Our Land of Palestine E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It is the year 1915, and the British and Ottoman Empires clash in a deadly struggle in the Middle East.

Tasked with keeping the Ottomans out of Suez Canal, Major Andrew Selkirk discovers that his real assignment is to retrieve a Bengali spy working for those who vow to see British rule out of India.

After landing on the west coast of Palestine, Selkirk discovers the Ottomans have taken the spy captive. Even more troubling are the plans by Ottomans and Germans to draw Afghanistan and Persia into the war against Great Britain.

Fighting a personal feud with a vengeful German, Selkirk leads his men across strife-torn Palestine: a land that everybody claims as their own.

Leseprobe

Our Land of Palestine

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2016 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Creative Paramita

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Prelude

Gully Ravine, Gallipoli 28 June 1915

It was hot. Major Andrew Selkirk of the Royal Borderers smoothed a hand over his forehead and ducked as the movement brought an instant response from a Turkish sniper. The bullet smacked into the sandbag behind his head, so a small trickle of sand eased out.

'I thought our artillery would keep Jacko's heads down,' Lieutenant Turnbull sounded nervous.

Selkirk looked at him. 'It seems that Jacko Turk has other ideas.'

The British guns fired non-stop, pounding the Turkish positions on either side of the ridge. Dust, smoke and the stink of lyddite filled the air. Selkirk narrowed his eyes at the evil orange petals of explosions and the occasional chunk of rock thrown high above the ground.

'There shouldn't be anything left after that,' Turnbull sounded impressed. 'And look!' He gestured out to the calm waters of the Mediterranean where the ships of the Royal Navy were giving support. Every few moments the lean grey vessels were obscured by smoke as they unleashed a broadside. The rip of heavy artillery overhead should have been reassuring, but Selkirk doubted that it was effective. He had been in too many battles to expect everything to go well.

'They are firing hard enough,' Turnbull grabbed his pith helmet as another bullet zipped overhead.

'Aye, but not on our front,' Selkirk pointed out. He crouched low behind the sandbags and indicated the ground ahead. 'The guns are plastering the Turks everywhere else. Our divisional artillery is still sitting in some quayside back home.'

'The Navy boys will change targets soon,' Turnbull shouted above the constant roar of the guns, 'then Jacko will know all about it.'

Selkirk grunted and said nothing. He looked along Fir Tree Spur, the broken ground along which 156 Brigade, including his Royal Borderers, was to advance. There was a succession of ravines which might give cover to his men if the Turkish machine guns opened up, but conversely, the Turks could be lurking inside them, waiting. Knowing the high calibre of Turkish infantry, and very aware that his men were untried weekend territorials, that thought was unsettling.

The sun was high, bursting the sweat from his forehead and dampened his armpits and the back of his shirt. Selkirk checked his watch. It was coming up to 10.30 on 28th June 1915. The attack was scheduled for 10.45, fifteen minutes ahead, but so far the guns had not dented the Turks positions on the spur. He cautiously raised a trench periscope above the line of sandbags and peered forward. There was hardly a single shell-burst on the Turkish positions, yet his men had to advance fifteen hundred yards and capture them.

Over there is the Asakr –I Shahaneh, he thought, the Ottoman Army, once the most feared military force in the world. Over there sits Jacko Turk, representatives of the same army which had held Christian Europe in fear for centuries, which had conquered the Middle East, North Africa and much of Eastern Europe. Over there, in well-dug trenches and behind rows of sandbags, crouched over machine guns and grasping modern German Mauser rifles, the Asakr –I Shahaneh waited for his few hundred Territorials, his part time soldiers who had never fired a shot in anger or seen the face of the enemy.

'We're giving them Hell, sir,' a high-pitched voice said, and Selkirk saw a very young boy crouched low in the bottom of the trench. His uniform was at least two sizes too large while his rifle looked taller than he was.

'I hope so … Semple isn't it?'

'Yes, sir.' The boy looked very pleased to be recognised. When he smiled, the adolescent spots on his face merged.

'So what did you do before the war started, Semple?'

'I was an office boy, sir, in a mill in Galashiels.' He looked about fifteen and probably was.

'Well, you take care, Semple, and keep your head down.' Selkirk nearly patted him on the shoulder but knew that was not what majors in the Royal Borderers did. He crawled along behind the sandbagged trench wall, talking to the men, checking their equipment, encouraging the nervous and smiling at the crude jokes of those who pretended they were not scared.

'Pringle!' Selkirk saw Captain Pringle standing upright to face the enemy positions, 'get down!'

Pringle did not move. 'It is an officer's duty to set an example to the men.' He looked down his long nose at the crouching Selkirk. 'It is undignified and un-British to cower before the enemy.'

Selkirk dragged him behind the sandbags. 'It's an officer's first duty to look after his men. You are no good to your men when you are dead!' He saw the expression of near contempt on Pringle's face. 'What were you before the war started, Pringle?'

Pringle frowned, 'I am the Honourable Walter Pringle of Westriggs …'

Selkirk interrupted him, 'and how long have you been in the Army?'

'I was in the Officers' Training Corps at Fettes College and joined the Territorial Army immediately I left school.'Pringle flicked slender hands at Selkirk, 'I have been training twelve weekends a year for just this opportunity, plus annual camps.'

Selkirk nodded. 'You call me sir.' He held Pringle's eyes and waited for him to acknowledge the fact.

