The Thirty Days War

by John Harris

  Copyright & Information

  The Thirty Days War

  First published in 1986

  Copyright: Juliet Harris; House of Stratus 1986-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Harris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755102487 9780755102488 Print

  0755129717 9780755129713 Mobi/Kindle

  0755129725 9780755129720 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Harris, wrote under his own name and also the pen names of Mark Hebden and Max Hennessy.

  He was born in 1916 and educated at Rotherham Grammar School before becoming a journalist on the staff of the local paper. A short period freelancing preceded World War II, during which he served as a corporal attached to the South African Air Force. Moving to the Sheffield Telegraph after the war, he also became known as an accomplished writer and cartoonist. Other ‘part time’ careers followed.

  He started writing novels in 1951 and in 1953 had considerable success when his best-selling The Sea Shall Not Have Them was filmed. He went on to write many more war and modern adventure novels under his own name, and also some authoritative non-fiction, such as Dunkirk. Using the name Max Hennessy, he wrote some very accomplished historical fiction and as Mark Hebden, the ‘Chief Inspector’ Pel novels which feature a quirky Burgundian policeman.

  Harris was a sailor, an airman, a journalist, a travel courier, a cartoonist and a history teacher, who also managed to squeeze in over eighty books. A master of war and crime fiction, his enduring novels are versatile and entertaining.

  Author’s Note

  Irazh and the aerodrome at Kubaiyah are fictitious, but only transparently so, and this story is based on a series of events which took place in the Middle East in 1941. Nearly every incident described actually took place and they were unusual enough to be described just as they happened – though, for the demands of fiction, they have been concentrated on one or two characters. The affair occurred at a time when, after the fall of France, the British were entirely without allies and were fighting a losing struggle against a strong and confident Germany, which had not up to that time lost a battle and was looking around for new means towards world conquest. With Greece and the Balkans – and eventually Crete – under their domination, their stepping stones to Middle East oil and India were almost in place, the final one, Syria – under Vichy French domination – far from unwilling to help. With all these assets, Hitler and the Nazi generals, who had already filtered their agents and propaganda into the Middle East countries, were ready to strike. Unfortunately, as in the case of the man who intended to blow a pill into the mouth of a sick bear, the bear blew first.

  I am indebted for the details to the various RAF officers who wrote so entertainingly on the affair, and to Somerset de Chair’s version of the activities of the relieving column in The Golden Carpet.

  Part One

  One

  The dazzling plain was bare of trees and hard underfoot, grey shingle like gravel where large stones appeared only occasionally. Almost bare of outcrop, it looked like a pile carpet, the particles of sand clean and polished, the minute facets of the grains catching the rays of the sun in a fierce reflection.

  To the right was the steep ridge of Kubish, edged like a set of teeth and narrow as a saw-blade, part of the tableland that surrounded the RAF aerodrome of Kubaiyah. Along its edges, the flocks of long-eared sheep and goats of the Irazhi shepherds dotted the brown sandy slopes that rose ridge on ridge into a series of small hills until they reached the flatter plateau behind. On the northern slopes and in the narrow valleys there was moisture enough for hard wiry grass and shrubs.

  Below, however, the desert was barren. Small whorls of dust lifted in the breeze and the yellow-brown parched earth stretched to infinity, glaring in the sun, dazzling in the brilliant light under the brassy sky, endless, scorching, incredibly empty, the few thorn bushes – grey and brittle with white skeletal branches – maintaining only a precarious hold on life. There was no green anywhere, not a leaf nor a blade of grass, and the soft red-gold sand was almost too hot to walk on.

  With narrowed eyes, Flight Sergeant Emrys Madoc leaned on the butt of the Lewis gun of the Rolls-Royce armoured car and watched the line of horsemen sweeping towards him. ‘You’ve got to hand it to the buggers, sir,’ he observed. ‘They know what they’re at.’

  Flight Lieutenant George Jenno, sitting alongside the driver, said nothing, shifting restlessly in his seat, his eyes squinting against the low sun. It was a typical manoeuvre of the Bedou horsemen to come on their enemies out of the sun so that they were hard to hit. It was the very same technique he had learned in the RAF about air fighting: Watch the sun because that was where the enemy lurked. It seemed odd to apply it to the horsemen bearing down on him.

  Their faces dark under their pink headdresses, they were swathed in bandoleers of ammunition that were slung across their chests, catching the light, like lines of sharks’ teeth. Long silver-handled knives were stuck in their girdles and some had two rifles over their shoulders. Leading them was a lean, paler-complexioned figure with a yellow keffiyeh fastened to his head by the double ropes of a black silk aqal. The men behind him were typical of the country, coarse-grained, harsh, tough but highly intelligent. Irazh was a kingdom, though at that moment in 1941 its king was only five years old – his father having died in a motor accident two years before – and the place was ruled by an uncle, the dead king’s brother. And ruled somewhat nervously, too, because there were people, both politicians and soldiers, who itched for power, while both the Germans and the Italians had infiltrated agents to fish in troubled waters.

