The Challenging Heights

by Max Hennessy

  ‘We can stuff them in somewhere, sir.’

  As they were talking the door opened and the small children were ushered in. Marie-Gabrielle was bending over them, her head down and Dicken was just going to bombard her with questions again when the door opened again and Babington appeared.

  ‘Sir,’ he yelled. ‘I got through! They got every word of the message. The first machines will arrive tomorrow morning!’

  Seven

  There was immediate confusion as everybody rushed off to pack. The children were whisked away and Marie-Gabrielle vanished, as abruptly and completely as she had the first time.

  Dinner was more of a buffet supper with everybody helping themselves in between bouts of packing, but more champagne was opened and a few toasts were given in an atmosphere that was electric and not far from hysteria.

  In the early hours of the morning, the women with children began to gather in the billiard room dressed in warm coats and sensible shoes. Some of them, determined to leave nothing behind, wore two coats and were wrapped in long scarves and shawls. Just before daylight a company of the King’s troops arrived outside the gates to escort them to the airfield, swarthy-faced, unshaven men muffled to the eyebrows and wearing Russian-type cloth caps with the flaps down over their ears. They had brought pack animals and as they were loaded with luggage, MacAllister appeared, splendid in a fur-collared overcoat and grey felt hat. He was carrying a gold-topped walking stick and was escorted by an Indian servant.

  As they began to move, Dicken brought up the rear, a revolver concealed inside the pocket of his flying suit. Alongside him was Father O’Buhilly carrying a remarkably heavy-looking staff.

  Slipping silently through the gates, they began to move quietly through the semi-darkness. At the battle lines, they saw dark faces watching them and more pointed hats among the trees. Desultory firing had started near the Legation and MacAllister hesitated.

  ‘This is where I must leave you,’ he told the women. ‘Because I must remain at my post. The Italian Legation’s just over there, safely away from the fighting, and the Italians have promised to accord you every facility for rest until the arrival of the aeroplanes.’

  A second company of soldiers materialised among the misty trees and as the Minister kissed his wife and began to head back towards the Legation, the party set off again with Dicken and Father O’Buhilly carrying two of the smallest children. The villages were the same ones Dicken and Babington had passed through not so long before, but the bodies had been cleared from the pathways and a lot of the litter of battle had been removed.

  The Italian Legation provided coffee and rolls, and the women, many of them laden with treasures and tired after the long walk, sank down in the armchairs. Arranging to send a messenger back, Dicken set off alone for the airfield.

  After the snow, the skies had cleared and it had become intensely cold and he could see the King’s Russian pilots having difficulty starting their engines. Two hours later he heard the sound of the first aeroplane arriving. It was a Westland Wapiti, roaring over the field. All its guns had been removed and it swept overhead, the black spider of its Jupiter radial rumbling and poppling, to touch down bang on the stroke of nine o’clock.

  As it swung, its engine ticking over, the propeller turning gently, Dicken climbed on to the wing.

  ‘Keep your engine going,’ he warned. ‘Or you might never get it started again.’

  Ten minutes later three DH9s touched down and lined up alongside the Wapiti. Following them came the reassuring bulk of a Victoria.

  The Italian Legation had placed a car at Dicken’s disposal and as the last machine rolled to a stop, he ordered it off with a message for the evacuees to be sent on. His pilots were pleased to see him and advanced on him, grinning.

  ‘Thought they’d got you, sir,’ one of them said. ‘We were jolly glad to hear young Babington on the air. Your wife’s arrived in India. Did you know?’

  They were still talking when Hatto appeared and shooed them away. ‘Push off, you lot,’ he said. ‘We have things to discuss.’

  ‘Thanks, Willie,’ Dicken said. ‘Is she really here?’

  ‘Arrived in Karachi two days ago and preparing now to fly on to Calcutta. She’s resting there a couple of days before starting the last leg of the flight to Bangkok and down to Singapore where she stays a day before going on to Australia. It looks as though she’s going to make it.’

