From Eden to Babylon

Nigel Messenger

Description

A filthy barge arrives in Basra full of near-dead British soldiers, wounded, starved and dehydrated without basic care and medicine. A British officer and his team take the poor men off the barge and onto a steamer headed for Bombay and then they are taken by train to a hospital in Northern India. He recognises one badly wounded man who had saved his life in South Africa in the horrendous Boer War some years before. When this man's sister travels to India from England to nurse him back to health, she falls for his rescuer and they marry after the war in Murree. World War One action takes place in Mesopotamia, India and South Africa and follows the adventures of members of a family who work and fight together and finally reunite at the family wedding.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 mai 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528959971
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

From Eden to Babylon
Nigel Messenger
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-05-31
From Eden to Babylon About the Author About the Book Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgement From Basra to Simla:Herbert’s Rescue Mission South Africa:Herbert’s First War The Wilderness of Zin:Eddie’s Venture into Sinai Political Officer:Gerald’s Work in Mesopotamia Kut al-Amara:Eddie’s Trapped Army The Battles for Kut: Gerald and the Rescue Attempts Kut: The Dying Days: Eddie’s Starving Men Herbert and Gerald: Supplying the Army Amicia: Travelling to India Afterword Bibliography The Miracle of Michmash Megiddo, the Battles for Armageddon
About the Author
Nigel Messenger is a hotelier who was inspired to write his first novel, The Miracle of Michmash , having heard about an extraordinary battle in the Old Testament which was mirrored in a WW1 battle in Palestine.
He has been working with the Poppy Factory for almost 30 years, supporting wounded, injured and sick veterans into employment in the UK.
He is now writing his fourth novel, which also has a WW1 theme.
About the Book
A filthy barge arrives in Basra full of near-dead British soldiers, wounded, starved and dehydrated without basic care and medicine. A British officer and his team take the poor men off the barge and onto a steamer headed for Bombay and then they are taken by train to a hospital in Northern India. He recognises one badly wounded man who had saved his life in South Africa in the horrendous Boer War some years before. When this man’s sister travels to India from England to nurse him back to health, she falls for his rescuer and they marry after the war in Murree.
World War One action takes place in Mesopotamia, India and South Africa and follows the adventures of members of a family who work and fight together and finally reunite at the family wedding.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all those who defend our shores.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Nigel Messenger (2019)
The right of Nigel Messenger to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528912013 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528912020 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528959971 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
To family members, past and present. To Amicia and Herbert, my grandparents; and Uncle Eddie, who all frame this story.
To Amicia’s granddaughter, also called Amicia, who generously allowed me to use her excellent school project on the life of her grandparents. Amicia and her family live in Texas and are great supporters.
To Tom Adam, who does extremely valuable work for the Poppy Factory and generously allowed me to use very moving letters written by his relative Daniel Cunnington in WW1.
To my family, too many to mention, who have supported me in so many ways; and to my long-suffering wife, Maura.
From Basra to Simla:Herbert’s Rescue Mission
With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,
Troopships bring us one by one,
Vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.
The “captives of our bow and spear”
Are cheap, alas! as we are dear.
Rudyard Kipling
I recognised Eddie Manwaring-White as soon as I saw him in Basra, even though the left half of his face was blown away. His emaciated frame gave witness to the terrible suffering he had endured for so long. The poorly tied bandage had fallen away from his face revealing a horrible open gash which had festered with maggots but there was no evidence of gangrene yet. His left eye was partially exposed, and his mouth was torn into an evil grin. His left nostril was torn away. I could see that he had suffered appalling wounds, pain, starvation and subsequent neglect. I thought he was dead at first: he lay still and had a grey pallor and if he was not dead yet, he very soon would be. I had first met him in Ladysmith, Africa, when he had saved my reputation, career and possibly, my life.