'Sir,' Pringle seemed to force out the word. Selkirk knew that Pringle was from an old Berwickshire landed family, a man who considered himself born to lead and a man desperate to prove his mettle in battle, no doubt incredibly brave, but inexperienced. 'Have you been in action before, Pringle?'

'No, sir, but I am ready…'

Selkirk pointed over the lip of the trench toward the Turkish positions. 'Well, you will be in action soon, Pringle. These are the Asakr-I Shahaneh, veterans of Balkan wars, Greek wars and Russian wars; top quality soldiers with far more experience than we have. I know you will set an example of bravery and duty when we go into action, but it would be a waste to have some Turkish peasant sniper kill a man like you before you show how to do it.' He leaned closer to the young officer. 'So keep your bloody head down!'

Selkirk glanced along the shallow trench where his Royal Borderers were sheltering, waiting for the artillery to stop so they could go forward. 'Bayonets, lads,' he shouted, 'it won't be long now!'

One man was shaking; some looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. All were tired and most very young. Selkirk mentally compared these Territorials to the long service men he had fought alongside in the South African War and wondered how these children, mill workers and office clerks would cope with the horrors of combat. A sergeant, one of the few veterans who had been transferred to stiffen the ranks, snicked his bayonet in place. His long face was tanned nut brown with the sun.

'Sergeant Crosier isn't it?'

'Sir,' Crosier nodded.

'You were a regular once,' Selkirk accused.

'Aye, sir.' Crosier did not flinch as a shell scattered a red-hot patter of shrapnel a few yards in front of their trench. He gave a faint smile. 'I did ten years in the Gordons, sir; the Frontier and South Africa.'

'You look after these men, Sergeant,' Selkirk felt some reassurance that there was a man such as Crosier to help his weekend soldiers.

Selkirk ducked as a British shell fell short to explode no more than twenty yards in front of them in a great orange ball of flame that clouds of brown dust and fragments or rock instantly obscured. One of his men yelled and clutched a hand to his forehead. Blood eased between his fingers. 'I'm hit!' he shouted. 'Mother help me; I'm hit!'

Moving in a crouch, Selkirk approached the man. He was about eighteen years old, with wide, terrified eyes and a face as smooth as a baby. 'Let me see… Hunnam isn't it?'

'Yes, sir,' the boy kept his hand over his wound. Flies already sought the fresh blood.

Selkirk pulled the hand away. 'It's only a wee scratch' he tried to sound cheerful. Taking a field dressing from Hunnam's pouch, he applied it to the wound. 'It's nothing at all to worry about, but you'd best get back to base and have an orderly see to it.' In this heat, any injury could fester. He watched as the boy limped to a communication trench that led back toward the beach and relative safety.

The ships fired another salvo, with the shells screaming overhead to explode in tall columns of smoke and dust on either side of Fir Tree Spur. Selkirk swore; he remembered the carnage of Magersfontein when Boer riflemen had decimated the Highland Brigade in that earlier South African war. Here, with machine guns, the Turks could do even greater damage unless the artillery softened them up first.

He checked his watch: 10.37. Seven minutes to go. He looked behind him where the few guns of 52 Division fired a desultory barrage that barely scratched the surface of the ridge. He had no desire to attack the Turks in their prepared positions. What in God's name was Hunter- Bunter thinking? Where was the artillery support for this brigade?

Pringle pointed to the great hill of Achi Baba that dominated this southern tip of the Gallipoli peninsula. 'I want to plant the British flag on top of that before nightfall.'

Selkirk nodded. 'Very commendable.' Achi Baba had been their objective since the landings on 29 April when the 1st KOSB had lost nearly 300 men in eighteen hours of non- stop fighting. The hill rose only a few miles ahead, but in this campaign where an advance of a hundred yards was a good day's work, Pringle's plan was very ambitious.

Selkirk heard a change in the pattern of bombardment. The Navy had altered their range. It was 10.42; there were three minutes until the attack.

'The guns are preparing to stop,' he told Turnbull and pushed one of his men back down. 'Keep your bloody head down, Fraser' he ordered. 'I'll tell you when you can move!'

The shell fire intensified, landing in a concentration of bursting steel that smothered the Turkish positions facing the left flank of the British at Gully Ravine. Dust and smoke drifted across the lines, all but blocking the once clear sky. It must have been steel and hot hell in the Turkish positions, swamped by heavy and medium artillery, blasting trenches and men with no mercy or compassion.

All at once the bombardment ended. The silence was so sudden that it hurt the ears and for a moment nobody moved. Somewhere in the distance a hopeful bird called.

10.44: a minute until the attack.

Selkirk took a deep breath and pulled out his whistle. The metal was hot against his lips.

The silence continued; somebody gave a hysterical giggle. Somebody was praying, the words soft in the hard hush. 'Our Father, who art in heaven… 'Somebody else was singing a music hall song with lyrics that the composer had not intended for innocent ears. There was the sound of a single shot, then the chilling rattle of a machine gun. A shell exploded above, the smoke acting as a harbinger of the hell to come.

'Come on Royal Borderers!' Pringle shouted and began to rise to the lip of the trench.

10.45: time.

God help us all.