  The breeze was blowing from behind the moving horsemen, carrying the dust they had stirred up ahead of them in pale transparent clouds against which Jenno could see the square shadows of the lorries moving about in the rear. Jenno had stood like this on many occasions since he’d arrived in Irazh. When he’d come to the Middle East early in 1939 he had confidently expected a flying job but instead had found himself riding in worn-out Rolls-Royce armoured cars, some of which dated back to Lawrence of Arabia’s operations against the Turks in 1918. When the League of Nations had handed over the mandate for what had originally been known as Mesopotamia, to avoid stationing a large army there the control of the country had been given to the RAF which ran the place with a few squadrons of aircraft, a few companies of armoured cars and a few local levies.

  The horsemen were now almost on top of the cars and, though he had seen it before as often as Jenno, Madoc began to look nervous.

  ‘Always give it the full treatment, don’t they, sir?’ he said, and Jenno noticed that his hand rested on the cocking handle of the Lewis ready for immediate action.

  It wasn’t necessary. The figure wearing the yello
w keffiyeh lifted its arm and the horsemen wrenched at their reins. Their jaws dragged back into their necks, the horses sat back on their haunches, sliding forward, their stiff forelegs flinging up clouds of dust and stones. As they came to a halt only yards from the line of armoured cars, the riders broke into wild excited yells. Behind them their trucks tore up and down, their crews screaming their delight.

  As Jenno drew on his cigarette, Madoc’s hand lifted off the cocking handle of the Lewis and he took a deep breath. ‘One of these days,’ he said, ‘the sods are going to come right over us.’

  The man in the yellow keffiyeh cantered his mount forward. To call it a horse was really a misnomer and it was certainly never a cavalry charger. It was a wiry pony – to Jenno it looked no bigger than a rat – and the man in the saddle was tall enough to give the impression that, if he wished, he could put his feet down and the horse could trot out from between his legs.

  ‘All right?’ he asked Jenno.

  ‘Impressive,’ Jenno said. ‘Think you’ll ever have to use it?’

  The man in the yellow keffiyeh grinned. ‘Doubt it,’ he admitted. ‘Especially since I trained ’em to use lorries. Most of ’em are held together more by freaks of fortune than by any recognised principles of engineering, but they go, and the boys are getting quite good with ’em.’

  As he trotted up to the armoured car Madoc opened the door of the turret and a dog jumped out. It was small with a dachshund’s bandy forelegs. The man in the yellow keffiyeh leaned from the saddle, grasped its collar and hoisted it up so that it squatted chirpily on his saddle with its front paws on the pommel.

  ‘Archie any trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘A dog with the flying hours that hound’s clocked up is hardly likely to cause trouble on the ground,’ Jenno said. ‘He went to sleep.’

  As the horseman hitched his robe back, it was possible to see that, like Jenno, he wore an RAF drill tunic above khaki riding breeches and boots, and that on his shoulder was the single broad stripe of a flying officer. The RAF in the Middle East, Jenno decided, got up to some bloody queer antics at times.

  ‘Boumphrey’s Belles.’ He grinned and indicated the Bedou riders, with their flowing robes, long plaited hair and kohl-rimmed eyes. It was a name they’d been given partly in scorn, partly in admiration, and there was considerable rivalry between them and the British regular cavalry in Irazh. It was inevitable that the officers of the staider force never felt quite at ease with Boumphrey, the Englishman who had chosen to ‘go native’.

  Among his own, however, Flying Officer Anthony Augustus Boumphrey was regarded with the warmth that usually surrounds a happy eccentric. The son of a master of foxhounds who had ridden all his life, he had joined the RAF for some obscure reason which he had long since forgotten. At flying school he had been assessed as a good pilot, steady and capable but lacking dash, and had inevitably gone on to two-engined machines; when the war had started he had been one of the few survivors of the first raids. The RAF had quickly discovered that, contrary to the general belief, bombers in daylight could not properly defend themselves and, though Boumphrey had made it back, it had been touch and go in a limping Wellington with three wounded men on board. He had told the remaining two of his crew to bale out but they had insisted on sharing the hazardous landing and, in the ensuing appalling crash, Boumphrey had been the only survivor. Thrown through the roof, he had been found wandering dazed about the aerodrome with a broken shoulder – and even been ticked off by the station medical officer for getting in the way. The crash had shaken him and he had been sent for a rest to Kubaiyah, where under a treaty abrogated in 1930, the RAF maintained a training school for aircrew.

  Since arriving, he had done a variety of jobs. A not-too-clever young man who modestly didn’t consider himself especially brave or even especially good at his work, he had done a period of duty with the armoured car squadron, but then the previous commanding officer, who had gone home the year before, had had a brainwave. A keen rider to hounds himself and knowing Boumphrey’s skill with horses, he had put him in charge of the Irazh Hunt, a pack of mix-breed hounds which chased anything that would run away fast enough to make it worth following.

