by John Harris
The realisation that the siege had entered a new phase had come home to them with the first wildly directed shell from Addowara. They had not wasted their time, however, because Pentecost had been expecting artillery ever since the beginning of the siege and they were well sandbagged against blast and flying splinters, and all women, children, civilians and wounded had been removed to the cellar – even the last of their small herd of goats. It was dark and stifling down there but at least they could come to no harm.
For the rest of them, however, there was no shelter except in the slit trenches that they’d dug, or the sandbagged hides, and the first ear-splitting crack the following morning had rattled fragments of stone against the walls.
They were all well aware that a few direct hits would soon demolish the gates and their only hope was that ammunition was in short supply.
Out of the first shots there were a fair number of overshoots and undershoots, then a shell exploded to the right of the gate, and gouged out a huge chunk of stonework as though it had been bitten away by a giant mouth. The wooden supports splintered as the rocks flew into the air, and a great deal more of the wall rolled into the courtyard. One of the Toweidas was killed and two were badly wounded, but even as they were being carried away to Minto in the hospital, they were already struggling to push the rocks back into the wall and shore it up with timber and sandbags.
Fortunately, at that point the firing stopped, as though the tribesmen, having found their range, were sitting back for a meal. It started again three hours later, when six shells were fired. One of them struck the main look-out tower, killed two Toweidas and left the tower rickety on its supports; another chipped the top off the wall where they had repaired it, sending showers of rock fragments into the air; three whined over the fort to explode in the plain beyond; and the last struck the gate.
By this time, the fortress was surrounded by smoke from burning timber and the air was full of flying dust. A bucket stream from the well put out the flames, then they discovered that the rooms below the look-out tower had caught fire, and they struggled in sweating heat to get at the woodwork before it burned away and the place collapsed. As they worked, the Hejri outside kept up a steady fire, peppering the walls and any unwary head that appeared opposite an embrasure.
By the end of the day they had been bombarded three times and had counted eighteen shells. It wasn’t many, especially as eight of them had sailed overhead or exploded among the rocks short of the fort, one of them even among the trees where the Hejris had massed under a banner for an assault. The screams of pain had not comforted them much, because they were busy with their own wounded, but at least the assault had not taken place.
Altogether the fort had been struck ten times and was clearly falling to pieces like a lump of wet sugar. One of the towers was down, the gate was splintered and, at one point where the shells had hammered at the same spot, the wall had crumbled until it was only six feet high. As night fell, they realised that the generator had been smashed and, as they waited in terrifying darkness until Chestnut linked up their emergency supply from the lorries, Pentecost mustered everyone on the wall where the gap occurred, half-expecting an attack.
But none came. The shell among the Hejris had unnerved them and they were sitting back waiting for the guns to do their work at longer range.
‘There are two of ’em, sorr,’ Chestnut said at their evening conference. ‘One in the pass and one a bit tae the right. I got a line on the direction o’ the shells.’
‘No more than two?’ Pentecost asked.
‘Two’s enough,’ Fox said.
It was a strange little conference. Pentecost was the only British officer present now because Minto was fully occupied in the cellars with the new batch of wounded. They had had five men killed during the day and seven wounded and the morale of the Toweidas had slumped abysmally.
It was obvious that a great deal more of the shelling would make Hahdhdhah untenable. Eventually the Toweidas would reach the point when they would refuse any longer to fight, and without them there were not enough men either to hold the walls or repair the damage that was being done. They were all tired and weak through too long on short rations. Nerves were on edge and sickness was increasing, and even Pentecost had started to dream of food and freedom whenever he fell into a fitful sleep. The women, ashamed of their dirt, no longer appeared, and crouched in a huddled group in the cellar, keening their sad songs, some of them widows already.
The day when, after the first receipt of Wintle’s message of hope, Pentecost had warned against over-confidence seemed to have long gone, and they were fighting for their lives again. It was now sheer luck whether Wintle or the Hejri arrived first.