'That's us, lads!' Selkirk's long whistle blast reached along the length of the Royal Borderers lines. 'Up we go!' He would have liked to hear the Border Pipes now, the thin wail from his native green hills combating the dust and heat of this parched land, but instead, there was a grim growling cheer as his young part-time soldiers rose from their trench and began the desperately long advance toward the entrenched Ottoman army.

It was time to be an officer. Selkirk stood tall, fully aware that he would immediately be a target for dozens of Turkish rifles and machine guns on the ridge, but determined to set an example. Regulars would not need such direct leadership, but these youngsters were only part-time soldiers, catapulted into this nightmare by circumstances that nobody completely understood.

He looked around, temporarily enjoying the freedom from the constriction of the trench. He saw the crest of Fir Tree Spur stretching before him until it merged with its parent hill of Achi Baba that rose in threatening dominance to the north. A series of ravines and rugged ridges blocked the Borderers' path, plus the stone walls of the town of Krithia, all defended by some thousands of Ottoman soldiers. Smoke and dust from the bombardment hazed his view so that Selkirk could see little but yellow-brown rocks and scrubby olive green vegetation. He could see nothing of the enemy, but he knew they were there, hiding, waiting behind their rifles and machine guns for the British to present themselves as a target, willing to defend their land with all the courage and skill for which the Turks were famous.

'Move lads!' Selkirk glanced along the trench line as the Royal Borderers emerged, some with their shoulders hunched, others upright with rifle and bayonet at the high port as screaming sergeants had trained them to do, as they had done on weekend exercises at Barry Buddon and among the long green hills of Ettrick. The trembling man was biting his lip but still moving; another had a pipe firmly clenched between his teeth. The praying man was a Corporal Scott, broad and ugly, a Kirk Elder from Selkirk who had joined the Territorials on the urging of his wife. 'The quicker we move, the less chance there is of being killed!'

'You heard the major,' Sergeant Crosier bellowed, 'follow my lead, lads and take the bayonet to Jackie Turk!'

For the first hundred yards, there was no defensive fire, and Selkirk ushered his men onward, hoping to cover as much ground as possible before the Turks realised what was happening. With luck, Jackie might be dazed from the bombardment, or believe that the British would not attack along the spur. He felt the ground hard and stony beneath his boots as he forced himself to walk at a steady pace. If he ran, some of the men might charge, and then their advance would be ragged, uncoordinated and much less effective. He wanted his Borderers to arrive at the Turkish trenches like a solid wall of steel rather than a disorganised rag-bag of individuals. Selkirk knew that the younger men needed encouragement from their more experienced fellows in this first step into war. The dust was clearing now, settling down and there was a spatter of musketry but whether from the British or the Turks he could not tell.

'On to Achi Baba!' Pringle shouted. He drew his revolver and fired wildly in the general direction of the Turkish lines.

'Keep together!' Selkirk shouted. 'Pringle! Look after your men!' He saw Pringle break into a run and surge in front of his company.

There was a new sound now: singing. He did not recognise the tune, but suddenly realised it was coming from the Turkish lines. The men that the bombardment was intended to blast out of existence were singing.

'Follow me, Royals!'

Selkirk stopped and looked around. The entire British line was moving in a general advance to break through the Turkish lines and capture Achi Baba. If they could capture that dominant hill the whole Turkish line might collapse, and the Allies could push up the peninsula to Constantinople and knock Turkey out of the war. That would enable a secure supply line to Russia and free up hundreds of thousands of troops, British, Imperial, French and Russian for the campaigns against Austria and Germany.

'Come on lads: Royal Borderers! On to Constantinople!'

His Royal Borderers were only a small part of the attack, but they were moving well. They were grim of expression, white faced, shaking, but none had dropped out. They maybe only weekend soldiers, but they were Borderers, with two thousand years of warrior tradition behind them and they would do their best. One small group began to follow after Pringle, breaking into a shambling run that disrupted their formation as they struggled across the uneven ground.

'Stay with me, lads!' Selkirk coughed to clear the dust from his throat. He took a quick swig of his water bottle, tipped back his pith helmet and swore at the distinctive, all-too-familiar buck-up crackle of Mauser rifles and the rapid rattle of the Maxim MG09. The Turks had recovered from the bombardment and were firing on the advancing troops.

'Here we go lads; keep together as you were trained but don't bunch up; leave the wounded for the stretcher bearers; if a machine gun opens up spread out!' Selkirk raised his voice to a roar: 'Royal Borderers!'

The call echoed his words as he had expected, with Crosier first to take up the call: 'Royal Borderers!'

Lieutenant Tweedie was next, yelling as loudly as he ever had on the rugby field at Peebles. 'Royal Borderers!'

The name was repeated from man to man, so it became a rolling cry that stretched the length of the battalion's front, a reminder of their shared heritage back in the peaceful valleys and bustling mill towns of the Borders. They may be bank clerks or mill workers, shepherds from the lonely cleughs or carters from the highways and byways, but they were all Borderers.

Their calls caused the Turks to increase the volume of their singing as if they were taunting the oncoming British soldiers.

'Cocky bastards,' Sergeant Crosier said. He turned around to check his men.

'Royal Borderers!'

And then the Turkish song stopped. As the volume of rifle fire increased, the Royal Borderers began to take casualties.

'The bastards have found our range,' Crosier warned.