  He gestured at the Victoria. The cabin had been stripped of everything except the canvas seats and there was a pile of blankets to protect the passengers against the intense cold of the journey over the mountains. Hatto had also brought short wave radios for easier communication, a propeller, wheels, radiator and sump for Dicken’s machine, blocks and tackles to hoist them into position, a corporal fitter and a rigger to do the work, a spare pilot to fly it back when they’d finished, and Flight Sergeant Handiside and a wireless operator to handle the radio traffic from the airfield.

  ‘No orders for me to return?’

  Hatto laughed. ‘That was Parasol Percy. We were picking up your radio even though we couldn’t get through, and you were being mentioned too many times in MacAllister’s messages. Diplock didn’t like it. When this is over, old son, the AOC’s determined there are going to be a few gongs flying around, if only to show the army and the navy that the RAF has its uses. After all they’ve said, he’s determined to rub it in, and Diplock was afraid you’d get a gong and he wouldn’t. Orr was livid when he heard.’

  As the cars began to arrive, the sandbag ballast was removed from the rear cockpits of the DH9s and people and luggage stuffed in its place. As the Victoria lumbered slowly round to face the wind, the airfield was a blinding sheet of snow. The tail came up and it lifted into the air, climbing slowly but steadily for the hills. The DH9s began to take off after it, followed finally by the Wapiti. As they vanished the snow began to fall again.

  It was harder getting back into the Legation than it had been getting out. At the Italian Legation, where they were also now considering evacuation, a company of the King’s troops were waiting to escort them to the lines but, as they reached them, the rebels started firing heavily and they learned it was because Bachi-i-Adab had been wounded the previous evening and was losing control of his men.

  The snow was falling heavily now but the blizzard conditions were a help because the firing dwindled and eventually stopped, and they made their way through the outposts until they reached the hole in the Legation wall.

  MacAllister was there to greet them. ‘We saw the aircraft leave. Is all well?’

  ‘They should be landing in Peshawar about now, sir,’ Dicken said. ‘If they haven’t already landed.’

  MacAllister indicated the weather. ‘Thank God we got the children away,’ he said. ‘This will end the evacuation.’

  ‘Don’t let’s shout “Abandon ship” till she starts sinking,’ Father O’Buhilly boomed. ‘I’m more than willin’ to try to get the Foreign Minister to lend us troops to clear the landing area.’

  They passed on the news of the Italians’ decision to evacuate and the danger of the Bachi losing control of his troops.

  ‘There were a lot in the outskirts of the city,’ Father O’Buhilly pointed out. ‘And there were flames. If they set it on fire, it will not be possible to remain here. They’re still comin’ in and the Italians have identified Shinwaris, Bohmands, Khogianis and Waziris, and they’re wanting to take over the airfield.’

  It was decided the evacuation should continue, despite the snow, and messages were sent off to the other Legations to make ready. The Italian Legation, the closest to the airfield, would be the last to close.

  During the evening, a Tin Lizzie Ford carrying a white flag wobbled along the stony road past the gates, but as it did so the rebels opened fire on it and the flag fell. Several figures toppled out of the car, which clattered to
a stop, leaking steam, and a horde of black figures burst from among the trees brandishing knives and swords. There were a few screams and then silence.

  ‘I think we’d better get away the rest of the women,’ MacAllister said.

  ‘Together with the Secretary’s governess,’ Dicken pointed out. ‘She wasn’t among the first party.’

  MacAllister frowned. ‘A very determined young woman, my boy,’ he said. ‘She speaks excellent Italian, it seems, and she insists on staying behind in case she’s needed.’

  Marie-Gabrielle was in the cellar with the remaining wives and children and she put Dicken straight at once. ‘I’ll go when you go,’ she said.

