The Command

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Of course they do. But...I guess Linda isn’t very keen on, well...you know what I mean.’

  ‘Do I? All my women have been very keen. On everything.’

  ‘So you’re just lucky, Murdoch.’

  ‘Anyway, surely you don’t have to have “everything” to conceive.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. But I’m sure it helps if you really are enjoying what you’re doing. And you have to enjoy it enough to do it regularly. It’s a shame about Linda. She’s such a lovely girl. And Peter is such a nice chap.’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to her?’ He grinned. ‘Why don’t you lend her your copy of the Kamasutra?’

  He had given it to her as a joke, when they left England — the book was banned there. But Lee, with her seriously excited interest in any new experience or sight, had read it from cover to cover — and then wanted to put its precepts into practice, even if Murdoch had been growing a little old and stiff for some of the recommended positions. But he was actually more serious now himself than he pretended; as he had recognized in France back in 1914, and in fact long before then, a man had to have sex — and he hated the thought of Peter Ramage becoming ‘involved with a bint’.

  Now she made a thoughtful moue. ‘I might just do that. Let me think about it.’

  *

  Ralph Manly-Smith was another officer reluctant to take his leave. Not, in his case, because of any sexual problems — he and Jennifer were obviously as happy in bed as Lee and Murdoch. But he was aware of what was going on.

  ‘I would shoot myself if I was in England and something started up here on the frontier.’

  ‘It’s extremely unlikely that anything is going to devolve for a while, Ralph,’ Murdoch said. ‘And you have to have leave. Listen. I’ll promise not to go to war with anyone until you get back. How about that?’

  Ralph grinned. ‘I’ll hold you to that, sir.’

  He and Jennifer and the children accompanied B Squadron when it left at the end of the year. They would arrive in England in midwinter. But as they had six months’ leave, they would enjoy a good part of the summer as well before having to return. They would also attend Fergus’s passing out parade as representatives of his parents, and then return to India with him.

  Murdoch felt quite confident of being able to keep his word about fighting a war, for the agitation of the Mahsuds appeared to dwindle with his return, and rumours of possible trouble in Afghanistan died right away over the turn of the year, so much so that in January 1928 the Amir Amanullah and his queen left Afghanistan for an extended visit to Europe. The British agents reported that the trip was undoubtedly intended to seek financial support for the costly reforms the Amir was inaugurating — he was attempting to counter the spreading communist influence in his country by improving the lot of everyone, introducing socialism from the top, as it were — but the mere fact that he could afford to leave the country for any length of time had to be reassuring.

  Equally significantly, the Amir chose to leave Afghanistan by way of India. Murdoch was apprised of his intention well in advance, and he took the two remaining squadrons of the Westerns up to the Khyber Pass to escort the royal procession. They had not of course taken their full-dress uniforms with them to India, but they were very smartly turned out, and the band was there to play music which had been chosen hopefully to please the Afghan ear.

  To Murdoch’s surprise, the Amir turned out to be a very Western-looking gentleman, clad in a brilliant uniform, wearing not a beard but a little toothbrush moustache which reminded Murdoch of Hitler’s — or Charlie Chaplin’s — and travelling in a procession of very expensive motor cars which bumped and rattled over the uneven road.

  He greeted Murdoch warmly. ‘General Mackinder,’ he said. ‘This is a great pleasure. Yours is a famous name on the frontier.’

  ‘You are very kind, your excellency,’ Murdoch acknowledged.

  ‘Having you in command down here has been a great relief to me,’ the Amir continued. Murdoch wasn’t sure in what sense he meant, but presumably it had kept his own turbulent people under control. ‘I would like you to meet my wife.’

  Murdoch saluted and then bowed over the offered hand. The Begum Suriya was a handsome woman with a somewhat pronounced chin, who was dressed in the height of fashion, revealing an amazing amount of calf, for a queen. When the introductions were over and the cavalcade was moving off, escorted by the dragoons, Murdoch hastily placed himself alongside Peter. ‘You have a radio back there?’ he muttered.

  ‘Of course. Why?’

  ‘I’d like to send an urgent message to Lee. And to Linda for that matter. Tell them to prepare for Garbo out of Banky.’

