Circles of Time (36 page)

“
Before
the glorious retreat,” Weedlock corrected. “I was flying reconnaissance and spotted the Boche pouring through Belgium. Flying a rickety old Avro. What a bloody lark!” He signaled the mess attendant for another beer and then grinned at Fenton. “Well, you old cock sparrow, got orders today from Wing to pay a visit to Sheikh Ali Gharbi. Intelligence—if one can call it that with a straight face—says the old bastard's been running guns down from Kurdistan and has them stockpiled in those villages of his along the Shatt el Adhaim.

“When are you to take off?”

“In three days—dawn on the twenty-first.”

“There'll be more than guns in those villages,” Fenton said grimly. “Your bloody bombs can't tell the difference between a crate of rifles and a tent full of kids.”

“I have noticed that,” Weedlock said dryly.

Fenton glanced at his wristwatch. “I'll see if I can get through to Baghdad on the blower—if the Buddhoos haven't cut the wires again.”

The flying officer watched him stride out of the mess and then smiled at Martin. “Bloody fucking genius that man. You known him long?”

“Since before the war.”

“And what do you do?”

“I'm a journalist.”

“Right. Of course you are. Rilke. The name sinks home now. Have you read the paper Hawk's written?”

“What paper?”

“Have him show it to you. As a war correspondent you'd be interested. Two hundred pages entitled
The Integration of Divisional Striking Forces in Combined Operations
—with aircraft data courtesy of F.A.M. Weedlock.”

“What is it about?”

“Just about everything the army and air force is against at the moment. Left to the belly and right to the jaw, as the pugilist chaps would say. The old one-two. Hawk's theory is that every division in the field would be highly mobile and totally integrated—planes, tanks or armored cars, motorized infantry and artillery. One general in charge of the whole kit and caboodle. Radios in every plane, tank, and lorry. It's complex and technical, but I think you'd enjoy it.”

“What does he intend doing with it?”

“Christ knows. I don't think it's the sort of thing the War Office would go for these days. Too bloody expensive, for one thing, and steps on too many toes, for another. Can't see the chaps at the Air Ministry putting any of their precious planes back under army control—and the Tank Corps has the quaint notion it's above any control at all. Oh, well, so it goes.”

Fenton came back into the mess and leaned against the bar. “Bloody line's been cut somewhere below Kasarin. Some Iraqi cavalry are looking for the break now. Anyway, what Baghdad doesn't know can't upset them. We'll follow plan B, Fam—same sort of operation as Sharaban. Grab a beer and come over to the office. We'll study the maps and work out the timetable.”

“Can I witness this show?” Martin asked.

“By all means,” Fenton replied. “You might as well earn your keep.”

T
HERE WAS A
road of sorts, graded by the Turks a long time ago, running from Bani el Abbas eastward toward the cliff faces and high plateau of the Persian frontier. The motorized force made fast progress for sixty miles, the armored cars roaring along in front and the Ford trucks following along in their dust, the troops they contained holding on as best they could as the trucks bounced and swayed over the ruts and potholes. The road finally ended, sliced by wadis, and Fenton, riding in the lead armored car, turned the column off the road across the flat, hard, windswept desert.

Nightfall found them on the edge of a plain strewn with boulders and fragments of rock, as though some violent explosion in eons past had destroyed a mountain and scattered its pieces across the sand. The column pulled up and the troops climbed out of the trucks and sprawled wearily on the ground until the British NCO's and the Punjabi havildars brought their men to their feet and set them to pitching shelter tents and digging latrines. Martin, wearing clothes lent to him by a captain in the Lancs, and a sun helmet and quilted spine pad supplied by the quartermaster, walked stiffly to the armored car where Fenton was standing, studying a map by the glow of an electric torch.

“That was one hell of a ride, Colonel.”

Fenton's smile was wicked. “Wasn't it just! Four days hard march before lorries and balloon tires. Any irreparable damage, old sport?”

