Kingdom Lock Read online

  ‘I took the liberty of fetching you a jacket from the quartermaster, sir. It’s a British SD jacket I’m afraid, but it’s all he could find.’

  Lock grunted and pulled the thick serge tunic on. It was tight across the shoulders and a little short in the arms. But at least it was the correct rank.

  ‘You look fine, sir. Now, if you’ll follow me, I can take you to Green Platoon.’

  Lock paused to light a cigarette. The laughter increased in the tent behind him and, with a glance back, he swore under his breath. Bloody aristo officers. Always the same. Arrogant, cocky, belligerent. Well, they were in for a mighty shock if the evidence he had in his boots was true. He waved for the sergeant to lead the way back to the command tent and the waiting Underhill.

  Having collected his bag, Lock and Underhill followed the sergeant down through the bivouacs to the very end of the encampment site.

  ‘Here we are, sir, Green Platoon,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I can manage from here.’ Lock returned the sergeant’s salute and waited for him to walk back the way they had come. He then dropped his bag and turned to observe the platoon.

  He counted nine turbaned sepoys, all of whom were sat chatting, sipping from tin mugs. A gaunt Indian in native dress was deep in discussion with a skinny, pale white corporal as he served tea to him from a black kettle. The Indian stopped pouring, having noticed Lock and Underhill watching, and nudged the corporal. He looked up, cursed and jumped to his feet, tripping over a rifle strap as he clumsily approached, sending a neat stack of the firearms crashing to the floor. He bent down to pick them up, but was all fingers and thumbs.

  ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell are you doing?!’ Underhill bellowed. He threw the saddlebag to the floor and marched over to the clumsy corporal’s side, falling straight into his parade-ground guise. As he did so, the sepoys all put down their tea mugs and scrambled to their feet.

  The corporal dropped the rifles and jerked to attention, shaking. Underhill was standing almost on top of him, his face pressed close.

  ‘Well? I asked you a question, soldier,’ Underhill barked, spittle showering the corporal’s flinching, acne-ridden face.

  ‘Sor-sorry, Sergeant Major. I … just tripped … rising to greet the ne-new loot—officer.’ The corporal could barely raise his voice above a whisper.

  ‘Speak up, man!’ Underhill said. ‘You’re a bloody corporal according to them stripes on yer arm. ’Ow the bleedin’ ’ell did you get to be a corporal, eh?’

  ‘Captain Carver, Sergeant Major,’ he said.

  ‘You gave a touch to an officer, did you, sonny?’ Underhill was clearly enjoying himself.

  Whilst the sergeant major chastised the corporal, Lock turned his attention to the sepoys. One in particular stood out. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, broad and obviously physically powerful. His uniform, which bore a single stripe upon the arm, gave the impression of being two sizes too small, the seams clearly struggling to hold his muscular frame in check. The Indian was sorting the other nine sepoys into a line of inspection, and even the man in native dress was now standing to attention, a ladle held stiffly up in his hand as if it were a rifle. The tall sepoy stepped to the end of the line and remained at attention, eyes front, kirpan sword drawn and resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Corporal?’ Lock cut in above Underhill’s bullying.

  The corporal looked from Underhill to Lock and then back to the sergeant major. Underhill kept glaring at the soldier. There was a moment’s pause, then the corporal swallowed hard, tore his eyes away from Underhill’s and faced Lock.

  ‘S-sir?’ he said.

  Lock smiled and stepped forward. ‘Introduce me to the men, if you please.’ He kept his tone calm but stern, knowing that this was a battle of authority between himself and Underhill, and one that he must triumph in. Lock walked on and went to stand opposite the first Indian sepoy. He glanced back at Underhill and the corporal. The sergeant major had placed his foot on top of the corporal’s boot.

  Lock stood and watched in silence. Bugger you, Underhill, he thought, why must I always have to deal with your crap?

  But before he could react further, the tall sepoy with the single stripe on his arm stepped forward a pace, stamped to attention and saluted.

  ‘Lance Naik Siddhartha Singh of the 2nd Mendip Light Infantry, sahib.’