  Peter looked puzzled for a moment, then grinned. ‘You’re on.’

  *

  Lee had laid on an enormous party which overflowed into the empty garden of the Manly-Smiths. She had received the message and was dressed for the occasion in a short frock and a huge picture hat. Linda Ramage matched her. The Amir and his wife were suitably impressed, especially with Lee and Linda, regardless of what they were wearing. Their visit was a great success, if a little exhausting, for the Begum spoke almost no English and had to be accompanied by an interpreter all the time. But finally they were seen off on the train to Delhi, by another guard of honour.

  Lee did her curtseying and Murdoch his saluting for the last time, and she fanned herself vigorously as the train pulled out of the station. ‘Life gets more and more interesting. What’s next on the agenda?’

  ‘Well...supposing they actually get to Delhi and don’t wind up back here in a couple of days’ — the strikes were getting worse — ‘it should be the arrival of B Squadron, with replacements.’

  ‘And Fergus. Oh, I’m so excited about that.’

  So was Murdoch. It would be very nearly unique to have two brothers serving in the same regiment — under the overall command of their father. He had, of course, worried from time to time about Ian, about his relations with his brother officers, who would be well aware that most Sunday afternoons he took tea with the Major-General, and more, about his relations with Indian women. This was a problem with any young officer, of course; Lieutenant Roberts’ predicament had merely highlighted the situation. Murdoch could well remember when he had first joined the regiment, in 1899, how his fellows had tried to get him down to the local brothel just as soon as possible. And that had been in Bath, Somerset, England.

  He had refused to go, and had earned the reputation of not being a ‘sport’. He had found it hard going, but the almost immediate onset of the war in South Africa had changed all of that, and the combination of his Victoria Cross and his affair with Margriet Voorlandt had made him about the most popular officer in the regiment. Ian was, as Ramage had spotted, a chip off the old block, a professional soldier from his toes to his forehead, and the odds were that he would, that he had already, refused to accompany his fellow subalterns into the bazaars of Peshawar — it was not something Murdoch would ever ask him, or Ramage, or even Lowndes, who as adjutant would know most of what was going on. That would make the boy’s way harder, but would also make him the stronger.

  Fergus was a different character. He had less sense of duty and more of Lee’s bubbling enthusiasm to learn and to know, to accept every new experience. And perhaps, God forbid — much as Murdoch liked his brother-in-law — he had something of his uncle’s sensuality. He wondered if he should discuss it with Lee, but as she seemed blissfully happy at the prospect of having at least half her family with her again he decided against it. He reminded himself that his sons were both men, now, and would have to take life as it came, as he had always done.

  Fergus Mackinder and B Squadron — together with the Manly-Smiths — arrived just in time to greet the returning Amanullah, another splendid occasion. The Amir and his wife conducted themselves like old friends now, and their journey had obviously been a great success.

  ‘And everything is quiet on the frontier, eh, General Mackinder?’ Amanullah said. ‘
Just as it should be?’

  ‘Just as it should be, your excellency,’ Murdoch agreed.

  ‘Remember,’ the Amir said. ‘We are friends, you and I, Afghanistan and Great Britain. I have been to London. I have seen the greatness that is Britain. I know the value of your friendship, and I deplore the stupidity of my ancestors, who fought against you for so long. I shall never go to war with Great Britain, General. Rather must we always vow to help one another.’

  He peered at Murdoch as he spoke.

  ‘I am sure my Government would heartily reciprocate such feelings, your excellency.’

  ‘So, if I ever should need the assistance of you and your fine soldiers, I will send for you, eh? And you will ride to Kabul, as did your famous ancestors.’

  Murdoch frowned. ‘Providing you have made a prior arrangement with my Government, your excellency.’

  ‘That I will do.’

  Murdoch escorted him back to the Khyber Pass, thinking very deeply. Was that a straw in the wind, or did the Amir really feel he might need the assistance of British troops at some time in the future? He made a full report of his conversation to Delhi, and six weeks later, presumably after Delhi had had a chance to be in touch with Whitehall, received a directive, ‘that under no circumstances whatsoever will His Majesty’s Forces, or any part of them, become involved in Afghan affairs, or cross the Afghan border, no matter what the appeal or the provocation’. The letter was signed by Lord Irwin himself. So, he thought, Amanullah, old chap, you will have to sink or swim on your own.

