The Thirty Days War

by John Harris

  ‘My God,’ Jenno breathed, ‘it’s going to work!’

  They saw the Oxford pass in front of them, landing away from the plateau. A machine gun opened up against it and they saw tracer bullets streaking like white slots through the darkness and leaping into the air as they struck the ground. But the landing light snapped off immediately and the roar of the engines died; the machine gun stopped firing as its target became hidden once more in the darkness.

  Eventually they saw the machine appear through the shadows. Torches flashed as it rolled through the gates, turned and vanished behind the hangars. As the propellers stopped everybody crowded round to watch Fogarty and Waldo climb out.

  ‘No trouble at all if you do exactly as you’re instructed,’ Fogarty said. ‘You can see their camp fires and lights all over the place once you’re up. We’ll have the instructions typed out and roneo-ed. Any moment now we can start chivvying our friends up there with a supply of high explosive throughout the whole twenty-four hours.’

  Nine

  There was growing feeling that they were winning. Bombs had been dropped in darkness by Oxfords taking off from the main airfield and by Audaxes taking off by moonlight from the polo ground. None of the machines had been lost despite one or two heavy landings, and patrols probing the slopes had discovered that the Irazhis had even withdrawn their outposts rather than have a repetition of the disasters on the night of Verity’s raid.

  They were certain now that the Irazhis had lost the initiative and, if they could keep up the air activity, were unlikely to regain it. Not a single patrol had penetrated the British lines. Not a single Irazhi who was not a prisoner had set foot inside the cantonment and, for the coming night, in addition to what bombing could be undertaken, it had been decided between the AVM, Group Captain Vizard, Fogarty and Colonel Ballantine, in command of the ground defences, to hit out hard.

  Jenno and Boumphrey were ordered to report to AHQ, where they learned that during the coming hours of darkness a major sortie was to be launched. This time it was to be the Loyals who were to do the attacking, with the armoured cars, the levies and Boumphrey’s Belles assisting on the flanks, the aircraft giving what aid they could. The attack was to be directed at Sin-ad-Dhubban, the village on the bend of the road just to the east of the cantonment from where much of the artillery spotting was done. Dhubban was the key to the escarpment. It commanded the northern end, the lower slopes and the safe route to the heights. With Dhubban in the hands of the British, the Irazhis would be cut off from their supplies.

  ‘It’s got to succeed,’ Ballantine explained. ‘There can be no mistake because failure would set us right back where we started. This time we must hit them so hard they’ll be glad to call everything off.’

  The day had started as usual with aircraft patrols along the escarpment to keep down the shelling, and strikes against airfields to keep the enemy aircraft away. As soon as it was daylight the aircraft had gone into action and, with the guns silenced, Dakotas and Valentias arrived from Shaibah and the coast with more men of the Loyals. Ammunition, machine guns, bombs, food, medical supplies and spare parts were also unloaded and lorries and cars arrived with the remaining women. Away went the Audaxes from the shelter of the trees round the polo ground and, as they started their systematic bombing of the gun positions, the last of the Oxfords roared off to join them. While they kept their heads down, the Dakotas took off. They were becoming remarkably expert at co-ordinating their attacks.

  During the day, airfields were again attacked, together with convoys on the road from Mandadad attempting to bring up supplies to the heights. Spirits lifted as they realised that more and more the besiegers were becoming the besieged.

  ‘I’ve questioned the few prisoners we’ve taken,’ Osanna said at the afternoon briefing, ‘and the endless bombing’s beginning to wear down morale.’

  ‘Mine as well as theirs,’ Boumphrey remarked wearily to Jenno.

  ‘We think a good hard blow will force them to throw in the sponge. Ghaffer’s failed to defeat us and at the coast our people are now taking over more and more of Basra. There’s been some sniping there.’

  ‘There’s been some here,’ the AVM remarked dryly.