For some time Pentecost had been debating whether to parley with Aziz. Fighting to the last man was no longer sensible these days, no matter what orders said, but, with Wintle almost through the Ridwha, there was no point in hanging on because if the Toweida Plain were lost now, it was gone for ever.
As the others offered their opinions Pentecost was sharply aware of the loneliness of his position. The responsibility was all his and he was never lonelier than now. With success or failure balanced on a knife-edge, the decision he was debating was a tremendous one. How long dare he hang on? Already they had held out beyond the point of reasonable endurance and no one could accuse them of cowardice. Without Wintle, the beginning of the shelling might have made the decision easy.
‘I think we have to decide, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘just how much longer we can reasonably stay here. What do you think?’
They all offered their opinions, which varied from forty-eight hours from the youngest int-zaid, who was influenced by the fact that he was a Toweida and knew that if the Hejri broke into the fort they wouldn’t show much mercy, through Fox, who gave them a week if the shelling continued, to Zaid Fauzan, who was a Dharwa and had spent his whole life on the frontier and hated the Hejri and Deleimi tribes with the hatred of generations. In Fauzan’s world, there was no place for any arrangement and he would willingly have held the fort to the last man and the last bullet.
Privately Pentecost thought that the young int-zaid’s was the nearest estimate. The others were too optimistic and Fauzan’s idea of resisting to the last man was simply not worth considering.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘we must play it by ear. So long as we can rebuild the walls and so long as the Levies don’t start disappearing over the wall, we must keep trying. We have food for perhaps fourteen more days – and with luck Wintle will be here before then.’
The first shell of the next day smashed Chestnut’s laboriously constructed searchlight, and the second finally brought down the water tower and a section of the wall with it, and had the Hejris been sufficiently daring, they might have got into the breach. As it was, they were able to replace the rocks, though the great iron tank made a wonderful barrier from behind which Hejri riflemen could snipe at the walls. The third shell knocked away a portion of the south wall and it was then that they realised that missiles were falling into the courtyard, and that the Hejris had somehow also acquired mortars.
During the day they lost two lorries and one of the scout cars and the courtyard became a chaos of running men as they moved the remainder of the vehicles to positions under the south walls, where they were less likely to be caught by a direct hit. They were becoming aware now of the Toweidas grumbling, and that they were refusing to leave their shelters to effect repairs, and though Zaid Fauzan kicked them into action, Fox knew that before long they would cease to obey him, and some surly soldier might even put a bullet in his back. It made him bitter at the thought of the people who had neglected them.
2
Unknown to Fox, their position had concerned Tafas for some time. Mortar bombs had started to land in the Palace grounds and the façade was pockmarked where bullets had struck. The Wad, Victoria Street and Khesse were scorch-marked by flames and every hundred yards there seemed to be a burnt-out wreck. Beyond Khesse, the stu
dents rampaged, in complete control, and the Nationalists were feeding them now with rifles and pamphlets demanding the end of the régime. Food and petrol were scarce, and the water and electricity supplies were only intermittent. There were no buses and no ferry across the harbour, and he knew that he was surrounded by treachery and that plans were afoot to catch him in his car with a bomb.
Listening to the occasional pop of a rifle and the distant rattle of a machine gun, he stared at Rasaul’s heavy face with disgust. The Minister had suddenly re-emerged after his feigned illness, with advice that seemed to consist only of strong hints that he should abdicate.
‘The Nationalist leaders demand more say in the running of the country, sir,’ he was saying.
‘They have their parliament,’ Tafas snapped. ‘The Dhofar has been sitting almost continuously since the emergency started.’
Rasaul shrugged. ‘The country north of the Dharwas does not even send representatives any longer,’ he pointed out.
Tafas scowled. ‘What do the Nationalists offer?’ he asked slowly. ‘In return for this greater say?’
Rasaul shrugged. ‘Nothing but a willingness to cease fire.’
Tafas exploded. ‘Why haven’t I advisers who have the courage to say what they mean?’ he snapped. ‘They want me to abdicate.’
Rasaul essayed a small bow. ‘That would seem to be their wish, sir.
‘And what is your view?’
