‘There’s been a bit of a change,’ James Lindsay began tentatively.
‘A change affecting your status in the affair,’ Joe supplied. ‘A change affecting my status too, for that matter.’
‘What the devil’s that supposed to mean?’ said Burroughs. ‘I’ve done what I came here to do which is to assess the present position in this part of the NWFP and all I have seen so far persuades me that the so-called Forward Policy has been a mistake and I shall continue to say so as soon as I can get back to Delhi.’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ said Joe and they explained.
Burroughs’ face changed from pink to white and back again. He sat up in bed and gobbled. Disjointed words and phrases came across.
‘Disgraceful… ridiculous… incompetent… no concern of mine… purely local difficulty… I’ve got better things to do… ’
In a pause in his tirade James said, ‘Sandilands has prepared this letter for Iskander Khan. The text has been checked and approved by Sir George Jardine. In the changed circumstances, we need your approval and your signature. With this I think I can get the letter into his hands although of course, as you will appreciate, his present whereabouts are still unknown.’
‘My approval? I don’t approve!’
‘I’m ready to send this letter on its way – time is of the essence – and I do now need your authority to do so,’ said James. He passed it to Burroughs with a pen and waited for him to countersign it.
Burroughs sank back among his pillows. ‘This,’ he said petulantly, ‘is precisely the situation I did not want. I hold you entirely responsible, Lindsay, for having let this arise. And I shall say so!’
As he spoke a drone began to grow in the sky above them.
‘What the devil’s that?’ said Burroughs suspiciously.
‘Aerial reconnaissance.’
‘Aerial reconnaissance? On whose authority, I’d like to know? This is a sensitive situation! What fool authorized anyone to overfly tribal territory? If you’re trying to explain to me that the situation is incandescent I can think of nothing more likely to precipitate serious trouble than a mob of aggressive flying corps subalterns galloping through the skies above a friendly neighbouring state! I suppose this is the doing of that damn fool Moore-Simpson! Where the devil’s he? I need a few words of explanation from him! Where is he?’
‘Preparing to take the next flight up again, I think. Er, would you like to accompany him, sir? I’m sure room could be found in the rear observer’s seat for you,’ said Joe kindly.
They left Burroughs spluttering with dismay and made their way to the football field in time to see a Bristol Fighter plane bouncing along to a halt feet from the boundary. The Scouts delegated to mark out the landing area doused the lighted flares they had set in each corner of the pitch and, chattering excitedly, hurried over to take a closer look at the aircraft. Fred was there to greet the two men as they climbed out and he introduced them to James and Joe.
The pilot pulled off flying helmet and goggles and held out a hand, smiling and cheerful. Hugh Blackett was very young, very blond and very blue-eyed. As yet untanned and unlined, he could not have been long in India. It must have been all of two minutes since he was captaining the first eleven, Joe thought with stabbing reminders of the hundreds of young sacrifices he had seen making their way over to the enemy lines in the war. The wings on his chest were very new. The second man, who saluted negligently and got straight to work on the plane, was introduced as ‘Flight Sergeant Thomas Edwards, my ack emma.’ The single Observer wing on his chest was very faded.
‘Have to take your aircraft engineer with you in this country,’ Fred explained. ‘Now what I propose we do while Tommy does his stuff is retire to the ops room and have a look at this map I’ve got together. I’ll take her up for the next tour while Hugh gets his breakfast and then he can relieve me. Joe? James? Either one of you want to come up in the observer’s seat?’
They made their way to a whitewashed, mud brick building at the centre of the fort. Tidy and uncluttered with everything to hand, it was a scene they were all familiar with. A large table dominated the room, filing cabinets and bookcases lined it and in a corner the only unmilitary note: a gouty armchair, one of its legs propped up on a copy of Whitaker’s Almanack 1910, a year-old copy of Punch lying open over one arm.
The four heads descended on the map Fred had taken from the maps room and James began to fill in the topographical details. ‘Here’s the fort and here’s Afghanistan and somewhere between the two is what we’re looking for,’ he began.
To their relief the pilot took in the problem at once, asking shrewd questions and supplying useful information of his own. He noted distances from friendly forts, fuel supplies, possible landing areas and traced the known route of the escaping Afghanis to the last known point nearly half-way along the Khyber.
‘Any word from Landi Kotal?’ he asked.
‘We heard nearly an hour ago that there has still been no sighting. They’ll let us know the minute they have anything. The only thing moving in the Khyber has been a Powindah caravan. On its way down to us to overnight by the river. They do this every year. They’re coming from Samarkand and Bokhara and en route for Peshawar. I thought we might stop them and have a word. If our friends were in the Khyber then they’ll know about it. The Powindah are a gypsy race. They’re called the postmen of the province and nothing escapes their intelligence system. Their Malik owes me a favour. The local Afridi snatched two of their little boys who’d strayed behind the caravan to chase a wandering sheep last year. They reported it to me and I took out a gasht.’
‘You took out a gasht?’ said Joe. ‘To chase up two boys and a stray sheep?’
‘Fifty Scouts went out. Wasn’t difficult. We found the mob, feasting on the missing sheep and one of them standing guard over the boys. We hauled in two of their sentries, held guns to their heads and didn’t put them down until the boys had been released. But the Afridis complained that they had only snatched them in revenge for the two of theirs who were taken by the Powindah the year before. They sell the poor little buggers as slaves.’
James sighed. ‘You can never get back to the beginning of these things,’ he said wearily. ‘Or the end. All you can do is make it clear we don’t tolerate these goings-on.’
‘Okay,’ said Fred, anxious to draw their attention back to the map. ‘So this is our area and we’ll ignore the caravan on its way down. You’ll question them when they get here, James.’ He outlined with a finger the area of search. ‘The Bristol can fly for three hours before refuelling so we’ll count on – to be on the safe side – an hour out and an hour back. She can do a hundred and twenty-three miles per hour but we’re aiming to take it slowly and steadily. Stooging about at a slow speed you can see an amazing amount in normal conditions but,’ he sighed and swept a dismissive hand over the brown, crowded contours of the map, ‘doesn’t look very hopeful, I’m afraid. You could hide a division in this sort of terrain. And it’s all rocks, overhangs and cover of some sort all the way up to the Afghan border. It’s their own backyard. They have friends there who will hide them. They could be anywhere in fifty square miles by now.’
‘And don’t forget that they’re camouflaged – their clothes are brown and floppy, even their horses blend into the terrain,’ said James. ‘Their hearing is acute. They’ll hear you coming miles away and have plenty of time to hide themselves. It’s a wild goose chase!’
‘At least there won’t be any opposition from the air.’ said Joe, ‘but what about sniping from the ground? Any fear of that?’
‘There’s always fear of that,’ said Fred with a quick look at Hugh.