‘Then you’d better come with me and I’ll give you what you need,’ Harris said.
A white-coated army medic helped Powel and SA Bensen to pick up the soldier and slide the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, then climbed inside.
Latta turned to Bamford, and said, ‘You’d better remain here and help Powel to put the wardroom back together, and thank the first aid party. They did damn good job.’ After telling the officer of the day where he was going, Latta and Harris walked down the gangway and climbed into the ambulance next to the driver.
The journey to the military hospital took the small convoy of ambulances twenty minutes. During that time, they passed along dusty roads, crowded with buses, plying for space with gharrys, and maniacs riding bicycles. Colourful bazaars, heavily populated cafes, shops selling everything from beautiful silks to opium, added to what was a hive of bustling activity. There were women wearing niqābs, a black dress that covered everything except the eyes. Others were dressed in the more traditional hijab, a large headscarf, enveloping the shoulders. Some women preferred deeply religious burqa, a full body garment, while there were those who were clothed in the Abaya, an attire that enveloped everything including the arms and legs.
In contrast to all this mixture of religious and European garb, men wore the dishdasha, a modest garb consisting of a long, ankle-length robe, usually white and tailored. Added to this polyglot of humanity, were swarthy men in white suits; heavily tanned women wearing colourful headscarves and western style clothing; service men in tropical gear and ragged beggars crying desperately for baksheesh.
The hospital, surrounded by a high, red-bricked wall, consisted of a central, three-storey, yellow sand stoned building. Flanked on either side were two, much longer, flat-roofed, two-storey structures, built like a square with one end missing. After each driver showed his identification to an armed soldier, they drove through the main gate, along a wide gravel road edged on either side by a large, well-kept beds of red poppies and purple-headed thistles.
The ambulances stopped in line, near the main entrance situated in the rear of hospital. As the rear doors of the ambulance were opened, they were met by teams of medical orderlies and nurses pushing metal framed trollies.
The rear door of Helix’s ambulance opened, allowing PO Powel and Bensen to get out and slide the corporal’s stretcher out onto a trolley. The time now was a little after 1100. With Latta and Harris close behind, the trolley was taken up a concrete ramp and met by a tall, white-coated doctor. Behind them came groups of walking wounded from Eridge and Dulverton. The serious cases were helped into wheelchairs, and along with the wounded, were taken through a wide, oaken door into the hospital. Here, they were met by teams of nurses then taken to the wards.
Latta and Harris were standing by the corporal’s trolley when they were approached by a small, nursing sister, wearing a grey skirt and scarlet shoulder cape. This distinguished her from the white uniform worn the male and female nurses. Turning her head away so the corporal couldn’t hear her, the sister asked Harris, ‘How serious is he, Doctor?’ As she spoke, the dark rings under her brown eyes told of long, busy days and nights on duty.
‘Bullet wound, lower abdomen, Sister,’ Harris quietly replied. ‘He’ll need immediate surgery. This is Doctor Latta,’ he added, ‘the ship’s surgeon.
‘Nice to meet you, Doctor, we’ll take it from here’ she replied. In a business-like manner, she looked at two nurses and added, ‘Ward five, clean him up. I’ll be along shortly.’
‘Good luck, old boy,’ Latta said to the corporal, giving him a reassuring smile, ‘you’re in good hands now.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the corporal murmured weakly, as the nurses wheeled him away.
‘Now about that morphia,’ said Harris, ‘I’ll give you some from one of my wards. It’ll save a long trip to the store room and paper work.’
They left the reception area and walked down a long corridor, tiled in white. On their way nurses and patients being wheeled on trolleys, passed them. After passing a door with “Radiology”, painted in red, Harris stopped at an oak door marked “Surgical One”, and pushed it open. From a high, cream-coloured ceiling, a cool breeze from three metal fans helped to reduce the warmth of the morning sun. Almost every bed on either side of a long, wide, white-tiled ward was occupied by soldiers, recovering from various injuries. Some lay quietly, their heads, arms and hands bandaged. Others lay flat out, the bedclothes covering full body plaster casts. Several patients sat up reading old newspapers, a metal cage under their bedclothes protecting badly wounded legs. A pair of patients wearing blue dressing gowns and clearly on the mend, sat on armchairs glancing at one of the pretty nurses, and after making a slightly risqué remark, received a look of mock disgust. A few nurses stood by patient’s bedsides, sharing a joke with them. White screen surrounded some beds, allowing patients to be treated in privacy, some of whom gave out an occasional painful cry.