Selkirk saw a stout middle aged man drop without a word while a young soldier whimpered and looked at his stomach, from where blood seeped into his khaki tunic. Some of the men were kneeling and firing blindly into the dust. One blonde haired giant stood still, mouth open in horror as his comrades, with whom he had trained and marched and served for years, crumpled all around him.

The machine gun found them, raising spurts of dust and splintered rock from the ground as the gunner sprayed the advancing British infantry. The blonde giant lurched as a bullet smashed into his left hip, and then fell backwards as two more thumped his stomach. Another bullet took his right foot clean off as he sprawled on the ground. He began to scream, high pitched and hopeless as his blood pumped onto the baked rock.

'Spread out! Forward!' Selkirk shouted as memories of Modder River, and Magersfontein came again into his mind. 'Remember your training!' He lifted the rifle from the crumpled body of a youngster, worked the bolt, fired a quick round and began to run forward. They were still some hundreds of yards from the Turkish trenches. 'Come on Royal Borderers! Give them the bayonet!'

He saw Crosier leading from the front, gesturing to his men to follow, and then a Turkish shell exploded, throwing up a cloud of ochre dust. The sergeant vanished from sight.

This battle epitomised the sort of fighting Selkirk despised, wasteful, pointless, putting men's lives in the path of bullets to gain a few yards of dust. He heard screams and cries for help from behind him but pressed on. A battle was not the time for compassion or sticking to the letter of the training manual. The quicker they reached the Turkish trenches, the fewer men he would lose.

'Charge!' he roared. 'Give them the bayonet, Royal Borderers!'

Selkirk flinched as bullets kicked up dust and chips of stone around his feet. He fired back blindly and swore as he realised the advance had come to a halt. The Territorial soldiers had dived for whatever cover they could find and were firing madly forward, hoping to unsettle the Turks.

The ground changed here, with patches of scrubby olive green vegetation clinging to the thin soil. Sharp thorns scraped against Selkirk's ankles as he moved, shouting to his men, still urging them forward.

'Close with them! Up and advance, boys! Royal Borderers!'

Selkirk realised that his efforts were useless. The advance on the spur had ground to a halt before the massed Turkish Mauser and machine gun fire. The men tried to make themselves as small as possible, burrowing behind minuscule folds in the ground or isolated rocks, clinging to the plants for comfort as the machine gun raked them with its insistent mechanical chatter.

'Up!' Selkirk ducked as that Turkish gunner swung the machine gun in its killing cone. He heard the whine of a ricochet and swore again as a bullet tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. 'Up Borderers! Forward!'

There was no reaction as the men hugged themselves closer to the ground or tried to find what cover they could. Selkirk realised he was nearly the only man standing, and it seemed that every Turk in Gallipoli was aiming at him.

Crosier was still on his feet, bleeding from a wound on his face but striding around the prone soldiers, kicking at legs and feet as he urged them forward.

'Sir! Get down!' That was Turnbull, his smooth face smeared with dust and blood and one ear hanging loose where a bullet had ripped it half off. He did not look scared.

'No! Press on! Show them your cap badge, Royals! Get forward!' Selkirk hauled one man to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the Turkish lines, kicked another on the boots and swore at a third. 'Charge, Borderers! Forward!'

Other machine guns were firing now, so bullets kicked and pinged and whined around them as the Royal Borderers rose and rushed forward, now desperate to reach the Turkish lines. Some had fallen before they had the chance of a single step forward. One man looked behind at the dubious security of the British lines until Selkirk grabbed his shoulder and pushed him in the right direction. If one man headed back, the others might follow.

'Forward! Cut the distance!'

Then the Turks found the range again, and men fell in ones and twos and then in dozens. Selkirk ran forward, swearing and firing. He saw Pringle in front, his long legs covering the ground at a fast pace, but a burst of machine-gun bullets ripped into him, and he was thrown backwards, dead before he hit the ground. Turnbull yelled something incomprehensible and looked at his left arm, shot clean away from his body.

'Sir,' he looked at Selkirk in surprise, and then crumpled to the rocky ground.

Thomas Wright, a confectioner from Alnwick, screamed and fell on his face, but a Turkish bullet caught his ammunition belt, and he burst into instant flames. His screaming redoubled as he burned alive in the midst of his companions.

'Oh dear God!' David Johnson of Dumfries screamed in horror and rose to run, but the machine gun found him and blew the top of his head off. Selkirk looked around for something to douse Wright's flames, but there was nothing; the scrub vegetation around Wright began to smoulder and spark, and then the ammunition in his pouches began to explode. The men around Wright rose; some fled back to the British lines but most charged forward to fall in the vicious fire of the Turkish machine gun.

'That's the way lads: remember Wright and take the bayonet to the Turks!' Crosier's roar sounded even above the hellish din of battle.

More men were advancing, some cheering, others swearing, but when Selkirk glanced around, he saw Khaki-clad bodies smeared across the ground. He counted ten Royals; fifteen, maybe twenty still moving forward and then there was another sound as the Turks countered.

That deep Turkish music began again, backed by the staccato hammer of drums; the machine guns ceased fire. Only the spatter of Mausers poisoned the air. And then the Turkish singing intensified and abruptly stopped. Hundreds of Turks exploded through the dust haze, pouring out of cover toward the scattered Royal Borderers. Bayonets glittered through the dust, and then the two forces met the battered Borderers, shocked by the impact of massed machine guns, and the roaring veteran Turks defending their territory and their nation.