  Lock turned his head and narrowed his eyes. The tall sepoy’s face showed surprise momentarily. But as his eyes met Lock’s he quickly moved his gaze to a point in space just beyond Lock’s left ear, held his salute steady, and waited. Lock adjusted his posture to face Singh. Behind the black, neatly groomed beard, the Indian’s face was like that of a classical statue, youthful and chiselled. His nose was large and straight, and below thick eyebrows a pair of brown eyes shone brightly. Lock was struck by how wise they seemed, as if they belonged to an ancient soul.

  Lock returned the salute. ‘Lieutenant Lock of the Australian Infantry Force, attached to the 2nd Mendips.’

  Singh lowered his arm but remained at attention.

  Lock glanced back at Underhill and the corporal. They hadn’t moved an inch.

  ‘Forgive my ignorance, but isn’t lance naik … a lance corporal?’ Lock said, turning back to Singh.

  ‘Yes, sahib,’ Singh said.

  ‘I asked for the corporal, did I not?’

  ‘My humble apologies, sahib. I did not hear correctly.’ Singh still kept his gaze away from Lock’s.

  One of the sepoys choked back a laugh and Lock whipped his head around. Enough was enough. He needed to prove his authority to these men and what better way than by putting Underhill in his place? He briskly marched back over to the sergeant major and the corporal.

  ‘Name, Corporal?’ Lock shouted, making the pimpled youth jump and breaking him from Underhill’s spell.

  ‘Dun-Dunford, sir. Algernon Dunford.’

  ‘Well, Algernon Dunford, what gives you special privilege not to be standing in the line of inspection? You are part of this platoon are you not? You can carry on your private chat with Sergeant Major Underhill later. Now move it!’

  Lock bellowed the last words into Dunford’s ear and the young man was so visibly shocked that he yanked his foot away from beneath Underhill’s boot. He grabbed a rifle from the collapsed stack, stumbled over to the line of sepoys, and snapped to attention at the far end.

  Lock leant in close to Underhill so that the others couldn’t hear what he was about to say.

  ‘Don’t you go getting all cocky with me, presuming that we’re equals after our little adventure earlier.’ He paused, daring Underhill to reply. But the sergeant major just remained still, listening, eyes fixed to Lock’s.

  ‘I know you took a potshot at me during that little cavalry charge we took part in. Hoping I’d be fatally wounded, were you? Then you’d collect Wassmuss’s notebook and the letters and slither back here to inform Ross how tragically I had met my maker, but that you had escaped by the skin of your teeth. And not before you’d wrestled vital information from the German spy—’ Lock stopped abruptly, as a faint smile had formed on Underhill’s lips.

  Lock leant in closer still, putting his own boot on top of Underhill’s toe, and applied pressure. ‘Don’t push me too far, Sergeant Major. I will break you. That’s a promise.’

  Underhill glared back, the smirk still fixed to his face. He turned his head and spat on the floor.

  Lock stepped back and put on a false smile. ‘Come, Sergeant Major, we had best introduce ourselves properly to the lads.’

  Underhill continued to glare at Lock for a moment longer, then gave the slightest of nods. ‘Whatever you say. Sah.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Lock was alone in his sparse tent. A camp bed ran along one side, and opposite was a small table and chair, with an oil lamp hanging above them suspended from the roof supports. Lock was sitting at the table, dipping a cut-throat razor into a bowl of milky water, and slowly shaving the two-day stubble from
his face. His left foot was perched on his trunk, which had been sent on ahead from the wharf at Mohammerah. There was a knock on the wooden support from outside.

  ‘Come,’ Lock called, scraping the last of the soap from his jaw. He raised his head as Singh entered. ‘Ah, the Indian with the hearing problem.’ Lock dropped the razor and picked up a towel from the back of his chair and got to his feet. He returned Singh’s salute. Singh remained at attention, staring ahead.

  Lock studied the Indian for a moment. Could this man be a friend? It was difficult to tell. He needed someone on his side within the platoon if this was going to work and he had lived and worked with Indians before. Underhill was never going to help, not really. He just could never truly trust the sergeant major.

  ‘Stand at ease, Lance Naik. I want to thank you for earlier.’

  ‘Sahib?’

  Lock didn’t respond as he rubbed the towel over his face. ‘Is that for me?’ He indicated to the bayonet that Singh held in his hand.

  ‘Sahib, yes, from Corporal … I mean to say, Private Dunford told me you requested one.’ Singh handed Lock the bayonet.

