by John Harris
‘So he’s turned up at last,’ Osanna said dryly. ‘At least we now know where he is.’
The ambassador, in touch with Kubaiyah by radio now that the telephone link had been cut, had informed AVM D’Alton that attempts were to be made to bring help with a column of men in lorries from Palestine under a Brigadier Lindley and other troops were to be flown in from Basra as soon as possible. In the meantime, it was virtually impossible for traffic to move between Kubaiyah and the embassy in Mandadad because of Irazhi army vehicles filling the road. Even as he made a strong protest to the Irazhi authorities, the ambassador was aware that Craddock’s action had made it nothing more than a cynical gesture.
Boumphrey and his Belles were camped for the night to the north of the Mandadad road when they spotted one of Jenno’s armoured cars approaching. It came rocketing across the flat landscape trailing a vast cloud of red-brown dust behind it. It was Flight Sergeant Madoc and he brought them the first news of the rioting in Mandadad and informed Boumphrey that he was to take his men to the iron bridge at Shawah and wait there.
‘They’re going to allow a convoy of lorries through to the embassy to evacuate the women and children,’ Madoc said. ‘An attempt’s to be made to fly them out. You’re to wait for the convoy, sir. It’ll be accompanied by the armoured cars, and there’ll be aircraft overhead.’
As he gave the necessary orders and watched his men swing round and head for the road from Kubaiyah to Mandadad, Boumphrey found himself thinking of Prudence Wood-Withnell. He’d given his word he would make sure she was safe and he was now trying to work out just how to set about it.
Boumphrey’s Belles were waiting just to the west of the iron bridge when the RAF lorries appeared. Officially they contained food, medicines and water-purifying tablets because the embassy was full of refugees from the rioting. Under the food they carried barbed wire, sandbags for the defence, and rifles in case it came to an attack. They came slowly from the west, moving along the dusty road in single file, twelve of them, one behind the other. There was no sign of weapons but every cabin contained an extra man and Boumphrey had no doubt they were all armed, even if their weapons were discreetly out of sight.
As they appeared, escorted front and rear by armoured cars, Boumphrey saw one of the cars break away and head towards him at speed. He glanced at his men, a colourful bunch of ruffians with their pink keffiyehs, white robes and bandoleers of ammunition. They were muttering among themselves and he knew they were itching to do something. His mind was still busy with the problem of Prudence Wood-Withnell and her father, but nothing in the way of a plan had emerged.
The lorries were eyed by Irazhi soldiers who had set up machine guns near the bridge. They were an unprepossessing lot on the whole, conscripts from the hills and northern plains, dark-skinned and long-legged and wearing mustard-coloured khaki tunics and shorts, their legs bound with puttees. Many of them didn’t wear boots and on their heads they wore a khaki cloth cap with earflaps and a pointed crown such as had been worn by Bolsheviks after the war of 1918. Some of the caps still had a red star on them, in fact. A few of them rode donkeys, their long legs trailing almost to the dusty surface of the earth.
Though the officers in the better regiments had sometimes been trained at Sandhurst, which had left its mark firmly on them, those of the reserve regiments wore hybrid uniforms which seemed to have been bought as a job lot from the Germans after the first war. Many of them unshaven, they wore German-type harness and weapons over khaki jackets with, as often as not, a field-grey cap of the peaked, high-crowned type favoured by the Kaiser’s generals, some still even carrying the badge of the German Imperial armies. But despite their looks they were dangerous, if only because of their number.
As the armoured car slid to a stop, Boumphrey saw that the man alongside the driver was Jenno, his dark hawk features sardonic.
‘Hello, Ratter,’ he said. ‘You genned up on what’s happening?’
‘Not entirely,’ Boumphrey admitted. ‘Gather there’s been rioting in Mandadad and a few casualties.’
‘A nasty night, I gather. That bloody dimwit, Craddock’s left us sitting on a wasps’ nest without a swatter. There’ve been burnings and killings.’
‘Got any names?’ Boumphrey spoke casually but Jenno knew he was thinking of the Wood-Withnells.
‘Expect we shall hear ’em when we get there.’
‘I shall go and look for Prudence,’ Boumphrey said.
‘You’re sticking your neck out, old man.’
‘It’s a tougher neck than it looks.’
‘You’ll be in trouble.’
Boumphrey looked worried. ‘Suppose I will. But you didn’t think I’d let old Prue down, did you?’
Jenno smiled. ‘Not really.’
More than that, he thought: Not for a moment. Boumphrey was the sort of man to whom a promise was a promise and honour was honour. Towards the end of the previous century, people like Boumphrey had died in dozens, their eyes blazing, saving the flag, or defending their womenfolk against mutinous natives. These days they were regarded with derision as muscular Christians – well brought up in the belief of honour, duty and the principles of Jesus Christ, but not afraid to poke someone in the eye if he spoke a woman’s name in the mess, insulted the Empire or spat at the flag. The idea amused the cynical Jenno. Boumphrey would have done well in Victoria’s Happy and Glorious, at the siege of Lucknow, saving the women after the disaster at Kabul, charging with the Light Brigade, or stopping the bung-nosed Boers at Spion Kop. There’d still been a lot left even in 1914 and they’d gone to war with their eyes bright and a song in their hearts to defend the Empire against Kaiser Bill and German Kultur. There were still a few even now, but Nazism and the disasters in France had got rid of most of them. Those who’d managed to survive had changed their views rather sharply, yet Boumphrey had remained exactly as he was – as out of date as the brontosaurus but still curiously admirable.