  Osanna acknowledged the fact. ‘However–’ he paused ‘–there are more and more signs of German intervention. Aircraft are arriving in Syria, clearly on their way here, and Vichy officials are being forced to give every assistance. Lorries are being loaded with supplies to support them and trains full of arms, ammunition, aviation spirit and artillery are ready to leave. We have to take away the reason for their coming. If Ghaffer’s no longer here there’ll be no point in their setting off.’ Osanna paused again. ‘It’s hoped in Cairo that there’ll be a diplomatic solution,’ he ended.

  ‘With all our aircraft destroyed and our men killed?’ Fogarty sounded astonished by the workings of the diplomatic minds.

  ‘It’s not all-out war yet, sir,’ Osanna pointed out.

  Fogarty’s eyebrows came down quickly. ‘I’d have said it was,’ he snapped.

  Gladiators, their lower wings painted in the old colours of white on one side and black on the other – ‘To give the impression that there’s only half a plane,’ most people argued – were escorting the bombers back from their raids on the Irazhi airfields when several Irazhi machines appeared unexpectedly from nowhere in the air over Kubaiyah. It was the first daylight raid for some time and it caught everyone by surprise.

  Several airmen and civilians were killed or injured and a bomb hit one of the huts near the hospital so that the end collapsed, burying one of Prudence’s Asian helpers. She was not dead but, as they dragged the rubble aside, they could hear her moans and her pleas for help.

  Eventually a medical sergeant appeared with an AC2 orderly, a syringe and an ampoule of morphine, and as they pulled the rubble away, attempted to get in to the woman. But the rubble clearing had been done with more haste than skill and, as the sergeant wormed his way beneath it and reached back for the syringe, the wreckage settled so that he was dragged clear unconscious with broken ribs and a badly cut head. As they carried him away, Prudence stared at the orderly, waiting for instructions what to do. The woman’s cries were becoming heart-rending.

  ‘Somebody’s got to go in there and give her this,’ the airman said.

  ‘Well, go on!’ Prudence was beginning to grow impatient at the delay.

  ‘It’s going to collapse.’ The orderly was young, spectacled and nervous. ‘I can’t go under that lot!’

  She stared at him angrily then snatched the morphine and the syringe from him. She knew what to do because she’d seen it done many times in the last few days and was well aware that she could do it herself, even if only clumsily. ‘Then get out of the way,’ she snapped, ‘and let me go!’

  She not only administered the morphine but, finding the woman terrified, stayed with her and even helped to push her clear. When she crawled out, her hands were red to the wrist and she was covered – her clothes, her skin, her hair – in red sand and grey plaster dust. She was surprised how much of an effort it had been to jab a needle containing a quarter of a grain of morphine into a lump of pinched-up flesh, and was more nauseated by it than she had been by attending the wounded of the earlier raids.

  The attackers had not had it all their own way. A Pegasus-engined Irazhi Audax was chased by a British Kestrel-engined Audax and, as the British pilot fired, the Irazhi machine lost height, began a graceful turn to the left, straightened out, then slid along the ground in a cloud of dust and smoke. As it came to a stop the fuel tank erupted with a sickening ‘crump’ and the lorry-load of Loyals rushing up to capture the pilot found that, with the wind carrying the smoke and flames away from them, they had a front-seat view of a man burning to death. They had watched with horrified fascination as the pilot’s flying clothing disintegrated and his body slowly bowed forward, shrinking until it was no more than a charred shape.

  ‘Jesus,’ one of the soldiers said as he tur
ned away to vomit.

  A second Irazhi Audax flew into the face of the escarpment and exploded in a spectacular ball of flame, and a Fiat CR42, with the black, red, green and yellow Irazhi markings on its tail, crash-landed on the marshy ground near the river. The pilot was seen swimming to safety so the seaplane tender, crammed with as many of Boumphrey’s Belles as could pack into it, set off to pick him up, while the rest of them kept up a withering fire on an Irazhi lorry that tried to push out of Sin-ad-Dhubban to stop them. In addition to Boumphrey, Darling had somehow managed to scramble aboard the tender. He was clutching a rifle and, Boumphrey noticed, was wearing one of the Belles’ pink keffiyehs.