A Turk rushed toward Selkirk, the cross belt startlingly white against his brown uniform and his mouth open beneath a black moustache. Selkirk parried the wild bayonet lunge, but the Turk was muscular, and he crashed into Selkirk, sending him staggering back. The Turk powered forward, raised his rifle and levelled the bayonet at Selkirk's chest. His mouth opened in a roar of triumph, which gave Selkirk the opportunity to level his rifle and fire, and then lunge upward with his bayonet.

Selkirk felt the sickening slide of steel as it entered the Turk's body, gave a slight twist and withdrew. The Turk stiffened; bright blood spurted over his cross belt, and he coughed, spewing blood. Selkirk shoved him aside and looked around.

The Turkish counter attack was successful. The Royal Borderers had reeled back from the ground they had captured, and the survivors were in their original trenches, desperately firing all they had. Rather than sit and wait for the British, the Turks were surging forward, brave, stalwart men who moved from cover to cover as they advanced. A tall officer in an immaculate khaki uniform and bush hat led the most advanced group.

For a second his gaze met that of Selkirk. It was not the bright blue eyes or the prominent Roman nose that caught Selkirk's attention so much as the brilliant boyish smile. This man was no older than Selkirk's recruits, an enthusiastic young officer leading his men into battle. Selkirk frowned: the uniform was wrong. It was not Turkish: this man must be one of the German advisors he had heard about, and the burly man at his side must be his NCO, a German Crosier; Selkirk saw the officer lift a hand in hesitant salute, and then a drift of smoke concealed him. Selkirk realised he was the only Briton standing on the field of battle, with a score of enemy rifles firing at him.

When a bullet zipped past his ear, and another kicked up a fountain of dirt an inch away from his left foot Selkirk swore and ran back, leaping over the bodies of Border and Turkish dead.

'Right lads,' he yelled as he slid over the parapet of the trench. 'Hold fast now! The Turks will come at us!'

The young faces of the Royal Borderers were shocked at this introduction to warfare. Some were openly weeping; others ashamed that they had turned and run. Many cradled open wounds.

'Buck up, lads! Face your front and blast the buggers back!'

That singing started again, the words harsh but strangely moving. These Turks were good soldiers, well trained and brave as anybody Selkirk had ever encountered. They came forward in a rush, still singing as the long blades of their bayonets glinted in the sun.

'Here they come!' Selkirk hefted his rifle. 'Shoot them flat, lads!' From being the bold attackers now the Royal Borderers were the desperate defenders, firing from shallow trenches at an unknown number of Turkish infantry. The Turks charged through the dust, an amorphous mass of brown-khaki uniformed men, yelling, singing, stabbing with their long bayonets. Selkirk fired until his magazine was empty, reloaded and fired again, working the bolt of his Lee-Enfield as he shouted encouragement to his men.

'Come on Borderers! Push them back!' He reloaded, fired, swore and glanced right and left to see his men. He had an instant snapshot of them, some firing, and two lying in crumpled heaps on the bottom of the trench, one with blood pouring from a head wound.

Sudden silence. Selkirk stopped; he had experienced this phenomenon in previous battles when for some inexplicable reason men stopped firing and shouting. He heard the ragged gasping of frightened men, the moaning of the wounded, and the high screams of the mortally hit. He took a deep breath and then the singing began again. It was strangely beautiful, this deep throated singing. It started quietly and then quickened until it rose to a crescendo.

'Here they come again!'

Reinforcements had joined the Turks, so a solid mass of khaki-brown ran toward the British trenches. The whole of Selkirk's vision seemed full of advancing infantry and long bayonets. He stood behind the sandbags, firing until he was sure the barrel of his rifle was red-hot.

One group advanced in front of the rest, led by the smiling German officer. Selkirk fired, cursed as he realised his rifle was empty and fumbled for an ammunition clip.

'Out of ammo,' he yelled, 'ammo!'

In the confusion of battle, nobody heard his call, so he dropped the rifle, pulled his Webley revolver and aimed at the Turks.

In the few moments when he had searched for ammunition, the situation had altered. The Turks were right at the lip of the trenches, with the German officer firing a Luger. A man to Selkirk's right fell, and then the Turks were among them, and it was bayonet to bayonet and butt to butt. A grenade exploded with a vicious crump, a machine gun chattered and then fell silent, and Selkirk was face to face with the young German officer.

Both men fired and missed. Before Selkirk could squeeze the trigger again, the German officer was at his throat, growling. The man was taller that Selkirk's five foot ten, broader in the chest and about fifteen years younger. As soon as Selkirk felt the strength of the German's grip he allowed his body to go limp. The sudden dead weight surprised the German, who staggered forward, momentarily unbalanced and Selkirk rammed a knee hard into his groin, following up with a punch to his kidneys.

As the German screamed, Selkirk reached for a discarded rifle. He ignored the lunge of the German sergeant over the lip of the trench; one enemy at a time was sufficient for anybody. The German officer lay in a foetal ball, groaning and holding his groin with both hands. Selkirk lifted the rifle and plunged the bayonet between his ribs, twisted to increase the wound and withdrew. The German gave a long gasp and arched his back so for a second Selkirk stared directly into his pale blue eyes.

'Sir! Major Selkirk!'

Selkirk spun around, prepared to thrust his bayonet into the speaker.

'It's me, sir!' Crosier barely managed to deflect the blade. 'They're running, sir!'