Rasaul coughed again and Tafas knew what was coming. ‘I fear you’ll have to go, sir,’ he said.
‘I thought some sort of treachery like that was contemplated. What about the frontier?’
‘The Havrists have contacted Thawab abu Tegeiga and he has agreed that, in return for the Toweida Plain, he will remain in the north until Khaswe is settled. After that, he will make sure the Toweida Plain becomes Khusar country.’
‘Isn’t he growing too big for his boots with Wintle on the move?’
Rasaul’s expression remained unchanged. ‘I understand that Thawab has brought up artillery and is shelling Hahdhdhah,’ he pointed out.
The Sultan paused. ‘Do we still have radio contact with Hahdhdhah?’
‘The American, Beebe, said they were continuing to keep a listening watch for instructions.’
Tafas knew only too well what the American, Beebe, had said. He had not forgotten why he had been sent to Hahdhdhah in the first place and a preliminary report on his findings had arrived on the Sultan’s desk. There was no oil beneath the Toweida Plain. Not a drop.
The frontier wasn’t worth fighting for, after all. All his hopes that wealth would unite his people were ended. Everything north of the Dharwas seemed to be as good as gone, and, for all he could see, so was Khaswe. There seemed nothing left but to bow out gracefully and take his old bones to the South of France to await death.
‘What about Cozzens?’ he asked. ‘What are his plans?’
Rasaul paused. He had learned of the rocket strike from contacts at Carmel airstrip but he had made sure that Tafas had not. Tafas was clearly hovering on the brink of abduction and the news that Cozzens was getting himself involved on the frontier after all might well change his mind again. Tafas’ well-known secretiveness had played into his hands, and even Yani and the air force officers were complaining that they’d been unable to inform him of the way things were shaping. ‘General Cozzens has his hands full with Khaswe,’ he said.
Tafas sighed and walked to the window, catching the sickly scent of blown roses from the garden. When this dreary business had started they had been in full bloom. Despite his defiance, he knew he had come to the end of the road. He was too tired to counter the plots against him. He belonged, he decided, to a more graceful age, not one where the methods of bazaar hucksters had become normality. He had lost prestige. He was openly scoffed at and despised and anarchy reigned on every side. He suddenly decided to give it all up.
‘Make your arrangements,’ he said. ‘We will begin by giving up the north. All it seems to require is a signal.’
3
For a moment, as Chestnut read the Sultan’s message he thought he was seeing things, then he yelled for the Dharwa orderly outside in the corridor.
‘Abassi Pentecost!’ he shouted. ‘Iggeri! Quick!’
Pentecost appeared within a minute, covered with the dust that seemed to fill the whole of the fort for hours after every bombardment.
‘Sorr!’ Chestnut jerked his head at the buff form he held. ‘Read yon.’
The words seemed to leap out of the paper at them. They were clear, in English, and had come direct from Khaswe.
‘HAHDHDHAH TO BE EVACUATED REPEAT EVACUATED STOP TOWEIDA PLAIN TO BE GIVEN UP UNDER TRIPARTITE AGREEMENT BETWEEN AL HAVRA NORTHERN LEADERS AND SULTAN OF KHALIT TO BE SIGNED IN NEAR FUTURE STOP ARRANGE TRUCE STOP ONLY CONSIDERATION MUST BE SAFETY OF LIVES STOP WILL REPEAT HOURLY FOR CONFIRMATION.’
It was signed Tafas.
‘Do you think it’s genuine, Sergeant?’ Pentecost asked.
‘Nae doobt aboot it, sorr! Came through on the regular channel at the right time.’
Pentecost’s tired face twisted, the creases round his mouth cracking the layer of dust that covered his skin.
‘Ours not to reason why, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Though it begins to look to me as though a lot of people have died for nothing. Perhaps it’s just as well, though. I don’t think we could have taken much more.’
The north wall was almost down and the tower in the south-west corner was a mass of rubble. The hospital was a nightmare of groaning men and they had finally run out of space to bury the dead and were burying them in the outhouses.