  ‘Yes, could have used this the other night. Still, never mind now. I’m sure another occasion will rear its ugly head.’ Lock put the bayonet on the table and moved over to the trunk. He opened it up and began to rummage about inside. ‘Is that cocoa I can smell?’

  ‘It is, sahib. Cocoa and biscuits is on the menu for supper.’

  Lock paused. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Cook does the best he can, sahib.’

  Lock rubbed his chin. ‘But we brought fresh supplies from Karachi. I can’t understand it.’

  ‘Yet supplies are still sparse, sahib. Well, they are for us. The men are often hungry, if I may say so, sahib.’

  ‘Who’s your … our cook?’

  ‘Bombegy, sahib. Fine cook, good Sikh.’

  ‘I’d prefer a good cook and a fine Sikh,’ Lock said. ‘Call him.’

  ‘Sahib.’ Singh saluted, opened the canvas flap, and shouted for Bombegy in his native Punjabi.

  The gaunt Indian with the ladle hurried into the tent. He crashed to attention and saluted. Lock nodded and bent down to the trunk again.

  ‘Here,’ Lock said, handing Bombegy a number of packets. ‘There’s real coffee, rice, a little sugar … and some dates. It’s not much, but use them … for the men. Oh, yes, and these … tinned peaches I think, though the labels have come off. I will try and get you some eggs, courtesy of Major Ross.’

  Bombegy’s face fell into stupefied bewilderment as Lock piled the packets into his arms.

  ‘Go on, then!’ Lock said, and Bombegy scuttled off. Lock glanced at Singh. ‘Do you eat meat?’

  ‘Well, sahib, strictly … no. But … in times of war we indulge … if it is jhatka, sahib. Except for beef …’ Singh trailed off.

  Lock nodded and turned back to the trunk. ‘Good. I’ll try to get some buckshee chickens as well, live ones. Now, how about a glass of wine?’

  ‘No alcohol, sahib. It is forbidden.’

  ‘Really? When I was a boy growing up in Assam, the servants all used to drink. And I don’t think it was tea.’

  ‘Sadly, there are Sikhs who partake in alcohol, sahib,’ Singh said.

  Lock pulled a cloth bundle from the trunk and laid it out on the table. He carefully unwrapped it to reveal a straw package. From inside this he produced a bottle of wine. He bent back down to the trunk and again pulled out a smaller cloth bundle. Inside this, also wrapped in straw, were two glasses. ‘Amazing!’ he whispered to himself, pleased that they were undamaged. He poured the wine until one glass was on the point of overflowing, and then poured water from his canteen into the other glass and gave it to Singh. He raised his glass in a toast.

  ‘What shall we drink to? War?’

  ‘To peace, sahib,’ Singh said.

  Lock eyed the big Indian for a second. ‘To peace.’

  They touched glasses with a gentle tinkle, and then Lock gulped down his wine greedily.

  ‘Tell me, Singh … what of the men?’ he said, pouring himself another generous glass of wine.

  ‘Sahib?’

  ‘What are they like?’

  ‘Like, sahib?’ Singh said. ‘Good men; good soldiers. Excellent shots also, sahib.’

  ‘Are they all Sikhs?’

  Singh nodded.

  ‘What about that cook, Bombegy? He looks old enough to be your father!’

  ‘Sikh, sahib, as I said. His name is Singh also.’ He frowned. ‘But we are not related.’

  ‘And Corp … Private Dunford, what of him?’ Lock sat down on the edge of his camp bed. He placed his glass down and began to pull his boots off. ‘A white private in an Indian platoon?’

  ‘We were originally with two separate units, sahib. His was wiped out; mine had just nine men left. Major Janion joined us together and put us in Lieutenant Peters’ platoon. That is Green Platoon, sahib, now your platoon. Lieutenant Peters was killed. As Dunford was the only other Englishman left, sahib, the major promoted him and made me a lance naik. But we are little more than a section. Only twelve men now, including your good self, sahib. And the sergeant major.’

  ‘Let’s not forget the cook.’

  ‘Thirteen with the cook, sahib,’ Singh said, with a smile and a bob of his head.

  Lock was disappointed. It wasn’t much of a force. He sat down on his bunk, then stretched out and closed his eyes.

  ‘We are all now Green Platoon, sahib,’ Singh said again.