Selkirk took a deep breath to try and control his racing heart. He looked back over the parapet, but the Turks were no longer surging forward but withdrawing in very good order. The German sergeant looked directly at him.

Selkirk checked his watch. 13.45; three hours since the attack had started, but it seemed like only seconds. What had happened to the time?

Semple slid over the lip of the trench and crumpled to the ground. As Selkirk reached to help him, he stood up. 'I'm all right, sir.' He was still the spotty adolescent of that morning, but his eyes were ancient. One morning of war had turned the boy into a man. He would never be the same again.

'What's all this?'

Selkirk looked up as Colonel Palgrove marched along the trench, 'Selkirk! I ordered you to take the Turkish positions, not run from them!' His carefully trimmed moustache seemed to bristle.

'We need more artillery support, sir!' Selkirk pointed ahead. 'The Navy ignored Fir Tree Spur and concentrated on the other fronts, and we have only weak divisional artillery.' He felt his anger rise, and faced up to the colonel, 'there's the result, sir,' he pointed to the dead and broken bodies that lay in obscene profusion across over the parched ground. 'These lads died because there was no proper artillery!'

Palgrove took a deep breath. 'I know all about that, Selkirk, but General Hunter-Weston wants us to advance and take the position. Where's Major Humble?'

Selkirk looked around. 'I have not seen him since the action began, sir.'

I did not see him during the battle either.

'Right; he must be dead or wounded. I want you to take the left flank of the battalion, and I will take the right. I have brought forward the support lines, so we have fresh men. You have ten minutes to get them organised, and then we will advance on my whistle.'

'Yes, sir.' Used to impossible orders, Selkirk moved to obey.

The supports were also Territorials; they looked in horror at the scattered bodies on the battlefield, the crumpled dead and the writhing wounded. They winced as a Turkish machine gun rattled somewhere to the north, and when one of the injured let out a series of long drawn out howls. Wright still burned, with the stench of his body an added horror.

'Don't fret boys,' Crosier tried to restore morale that was evidently flagging. 'You'll get used to it.' He watched as one man turned aside and vomited onto the ground. 'That's the way lad, better out than in.'

Colonel Palgrove ignored both. 'This time you will press on Selkirk and no hesitation. The general wants Fir Tree Spur captured by two this afternoon, no matter what the cost. No stopping this time; no matter how many casualties. Do you understand?' Palgrove pushed his face close to Selkirk's.

'Yes, sir,' Selkirk nodded. He knew that was a virtual death sentence for him and what remained of this battalion of the Royal Borderers, but General Hunter-Weston, Hunter –Bunter to nearly everybody, was known to be a commander who cared nothing for the men under his command.

'Wait!' That was a different voice. 'Are you Major Andrew Selkirk of the Royal Borderers?'

Selkirk hesitated for a second, and then admitted the fact.

'Then I must talk to you.' The man was small and slight, with a clean shaven face, the red tabs of a staff officer and the insignia of a brigadier.

Palgrove looked round. 'Who the devil are you, sir?'

'Brigadier John Smith,' the man said calmly. He did not flinch at the renewed rattle of a machine gun. 'And I am afraid I am going to deprive you of the use of this officer.'

'What?' Palgrove stared at him. 'We are about to go into an attack, sir. I need all my officers!'

Smith glanced over the parapet of the trench just as a Turkish machine gunner sprayed it with fire; spurts of sand and dust bounced into the air, hung in a faint haze and slowly descended. 'If you need all your officers,' he said, 'then I suggest you do not send them forward into machine gun fire. You won't keep them long that way.'

'Orders must be obeyed,' Palgrove said.

'Indeed they must.' Smith took a folded document from inside his tunic and handed it over to Palgrove. In the distance, there was the sound of cheering, the rapid rattle of a machine gun and then silence.

'You continue with your duty to this regiment, Selkirk,' Palgrove ordered, but as Selkirk moved to obey, Smith put a delicate hand on his sleeve.

'No, Major. You had best stay here until Colonel Palgrove has read my orders.'

The nearest men were listening, inching closer to see what was happening. 'Be about your business lads,' Selkirk said. 'Check your ammunition and tell the supports what it's like out there. We will be back over the top in a few moments.'

The men looked at him with haunted eyes. They knew that there was no hope of breaking through along the spur, but they were soldiers and they obeyed.

'I'll look after them, sir,' Crosier promised.

Palgrove scanned the document. 'What the devil?' He seemed to like that expression. He looked down at the diminutive Smith. 'Is this from Hamilton himself?'

'It is,' Smith said. He turned aside for a second and helped a private soldier check his rifle. 'Have these men not been trained how to be soldiers?'

'Not properly, sir,' Selkirk told him. 'They are Territorials just off the boat yesterday and thrown into action.'

'Damned shame,' Smith said. 'Damnable bad luck that.'

'Damnable,' Selkirk echoed.

Palgrove folded the document neatly and handed it back to Smith. 'Well Selkirk, it seems that you are needed elsewhere. The battalion will have to manage without you. You go along with the Brigadier.'

'Sir … my men?' Selkirk faced Smith directly.

'They are no longer your men, Selkirk,' Smith told him. 'As from this minute you are under my direct command. Come on.'

As Selkirk walked down toward the beaches, the cry 'Royal Borderers' reached him, high and faint, and then the rattle of Turkish machine guns. He was ushered into a steam launch and taken out to sea.

