The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,127

barren mountain slopes blinded him. After three months on the frontier he still couldn’t get used to such searing heat. Even though his company had trained on the hot plains around Delhi for this type of warfare, it was hotter, dustier and more nerve-wracking than he’d imagined.

The enemy were swift and elusive. While the Indian Army and supporting British regiments moved in long convoys of armoured vehicles along the valley roads, the Waziris and Mahsuds travelled light on horseback or foot, ready to swoop on infantry or pick them off with sniper fire.

Andrew’s commander and frontier veteran, the craggy-faced Major McBain, had warned him on first arrival, ‘They’re the past-masters at guerrilla warfare, Lomax. Like our Scottish Highlanders of old. They can cover miles with just a crust of bread in their bellies, carrying only rifles and ammunition, and sleep out in bitter cold with a single blanket. Hard as bloody nails.’

The full-scale tribal war of the previous year had abated and the fears of a fresh rising once the winter snows had melted had not materialised. Yet his commander was cautious.

‘Don’t be fooled.’ McBain had laughed grimly. ‘It’s like summer sport for them to take on the ferenghi devils, as they call us. And as long as the Afghans are still prepared to arm them, they’ll cause us as much trouble as they can.’

‘So, is it the Nazis who are bankrolling the rebellion?’ Andrew had asked him.

‘Yes, it seems to be the case. We just have to pray to God that the Russians can hold out against the new German offensive.’

Andrew’s head pounded and he licked his cracked lips, trying to concentrate on the job in hand. Half an hour ago, he had led a dozen men up the precipitous slope to secure the piquet, something that they had done with textbook efficiency. Now they were keeping watch on the valley below as the convoy passed on its way to Razmak to resupply the army outpost. The Borderers were responsible for piquets on a ten-mile stretch to the next camp. Keep eyes in the back of your head as well as on the convoy. McBain’s words were drummed into him.

This was the most challenging stretch of the route, carved out of the steep flank of hillside above a gorge. Andrew was in awe of the sappers and miners who must have blasted this road through the rock with its sheer drop to the green-grey waters below.

It made Andrew think of ex-cavalry officer Dickie Mason, his mother’s friend, who had been stationed at Razmak in the early twenties. One day, Andrew hoped, he’d return safely to Britain and be able to swap stories with the amiable Dickie. Andrew wondered if his father too had ever patrolled this rock-strewn valley or defended these same treeless slopes.

Andrew craved a cigarette. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. He’d like to chat to his dad about the Frontier – compare experiences – and once again chided himself for wasting the opportunity to talk to his father in Pindi.

The convoy of armoured cars, trucks and mules snaked into view around the bend below. The dust raised by the rumbling vehicles could be seen from afar and the noise filled the silence like distant thunder.

Every Waziri for miles around would be able to see it and would know of its coming; the convoys were weekly. But part of the exercise was to try and draw out the enemy and engage them in open warfare, so that the British-Indian forces could use their Vickers machine guns and superior fire power to rout the tribesmen.

‘Wily Pathans won’t be drawn,’ McBain had told him. ‘They know there’s little point attacking motorised transport. It’s the piquets where they understand we’re vulnerable – and we’re at our weakest when we withdraw from one piquet and move to the next.’

Two weeks ago, Andrew had lost one of his men to a Waziri sniper. Private Henderson was from a village outside Ebbsmouth and Andrew had had to write and tell his parents. It was the hardest letter he’d ever written.

Andrew’s jaw clenched as he surveyed the road below and the mountain terrain around them. He must concentrate. The train of vehicles shimmered in the heat, writhing in his vision. His temples thumped.

Corporal Mackenzie passed him a canteen of water and whispered, ‘Sir, a wee sip?’

Andrew took it with a grateful nod. It was he who should be looking after the men, not the other way around. He gulped at the water, which