By this time the lorry convoy had reached the bridge and an Irazhi officer was demanding the right to inspect their loads. Jenno joined in the discussion with a will, insisting that, because they were heading for the British embassy, they had the same rights as a diplomatic bag. It developed into a noisy argument but Jenno managed to shout the louder and in the end the Irazhi agreed to let them pass without an inspection. Boumphrey separated his force and half of them moved ahead and spread out on either side of the road on the other bank. Jenno’s armoured cars followed, then the convoy, then more armoured cars and finally the remaining half of Boumphrey’s Belles. The Irazhis didn’t move and, apart from the rumble of the lorries, the convoy crossed the bridge in dead silence.
They were soon in the outskirts of the city. The streets were still full of smoke and ashes and a few shop owners whose premises had been caught up in the conflagration were picking over the charred remnants of their properties. Sheepish Irazhis moved about in the rubbish-littered alleys and there were yelling defiant groups on the corners. Telegraph wires looped above pavements strewn with broken glass, stones, paper and blowing chaff. Here and there a burnt-out car still smoked.
There was silence at first but eventually, as if the word had passed round the city what was happening, the crowds began to appear and they found themselves passing through jeering throngs. The embassy gates were closed but they had been spotted moving down the Sa’adoun Parade where it was situated. There was a mob outside and a lot of yelling, and swastikas and ‘Go home, English’ had been daubed in several places on the walls.
‘Not hard to see who’s behind this lot,’ Jenno said.
They drew up outside, Jenno’s machine guns turned towards the crowds as the lorries moved inside to be unloaded. All the embassy staff, together with the male refugees, joined in the unloading and even a few women gave a hand. Jenno remained outside with his cars, Boumphrey’s Belles just behind them.
‘I’m going inside,’ Boumphrey said. ‘I’ve got to find out.’
The embassy was full of wom
en and children and the noise was a shock after the silence Boumphrey remembered from his previous visits. The ambassador bumped into him as he sought information. He looked tired and strained but he was surprisingly optimistic.
‘We’ve lost wireless contact with Kubaiyah,’ he said. ‘But I expect we’ll pick it up again. I have messages. I’ll hand them over before you leave. Could you do with a drink of something?’
‘No, sir. I’m just seeking information about someone.’
‘My deputy has all the names. Is it anyone special?’
‘Colonel Wood-Withnell, sir. And his daughter.’
The ambassador’s face fell. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘We’ve been trying to contact everybody, of course, to bring them in to the embassy or to the old barracks. Some we’ve managed to contact by telephone and a few of them have been able to give information about others. But about the colonel I have to admit I know nothing.’
‘Not at the hospital, sir?’
‘Afraid not. There are no Europeans left there. They’re all here. They’d expected to be safe there but the mob got in and the matron and two of the sisters had to be smuggled out in Irazhi clothes with their faces and hands darkened. They took refuge for the night in the home of one of the Irazhi doctors who, thank God, was more aware of what they’d done for the place than the mob was. I’ve talked to them but they know nothing of the colonel. It seems that when the rioting started someone came to tell him what was happening and he immediately left in his car. He’s not been heard of since.’
‘With your permission, sir, I’m going to look for him.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got a job for you before that, my boy. I have to ask you to bring in all the people who’ve taken refuge in the old barracks, together with Major Johns and his men. He sent one of his officers disguised as an Irazhi to ask for help. He couldn’t hold the new barracks against a determined attack and the old barracks aren’t suitable for a crowd of women and children. In addition, I have to admit we need his men here in case we have trouble.’
Nine
It was well into the afternoon before the lorries were unloaded, then the armoured cars and Boumphrey’s Belles headed with them down the wide Sa’adoun Parade towards the old barracks.
The crowd seemed to have dispersed but in no time they were back, shouting insults and hurling rubbish at the vehicles. Noticeably little was thrown at Boumphrey’s Belles. It puzzled Jenno at first why it should all be reserved for him when the Belles were clearly more vulnerable, then he realised that, while the Europeans in the armoured cars and lorries couldn’t retaliate without stopping the whole convoy, any one of the Belles could simply spur his pony out of line and react in any way that pleased him. None of them did because Boumphrey had been haranguing them on the necessity of keeping their tempers, but that was something the crowd wasn’t aware of and they were being careful.
Johns was waiting for them. He had his lorries in the courtyard of the old barracks, laden with anything that was considered necessary. They were piled high with ammunition, weapons, barbed wire, radios and every other necessity for making war. Six of them were crammed with women, who filed out of the old barracks carrying bundles and dragging unwilling children. They were pushed aboard, then, with soldiers manning machine guns on accompanying lorries, and with the armoured cars and Boumphrey’s Belles forming an escort on either side, they prepared to head for the embassy.