Chapter One

Valetta, Malta 02 July 1915

Selkirk admired the opulence of the room. Just a few days previously he had been hugging the bottom of a filthy trench as Turkish machine gunners tried their best to perforate him, but now he was surrounded by incredible luxury.

The golden frame of the mirror that hung on one wall would be worth a king's ransom alone, while the leather armchairs were thick and comfortable and the desk surface was polished perfection. A map of the Middle East spread across the entire opposite wall, with coloured pins showing the position of the various armies, red for Britain, blue for France and green for the Ottoman forces. There seemed many more green pins than red or blue. Behind the desk, an open window allowed in all the heat of a Maltese summer, while the musical tinkle of a fountain reminded Selkirk that the room overlooked a secluded courtyard in the very centre of Valletta.

Outside the door, a Royal Marine stood on guard. Unlike many sentries, the marine carried a fully loaded rifle, and his fixed bayonet glittered under the lights. The chevrons on his sleeve and medal ribbons on his breast confirmed he was a veteran, there to keep out intruders and not just for ceremonial effect.

There were four men in the room apart from Selkirk. Brigadier Smith sat on the left side of the desk, his face expressionless as he scrutinised Selkirk. There was a bald civilian in an immaculate old fashioned suit with a winged collar on the far right while two red-tabbed generals occupied the other seats. One had a central parting and a plump face, while the other was tall, moustached and frail looking with a withered left arm. It was the tall general who looked up at Selkirk and gave a surprisingly friendly smile.

'Major Andrew Selkirk, I presume.'

Selkirk smiled at the attempted humour. 'That's right, sir.' He stood at attention until the tall general motioned for him to sit down.

'General Iain Hamilton,' he introduced himself briefly, 'and this is General Sir John Maxwell,' he indicated the plump faced second officer, 'and Mr Jones of the Government. You already know Brigadier Smith of course.'

Selkirk shook hands with each man. Smith's grip was like iron while Jones merely touched the tips of his fingers and withdrew. Maxwell nodded; his eyes were bright but disinterested.

'You will be wondering what this is all about, Selkirk?' Hamilton smiled across to him.

'Yes, sir.' Selkirk studied the general. Everybody in the Army knew Hamilton by reputation. As a young officer, he had lost the use of his left arm fighting the Boers at Majuba; he had fought through the Great Boer War, and on the North- West Frontier, he had fought the Mahdis in the Sudan and had been an observer at the Russo-Japanese War. Now he led the Allied army at Gallipoli; not a bad collection of campaigns for a man with a bad limp and a very delicate appearance.

'Sit down, man,' Hamilton indicated a seat. 'Cigar?' He proffered a box.

'No thank you, sir. I don't.' Selkirk shook his head.

'Quite right; filthy habit,' Hamilton grinned. He did not offer the box to Smith or Jones, but Maxwell took a cigar and slowly lit up. 'Now, let me get this straight before we begin. You are Major Andrew Selkirk of the Royal Borderers?'

'Yes, sir.' Selkirk glanced down at his battered khaki. It compared unfavourably with the splendid dress uniforms of Maxwell, Smith and Hamilton but he had come straight from the front without time to pack anything smarter.

'You served throughout the South African War, fighting at Modder, Magersfontein, Klip Drift and the siege of Kimberley?'

Hamilton did not refer to any notes. He held Selkirk's eyes throughout his recitation.

'Yes, sir, I was in the ranks in those battles…'

'I am well aware of that, Selkirk,' Hamilton said cheerfully. Smith nodded but Jones the civilian, if he was a civilian, gave Selkirk a glassy-eyed stare.

'I remember you in the later stages,' Maxwell spoke with a slight Liverpool accent, 'when I commanded in the Western Transvaal.'

Selkirk nodded. 'Yes, sir.' He had never met Maxwell before but knew him by reputation as an honest commander who was skilled in dealing with the Boer population.

'You were given a field commission and raised a body of irregular horse, known as Selkirk's Reivers, to act as scouts for the mobile columns: correct?' Hamilton continued.

'Yes, sir,' Selkirk agreed. He compared those free ranging days on the veldt with the terrible yard-by-yard trench warfare in Gallipoli and France.

'Your Reivers were also used as a special force for more…' Hamilton hesitated for a significant second, 'clandestine operations in areas out with the principal campaigns.'

Selkirk nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'And since then you have been farming in South Africa, but the war called you back to the Colours.' Hamilton finished off Selkirk's career with a neat flourish.

'That is correct sir.' Selkirk agreed.

'Good,' Hamilton leaned back in his chair. 'I had to make sure we had the right man. There are quite a few Andrew Selkirks in the Army, but only one who led Selkirk's Reivers.' He perused Selkirk for a few moments while Smith and Jones sat like sphinxes, silent and inscrutable. Maxwell was busily writing notes, with the sound of his pen loud in the room. 'I may have a little job for you, Selkirk, if Brigadier Smith and Mr Jones think you are up to it, and General Maxwell agrees you are suitable.' A wave of his hand indicated his companions.

'Yes, sir.' Selkirk glanced at Smith, who nodded and at Jones, who stared at him through basilisk eyes. Maxwell looked up and gave a small inclination of his chin.