Earlier, I had watched as the river steamer loomed into view down the Shatt al-Arab River towing a barge towards the rudimentary docks at Basra. The wounded should have been transported on the hospital steamer but there were just too many men being carried from the horrors of Kut five hundred miles away. But even these steamers were now little better than the barges, with terrible overcrowding, filth and were ridden with disease. The rain was drizzling miserably as I stood there waiting for the barge to pull up at the concrete platform. I saw dozens of coils of ropes hanging over and running along the sides. I soon realised that these were not ropes at all but lines of excrement which had solidified and clung to the sides of the barge. As the boat came closer, I could see a cloud of mosquitoes and flies above the open deck which housed hundreds of our wounded men. The haze of miasma and the toxic, disgusting smell soon enveloped us. I quickly inserted two bits of cotton into my nostrils and tied a smock across my mouth and this helped a little, but I was still close to throwing up. Even my stoic Sikh havildar (sergeant) flinched but managed to keep his composure.
We watched as the Arab crew safely secured the craft to the pier. Havildar Singh stepped on board and turned his head away in horror. He never showed his emotions, so I was surprised to see his temporary loss of control. I followed and cried out in shock. I had never witnessed anything like this before and I had seen enough terrible sights. The wrecked British bodies in Africa and the vile inhumanity of our concentration camps had, I thought, made me immune from all human excesses—but I was wrong. This was much worse. There was shit and blood everywhere attracting millions of flies and mosquitoes. There were hundreds of brown and white bodies exposed to all the extreme elements this horrible country could inflict on them. The men were lying side by side pressed together to maximise space. I cried out in disgust and shouted to the Arab boy I thought was in charge.
“Hey, you! What the fucking hell is this? What kind of bloody bastard are you? I’ll have you horse-whipped. Explain yourself, you vile piece of shit.”
For those who know me, this kind of language was unheard of, in fact, I had never spoken those words before but of course, I had heard them often enough and worse. My havildar showed his shock but not his surprise. My shouting made no impression on the crewman and he turned his back as if he did not understand or even hear me. I decided to put in a formal complaint to the dock master; in fact, to add this to a long list I had already made.
That’s when I saw Eddie; I recognised him immediately despite his terrible wounds. The men lying alongside him had a horrible range of wounds and diseases: limbs were missing, stomachs torn and exposed, and even gunshot wounds in hands and feet, evidence of self-injury to escape their hellhole. One man had a suspected broken hip and was lying in an awkward curve. He must have suffered terrible pain. There were cases of malaria, typhoid, dysentery and even one case of measles.
I spoke to my havildar to ask him and his men to take some water to the living and to remove the dead. We had a cart nearby to carry the bodies away. We would bury them in the cemetery and very carefully record their identities and gather their personal belongings, if they had any, for their families. I suspected that many had been robbed of their possessions. As usual, Singh had anticipated my wishes and his men were already attending to the afflicted. This was not unusual as we had fought, worked and played together for almost twenty years in dozens of campaigns, beginning with the Boer War. I turned again to Eddie and looked at his poor face. I swear I saw a slight flutter of his left eyelid and I knelt to feel his neck for a pulse. First, nothing at all and then I felt a very faint flicker. I whispered into his ear and brought out my water bottle, opened it and let a few drops fall onto his lips: initially, there was no reaction and then an imperceptible movement of his lips and tongue. I was very happy he was drinking and with the right care, he had a very small chance of staying alive. It took nearly twenty minutes to slake his thirst. It was the least I could do in return for what he had done for me.
Havildar Singh and his men had started to carry the men by stretchers to our steamer at the other end of the harbour and to find them comfortable quarters. He arranged for the doctors and nurses on board to come and help in this huge and challenging task. Basra is a dirty infested port, so it was important to get our men out of there as quickly as possible. I was told we could take men to the General Hospital in Basra, but I had heard the conditions there were not good. There were reports that it was overrun by rats. No, I would take them back with me. In addition, this whole place was shambles. Who the hell was in charge round here? We had queued for days to get a mooring and then we were told that unloading would take six weeks. Six weeks, I ask you. What kind of organisation is that? I would have had the man shot in India (well, probably not but I was very angry indeed!). There were not even any cranes to assist unloading. This was a scandal.
Havildar Singh came to tell me that all the men were on board and resting as comfortably as possible. We had plenty of In