  When Italy had come into the war the previous summer there had been a change in attitude. Hunting was out and defence was in and, because there was no one else, apart from the regular British cavalry whose duties were elsewhere, Boumphrey had been converted overnight from an airman to a cavalryman and ordered to raise a regiment to guard the long and wandering boundary of the aerodrome. With his intimate knowledge of horses, he had jumped at the chance.

  Most of the Bedou he recruited were sons of chiefs and skilled riders and from them as his second in command he had been wise enough to select the son of a major chief, Ghadbhbhan al Husaini. Ghadbhbhan was a very able man. Handsome, educated and intelligent, after a period of acting in Egyptian films he had worked at Kubaiyah for British Overseas Airways Corporation whose flying boats had operated from the lake to the south. Mastering English and French, with his brilliant black eyes and ready smile he was fiercely loyal to Boumphrey.

  To begin with, the Bedou Legionnaires’ idea of an advance was a wild charge in no sort of order and it had been Boumphrey’s job to show them what was meant by drill. They drew watering bridles, ropes, tethering pins, blankets, belts, rifles, pouches, nosebags and nets, and, though they didn’t take easily to uniform, Boumphrey had managed to get them to wear what passed as one. At least their headgear, robes and equipment matched, though, here and there, there were small discrepancies of individual taste which Boumphrey wisely decided to ignore. Some of them had even affected spurs – as large as small windmills which caught in their robes as they walked – and it was days before Boumphrey managed to persuade them to discard them.

  Most of the men didn’t consider grooming a horse part of their duties – it was normally their habit to ride a horse into the ground and when they needed another to steal it from a neighbour – so he had had to teach them about horsemastership and the reason for currycombs and brushes. It was Boumphrey who had rounded up every horse and pony belonging to the members of the hunt and turned them over to his new soldiers. As a good horsemaster, he had rejected the big hunters favoured by those who had followed hounds in England and had gone in for the wiry little local ponies that were used to the conditions. Some of them were new to the game and when the regiment had first assembled, a mass of excited men with dark grinning faces, the undrilled ponies had turned round and round, bucked, kicked and backed into each other like dodgem cars. A few riders had stacked their equipment on their saddles and as the horses sheered out of line – the well-disposed animals pushed out of place by the ill-disposed-blankets and equipment had bounced off in showers. When they were ordered to move off they went like greased lightning and within half an hour the regiment, known now officially as the Irazhi Mounted Legion, could be spotted on every small rise within a mile. Boumphrey rounded them up by following the trail of lost equipment.

  That had been a year ago, however, and they were different now. They had now also been mounted on wheels and excess equipment had been dumped but, though they were by this time disciplined and controllable, they still loved to tear about the desert in their garish robes on their horses or in their light trucks, shouting and waving their weapons.

  They thought the world of Boumphrey. Shy, ganglingly tall, schoolboyish in manner and features, despite a nose twisted out of shape by a fall in the hunting field while in his early teens – to his men he was known as the Father of the Funny Nose. He was neither an intellectual nor a theoretician and had no brilliant views on strategy or tactics. He was just good with his Bedou warriors and had made them into a formidable force. But though the job wasn’t disgrace, it wasn’t a step up either and he knew it.

  Boumphrey was an odd character, curiously popular with the rank and file. He played a good game of cricket, was a first-rate tennis player, and, coming from Poole on the Dorset coast, had inevitably be
come not only a leading light at Lake Kubaiyah, just to the south of the cantonment, where nautical-minded airmen ran a sailing club, but also nominal commander of the small marine craft section – those strange web-footed creatures who were neither airmen nor sailors – who existed to service and refuel the BOAC flying boats which landed there.

  Since he still had energy to spare, he had acquired an old seaplane tender from Aden and started another small section on the river to the north of the cantonment where it was not unknown for students on their solo flights to run out of air and dunk their machines. When not on duty, this section became the Kubaiyah Cruising Club, which even made a profit for its members because from time to time it was hired out to the station catering officer to fetch limes, oranges, bananas and other produce from the village of Howeidi upriver or Sin-ad-Dhubban downriver to the east.

  A man of everlasting curiosity, Boumphrey had also explored the long escarpment that ran to the south and east of the aerodrome, going on foot, alone except for the dog, Archie, through the wilderness of erosion and the gashes of rock. On horseback, he had covered the sandhills and valleys of the desert to the west, and the marshy area to the north of the river. Despite his languid appearance he was remarkably tough and in his way a bit of an inventor who had devised an additional cut-out system for the training machines that stopped the tail gunner shooting his tail off when the original system, sometimes old and none too reliable, failed to work. Because he was not considered by the chief flying instructor to be a great pilot, he had plenty of opportunity for his other interests and the war had made him a very useful asset to the station.

  Flight Lieutenant Jenno was different. Ever since 1938 he had been cynically sure the politicians would make a cock-up of things and had taken the view that he might as well enjoy himself while he could because he might not get another chance. The vehicles of Number 5 Armoured Car Company, he considered, were as odd a group as Boumphrey’s Belles. His one ambition was to return to flying but for the time being he was not unhappy. It was said that an independent command was always worth having, even if it were only a group of men under a corporal, and Jenno’s was an independent command.