  The Fiat had lost its wings and its fuselage was still burning with intermittent popping as the ammunition exploded. The pilot turned out to be an Italian who was found in the village of Bisha. He was a tall handsome man in a splendid but soaked uniform, wearing a spectacular wristwatch which seemed to have as many dials on it as the machine he’d flown; it was promptly claimed by Ghadbhbhan. The Italian gave them a fascist salute and explained in broken English that he was exhausted.

  He had left the island of Rhodes the day before, he said, refuelled in Syria, alighted in Musol, got up at dawn, flown two hundred and fifty miles to Mandadad, become involved in the dogfight, been hit in the engine, taken to his parachute and landed on the British side of the river so that he had to swim all the way back to the Irazhi side.

  ‘No wonder the bugger’s tired,’ Darling said.

  During the raid, an RAF Audax and a Gladiator had been lost, reducing the numbers to a dangerously low ebb and making the attack on Dhubban more urgent than ever.

  There were, in fact, very few of the original aircraft still serviceable now and the number of dead and wounded had increased, so that those who were left found their minds wandered back to seek faces they realised they’d already almost forgotten. But a few more Gladiators and Blenheims had been ferried in, together with three Battles which were to have gone to South Africa for training purposes and had been diverted. They were all old machines, badly worn, heavily scarred and far from being the answer to a pilot’s prayer, but they were added gratefully to the strength, serviced, admired, patted affectionately and regarded with as much pleasure as if they were brand-new Spitfires. Especially since Osanna had come up with a report of reinforcements gathering in Mandadad. If the Irazhis were about to force the issue with a major sortie from the capital, the need for the attack on Dhubban had suddenly acquired an increased urgency. Boumphrey’s Belles were delighted that, for the first time, they were to go into action as mounted troops.

  Part of the fence was opened to allow the attackers to move out with their lorries, horses, men and guns. The two howitzers from outside AHQ and Boumphrey’s captured 18-pounder were attached to the backs of lorries and moved off on their iron-shod wheels like some relic from another age.

  The levies and the Loyals took the Irazhis completely by surprise, but they recovered quickly and, watching with his men from the north side of the village, Boumphrey could see the flashes and the flying slots of coloured tracer and could hear the crash of Porlock’s 4.5s. Stopped in their first surge forward by machine guns, the Loyals and the levies had had to go to ground and, as he became aware of movement towards him, Boumphrey realised that the Irazhis were mounting a counter-attack on his right to encircle the attackers.

  The moon had risen and it was possible to see men and guns beginning to move across his front, heading for the road across the uneven ground. Once they reached the road, they would be able to move more swiftly and cut off the Loyals and the levies from their base, but they seemed to be totally unaware of Boumphrey and his men on their flank.

  He glanced at his soldiers as they waited by their mounts, hands to the horses’ noses to stop them whinnying, their dark faces under their pink headdresses tense and alert. Quietly he gave his instructions and the horses were led to the rear by horse-holders. The Irazhis’ lorries were making sufficient noise to drown the sounds they made. Drawn up parallel with the Irazhis’ line of movement, they set up their machine guns quickly.

  Ghadbhbhan stood near Boumphrey with his hand raised, and heads turned in his direction, waiting for the signal to fire. As Boumphrey nodded, Ghadbhbhan’s arm came down and his high scream of command set the whole line ablaze. As the rifles burst into flame, the machine guns alongside began to hammer.

  They had caught the Irazhis in a classic ambush. A lorry managed to turn and head back the way it had come but two others collided with it and brought the rest to a confused stop. Very lights went up all round the village, illuminating everything.

  The yells from the Irazhis changed to panic-stricken cries and Boumphrey could see them beginning to bolt at full speed back to the village. Then Porlock’s 4.5s opened up again and they saw the shells exploding among the mud huts. Fires started and by the light of the flames the Loyals and the levies began moving forward again.

  Boumphrey ordered the horses forward. They came up at the run, the men yelling with impatience.

  ‘Mount!’