  *

  That autumn, immediately after the monsoon ended, a letter arrived from Harry Caspar to say that he and his bride would be arriving at the end of October.

  ‘But it’s the end of October now,’ Lee complained.

  ‘The letter must have been delayed. Everything else is delayed nowadays. Relax. Harry and Veronica will almost certainly be delayed as well.’

  Lee decided not to chance that, and there was a great turning out of the spare room. In fact, Harry didn’t appear until the end of November. Lee and Murdoch had no idea exactly when they would be arriving, so Lee sent Palraj, the chauffeur, down to the station with the general’s official Bentley to meet every train. Palraj was a new addition to the staff, a big, handsome, genial Pathan who actually was a very good driver. The original driver had been a small Indian from the south, who had made Lee very nervous. He was on her conscience because she had shouted at him on occasion, and when they had returned from long leave he was simply not there any more.

  ‘He just left, one day, memsahib,’ Kohar explained. ‘Said he was going home to his people. But this new man, Palraj, he is a very good driver.’

  Murdoch had not been very pleased to have his servants changed, and selected, in his absence, but Lee had reminded him that the whole staff had been selected before they had ever arrived, and it had worked very well. Besides, she had liked Palraj from the start; he was so genial and helpful, and, she felt, trustworthy.

  ‘I don’t know what the woman looks like,’ she told him. ‘Except that she’s yellow-haired, and fairly tall, judging by her photograph. But the man looks like me.’

  ‘I will bring them, memsahib,’ Palraj promised.

  And he did. Although, Murdoch realized when he came home from the headquarters office at almost the same time the guests were being delivered at the front door of the bungalow, there was no way he could not have done so. Women like Veronica Caspar did not disembark at Peshawar station every day of the week. Or every week of the year. Or, come to think of it, every year of the century. Her photograph had hardly done her justice. She was not conventionally pretty, or even handsome, really; her face was too long and her mouth too tight. But her figure might have been carved by some Grecian sculptor who believed in size, as well as perfection, and she wore her silky yellow hair long on her shoulders. She was indeed at least twice the size of Harry, and Murdoch’s first reaction was to wonder how they might get on with the Kamasutra, and survive.

  Harry was like a cat with two tails. ‘Murdoch,’ he cried, shaking hands vigorously. ‘Brother, am I glad to see you. What a journey. What a journey. Say, are you guys governing this country or letting it go to pot? I thought the old New Haven-New York line was bad, but this has got to be the pits. Meet my wife.’

  ‘Oh, General,’ Veronica said. ‘Harry has told me so much about you. And you are just like he said.’

  ‘I am, am I?’ Murdoch asked, and kissed the presented cheek, while looking past her at Lee. While his mind was roaming over Greek allegories he found himself thinking of Medusa.

  ‘And I just adore your place here,’ Veronica continued. Her voice was rather high, and was the least attractive thing about her. Superficially. ‘And Lady...’ she released Murdoch to throw an arm round Lee’s shoulders. ‘Harry won’t tell me if I should call you Lady Lee. I think that sounds kinda nice, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Lee said grimly.

  ‘I think she’ll settle for just Lee,’ Murdoch suggested. ‘Aw! Now that’s a real shame. I’ve never been related to a real-life lord and lady before.’

  ‘I’m not a Lord,’ Murdoch pointed out.

  ‘You’re a sir. Next best thing. And Lee sure is a lady. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ Murdoch agreed, beginning to feel a little tired. ‘Perhaps you should show Veronica to her room, Lee.’

  He felt very nearly turned to stone by her glance. ‘I’ll do that,’ she agreed. ‘Come along, Veronica. Kohar, you’ll see to the bags.’

  ‘Right away, memsahib.’

  ‘Memsahib!’ Veronica cried. ‘Oh, I love it. I just love it.’