'I remember these irregular units,' Maxwell said quietly. 'They played a part in suppressing the Boer commandos, but I am less convinced that they will be of use in more conventional warfare.' He put down his pen. 'Tell us what you think of the present military situation in the Middle East, Selkirk.'

Selkirk blinked. 'That's a big subject, sir,' he said, but all four men on the opposite side of the desk gazed at him unblinkingly. He walked to the map and pointed to the various areas about which he spoke.

'Well, we are facing the Asakr -I Shahaneh – the Ottoman Army - across the Suez Canal, in Gallipoli and further east in Mesopotamia, from Basra northward.' He stopped; hoping that was enough but the four men said nothing. Hamilton raised his eyebrows as an encouragement to continue.

'When the Gallipoli campaign succeeds,' Selkirk pointed to the area from which he had just come, 'it should force the Ottoman Empire - Turkey out of the war, but until then we are fighting on three different fronts, and we are already heavily committed in France and various places in Africa.' Selkirk had paid little attention to the wider issues of the war. He thought as a regimental officer, caring for his men and intent only on achieving the next objective. 'The Turks attacked Suez earlier this year, and we pushed them back, but apart from that it has been quiet there.'

Hamilton shook his head. 'Not quite, Selkirk. The Ottomans attacked at the end of January, and a couple of their companies managed to cross the Suez Canal near Ismailia. General Maxwell here kicked them out, but it was no rout; they fought well and withdrew in good order.' He smiled; 'Jacko Turk is a bonny fighter.'

'But we forced them back,' Selkirk insisted.

'Not all the way to Palestine,' Maxwell leaned forward in his chair, 'we had to abandon Sinai to them. The Ottomans once owned Egypt, as you know, and they want it back while we are busy elsewhere. We are stretched pretty thin until Kitchener's volunteers come through in strength, and even then the French theatre will still take priority.'

Selkirk thought of the casualties in Gallipoli. The army surely could not afford to lose men on such a scale.

Maxwell continued. 'A German named Frederich Von Kressenstein commands the Turks in Sinai, and he is an active officer with raids and attacks. Only two months ago his forces mined the canal, and he continues to probe and test our defences along the Suez border.'

'I see, sir.' Selkirk said.

'Do you, Selkirk?' Jones spoke for the first time. 'Do you understand exactly how important the Suez Canal is? The lifeblood of the Empire passes this way; it is the main artery of trade between India and all points East, and Egypt and all points west, including Great Britain. Under British rule it is open for free trade and every nation in the world can use the canal. Now; could you imagine world – not just British but world – trade under Ottoman or German control?'

There was silence in the room, broken only by the faint sound of people in the square outside. Selkirk nodded. Until now he had thought of the war only regarding Britain; the greater meaning and the possible outcomes, apart from the loss of prestige and hideous loss of life, had not occurred to him.

Maxwell glanced at Smith and then Jones, who gave a brief nod, as though granting permission to continue.

'I see you understand, Selkirk.' Maxwell said. 'Now this German fellow, Von Kressenstein, is sitting pretty somewhere in Sinai but we have information that the Turks are planning a major push to overrun us at Suez and seize the Canal.' He paused there and glanced at his companions.

'Carry on, Maxwell,' Hamilton said at once, while Smith gave an imperceptible nod.

'Sources have told us that the Turkish commander in Sinai, Dermal Pasha, is shortly meeting Von Kressenstein to organise a much larger attack on the canal. As I already said, this is to be no mere raid, but a full blown advance to capture Suez and disrupt Britain's lines of communication and supply. The Gallipoli campaign,' he glanced toward Hamilton, 'has diverted troops from Von Kressenstein's force, but has also weakened the potential of our defence.'

'Yes, sir.' Selkirk looked from face to face across the table.

'The thing is, we are not sure where Von Kressenstein is, or in what force.' Maxwell spoke slowly, 'and that is what we want you to find out.' He glanced at Hamilton and Smith. 'We have aircraft from the RFC out there, but they have seen nothing so far. We remember your exploits from the South African war and Hamilton thinks you have the imagination and expertise for the job, but I wanted to see you first.'

Selkirk felt that familiar surge of excitement. 'Yes, sir,' he glanced at Hamilton, who beamed at him. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Oh don't thank me, Selkirk, this is a dangerous job we are giving you, but it is critical and may advance your career.'

Maxwell grunted, apparently unhappy at this unwarranted attention paid to a junior officer. 'As from now, Selkirk, you are transferred from General Hamilton's command to mine.'

'Yes, sir.' Selkirk said. 'Do you wish me to raid against Van Kressenstein's force?'

'No, I want you to locate him and wait for my orders.' Maxwell snapped. 'This is not South Africa. There is no place in the modern British Army for tip-and-run raids and breaking windows with golden guineas.'

Jones glanced at Smith. 'Is this man trustworthy?' He asked bluntly.

'He is a British officer…' Hamilton interrupted, but Jones grunted at that.

'Selkirk is only an officer by default; he rose through the ranks so is hardly a gentleman.' Jones fixed Selkirk with eyes like acid. 'He joined the army rather than be jailed for horse theft. I ask again: can he be trusted?'

Selkirk felt his temper rise at the slight but kept his tongue firmly behind his teeth and said nothing. The class consciousness of the British Army was nothing new to him, and he had learned to ignore it whenever possible.

'General Hector MacDonald rose through the ranks…' Hamilton began, but Jones interrupted him.