  Lock couldn’t be bothered to talk any more; he was dog-tired. He really needed to sleep. Just for a while. He could tell that Singh was hesitating, then he heard the Indian place his glass on the table, turn and pull the canvas flap of the tent aside to leave.

  ‘Ah, Lance Naik. Is Lieutenant Lock in there?’

  Lock groaned.

  ‘Yes, Major sahib,’ Singh said.

  Lock kept his eyes closed as Ross entered the tent. There was a moment of stillness, and then Lock felt his feet being prodded. He opened his eyes.

  Ross stared impassively down at him. ‘A little early for wine, isn’t it? It’s not even six o’clock.’

  Lock grunted and sat up. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any of that curry with you?’

  Ross shook his head and patted his stomach. ‘All gone.’

  ‘I thought you’d never come.’

  ‘Sorry. Been chinwagging with the brigadier general and then with that ass, Major Janion. Bound to get indigestion, having had to suffer his conversation over a meal. So, what do you have to report? Did you collect the prisoner?’

  ‘There was no prisoner, sir.’ Lock lit a cigarette.

  Ross looked crestfallen. ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘However,’ Lock said, pulling out the notebook and the two letters, ‘I did come across these. Here.’ Lock handed Ross the documents taken from the Turkish Kurds. ‘They belonged to Wassmuss.’

  The major frowned. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘What?!’ Ross tore open the first letter.

  ‘He was there, sir, but he was no prisoner.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Ross said as he scanned the letter.

  ‘Meaning, he was their guest. At least, he was the Qashqai Khan’s guest. Wassmuss was well disguised, as an Arab, and has been overseeing the systematic sabotage of the pipelines himself. Only he’s rather careless with his personal effects. I found those, and a hell of a lot of gold, German 20-mark coins, at a campsite near Daurat.’

  ‘But that’s well within our lines!’ Ross said.

  ‘I know, sir. But they’re on their way, the Ottomans I mean.’

  ‘Blast it!’ Ross spat, pulling the chair from the desk and sitting down heavily. ‘And what’s this nonsense about a rat in white tabs business?’

  ‘Wassmuss admitted as much, sir,’ Lock said, ‘that he has knowledge of what you, we, the White Tabs are up to. He even said he’d met me before, in Tsingtao.’

  Ross
whistled softly between his teeth. ‘I had no idea his web spread so far.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who it could be, though, the rat?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘Maybe someone at HQ in Karachi.’ He scowled, then opened the letter again.

  ‘Reading between the religious rhetoric and the sabre-rattling, sir,’ Lock said, ‘the first alludes to this second army you were worried about marching across the Persian border to the north and joining the troops already gathered near Ahwaz. They plan to push us from the oil-pumping station all the way down the pipeline to here, Mohammerah.’ He paused, before adding, ‘I think they plan to overrun the garrison and then split and march on Basra. Our forces in Mesopotamia won’t be expecting an attack from the east, not from within neutral Persia.’

  Ross pursed his lips. ‘I agree. And I’m willing to bet that they mean to arrive at Basra on the fourteenth, or thereabouts.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The message says: “Miralay Subhi Bey’s offensive at the shadow of the crescent moon”.’ He stroked his moustache. ‘What was the moon last night? A half, if that? I’d say the attack on Basra is planned for when the moon is almost full. That’s around the fourteenth of April, three days from now. Colonel Subhi Bey has twenty-five thousand Turks encamped at Hammar Lake to the west of Basra. I’d say that was plenty of distraction to keep the garrison’s eyes from the east, wouldn’t you?’

  He opened the second, shorter letter. ‘Good God,’ he muttered. ‘It is him!’

  ‘I think he’s to command this army it talks about, for the march on Basra.’

  The major nodded in agreement. ‘He’s proving to be a real thorn in my side.’

  ‘It’s signed “G”, sir. Does that mean anything to you?’ Lock said.

  Ross frowned. ‘Perhaps. There’s a high-ranking German officer, a Lieutenant Colonel von der Goltz, who is Vice President of the War Council under Enver Pasha. He could be this “G”.’ He folded the letters away and began to flick through the notebook. He started to chuckle. ‘This is a gold mine, Lock, a gold mine. In code, maybe, but I wager it’s all we need to put a stop to his network!’

  ‘There’s something else, too, sir.’