  Murdoch poured himself a whisky, and as an afterthought poured one for Harry as well. ‘Welcome. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Too long. Here’s how. Murdoch, what do you think of her? Ain’t she fantastic?’

  ‘Ah...yes,’ Murdoch said, giving a considered opinion. ‘Where did you pick...I mean, how on earth did you and she get together?’

  ‘These things happen.’

  ‘She’s about half your age, isn’t she?’

  ‘A bit more than that. What the hell has age to do with it? I’m not past it, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I didn’t suppose for a minute you were past it, old boy. Well, how long are you staying?’

  ‘A while. There’s so much I want to see, and do. The North West Frontier. Heck, I’ve been reading about that since I was a kid. Murdoch, I want to see everything.’

  ‘You going to write about it?’

  ‘Well, I think I might. I thought of a book.’

  ‘What about the paper?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve quit the paper. I’m freelancing now. And it’s time I wrote a book. All the other top-notch war correspondents have written books. I should’ve done one on the Great War, back in 1919. Now it’s too late; everyone else has done it already. What I want is a good war. And you know something, there isn’t a damned one in sight.’

  ‘Well, don’t look at me,’ Murdoch said. ‘My brief is to prevent war, not start one.’

  But next day he discovered he might have been wrong.

  *

  He had left Lee and her houseguests at breakfast — ‘Tiffin,’ Veronica cried. ‘Oh, I love it. I just love it’ — at which they had been joined, by special request from Lee, by Fergus — Ian was on duty at Jamrud Fort — ‘And this is your son?’ Veronica had cried. ‘Oh, he’s just lovely. You mean you have another one just like this?’ — and settled himself at his desk to read the various reports when Sergeant Denning hurried in.

  ‘Radio message from Lieutenant Mackinder, sir.’ Murdoch raised his head.

  ‘Lieutenant Ian Mackinder, sir, with B Troop, B Squadron, on duty at Jamrud.’

  Murdoch frowned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Message reads: “Refugees coming through the pass claiming considerable civil disturbance in Kabul and surrounding areas. Please advise.”’

  ‘Tell him to hold them until further notice.’ Murd
och pulled a pad of paper towards him and wrote rapidly. ‘Then get that off to Delhi. And ask Colonel Ramage and Brigadier West to see me here, right away.’ This year the much disliked title ‘colonel-commandant’ had finally been abandoned, and ‘brigadier’ restored...albeit without the ‘general’ attached.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Denning hurried from the office.

  Ramage and West were with him in ten minutes.

  ‘I want you to take all your men out to Jamrud right away, Peter,’ Murdoch said. ‘Put another troop into the fort, and then send a squadron up the pass itself, and close it. We can’t let a whole lot of Afghans into the province without Delhi’s say so, and there may be trouble when they’re stopped. But...no bloodshed unless it becomes absolutely necessary.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ramage saluted and hurried for the door.

  ‘You’ll place the garrison on alert, Jimmy,’ Murdoch said to West. ‘Cancel all leave. And be prepared to move to the dragoons’ support should it become necessary.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Send messages to Tochi and Razmak and Wana to do the same. And alert Eccles to have his planes standing by. A few low passes mightn’t harm, either.’

  ‘Will do.’ West also hurried from the room.

  Delhi was on the air in fifteen minutes. Murdoch spoke himself, to a first secretary. ‘The Viceroy is unavailable right this minute, General.’

  ‘Well, get hold of him and put him in the picture. I am acting on the assumption that he wants these people checked and sent back, and I want him to know that this may involve force. If he has any alternative instructions, I wish to have them as soon as possible. Understood?’

  ‘I will do the best I can, General.’

  Murdoch handed the set back to Denning. ‘I’m going up to Jamrud. If anything comes through, I want to know about it, immediately. Oh, and have someone go up to the bungalow and tell Lady Mackinder I won’t be in for lunch.’

  He rode out with the regiment, and they reached Jamrud before noon. Here things were better than Murdoch had expected, with the Afghans squatting on the pasture outside the fort in apparent equanimity, and Ian and his eighty-odd men in complete control of the situation. Murdoch interviewed the best-dressed of the Afghans to find out what had happened.