Grace looked consideringly at each questioning face raised to hers – Iskander, Lily, Joe and Rathmore – and replied slowly, ‘Yes. In fact there are things I would like to clear up before we get back to the fort. I have things to tell you – a story going well back into the past, a story that starts in a ravine not far from here . . .’ Grace looked around her and shivered, ‘. . . that encompasses the death of Zeman and ends with the birth of that small Afridi boy. But I can see only half the picture and we must look to Iskander to fill in the details that have been hidden from me.’
Iskander nodded. No one interrupted and she resumed, a supreme raconteuse, apparently telling a story by a camp fire but Joe sensed that she was taking no pleasure in the telling. Her eyes were full of pain and fixed on a distant past.
‘Before the war, about four years before the war, a section of the First Peshawar Scouts, based at Fort Hamilton as Gor Khatri was called before it was refurbished, was in the throes of a more than usually bloody struggle with the local Afridi. They’d been having problems for some months – the Afridi had somehow or other got their hands on large numbers of first-class bolt-action rifles and were keen to show their prowess. A barrampta – a punishment squad I believe they called it – was sent out to teach them a lesson but they got into difficulties and had to make a run for it. The whole thing was botched I must think – the patrol was under strength for the job it had to do and the Afridi had been underestimated. They were cock-a-hoop and tails up and giving our chaps a thorough pasting. Several wounded, some dead.
‘They were making their way back, over rough ground, retreating to the shelter of a back-up force that came out belatedly to cover them with Lewis gun fire when an awful thing happened. One of the men – he was their medical officer – fell from a cliff he was climbing with others and was very badly injured. Not walking, not even crawling wounded. Well, I don’t need to spell out the implications. His own men wanted to go in and fetch him out in spite of the thick enemy fire and the difficulties of the terrain. Harry – the MO was called Harry – was lying in an impossible situation at the bottom of a ravine with Afridi lined up overhead ready to pick off anyone attempting a rescue.
‘It would have been a suicide mission had it taken place but it was never attempted. The Colonel commanding ordered the men to stand down and who shall say he was wrong?’ Grace paused, thoughtful.
‘Couldn’t they have shot him?’ asked Lily anxiously. ‘I mean, I think that’s what they would normally do, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. But he was at the bottom of the defile and they couldn’t get him in their sights. Well, there was one man in the company who wasn’t prepared to leave it like that. He was a subaltern, only twenty years old at the time and he’d only just joined the unit but he knew what was bound to happen to Harry if no one acted. His name was Jock – his nickname I should say – inevitable, because he was a Scotsman.’
Joe stirred uneasily but made no attempt to interrupt.
‘And, as many Scotsmen do, he carried one of those little daggers they have in the Highlands . . .’
‘A skian dhu,’ Joe supplied.
‘Yes, that’s it. It means a black knife, I believe. He also had his pistol and armed with these he set off by himself, disobeying orders, into the gathering gloom. As he crept along he noticed that the Afridi had melted away in their Pathan way and left the ravine apparently clear for him. But when he got to the place where Harry had fallen he found he was too late – others had got there before him. Two Afridi lagging behind the rest had found Harry and were robbing him. They’d taken his gun and were searching through his pockets. They were so occupied with this they didn’t hear Jock approach and he killed them both silently. When he turned his attention to Harry he realized there was little he could do for him. The man was a doctor and knew perfectly well the gravity of his own injuries. He told Jock that his back was broken and he could not possibly survive and he asked him to do what was expected of him.’
‘Poor man! And poor kid! What a god-awful thing to have to do,’ Lily murmured.
‘Yes. Bad enough for Harry but he was a seasoned soldier and medical man. He knew what was what and what had to be done. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like for that young subaltern to have to pull the trigger. The first time he’d killed in action and he had to put a bullet in his friend. He’d become very fond of Harry . . . everyone was fond of Harry.’ Her voice was becoming more indistinct. She rallied and said more brightly, ‘But, at the end, I thank God he met his death looking into a friendly face! If Jock hadn’t made that brave but suicidal dash into the ravine, much, very much, worse would have occurred.’