They had suffered three bombardments during the day, every one worse than the last, though the tribesmen, short of ammunition, were still limiting themselves to their six shells per bombardment. In itself it was not a holocaust, but the loosely bonded rocks of the walls were cascading into the courtyard everywhere now and there were half a dozen breaches, hastily shored up by sandbags, and ammunition boxes and lockers stuffed with soil. They had torn down inner walls to obtain material for repairs but every three hours until dark the six shells came to fill the place with the dust which billowed chokingly into the cellars, setting the women wailing and the children screaming. They had put out a dozen fires, and the courtyard was now only a litter of rubble, fragments of roof and splintered timber.
Pentecost stared again at the message Chestnut had handed him. The whole thing suddenly seemed to have been pointless. Stone was dead. Lack was dead. Minto was dragging himself round on crutches. To say nothing of the wounds and death dealt out to the Dharwas or the humble Toweidas pulled into the Sultan’s force by promises of pay.
He suddenly felt very bitter. ‘What time is the next broadcast?’ he asked.
‘One hour’s time, sorr. Tae be exact, fifty-seven minutes from now.’
Pentecost nodded. ‘I’ll be here. I must have it confirmed.’
When Khaswe came up again, Pentecost watched Chestnut’s pencil travelling across the pad.
‘HAHDHDHAH TO BE EVACUATED REPEAT EVACUATED STOP TOWEIDA PLAIN TO BE GIVEN UP UNDER TRIPARTITE AGREEMENT BETWEEN AL HAVRA NORTHERN LEADERS AND SULTAN OF KHALIT TO BE SIGNED IN NEAR FUTURE STOP ARRANGE TRUCE STOP ONLY CONSIDERATION MUST BE SAFETY OF LIVES STOP WILL REPEAT HOURLY FOR CONFIRMATION STOP TAFAS.’
There was no change in the wording.
As Chestnut put down his pencil, he looked round slowly to where Pentecost was reading the message over his shoulder.
‘What happens the noo, sorr?’
Pentecost seemed to be absorbed with his thoughts.
‘How much light have we left, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘Aboot an hour, ah reckon, sorr.’
Pentecost considered for a moment, then he turned away. As he paused in the doorway, he swung back to where Chestnut was watching him.
‘Be so good as to tell Sergeant Fox to find a white sheet that will do as a flag, and to run it up on the main tower,’ he said.
4
Aziz was among the first to see the white flag.
He was standing among the rocks, staring at the crumbling outline of the fortress. For three days he had watched it reduced to rubble, his spirits sinking lower and lower as the shells had done their work. No one asked him for orders now and he had given up his grip on the northern tribes without a murmur. He belonged to the past, part of the lost glory of the Hejri, to the days when a rifle or a machine gun was all a tribal leader could hope to possess. Thawab belonged with Communism, Fascism, Leftism and Rightism and all the other creeds that nowadays had their place in tribal strife. Aziz’s politics were the simple politics of have and have-not, and all his life had been based on one thing and one thing only – the possession of the Toweida Plain. Thawab thought on a scale which included world blocs and his eyes saw Khalit and Khaswe and even beyond, and his shrewder mind told him that when Sultan Tafas finally vanished, as he inevitably would, the new rulers would look round to see who had helped them.
Eventually, the tightly-knit nations of Khusar country would start quarrelling among themselves, and would become only a few troublesome units which had once been proud tribes, each fighting for a place in the sun, while their leaders involved themselves in international politics and the future of Khalit.
Aziz sighed, prepared now to go north to his lands in Khusar. He knew nothing of artillery, aeroplanes and radios, and nothing of political blocs. He was a simple man whose concern had always been the honour of the Hejri nation and the demands it made for the Toweida Plain, his ambitions simply to push the border south of the Dharwas and see the Hejri led by someone of his own flesh and blood. But his sons were scattered, several of them even sympathising with the hated Thawab. The Khusar nations would never again be led by one of his stock. He was a tired old man, disillusioned, sick of killing, and so certain that Thawab wanted his life he ate standing among his followers.
