The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (you can read anyone txt) 📕

Savage threw Johnny over his shoulder and stumbled after his master. Johnny could hear shouts of outrage echoing across from the German trenches punctuated by ragged rifle fire. Bullets churned up the mud and pinged off the wire as they zigzagged back to the British lines.

Johnny was unceremoniously dumped into the freezing mud at the bottom of his trench. The German fire began to intensify, thumping into the parapet and showering Johnny in sticky mud. Savage stumbled and fell on him, the side of his head missing. Johnny gagged, realising he was covered in brains.

‘Now that’s a pity,’ Crassus said, crouching over them.

‘What the hell have you done, Crassus?’ Johnny demanded, trying to get out from under Savage. He had to organise his platoon.

‘It’s called fighting a war, Swift,’ Crassus answered and pressed Johnny down into the mud.

‘What happened, sir, are you alright?’ Corporal Williams asked, leaning over Johnny, searching for an injury.

‘This officer is under arrest,’ Crassus said, trying to push Williams away.

‘What for?’

‘How dare you adopt that tone with me, Corporal!’

‘I see, like that then, is it?’ Williams said and called behind him. ‘D-section on me.’

The nearest squad of men crowded behind Corporal Williams. Crassus saw he was outnumbered, but held fast. ‘Corporal, you’re loyal. I respect that, but do you wish to add mutiny to aiding and abetting the enemy? Now I’m willing to overlook this and what I’ve seen here, if you stand down.’

‘Not bloody likely. You’ve just unleashed the fury of the Gods on us. I ought to run you through. See if you really think the bayonet is the best way to kill a man.’ Williams flicked his bayonet towards Crassus. Johnny was amazed to see that Crassus looked impressed.

‘That’s enough, Corporal, we don’t want to make things worse,’ Johnny said, fishing into the right-hand breast pocket of his jacket and taking out his brass box. This could be his chance for a spot of leave in Paris.

‘Well, if you’re sure, sir. It’s no trouble to rip this chap’s guts out.’ Williams said coldly.

‘Yes, I’m sure. Can’t have men under my command going round sticking bayonets in officers. God knows where that may lead.’ Johnny opened the box and passed Williams a letter. ‘Now take a note of this address, it’s my uncle’s. I want you to write to him and tell him what’s happened.’

‘This is your uncle?’ Williams asked as he copied the address into his notebook, clearly surprised that Johnny knew someone of such rank.

‘That’s right. I do have the odd connection,’ Johnny replied smugly.

‘Very good, sir,’ Williams said and passed the letter back to Johnny. ‘Peculiar lot, the English.’

‘Not above playing the family connections still, Swift,’ Crassus said tersely.

Johnny looked nonchalantly towards him. ‘So what’s your plan, Crassus, take me into custody? It would be jolly decent if you could send me some groceries to help while away the time?’

Crassus knelt down next to Johnny. ‘Remember, I might be a grocer’s boy, Swift, but you’re the bastard.’

Johnny tried to struggle out from under Savage as the air began to whistle with the sound of 5.9s. Crassus stood up, grinned and brought the heel of his iron-shod boot down on Johnny’s forehead.

Chapter 3

‘Smith, Smyth whatever your bloody name is, are you with us?’ The petulant voice of the First Lord of the Admiralty ripped into Sir George Smyth’s thoughts. He turned his attention away from the blue grey January evening.

Sir George had been wondering if he could hear artillery fire. It was said that the sound sometimes drifted across the channel, but he suspected it was some dreary storm and suitably bleak for the discussion at hand.

‘I beg your pardon, First Lord?’ Sir George calmly asked the flushed man sitting across from him. Winston Spencer Churchill, the minister responsible for the Royal Navy.

‘An empty taxi pulled up outside the Admiralty this morning, Smyth, and you got out.’ Churchill quipped irritably. ‘I was asking if you have anything you wish to add? That is why we are all here, after all, to win the war!’

Sir George suppressed his embarrassment. He hadn't been spoken to like that since prep school and hesitated for the first time since then.

'We are waiting, Smyth.' The First Lord smashed a fist on his desk, his ring scouring a hole in the varnish.

Sir George glanced at the other person in the First Lord’s room, Admiral ‘Jacky’ Fisher, the First Sea Lord and head of the Navy. He looked tired and flustered by whatever he’d been arguing about with Churchill. Fisher had created the modern Royal Navy, but now in his seventies he looked a spent force. Sir George knew there would be no assistance from that direction.

He skimmed through his notes. They’d been considering the repercussions of Turkey's entry into the war, before Sir George allowed his mind to wander.

A year ago he’d been enjoying a brilliant career in the diplomatic service, married to a refined, if somewhat troublesome, social beauty. Then he’d discovered that his wife was having an affair with one of his office juniors. When the war had come, it had seemingly presented him with a golden opportunity for advancement and a chance to leave that indignity behind.

'I believe it was agreed at the last meeting of the War Council to mount a demonstration against the Turkish threat in the East, to aid our Russian allies in the Caucasus,' Sir George said at length. ‘Since the Ottoman Empire has closed the Dardanelles Strait, cutting the main supply route to Russia, Lord Kitchener had suggested a naval assault on the Straits.’

Although Sir George wasn’t sure if the idea had originated from the Minister for War or from various proposals submitted by Hankey, the Secretary of the War Council.

‘The Admiralty has been tasked with making preparations for