Redemption - Leon Uris [315]
“What’s your story, Mr. Larkin?”
“I was underage, pissed at my father, and passionate to get to Ireland from the instant I learned of Conor’s death. A funny thing happened along the way called…Gallipoli. You sort out your troubles in a hurry in a place like that. I almost made the terrible mistake of not writing to my father to forgive him. Thank God, I didn’t die and leave him with that hanging around his neck. Maybe Ireland was none of my business then. It is now.”
“Conor played my father for a fool and that’s what you did to me,” she continued.
“All depends on how you look at it, about who is playing who for what. That’s a mighty fine organization you run. A hell of a lot better than British intelligence. How are you playing this now, Caroline?”
“That all depends on whether you give me straight answers or not.”
“Seeing that the situation is highly in your favor, I’ll do my best.”
“Are you certain that Llewelyn Brodhead isn’t setting you up so he can make you spill the name of every Brotherhood man left in Ireland when they get you on the torture rack?”
“It’s crossed me mind. However, I’ve got to go with instinct. I don’t think he’s that smart.”
“How smart was he commanding seven divisions of infantry?”
“From the beginning?”
She nodded.
“In Egypt it seemed that he was a little less uppity than most career pommy officers. We were his Anzacs and we were going to be the best troops in the expedition. He demonstrated, on numerous occasions, he’d go to bat for us. He got us the equipment and animals we needed by taking on the theatre commander. He overlooked a lot of…naughty adventures, say, in Cairo, including Chris at the Aida Hotel.
“He was a brutal disciplinarian in getting the troops ready. Some medical people say he put as many men into the hospital with his training as he left standing.
“In my opinion, considering what we were going into, I think he did the right thing. A lot of men wouldn’t have survived Gallipoli otherwise. But that was just good standard British Army training. Well, you know his history with Chris before the war,” Rory said.
“You mean the gunrunning and the mutiny at Camp Bushy?”
“Aye. Chris had to really swallow ten tons of crap to get that mule corps shaped up. What Chris did with our battalion was to make something work. It would have been a disaster without the mules. Brodhead knew it. Chris was all man about it. In fairness to the General, he went on record with the War Office against the entire Gallipoli expedition. Once assigned to the Anzacs, however, he played the good soldier. He lived and moved among the men, shared our hardships. Maybe he got a better brand of booze than we were stilling and had better rations, but his hole and my hole looked pretty much the same. He was fairly popular with the officers and men.”
“So, you don’t fault him,” Caroline said.
“I didn’t say that. The rest of it is fucking sad.”
“All right, once again, how smart was he in commanding seven divisions of infantry?”
“Bearing in mind Napoleon and Caesar wouldn’t have had a chance—”
“I’m speaking about Llewelyn Brodhead,” she demanded.
Rory’s voice dipped low. “He was a lousy general. The planning for this campaign guaranteed a disaster. On those things he had say, he was somewhat less than no good. Nothing worked, from the landing site to the most simple communications. Naval gunfire was a disaster, and in six months they couldn’t get it straightened out. We were badly underequipped, underfed. Evacuation plans were nonexistent. Medical facilities were beyond primitive…but that wasn’t the half of it, Caroline….”
Rory hung his head and took time to get control of himself. “War is war and any man who aspires to be a general must steel himself against losses. He was from some century long ago,” Rory said harshly. “He thought he owned the Anzacs. He made blunders that were real pissers, but the worst of it was, he didn’t give a big rat’s ass. I was with the man time and again after we’d taken terrible casualties and never once saw him blink an eye. He had no conscience. Troops were his for the slaughter,