  There was an intensity in her manner that troubled him. ‘Marie-Gabrielle,’ he said, looking at her young serious face, ‘I’m married. My wife’s Zoë Toshack, the airwoman. At this moment, she’s probably taking off from Calcutta to fly to Darwin.’

  She became silent. The news was clearly unexpected. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. I didn’t know.’

  ‘In other circumstances I might have given your suggestion careful consideration.’

  ‘Now you’re joking.’ She stared at her fingers for a moment. ‘Do you love her?’ she asked quietly. ‘Your wife, I mean. Some men don’t love their wives.’

  He paused before answering, and found he honestly didn’t know the answer. Between himself and Zoë there was undoubtedly something, but over the years it had become like a thread stretched taut which could be broken without much heartache to either of them.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Did you once?’ She seemed earnest and very concerned.

  ‘Yes. But she’s gone her own way and she’s crazy about flying. She fell in love with it the same day I did.’ He shrugged. ‘I think if I’d known in 1919 where your family were, I’d have demanded that Nicola married me. But you were the only one who wrote, and you didn’t send an address.’

  She looked up at him, her face sombre. ‘Poor Dicken,’ she said. ‘Poor me. Why don’t you divorce her?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘You don’t love her.’

  He managed a smile. ‘Things aren’t always very clear-cut. I think she needs me a little – in the background.’ He could see that in her youth she was finding it difficult to understand. ‘I expect when she arrives in Australia she’ll be famous and she’ll turn up on the doorstep again. She’s very beautiful, Marie-Gabrielle.’

  ‘As attractive as me?’

  She sounded very young and Dicken smiled. ‘About the same,’ he said.

  ‘Would you divorce her, if you found someone else?’

  ‘I never have.’

  There was a long pause. ‘There’s me,’ she said quietly.

  He looked at her, still unable to believe she was serious.

  ‘When I first saw you, with all your medal ribbons,’ she went on slowly, ‘I felt I’d never met anybody like you ever before in my life. I hadn’t, of course. I wasn’t old enough. But, somehow, the impression remained. Every boy I met seemed so inadequate by comparison.’

  ‘I’m not really all that exciting.’

  ‘You always were to me. After you disappeared I kept your photograph on my dressing table and when I went home to school it was in my Bible. I always thought I’d meet you again and, knowing that Nicola was married to her American, that it would be all right.’ She sighed. ‘Girls think like that when they’re young, you see.’ She managed a smile. ‘And here you are at last. You haven’t changed much. Just a bit older, a bit more self-assured. But that’s all.’ She looked at him with her frank young eyes. ‘I still think I was right.’

  It was silent outside now but as MacAllister and his staff sat round the billiard table discussing their plans, there was a shout from the stairs.

  ‘Your Excellency’ – it was one of the Indian servants ‘ – the Rezhans are breaking in!’

  Scrambling to his feet, Dicken reached for his revolver and they all raced for the stairs. A crashing of glass and the splintering of woodwork came from the back of the Legation and, through a gap in the boards that barred the broken windows, they could see moonlight and the sheen of snow. Then the door flew open and framed in the opening they saw half-a-dozen heavily-armed men wearing tall Kabul-made caps and carrying rifles and swords.

  As the light caught the men inside, the intruders stopped dead, clutching their weapons, then MacAllister stepped forward, and began to address them in Pushtu. Previously his appearances had been sufficient to quell both rebels and King’s men, but this time it didn’t work. These men looked like strangers and one of them yelled something, and lifted his rifle. A shot whistled across the room, so close that MacAllister involuntarily ducked his head. At the second shot one of the handsome young men behind the Minister clutched his forearm and cried out, but they all remained in a group, looking vaguely like the pictures Dicken had seen of General Gordon and his followers facing death on the steps at Khartoum. Suddenly the whole thing irritated him.

  ‘This is bloody silly!’ he snapped and pulled the trigger.