‘Och, are you always this busy?’ Latta asked.
‘Always, this is one of my wards and it’s full of wounded from Tobruk,’ Harris replied stoically, ‘thanks to the navy, I expect the casualties will keep on coming. As long as Tobruk hold out, that is.’
At that moment, a tall, pale-faced sister approached them.
‘Good morning, Doctor Harris.’ Her Scottish accent was soft and distinct. As she spoke the corners of her tired-looking blue eyes, creased into a smile.
‘Good morning, Sister,’ Harris replied, ‘this is John Latta, one of the destroyer’s doctors.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the sister replied, ‘Heather Johnson.’
‘Och, now,’ Latta said as they shook hands, ‘do I detect a touch of eastern Scotland in yer accent?’
‘Edinburgh born and bred,’ Heather proudly replied. ‘Did my training in Edinburgh General.’
‘Well, well, so did I,’ Latta answered with a smile.
‘Then, we’re both a long way from home, aren’t we?’ she said, still smiling.
‘What will happen if, God forbid, Alex become in danger of falling?’ Latta asked. ‘Where will you and your staff evacuate to?’
Her smile slowly faced. Glancing ruefully around, she replied, ‘Nowhere very far, I can assure you.’ Then, looking at Harris, added, ‘Will you be doing your morning round, Doctor?’
‘Five minutes, Sister,’ Harris replied.
‘Nice meeting you,’ she said to Latta, ‘now if you’ll excuse me, I must get on. Give my love to Edinburgh when you get home.’
With a solemn smile, Latta answered, ‘Aye, that I will, and I’ll raise a wee dram for you.’
‘Make it a good malt,’ she replied, and walked to a nurse and began talking.
‘Now, if you come this way, I’ll give you the morphia. Then I’ll see if I can get you transport back to your ship.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Shortly after 1200, Latta arrived on board Helix. Waiting for him at the top of the brow, was the tall, gangly figure of OOD Sub Lieutenant Jock Jewitt. As he walked up the gangway, he heard the duty QM pipe, “Secure. Hands to dinner. Mail. Mail is now ready for collection and will close at 1600. Leave to the first and second part of port and first part of starboard watch from 1300 to 0600”.’
‘You’d better hurry, Doc,’ he said, as Latta saluted while stepping on board. ‘The captain has just returned from Carlisle and wants to see all officers in the wardroom right away, so you’d better chop-chop.’
Latta did as Jewitt said, and by the time he reached the wardroom, he was breathing heavily. Every officer was present, and as Latta opened the door and went inside, all heads turned and looked at him.
‘Sorry to be late, sir,’ Latta quietly replied as he took his place next to next to Sub Lieutenant Baker.
‘Right, then,’ Penrose said, pursing his lips before looking around at the faces he had come to know as good as his own, ‘I’ll come straight to the point as I know you’re all dying for a Horse’s Neck before lunch.’ Of co
urse, this brought more smiles and an occasional burst of laughter. ‘Gentlemen,’ Penrose said, placing both hands behind his back, ‘you’ll be pleased to hear that we are going home.’ His words were immediately received with wide grins and widespread murmurs of approval.
‘When, sir?’ asked Sub Lieutenant Baker, raising a hand.
‘This Wednesday,’ Penrose replied.
‘That great news, sir,’ said Lieutenant Powel, ‘but why so soon?’
For the next ten minutes Penrose reiterated the admiral’s reasons for their early departure, adding, ‘So your guess is as good as mine, Ted. Now, how about that Horse’s Neck?’
Ten minutes later, Baker came in to the wardroom carrying a handful of letters. He had checked them and was relieved to find there was no correspondence from Wallasey’s chief constable, and was half-hoping to hear from Linda, but was disappointed. Everyone watched, as, instead of placing them individually in the mail rack, Baker left them on a table.
Being aware that the ship’s company hadn’t received mail for over three weeks, Penrose said, ‘I suggest we take a ten-minute break.’
The officers broke away and crowded around the mail table. Some picked up letters and began ripping them open. Others turned, and along with Manley, walked sullenly away, empty handed.