‘What’s happened to the nags?’ Boumphrey asked.
Johns gave him a bitter look. ‘Gave ’em away,’ he said. ‘We can’t handle fifty-odd horses and this lot as well. They’re no damn good anyway. Everybody but Craddock knew that. We gave ’em to the native grooms, and they disappeared with ’em during the night. All but three, one sick and two injured. They’re still in the stables. I expect when we’ve gone the mob will come in. They’ll probably kill them out of spite. Probably even eat ’em. The rest will be out of the city by now. We’ll probably get a few of ’em back when the trouble’s over but I bet not all of them. I expect I shall be court-martialled when Craddock comes back.’
He moved down the line of lorries and the tailgates were slammed home. As Jenno climbed into his car, Boumphrey was studying a list of names.
‘I’m going to look for Prue,’ he said.
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘No. But I expect I shall find her.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t hang about.’
As the lorries moved off, Boumphrey called his senior NCO, Ghadbhbhan, to him.
‘We’re going to take a look along the Bandamar Road,’ he said.
They reached the Wood-Withnell house within a quarter of an hour. It was a squarely built place with a veranda that ran round the whole of the second floor, giving a distant view of the desert. There were a few trees to give the place shade but in the dusty garden the bushes and flowers had been trampled down, and Boumphrey’s heart sank at the desolation. His men dismounted under the trees and began to water their ponies in groups at the fountain still playing under the trees. Slapping at his boots with his riding whip, Boumphrey walked into the house. The front door was scarred as though someone had hacked at it with a sword. Inside, the hall was full of wreckage. It had contained all the things the Colonel had acquired in his years in the east, but the pictures were slashed, the chandelier was a wreck and the floor was covered with the remains of the statues he’d collected.
Boumphrey’s yells echoed from the silent rooms as he moved through the house. Glasses, plates and china lay in shards, and swathes of wreckage were strewn across the floor. Persian carpets had been kicked into heaps and slashed like the furniture and the pictures. On the veranda a native cart stood, its rear end half through the doors, as though the mob had used it to break their way in. Boumphrey felt his eyes prickle with tears.
‘Prue!’ he called. ‘Prue, are you there?’
His voice came back to him, echoing past the torn curtains and smashed windows. Just inside the kitchen he found her dog. It had had its throat cut and lay in a pool of dried blood.
He was just about to continue his search upstairs when he heard a footstep and, swinging round, he found himself face to face with a small dark-visaged man in a crumpled linen suit. His hand went immediately to the revolver he wore but the newcomer held up his hand.
‘Please, sir,’ he said in English. ‘There’s no need for that. I am unarmed.’
‘Who are you?’ Boumphrey demanded.
‘I am Doctor Amad. I worked at the hospital with the colonel.’
‘Where are they? Do you know?’
Amad nodded vigorously. ‘I know, sir. I found him in the street when the shooting took place and warned him to go before the mob turned on him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s at my home. I heard the mob coming down the road here and I heard them going through the house. When they’d gone I came to look for the colonel. I found him and his daughter hiding in the stables and took them to my home until I could get in touch with someone. I had just returned to look for food.’ He held up a sack. ‘Tinned food, sir. It will help. Have you come to take them away?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Boumphrey said. ‘And I can’t express my thanks sufficiently to you for what you’ve done. Are they unhurt?’
‘Well–’ Doctor Amad hesitated ‘–the colonel has a bad cut on his head. After he left the scene of the shooting, his car was attacked and set on fire and he was beaten. But he’s all right and in good heart.’
Two hours later an old car left Doctor Amad’s house. In the rear seat were two dark-skinned people in white robes, one of whom limped badly. The car was driven off hurriedly.
Meanwhile, Boumphrey had sent a troop of his best men to the old barracks. There were people in there by this time, looking for loot. Some of them were carrying away chests and abandoned army blankets, plates and clothing, some merely fodder for their animals. There were men in the stables arguing about the sick horse; others had harnessed one of the other
animals to a cart which it was trying to kick to pieces. Seeing Boumphrey’s men, their dark kohl-rimmed eyes gleaming at them over the barrels of their rifles, they bolted as fast as they could. Boumphrey went to the trembling animal in the cart and calmed it.
None of the three horses which had been left behind was in good condition. Two were limping badly and the third had a staring coat and a wild eye. It was decided to leave the sick animal and take the two lame ones – and they clattered off again back to the Wood-Withnells’ home with the horses on leading reins.
By the time the car arrived from Doctor Amad’s house, they were saddled and hitched to trees, surrounded by the smaller animals of Boumphrey’s Belles. The soldiers were waiting quietly, all of them armed and alert, their eyes watchful. As the car appeared, there was a stir in their ranks, and they pressed forward to watch it drive round to the back of the house.
Boumphrey was waiting by the rear entrance when the car stopped. First to appear was Doctor Amad who climbed the three steps to where Boumphrey was waiting.
