Winds of Eden by Catrin Collier Read Free Book Online Page A

no-man’s-land?’ Peter winced when an agonising, ear-splitting cry rent the air.
    â€˜Turkish bastards, leaving their own out there to die,’ Crabbe cursed. ‘Damn them to hell for starting a show on Christmas morning and firing on us when we attempted to retrieve their wounded.’
    â€˜I was on duty in the observation post at the fort.’ Peter referred to the defences built by the army’s civilian contractors, Lynch Brothers, in November. Adjacent to the front-line defences, the Dorsets used it to house their ammunition and field hospital.
    â€˜I heard it was hell there.’
    â€˜It wasn’t pleasant,’ Peter replied. ‘Shortly after dawn broke I watched a Turkish officer crawl inch by inch from our lines to theirs. It took the poor beggar over two hours. When he reached the parapet of the Turkish front line, they left him hanging. All it would have taken was a tug from a friendly hand to pull him in.’
    â€˜Johnny Turk is thick-skinned, thick-headed and heartless when it comes to the plight of their wounded. Let’s hope their attitude doesn’t extend to our injured. God alone knows how many of ours fell into their hands after Ctesiphon.’
    Peter recalled the hospital barges that had been cut loose from the burning gun boats blown up by Turkish artillery. He’d seen them drift towards the Turkish lines and feared for the fate of their human cargo, even before he’d seen the callous casual brutality the Turks meted out to their own injured.
    Crabbe walked past the brick kilns into the second lines. The Anglican priest, Reverend Harald Spooner, was holding an impromptu service in a dugout. His altar was a dried milk box, a tin plate did duty as patten for the cream cracker host, and a brandy flask the cup, a score of officers and men crowded around him as he led them in a rendition of Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Further down the line they heard voices raised in a discordant version of Silent Night .
    â€˜Bizarre to be singing about heavenly peace when the entire world is at war. Especially when we’re losing the best of our officers and men to the daily Turkish fusillade. There’s no let-up for the burial parties. The damned brass …’
    â€˜Steady, Smythe. Ranks’ ears.’ Crabbe whispered. ‘We’re all upset and capable of unravelling, but don’t let anyone in command hear you talk like that. Think of the men. In a siege situation, morale is everything. You brought the cigarettes as well as the bottles?’
    â€˜Now you ask me?’
    â€˜Now I thought of it. After weeks of tight rations that whisky’s gone straight to my head.’
    â€˜One tot?’ Smythe was incredulous.
    â€˜That’s all it took. Even that liberal helping of festive Donkey a la lamb didn’t help.’
    â€˜We’ll be relieved before we have to eat the horses, won’t we?’
    â€˜You worried about Harry’s Dorset and Somerset?’
    â€˜Bizarre, isn’t it,’ Smythe agreed. ‘After what’s happened to Harry, all I can think of is saving his horses.’
    â€˜Possibly because it’s the only thing we can do for him now. Middle line ahead,’ Crabbe warned. ‘Remember, morale first, second, third, and last. No defeatist talk.’
    They stopped at a gun emplacement manned by the Dorsets. The sappers had hung a reed curtain in front of the trench opening, carpeted it with a cheap rug from the bazaar and embellished the walls with palm leaves and crayoned illustrated texts.
    GOD BLESS OUR MUD HOME,
    MERRY CHRISTMAS AND PLENTY OF TURKS,
    and below the decorated papers.
    EXCURSIONS TO KUT AL AMARA ON CHRISTMAS DAY AND BOXING DAY BY ARRANGEMENT.
    â€˜I would knock, but you can’t on reeds. Officers begging admittance.’ Crabbe pushed aside the curtain.
    A sergeant, corporal, and half a dozen privates snapped to attention.
    Crabbe lifted his kit bag from his