‘Don’t look so downhearted, Number One,’ Penrose said, seeing the look of disappointment on Manley’s face. ‘The only mail I received was a large bill my wife sent me was for new curtains. Anyway,’ he added, finishing his drink and placing the glass on a table, ‘as you know, the mail is very erratic, so cheer up.’
‘Er… excuse me sir,’ Baker ventured, ‘do you know if we’ll be receiving anymore mail before we sail?’
Penrose was well aware for the reason behind Baker’s question. He shook his head and replied, ‘I’m not sure, Pilot, it was Manxman that brought the mail, and she is returning to England this evening.’
Baker nervously cleared his throat, then replied, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He left the room.
‘Will you be informing the ship’s company that we’ll be leaving for England, sir? asked Electrical Officer Lieutenant Sherwood.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Penrose replied, glancing at Manley. ‘Number One will do that as soon as he’s finished his drink.
In the senior ratings mess, Paddy O’Malley eagerly ripped open his letter. ‘It’s from Joyce, so it is,’ he said excitedly to Harry Johnson, ‘She’s keeping well, and sends her best to you, Harry,’ he added. After finishing reading the letter, he went on. ‘The bombing has stopped but, so far, Portsmouth hasn’t been hit by any doodlebugs. How is Ethel?’
‘She’s OK,’ Harry replied, ‘and sends you her best,, and bless her, she says she made some more blackcurrant jam.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The news that the ship would be returning to England was naturally greeted by the ship’s company with peels of cheering and back-slapping. In the seamen’s mess, everyone stood in line as Bud Abbot, the killick of the mess, watched as everyone dipped the Bakelite measuring beaker into the “fanny” and poured out the correct measure of rum into a rating’s mug or glass tumbler. Slinger Wood carefully tilted his “tot” into a badly scratched enamel mug, and was about to take a gulp when he looked at the tall figure of Leading Asdic Operator Miller, and said, ‘How about showing us where Sister Street is, Dusty?’
With a sly grin, Miller replied, ‘All right, but it’ll cost you gulpers.’
‘You’re on,’ Bud answered, reluctantly handing Dusty his mug.
At 1400, the pipe, “Liberty men fall in on the quarterdeck”, echoed around the ship. A few minutes later, Dusty Miller, Slinger Woods, Bud Abbot and Bob Rose, and several other ratings, were fallen in on the quarterdeck. The supply and secretariat ratings wore white short sleeved shirts and peaked caps. The seamen were dressed in white shorts, white fronts. All branches wore blue stockings and shoes.
Duty PO Len Mills glared at them, and in a thick, Devonian accent, snapped, ‘Liberty men are warned leave expires at 0600 and that the red-light district is out of bounds.’ This order immediately brought a ripple of muted laughter from several ratings. ‘Pipe down,’ shouted Mills. ‘Liberty men are reminded that they are only allowed to take twenty cigarettes or an ounce of tobacco ashore.’ He paused, again, then shouted, ‘Liberty men shun.’ He did a quick about turn, and standing frigidly to attention, he gave OOD Lieutenant Goldsmith a parade ground salute, and grunted, ‘Liberty men ready for inspection, sir.’
‘Thank you, PO,’ Goldsmith answered quietly while returning Len’s salute.
‘Fuck me,’ Dusty muttered to Bud Abbot who was standing next to him, ‘you’d think we were on parade in Jagos[6].’
‘Keep quiet, there,’ shouted Mills, as Goldsmith quickly walked between the two ranks of ratings, giving a cursory inspectorial glance at one or two, before stopping at the end of the last line.
After returning Mill’s salute, he gave a quick nod, and said, ‘Thank you, PO, carry on.’
Mills turned, and facing the men, said, ‘Liberty men carry on.’ Then with a wide grin, added, ‘And keep yer hands on yer pay books and yer dicks in yer shorts.’
Upon hearing Len’s remarks, Goldsmith, grinned, then disappeared through a hatchway and made his way to the wardroom.
Dusty and the others made their way through the cobbled dockyard and were immediately surrounded by groups of swarthy, bearded beggars, rolling their bloodshot eyes upwards, cupping their hands in supplication, and crying, ‘Baksheesh, effendi, baksheesh!’
Having been to Alexandria before, Dusty Miller took out a couple of piasters from his money belt and threw them a few yards away from where the beggars were gathered. This prompted them to turn, and with eager cries, grapple with one another in an attempt to pick up the coins.
