The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (best ereader for pc TXT) 📗

you really want to test me on King’s Regulations, in the precarious situation you’re in? A commanding officer is, I’m sure, perfectly entitled to place stoppages on his subordinates pay as he sees fit. Now report back here at 8:30am sharp. The orderly will tell you where you can get yourself cleaned up. You smell like a fishwife,’ Sir George quipped. After all the barbs he’d endured from Churchill, it felt good to be handing them out again.

‘Yes, Sir George, and thank you once again, I’m sure I’ll fit in swimmingly here,’ Swift said gratefully.

‘And why’s that?’ Sir George asked, returning to his paperwork.

‘Well, it used to be a whorehouse. It must be terribly humiliating for a man of your pious sensibilities to have ended up here.’ Sir George looked up and glared, but now he’d played his cards, Swift had realised he needed him and the insubordinate gleam was back in his eye.

‘Oh, just get out, you swine,’ Sir George shouted. Once Swift had fulfilled his function, there was no reason why he couldn’t be executed by his regiment.

Chapter 39

Sir George folded his newspaper and enjoyed the cool evening breeze blowing through the officers’ club. He sipped crisps gin and tonic taking stock of the officers piling into the bar.

The rumour was that Hamilton would be leaving his administrative staff behind when he moved his HQ to Lemnos. Sir George had no intention of being with them. There weren’t many laurels to be won shuffling paper around in Alexandria. He needed to form connections fast to secure a place in the inner circle.

Braithwaite, the chief of staff, was holding court with some of the new influx of officers from the 29th Division. He looked a typical regular army type, cold, hard, unimaginative and not inclined to entrust responsibility to a Whitehall civil servant. Definitely not someone who could be approached directly, Sir George decided.

With the practiced skill of an old campaigner, he’d positioned himself on an armchair near Major Jack Churchill. As the First Lord of the Admiralty’s brother, he wouldn’t be left behind and might hold some sway as to who else would be taken. He was therefore the obvious choice for Sir George to befriend and make use of his rather convenient relations.

There was even a family association between them, why he hadn’t thought to exploit it earlier was beyond him. Sir George sipped his gin and told himself that he couldn’t be expected to think of everything.

He picked up a copy of The Times and threw it away. The thing was hopelessly out of date. Reluctantly he reached for the Egyptian Gazette and snorted in disgust. A front page spread informed the world that a unit of French troops had newly arrived in Egypt, for the coming invasion of Turkey. The rag even had the cheek to speculate on the Allies’ chances of success.

‘Absolute disgrace, isn’t it?’ Sir George’s little performance had attracted the attention of Jack Churchill. Who was pointing his empty glass at the Gazette.

‘Surely something can be done to muzzle them?’ Sir George asked.

‘Sir Ian has taken the trouble of writing to the High Commissioner, but it would seem the Egyptian press is beyond his control.’

‘Absolute disgrace.’ Sir George agreed.

‘You’re Smyth, aren’t you, sent here under a bit of a cloud?’ Churchill Minor asked him.

‘I had the honour of working with your elder brother at the Admiralty and I’ve been sent here to act as his eyes and ears.’

‘I see like that is it.’ Jack raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Sir George shifted uncomfortably and pressed on his attack.

‘I believe our wives are acquainted.’

‘Oh, how extraordinary.’

‘My wife Lady Elizabeth Smyth was part of the same set as…’

‘Oh, you’re the sap that took on Libby de Lillebonne! Well, if that don’t beat all.’ Jack Churchill raised an eyebrow. Sir George maintained his stiff reserve, he’d prepared himself to take some ribbing about his marriage.

‘But you’ve got it completely wrong old chap. Libby was a friend of Clementine Hozier as was. Now Clemmy Churchill, my brother’s wife, but surely you must have stayed at Alderley.’

‘No, no I didn’t.’ If he’d been that well acquainted with the First Sea Lord or known that his dratted wife was, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

‘I think you’ve got it slightly wrong, Clemmy was a family friend. Libby would have been too young to raze hell in her set. Still quite a girl from what I hear, earned something of a reputation as a gambler. Caused a bit of a stir at the time, but all hushed up. Family married her off to avoid a scandal. No offence.’

‘Not at all. Can I get you a drink, I seem to have run dry?’ Sir George said signalling to a waiter.

Major Churchill exchanged a nod with a brusque general. ‘That’s Hunter-Weston, commander of the 29th Division. Made a name for himself in France.’

Sir George nodded at Hunter-Weston, but he’d already passed them by. Sir George was pleased none the less, Churchill was the person he needed.

‘Hunter-Bunter don’t really rate our chances when the big show opens.’ Major Churchill said, alarming Sir George.

‘But there can’t be any doubt that the chief can pull it off?’

‘Hamilton? Well, he’s respected in the army, seen more combat than any other senior officer and has been recommended for the Victoria Cross three times. His downfall as far as I can make out is what some people call independent thinking.’

Major Churchill paused as the waiter brought over a bottle of gin and a bottle of tonic and carefully poured out two large measures.

‘Independent thinking?’ Sir George prompted, taking his drink and passing the other to Churchill.

Churchill winked and lifted his glass in thanks. ‘Yes, Hamilton’s written a number of books in which he has expressed the opinion, among other things, that cavalry has