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

all the damned fool things. He should have sent a runner. Still, Hare never could resist a fight.’

‘I'm to inform you, that you’re now in charge of the covering force,’ Johnny said.

‘Yes, I am aware of the chain of command, Swift,’ Newenham said. ‘Well, you've delivered your message, you can lend a hand now.’

Johnny looked up the gentle slope that led to the summit of Hill 114. It was devoid of any cover and gave the Turks a perfect field of fire.

‘What are you waiting for, man?’ the Colonel shouted.

Johnny baulked. Surely he had done his bit. He considered lying and saying that Franklin had ordered him to return immediately, but Colonel Newenham was in charge now and could supersede Franklin’s orders. Johnny remembered Hamilton’s words. If he didn’t make a good show of it he’d shoot him himself. After everything he'd been through. At least this time Johnny remembered that he had his revolver. Johnny took it out of the holster. It felt solid and reassuring.

Johnny shrugged at Williams and together they half ran half crawled up the Hill to a line of Royal Fusiliers on the ground, firing at the enemy. An officer blew his whistle and the men sprang forward, dropped and fired a volley, advanced again to within a few yards of the enemy trench, and let lose a final blast of rapid fire.

‘Come on, lads, at them,’ the officer bellowed.

The men of the Royal Fusiliers charged. Johnny heard cheering from one of the ships in the bay behind them, merging with the cries of the injured men on the ground and the constant zip of the bullets. He raced ahead of the line.

A Turk, wearing one of their strange conical helmets, aimed a rifle at him, over the parapet of the trench. Johnny pointed his revolver at him and pulled the trigger until the Turk disappeared in a cloud of blood.

The trench opened up before him and Johnny tumbled in. A scrawny Turkish soldier tried to stab him with a bayonet. Johnny shot him twice and climbed to his feet. He felt something hit him on the shoulder and a Turkish sergeant had his hands around Johnny’s throat, his pale eyes wide with frenzy. Johnny tried to push him off but stunned by the blow he couldn’t move his left arm.

Johnny raised the revolver in his right hand, struggling to get the barrel against the side of the sergeant’s chest and pulled the trigger on an empty chamber. He was starting to see purple. With his last scrap of strength Johnny smashed the revolver against the sergeant’s elbow. He heard bone snap and the vice around his throat opened.

The sergeant cried out and Johnny brought his forehead down on the bridge of the man’s nose. He crumpled to his knees. The force of the blow surprised Johnny for a moment, until he realised that Williams had bayoneted the sergeant.

‘Thanks,’ Johnny croaked between ragged breaths. The Royal Fusiliers had taken the trench and were pushing on to link up with the Lancashires. Johnny rubbed his shoulder, the feeling was starting to come back.

‘Do you think we should go after them?’ Johnny opened his Webley and tried to reload it, but his hands were trembling too much.

Williams shook his head, leaning against the side of the trench, and started to roll a cigarette. ‘You bloody fool, what were you thinking running ahead like that, sir?’

‘I couldn’t bear it. The noise,’ Johnny whispered into a coughing fit. Then managed a grin. ‘I wasn’t the captain of the school rugby team for nothing.’

He straightened up drawing comfort from the familiar words and moved round the trench to look over at W beach. The Turks had had a wonderful view of it, and now they’d been cleared from the strong point the men down there were advancing steadily on the trenches at the centre of the beach.

The Lancashires had taken the opposite cliff and were moving forward towards Hill 138, the fortified position between W and V beach. Beyond that Johnny had clear sight of the rest of Cape Helles and the Turkish defences.

‘Here, I’ve managed to pick out the driest tobacco.’ Williams handed him a cigarette.

‘Hey, we’ve got a Jerry officer,’ a shout came up from the next bay in the trench, followed by a cry and a string of broken German oaths that explained exactly what the officer thought of the parentage of his British captors.

Johnny threw the cigarette away and ran around the traverse into the bay. A group of Royal Fusiliers were standing over a wounded German, who was looking defiantly back at them.

‘What the bloody hell are we meant to do with him?’ one of the Fusiliers asked. ‘It’s not as if we can take him to an aid station.’

‘No point, bastard’s probably had it,’ another replied.

‘It’s alright, corporal, leave him to me,’ Johnny said.

The corporal eyed him suspiciously. ‘Want to do him in, sir? You’re a right blood thirsty one. I saw you run up this hill.’

The German looked terrified and Johnny realised that he was still holding his revolver and put it back in his holster.

‘I need to question him.’ Johnny looked around and saw a dugout. ‘Take him in there, if you please.’

‘Very good, sir,’ the corporal said, glad to be released from the responsibility, and dragged the German into the dugout.

‘All the comforts of home,’ Johnny said to the corporal and helped the German onto a camp bed.

‘Is there anything else, sir? Would you like me to tuck him in and read him a bedtime story? Or should I get ready in case his mates decide to come back?’

‘You can get on with securing the trenches and less of the tone, thank you, corporal,’ Johnny said.

The corporal looked about to turn on Johnny then caught William’s eye, standing with