‘It’s the only way to get rid of them,’ said Dusty, giving Bob Rose and the others an all-knowing glance.
‘Where to now?’ Slinger asked Dusty, looking down a street full of cars, old and new, gharry horse-drawn cabs and stalls slanted with colourful shades.
Dusty grinned, and waving at a passing gharry, said, ‘Relax, oppo, and leave that to me, our transport has arrived. How much to Sister Street?’ he asked, looking up into the driver who was wearing an off-white disdasha, a red fez and a face resembling an overripe walnut.
‘Ten piasters, effendi,’ cried the driver, displaying a wide gap between a set of yellow, uneven teeth.
‘No way,’ cried Dusty, shaking his head. ‘Five,’ he shouted, showing five fingers, ‘five piasters.’
‘Six, six, effendi,’ he said, clasping his hands and pleading vigorously, ‘big family, many children.’
‘Bloody ‘ell,’ retorted Bob Rose, in his sharp Lancastrian accent, ‘the bugger speaks better English than me.’
‘Let’s face it, Bob,’ said Bud, giving Rose a friendly dig in the ribs, ’everybody speaks better English than you.’
The three of them laughed as they listened to Dusty continued to haggle with the driver. ‘OK,’ Dusty replied, nodding his head, ‘six it is.’
‘Bless you, effendi,’ said the driver, ‘we go Sister Street, I know very good bar, dancing girls.’
‘Sound good, eh, lads?’ said Dusty, as they climbed up into a fairly wide canvas covered compartment with a long, well-worn leather seat. With a slight flick of the driver’s whip, the elderly horse broke into a slow, steady gallop.
During the next fifteen minutes they made an uncomfortable journey through wide, dusty, streets, teeming with all types of humanity, passed ancient minarets, modern buildings and colourful bizaars. With a tug of the reins, the driver then turned the gharry down a narrow, cobbled street. On their way, the melodic beat of Arabic music could be heard coming from behind closed doorways.
‘Where exactly is the red-light district, Dusty?’ asked Bud Abbot, hearing Arabs standing outside darkened doorways shouting, and gesticulating wildly, ‘Come in, Ingleesh sailors, dancing girls, young and cle
an.’
‘I can’t rightly remember,’ Dusty replied, ‘but I think we’re there.’
‘Then we’d better bugger off,’ said Bob Rose, cautiously glancing up and down the street, ‘before the red caps arrive and see us.’
As he finished speaking, a door opened and out stepped a small, beautiful, raven-haired girl. She wore a long pleated black dress and a short, scarlet blouse, displaying a well-tanned midriff and a tantalisingly low neckline and the swell of a pair of well-formed breasts. In one hand she grasped a round tambourine; the other held a set of shiny, silver castanets. With a quick toss of her head, she gave a wicked smile, and at the same time, raised the tambourine above her head, rattled it, then, speaking in surprisingly good English, no doubt picked up from countless servicemen, said enticingly, ‘My name is Fatima. Come inside and I will dance for you, and do other sexy things…’ Then, with a swish of her dress, quickly turned and leaving the door open, disappeared.
‘There don’t seem to be any red caps around,’ said Bud Abbot, grinning salaciously at Dusty, ‘so maybe we could give it a go. What say you, Slinger?’
‘OK by me,’ replied Wood, nervously licking his lips. ‘Just for a few minutes, like.’
‘All right,’ said Dusty, ‘but don’t blame me if you ‘catch the boat up,’ and you three are married.’
Dusty paid the driver, and as they left the gharry, the doorman, smiled benignly and displaying a row of uneven, yellow-stained teeth, opened the door. Straight away, the indigenous sound of Arabic music, coming from lower down in the building, filled the air.
‘Navy very welcome,’ said the doorman. A small, fat, swarthy-faced man wearing a white dishdasha. ‘My name is Mohammed, follow me.’ He led them down a flight of narrow stairs and opened a door that led into a dimly lit room. Dusty and the three others blinked several times to accustom their eyes to the gloomy darkness. The heavy smell of tobacco smoke, together with the pungent aroma of hasheesh, hung in the air. With the exception of two men in white suits, accompanied by girls wearing off the shoulder blouses and tight-fitting skirts, sitting in darkened alcoves, the place was empty.
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