“Not if my testicles drop back into place. Where are we exactly?”

“Close to where we want to be.” He pointed off across the boulder-strewn waste. “The sheikh's villages are about ten miles due north of here. We'll march off before dawn. The armored cars will skirt this mess by going east and blocking the loop of the Shatt in case our friends try to bolt for Persia.”

“The Shatt being a river, I take it.”

“Well, a river in the wet season—a nice, flat, dry bed now. We'll be at the main village by nine in the morning, just in time to have the area surrounded before the planes come over.”

“And then what?”

“My dear Rilke, that's a question only tomorrow will answer.”

Ten men were left behind with a machine gun to guard the trucks. The rest, Lancs and Punjabis, moved off into the predawn wastes carrying nothing but their rifles, a bandolier of ammunition, and two cloth-covered canteens of chlorinated water per man. The five men of the signals section brought the radiotelegraphy set, the storage batteries, and the twenty-foot bamboo pole to raise the aerial wire. They moved quickly and in silence and reached the steep banks of the dry river shortly after 8:30. They all knew, from long experience, that it was the best possible time. Dawn, to the Arabs, was the traditional moment of attack. When the sun was well up they tended to relax their guard and start going about the day's business. Fenton, lying flat in the scrub grass, scanned the main village of Sheikh Ali Gharbi, then handed the powerful binoculars to Martin who lay stiffly beside him.

“Tell me what you see.”

Martin saw the village: black tents and mud huts scattered for a quarter of a mile along the riverbank; two hundred or more hobbled camels; a thousand sheep and goats; swarms of half-naked children; women in dark robes clustered about the well or tending the numerous fires. The men, many of them with rifles slung across their backs, strolled together in small groups or stood clustered in front of the largest tent.

“Just a lot of village activity.” He handed the glasses back to Fenton. “Anything unusual going on?”

“Yes. There are half a dozen Kurds down there. I spotted their headgear—
kolas.
They wouldn't be hanging about here unless they had brought something the sheikh needed. There are guns down there. No doubt about it. The question is where.” He looked at his watch. “Fam should be here in exactly fifteen minutes. Time for us to get started.”

Fenton drew a brass whistle from his pocket, stood up, and blew three shrill blasts. Activity in the village became momentarily paralyzed as the British and Indian troops rose to their feet and showed themselves clearly against the skyline. The Punjabi
subadar-major
stepped onto the path leading down to the village and waved a white cloth tied to the end of a rifle.

“Coming down with us?” Fenton asked.

Martin nodded. “That's where the story is.”

The Indian officer led the way, followed by Fenton, Martin, and the signalers with the radio gear. The Arabs made way for them, staring at them with a mixture of fear and hate. When they reached the tent of the sheikh, Fenton told the signalers to set up the radio.

The Indian officer lowered his rifle. “Well, Colonel,
sahib?
”

Fenton looked sternly at the Arabs blocking the entrance to the tent. “Tell them I wish to speak with Sheikh Ali Gharbi. Tell them I am calling in the flying machines on the telegraph box and they'd better get the sheikh out here pretty damn quick.”

He turned away as the
subadar
started talking in Arabic. He watched the signalers attach the radio to the batteries in their leather carrying cases and wind the antenna wire around the bamboo pole. One of the men sat on the ground in front of the set, headphones on, testing the key.

Fenton tapped the man on the shoulder. “Send out code HQS and MBT.”

The Arabs knew the significance of the clicking telegraph key from as far back as their years under the Turks. The clicking brought troops down among them. They knew how to stop it by climbing the poles and cutting the wires, but the radiotelegraph dismayed them. They watched closely as the British soldier worked the key. There were no wires to cut. The wire on the bamboo pole stuck in the sand went nowhere. And yet, even as they stared, they could hear the distant hum of engines.

The sheikh protested. He was an old man, crippled in one leg from an ancient wound. His small black eyes burned like coals in the leathery seams of his face.

