the outskirts of the city well away from the rest of the British residents, most of whom tended to dwell in a narrow community near the embassy. He was an expert on Irazh by this time and had known Fawzi ali Khayyam personally, which was why Jenno needed to see him. If anyone could tell him where the old rebel was, it was Colonel Wood-Withnell.

  The colonel was standing near the bar, sipping a gin and smoking a pipe. He greeted Jenno with a smile, nodded at Boumphrey – none too encouragingly, Jenno thought – and jerked his head to draw Jenno to one side. As Jenno moved after him, he saw Wood-Withnell glance backwards to where Boumphrey was greeting his daughter, the dog wagging its tail expectantly. He ordered Jenno a drink, applied a match to his pipe, then sat back in one of the deep leather armchairs.

  ‘Right,’ he said without any preliminaries. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Fawzi ali Khayyam.’

  ‘That old bugger!’

  Jenno grinned. The colonel’s dislike of Fawzi was well known.

  ‘He has a lot of supporters among the A’Klab tribe and he was always a superlative ruffian. But age hasn’t improved his character and the old bugger’s boasted of having sold himself in turn to the Turks, the British, the Arabs and the French. Now he’s on the second time round. He’ll always be for sale and as he’s grown older he shouldn’t be worth the price they offer but, with the situation as it is here, in fact it’s probably gone up.’

  ‘Know where he is?’ Jenno asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suspect eventually it’ll be my job to find him. No one’s said so in so many words yet but I’ve been here long enough to know how things go.’

  The colonel sucked at his pipe for a moment. ‘He’s not in Palestine,’ he said. ‘He may be in Transjordan or Iraq. But it’s my bet he’s here in this area somewhere.’

  ‘Know where?’

  ‘I could make a few guesses.’

  ‘Try, sir.’

  The colonel sucked his pipe for a moment, then he swallowed the remains of his gin, called a waiter over and reordered the drinks. This took several minutes during which he said nothing. Jenno didn’t push him, knowing he was using the interval to think. Eventually, he sat back, sipped his second gin, relit his pipe and puffed for a few moments.

  ‘Near Hatbah,’ he said. ‘That’s one place he could be. It’s halfway between here and Amman in Transjordan. It’s roughly the same distance from Baghdad. In the hills in the Hatbah area he’s out of sight but handy for any one of three places. Of course, he could also be in Iraq or at Ashuria, near the Saudi-Arabian border. He could also be somewhere along the Persian border or even in Syria, or he even might have crossed over into Turkey. He’s no respecter of frontiers. It’s my bet, though, that he’s somewhere near Hatbah.’

  ‘Why do you think that, sir?’

  ‘Because this is where the trouble’s going to come, isn’t it? I hear the ambassador’s been putting pressure on the prime minister to get rid of the Golden Triangle, and that the regent’s been backing him up. I hope to God they know what they’re doing because Ghaffer’s got the army behind him and he might have something up his sleeve nobody’s thought of. Are you watching Hatbah?’

  ‘There’s a group of Engineers near there working on the road. If they see anything I presume they’ll bolt for the old fort.’

  ‘I hope they don’t get holed up there.’

  ‘I think we could rescue them, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be too bloody sure.’ The colonel’s face grew grimmer. ‘I was with that lot who tried to rescue Townshend when he got caught in Kut al Amara in the last bunfight. We never did save him. Longest siege in history, they say. I know we were at it a long time. And deserts don’t change. They’re as dusty and hot and difficult now as they were then.’

  He paused, glanced across the room then turned again to Jenno. ‘This feller Boumphrey?’ he said. ‘What’s he like?As a man?’

  ‘One of the best.’

  The colonel didn’t seem convinced.

  ‘Just shy, sir, that’s all. Blushes easily.’

  ‘Looks a bit of a long streak of whitewash.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, sir,’ Jenno said gently, ‘that was roughly the impression people had of General Wolfe, but he captured Quebec when it was considered to be impregnable. George III said he wished all his other generals were the same.’

  * * *

  Whatever Colonel Wood-Withnell thought of Boumphrey, his daughter, Prudence, had very different ideas. She was crouching to pat Boumphrey’s dog, her own dog, an English fox terrier, sniffing suspiciously at it, its hackles rising aggressively.

  ‘They like each other, Ratter,’ she said.

  ‘Not so sure,’ Boumphrey replied doubtfully. ‘Anything can happen with a dog like that. Fifty-seven varieties. Got a bit of dachshund in him somewhere. Accounts for the Queen Anne front legs.’

  She laughed, then she paused before going on. ‘They say there’s going to be trouble, Ratter.’

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ he reassured her. ‘My chaps are ready for anyt
hing.’ Boumphrey frowned. ‘Colonel Craddock don’t think much of ’em, though, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Colonel Craddock’s no one to talk,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s not popular with his own men. Father says he’s off his head.’

  Boumphrey’s eyebrows rose and she smiled.

  ‘Not actually potty,’ she explained. ‘Although he has a dreadful temper and when he was younger he was twice reported for using his fists. He’s supposed to be very strong physically – but he was badly injured twice in riding accidents so that, at one time, it was thought he’d never walk again, let alone ride.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Father. There’s another thing.’ Prudence leaned closer. ‘He’s suffering from arteriosclerosis.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Not sure. But it’s incurable, isn’t it? You end up so you can’t move or something. Father says it’s what makes him so choleric. You know what I mean. Goes off the deep end a bit quick.’

  ‘He don’t like me, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Never mind, Ratter. Other people do. I know they do. They’ve told me so.’ Prudence Wood-Withnell blushed. ‘I do, too.’

  * * *

  Jenno wasn’t listening much to the colonel now. He was going on about politicians and what a mess they’d got Britain into and Jenno was watching Boumphrey and the girl and wondering what her mother, now dead, had looked like. Because, though the colonel was thickset and sturdy with sharp clear features – distinctive colouring and black crisp hair only just beginning to turn grey – Prudence Wood-Withnell was tall, almost as gangling as Boumphrey and just as colourless. Her nose was too large while her eyes were as indistinctive as her hair which she wore in a nondescript style which was neither one thing nor another. She might, in fact, have been Boumphrey’s sister.