  The man who had fired disappeared backwards through the doorway as the rest surged forward. A huge double-barrelled pistol appeared and for a moment Dicken found himself staring at what looked like twin cannons, then there was a flash and a crash. Only one barrel had fired but the heavy bullet hit the table, sending up splinters and scoring a groove before striking a decanter, and Dicken reeled away, his face specked with red where splinters had struck him. As he did so, however, the handsome young men came to life at last. One of them picked up a heavy chair and brought it down with a crunch on an unprotected head. Another picked up a dropped rifle and started swinging it by the barrel. The man Dicken was wrestling with had his feet kicked from under him and somebody hit him with a heavy bronze candelabrum. The last intruder was about to run off when Father O’Buhilly’s great fist felled him like an ox.

  Dicken stared round angrily. ‘It took you long enough,’ he growled.

  MacAllister, still standing in a heroic posture with his chest out, one foot forward, one arm across his chest, suddenly came to life and turned away with a frown. His secretary, Forsythe, brushed his sleeve and smiled. ‘The old blazing eye and stiff upper lip technique seems to have run out of steam,’ he said.

  He gave a bark of laughter as though the break-in had suddenly made them all shed the icy British diplomat image.

  ‘We’d better get rid of these people,’ Forsythe said briskly, indicating the limp forms at their feet. ‘If their friends find out what’s happened to them they’ll probably come back, and the Pathans like their blood feuds too much. Henry–’ he gestured at the Transport Officer ‘ – go to the bathroom and bring some of the weapons down. Arthur–’ one of the other young men stiffened, as if he were on parade ‘–I’ll leave it to you to barricade this door again. Lionel, will you be so kind as to inform the ladies that there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Squadron Leader–’ he looked at Dicken ‘–I think we should get the rest of the women and children to the airfield at once. I think the Minister would be glad if you’d ask for aeroplanes tomorrow morning.’

  MacAllister’s young men, their diplomatic coolness gone, were suddenly behaving resolutely, calmly and briskly. With Babington upstairs by the transmitter, they up-ended a heavy table against the door and Dicken turned away, his hands still red with blood, to see Marie-Gabrielle staring at him with wide horrified eyes.

  Making him sit down, she carefully arranged a circle of candles round him and began to pick splinters from his cheeks. Her eyes were glistening with tears.

  Babington appeared. ‘Every aircraft they can raise’ll be coming in tomorrow, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve informed them that we expect the Legation to be overrun and that the palace, the city and the airfield might fall in the next few days.’

 
They assembled the remaining women, British, Indian, American, Syrian, Swiss, Afghan, Rezhan, as well as an unexpected Roumanian who had turned up from somewhere, then, with MacAllister’s young men properly armed at last, they prepared to leave. The remaining donkeys were brought from the dairy where they’d been housed when the stables were destroyed and the radio sets lashed on their backs.

  MacAllister looked round. He was wearing his heavy fur-collared overcoat and grey homburg and carrying his gold-topped stick. As they were preparing to leave he disappeared and there was a momentary panic until he returned carrying the Legation’s flag. He studied the women. Some of them looked enormous with several layers of clothing because, although it had been stipulated that no luggage should be carried, no one had said anything about how many clothes might be worn.

  ‘Shall we go,’ he said.

  With servants leading the donkeys and Babington hovering near to make sure his precious sets came to no harm, they set off in a long straggling file, the men on the outside and all armed. For the first time, Dicken felt they could look after themselves.

  As he walked alongside Marie-Gabrielle, he felt her slip her hand into his. As they passed the German Legation they were joined by the German contingent, and then, as they passed the French Legation, the French contingent. There were enough of them now to look like a regiment on the march. On the outskirts of the city, there was another group waiting for them, guarded by a company of the King’s troops – Persians, a Syrian, several Afghans and a few terrified Rezhans. A long dark file of frightened human beings stumbling in the snow, as they neared the Italian Legation a group of cars passed them, heading north.

  ‘That’s the King, sir!’ The voice was Forsythe’s. ‘I saw him quite clearly! He’s bolting!’