Free Circles of Time by Phillip Rock Page B

in his chair, he struck a match and relit his cigar. “As if proof were needed. The Yank circulated that transcript as an antiwar tract—the prattle of a shell-shocked man, young Greville condemning the war and Field Marshal Haig’s handling of it.”
    â€œHe was my friend, sir. I owed him that much.”
    The general snorted and puffed smoke like a dragon. “Greater love hath no man than to lay down his career for a friend! Greville’s beliefs were the same as your own, I warrant, or you’d never have bound him over for court-martial so as to give him a public forum. It was a cheap dodge, and the War Office did not appreciate your actions. You talk about proof , by God. The only thing that saved your neck was me , sir!”
    â€œI’m suitably grateful, I assure you.”
    â€œBut I can’t save your career. You’re a marked man. If you stay in the army you’ll be handed every dog’s job they can find. Nothing but bitter duty until they succeed in hounding you out.”
    He opened a drawer and removed an official War Office envelope. “Your orders, sir. You are to embark on the P&O steamer City of Benares leaving Southampton twelfth July. You will disembark at Aden and proceed to Basra, then by train to Baghdad. From there you will go, by whatever transport is available, to Bani el Abbas on the upper Tigris and assume command of the Twelfth Battalion of the Sixty-fifth Brigade—a mixed bag: one company of West Lanes, an armored-car detachment, and two companies of Punjabis. You will arrive in the hot season, one hundred twenty in the shade—if one can find any shade. Fever off the river. Marauding Arabs and Kurds in the wasteland. Pure hell on earth. I doubt if Winifred will be overjoyed at your assignment.”
    It was very quiet in the office, only the soft ticking of a wall clock and the distant hum of London’s traffic. Fenton drained his glass and then leaned forward and placed it on the desk. He smiled wryly at his uncle, whose face seemed carved out of oak.
    â€œYou never told me the army would be an easy profession.”
    â€œNo, I never told you that.”
    â€œAnd I never promised Winnie I’d leave it.” He reached out a hand. “May I have my orders, sir?”
    The general held the envelope tightly between his fingers. “There’s still time. Blythe has typed the letter.”
    Fenton shook his head and took the envelope from his uncle’s hand. He slipped it into his coat pocket and stood up. “Twelfth July. Not much time, and I have at least one important thing to do. Goodbye, sir.”
    Sir Julian watched him leave the office and swore softly under his breath: “Damn fool.” There was no malice in the words. No bite to them. It was what he would have done, of course. A matter of pride. His own career had been under a cloud once, long, long ago. He had openly criticized a doddering fool of a brigadier for gross incompetence during an expedition in the Sudan. He had saved his own small force from disaster and had marched them back to the Nile, fighting every step of the way. His quick tongue had earned him a court-martial, at which, with the peculiar logic of the army, he was recommended for the Victoria Cross and then severely reprimanded and ordered off to India for hard duty along the northwest frontier. He had served his penance with fortitude and then had thrust his way back up the ladder of command. He offered a silent prayer that Fenton might one day do the same.
    A DISPATCH FROM Spanish Morocco was on his desk when he got to the office at 8:30—three thousand words, like a chapter from War and Peace. Martin eyed it dubiously and then checked his daily calendar. A full schedule. Miss Shaw brought in a cup of coffee and a handful of Huntley & Palmer biscuits on a plate. He lit a cigar and settled down to work, tackling the Moroccan report. It was all good, readable stuff, but there was no