“He says they have done nothing,” the
subadar
said. “He says they have lived up to the treaty in every word and deed.”

“Tell him he lies like a Buddhoo,” Fenton said. “Tell him I know there are more guns and ammunition in the village than allowed by the treaty. Tell him if he doesn't show us where they are I'll have the flying machines drop bombs.”

A panic was spreading through the village now as the silver biplanes came into view, nine of them in three V-shaped waves coming low over the sand hills.

“Message from the planes, sir,” the radio operator called out. “Codes HGL and KDS.”

Fenton removed a slim notebook from the top pocket of his jacket and glanced at the code lists.

“Send affirmative—and code QLP.”

“What does that mean?” Martin asked.

“QLP is circle and fire into the wilderness. Just to let these rogues know we mean business.” He glowered at the sheikh and then said to the
subadar:
“You can tell the chief I've ordered the planes to test their machine guns. Tell him he knows what will happen to his people if they swing the guns on the villages.”

The Bristol fighters swung into a line-ahead formation and began to circle, banking sharply so that the rear gunners could swing their twin Lewis guns toward the barren ground beyond the dry riverbed. Only the lead plane, bearing a radio operator in place of a gunner, did not fire. The others cut loose and tracer slashed downward, churning yellow plumes of dust and sending clots of bullet-chewed earth into the air. Empty shell cases spewed downward like a brass rain.

The old sheikh stared at the sight like a man in a trance. Then he moaned and sat down limply on the ground and began to speak in a low, choked voice.

“The guns and cartridges are buried in the sand,” the Indian officer said, smiling. “They're in the center of the riverbed—between those two white boulders.”

“Good,” Fenton said crisply. “Send code WQT.” He stepped away from the tent and blew three notes on his whistle. A squad of Lancs came running down from the slopes, rifles slung over their shoulders.

“See those white boulders about three hundred yards up the bed?” he said as a corporal ran up to him. “Mark the spot between them with smoke and then get the hell out of the way.”

The planes continued to circle, like lazy silver hawks against the vivid blue sky. When the smoke canisters had been set alight and the squad had dispersed, the planes dipped into shallow dives and dropped their two-hundred-pound bombs with great precision on top of the smoke. Geysers of sand and the shattered fragments of wooden crates and rifles spewed upward in the scarlet-and-black explosions. And while Martin took pictures with his little folding Kodak, ten thousand rounds of Mauser ammunition went up as well, popping and cracking, turning the riverbed into a churning maelstrom of whipped sand.

Fenton looked at his notebook. “What the hell's the code for ‘job well done' and ‘hurry on home'?”

“VLK and PVW,” the radio operator said.

“Send it—and then call Lieutenant Baxter and tell him to withdraw the armored cars.” He draped an arm about Martin's shoulders. “And that's just about that, old boy. We'll poke about in the riverbed and make sure all the guns have been destroyed, then hightail it for barracks, beer, and bed. I hope you got a little something out of all this to write about.”

“A little.”

“You might remember to note in your story that we left a lot of angry Arabs here, but no dead ones. Some of your more gentle readers might like to know that.”

“Yes,” Martin said quietly. “I think they would at that.”

T
HE
Daily Post
seaplane cut the turgid waters of the Nile and soared over the rooftops of Cairo. There were only four other passengers—the
Post
's Egyptian-affairs correspondent and his family on their way back to England on holiday—so Martin could stretch out in comfort across four of the wicker seats and read through his shorthand notes. It would be a good, exciting article, he felt sure. One that would please Kingsford, especially if the photographs of the soldiers using the radio came out. It would help soften Kingsford's annoyance when he received the letter of resignation along with it. The article, and a carbon copy of Fenton's theory on modern warfare, should provide Jacob with the kind of material he needed to convince the War Office that Lieutenant Colonel Wood-Lacy might be a thorn in the side, even a pain in the arse, but was too original a thinker to be wasted in a desert.