The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,162
a seemingly impossible route.
By nightfall the Scottish soldiers reached Sinzweya, which in the past twenty-four hours had become the de facto headquarters for the 7th Division. Troops from the surrounding area, hastily ordered to defend the new HQ, had been struggling in all day. In the fading light, Andrew could see it was a clearing of small fields among hilly, tree-covered slopes, barely half a mile wide.
It was a chaos of milling soldiers running at the double with equipment, hauling artillery and ammunition boxes and digging trenches, while enemy guns fired on them sporadically from the surrounding hills. British tanks were rolling in from the pass behind them. Officers bellowed orders as dressing stations were swiftly set up in dugouts with makeshift bamboo coverings. Ammunition dumps were being piled up at the foot of a central hillock.
With urgency, John Grant was soon detailing their men to dig in. He relayed the stark position to Andrew. ‘We’re completely cut off from the supply route along the coast but we’re to defend the ‘admin box’ until reinforcements arrive. There’s to be no retreat.’
‘Let’s hope Wingate’s Father Christmas comes dropping parcels from the sky,’ said Andrew with gallows humour.
That night, as they continued to dig slit trenches, set up gun placements and lay barbed wire, the enemy attacked the perimeter. In the pitch dark, Andrew heard strange animal and bird noises followed by bursts of rifle fire. Only then did he realise the jungle calls were the enemy signalling to each other. Grenades exploded and briefly lit up the conflict. The bitter smell of cordite filled his nostrils and he gritted his teeth at the screams from nearby wounded. All night, they took it in turns to man the posts and open fire on the sounds in the bush.
As day dawned, the attackers crept back to their dugouts in the surrounding hills and a ferocious barrage of shelling began. The Indian and British artillery fired back and the screeching of jungle animals was drowned out by the scream of mortars while the hills reverberated to the pounding of guns.
Then the skies overhead filled with dogfights. Squadrons of Japanese Zeros engaged in battle with Spitfires and Hurricanes. Astonishingly, during these fierce fights, the Dakotas of Troop Carrier Command flew in and dropped vital supplies of food, ammunition and fuel. Andrew watched in awe as the pilots came in low over the Range, almost brushing the jungle canopy to drop their loads by parachute.
Andrew and his platoon gave covering fire as men rushed to retrieve the supplies and carry them to the central dumps. All day, the supply planes kept up their courageous missions.
Amid the noise and danger, the cooks and orderlies managed miraculously to produce meals of rice and tinned meat, and a plum duff pudding made of fruit cake mashed up with crushed biscuits and chocolate.
Andrew found himself squatting on his haunches next to a young moustachioed risaldar who’d been helping organise some sepoys in the human chain retrieving the dropped supplies. He looked about the same age as himself.
‘I recognise your insignia, Risaldar,’ said Andrew, speaking to him in Urdu. ‘You’re with the Peshawar Rifles.’
The Indian officer nodded. ‘Yes, sahib. My family have served with the Rifles for three generations.’
Andrew smiled. ‘Mine have too.’
The risaldar’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Then I am very honoured to meet you, sahib.’
‘What’s your name and where do you come from?’ Andrew asked.
‘Mohammed Ali Khan, sahib. I’m from Gardan in the North West Frontier.’
‘I was stationed at the Frontier when I was first posted out here,’ said Andrew.
‘You did not want to join the regiment of your ancestors, sahib?’ he asked.
Andrew hesitated. ‘No, I decided to join a Scottish one.’
‘And, sahib, may I respectfully ask your name?’
‘Lomax,’ Andrew answered. ‘Lieutenant Lomax.’
The young officer’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘Lomax! That name is talked of with honour in my family.’
‘Really?’ Andrew grinned with delight.
‘Yes, sahib. My grandfather Tor Khan served with a Captain Lomax on the Frontier and in Mesopotamia. Perhaps your grandfather? He spoke most highly of him.’
Andrew’s smiled faded. ‘It can’t have been my grandfather. He was retired by then.’ He felt a familiar tension at the thought of his father’s career ending in disgrace. The young man would hardly be talking about Tom. Why had he risked a conversation with a Peshawar Rifles officer?
‘Then your father was in Mesopotamia?’ Khan persisted.
Andrew nodded. ‘But I don’t think your grandfather can mean him. I’m afraid my father let down the regiment and had to be court-martialled.