  The order to advance came as they were still settling themselves in their saddles, and they swept forward in a wave. The shadows were filled with shouts and screams. A machine gun opened up and several horses fell, then the gun stopped as abruptly as it had started, and the mounted men rode up and down among the fleeing Irazhis, shooting and swinging their rifles at any who were near enough. Within minutes they were entering Dhubban, driving the Irazhis like partridges before them.

  Almost the first recognisable face Boumphrey saw was that of Jenno. An armoured car, its headlights blazing, appeared from the west, roaring into the village and narrowly missing a group of Belles chasing a horde of fleeing Irazhis. Another attempt at a counterattack against the Loyals was started but a lorry manned by levies drove up at speed to stop it with Vickers guns and the Loyals were given breathing space once more. More shells from Porlock’s 4.5s crashed down and the resistance began to crumble.

  The Loyals had swept clean through the village now and had reached the slopes leading to the escarpment which had been liberated by Jenno’s cars, and as the fighting died down they realised they had gained not only the key to the plateau but the lower slopes as well, so that the vehicles and guns up there were trapped. By daylight the extent of the victory was clear. Dhubban had fallen and they were rounding up dozens of prisoners.

  It had been intended originally to halt in Dhubban but the momentum was such it seemed pointless and, with the aircraft already beginning to appear in the air, they swept up on to the plateau. The pupils had long since decided they could win the war in their patched-up aeroplanes and Boumphrey’s Belles were convinced they could beat anyone with their bare hands.

  The sweep up the slopes of the escarpment continued until they found themselves, to their surprise, in command of the place, with the Irazhis scrambling to safety down the other end into the desert. They began to count noses. The British casualties amounted to no more than seven men dead and fifteen wounded, while the Irazhis had lost over four hundred. The rest of the besieging force had taken to their lorries and cars and scuttled to safety and were now heading in a disorganised mass towards Mandadad, peering anxiously over their shoulders for the expected pursuit.

  The startled victors found themselves staring at abandoned lorries and guns, at tumbled sandbags, discarded clothing and equipment, the remains of half-cooked meals. There were sprawled dead among the debris, a few wretched prisoners and a few badly wounded men who had been left to the tender mercies of the victors, but no sign of any stand, no attempt to resist, and it slowly dawned on the attackers that the Irazhis had fled. The siege was over.

  The prisoners claimed that they hadn’t been able to fight because they had always been short of water and that they hadn’t eaten since the beginning of the bombing because supplies couldn’t get through.

  ‘Nine 3.7 howitzers,’ Osanna announced when they had collected the spoils and lined them up at
the edge of the airfield. ‘Two anti-tank guns, forty-five Brens, sixteen other machine guns, ten armoured cars, one light tank, three gun-towing tractors, and a lot of rifles and ammunition. We seem to have picked up some very useful equipment. In addition, the pumping station’s back in our hands.’

  The celebrations started slowly. It still hadn’t got through to most of them that there was no longer a danger from Irazhi shells and that it was possible to walk upright without having your head blown off. A couple of tired nurses were invited to a drink in the officers’ mess and gradually more joined them and a party started. Nothing very exciting because they were all too tired and they knew the situation wasn’t yet resolved. The next thing was to reach the embassy and remove all the women and children who had been held prisoner there.

  Somebody discovered that Boumphrey and Prudence Wood-Withnell had somehow managed during all the uproar to get engaged and there were a few cheers and congratulations and toasts. Once upon a time the cheers might have been derisive but no one was inclined these days to jeer at Boumphrey. He hadn’t altered much. He was still shy, still polite, still a long streak of nothing, but they’d all seen him in action and they knew what he was capable of, and, after all, soldiers, sailors and airmen came in a variety of shapes and sizes. Boumphrey had proved himself beyond all doubt.

  They were just beginning to enjoy the situation, sit back and stretch their limbs when there was a panic call for all aircrew – repeat all – to report to the camp cinema for briefing and the party broke up abruptly. The drama, it seemed, was not yet over.

  The air vice-marshal was waiting for them with the group captain and the chief flying instructor.

  ‘The ambassador’s reported that Ghaffer’s declared a jihad,’ the AVM announced at once. ‘And you all know what that means. An all-out war.’