Under the Red Sea Sun

by Edward Ellsberg

  It was no use trying to enter the abandoned Italian headquarters building which would later be my base for work—first it was locked and second it was probably depressing in its emptiness, even should I force my way in. Instead, indicating in pantomime to the nearest Sudanese sentry that he should also guard my bags and overcoat, I trudged off on foot for the point marked by that British flag to make my presence known and pay my respects to NOIC, the British Naval Officer in Charge.

  It was a hot walk under the near noonday sun, made more disagreeable by the fine yellow dust (disintegrated coral, I afterwards learned, from the coral formations of which the whole seacoast was composed) which rose in clouds with every step. There were no trees and no shade; it rarely rained on that coast at any time of the year.

  I was a somewhat bedraggled figure between perspiration, dust, and low spirits, when, with my khaki shirt now buttoned up part but not all the way to my throat as my sole concession to naval propriety, a British seaman doing sentry duty ushered me toward the office of Captain Colin Lucas, Royal Navy, commanding His Majesty’s naval forces in Massawa. The office lay, as I had surmised, in the low, wide verandaed wooden building immediately adjacent to the White Ensign floating high over everything.

  It was a very formal entry I made, hardly in keeping with my non-reg appearance. The bluejacket presented arms, an aide announced, “Commander Ellsberg of the American Navy, sir!” and I stepped in.

  Captain Lucas, who had had two fans blowing directly on him as he sat at his desk, and consequently looked much cooler than I, rose to greet me. Hastily I sized up the man with whom I should have most contact in Massawa, and I received an immediate surprise. In spite of what had been said in Cairo about age for duty in Massawa, the British were clearly not taking their own medicine. Captain Lucas was plainly much closer to sixty than he was to fifty, and showed it in every way—his florid face, his bulging waistline, his thinning gray hair. He had been in Massawa almost since its capture, some eight months anyway. One look at Captain Lucas and I already felt better—if he could stand it in Massawa, I was sure I could.

  We shook hands, Captain Lucas welcomed me to Massawa, and motioned me to a chair, which he thoughtfully hauled into the line of action of one of his fans. We both sat down.

  I told the captain (which he already knew) that I had come to take command of what was to be the U.S. Naval Repair Base, Massawa, the ex-Italian Naval Base, and, of course, also to command the salvage operations. While at the moment I had no men at all for either purpose, shortly there should be some, together with three salvage ships, one of which was certainly already on the way via the Cape of Good Hope.

  On his part, Captain Lucas acquainted me with the British situation in Massawa. His responsibilities in Massawa were mainly two—first, to maintain communications with the outside world, chiefly by naval radio, handling all confidential dispatches and coding and decoding them; and, second, to maintain a naval guard over the ex-Italian base to prevent the natives, the Arabs, and the Italians themselves from making away with even the cement blocks of which the base was built—all were bloody thieves and there was an excellent black market in Eritrea for everything they could steal. While he had a moderate staff, both of officers and enlisted men of the Royal Navy for these two purposes, still he found himself in straitened circumstances covering even these two tasks adequately and he regretted that he would be unable to lend me any assistance in my tasks. However, if I thought there was any way he might aid, he hoped I should always feel free to ask. He’d do the best he could to help the common effort.

  Ah, yes, come to think of it, there was one other thing the Royal Navy was doing to help me. A new liaison officer was being ordered, to be always at my disposal. Where the blighter might be, though, he couldn’t imagine, for while he’d had a wireless a week before from Cairo saying the new officer was starting immediately, he hadn’t shown up yet in Massawa.

  I smiled grimly at that.

  “I think I can throw some light on that, Captain,” I said. As noncommittally as I could, since I had no desire to cause any trouble in the Royal Navy, I explained briefly where the liaison officer was, and conveyed his request to be quartered in the hills, not in Massawa.

  Captain Lucas stiffened instantly.

  “The insufferable ass! Does he think he’s a duke or something? He’ll stick it in Massawa the same as all the rest of us! Lieutenant Maton!” he shouted towards an adjoining office.

  At that imperious call, Lieutenant Maton of the British Navy, apparently the communications officer, came running with a message pad.

  “Lieutenant,” ordered the flushed captain, his wide nostrils practically breathing flame he was so angry, “priority dispatch to Commander—whatever’s his name—you know, that new liaison fellow from Cairo—only send it to Asmara, that’s where the malingering blighter is now, ‘Report immediately in Massawa or face court-martial.’ That’s all, Maton; get it right off!”

  I rose. Inwardly, I thought, “Good for you, old boy! We’ll get along fine!” But what I said was,

  “Sorry, Captain, to have caused you all this trouble. I advised him not to do it, but he insisted.”

  Captain Lucas rose also, still fuming.

  “The idea of an officer in the Royal Navy doing that! A commander, too! The man must be crazy!”

  “That’s what I thought, Captain,” I agreed. “Well, I’ll get over now and take a look at that cottage they told me in Cairo’d been assigned me as my quarters. I’ll see you later.”

  “Ah, yes, Commander; it’s off that way, a bit to the left about a hundred yards from here.” He escorted me to the door, pointed out the direction. “And I say, Ellsberg, you can’t possibly be settled by tonight, so come and have dinner with me. I should have invited you before if that blithering idiot in Asmara hadn’t driven it out of my mind.”

  “Thanks, Captain. I’ll accept with pleasure.” I put on my sun helmet, saluted, and stepped out. The bluejacket presented arms, I saluted him also in return, and walked off in the dust.

  It turned out I had a very busy afternoon. I found the cottage without trouble, a very good cottage, too, airy, built with the usual widely overhanging roof for sun protection, and with some tropical flowers and shrubs about it, undoubtedly kept alive by profuse artificial watering. But—the cottage was occupied, very fully so, in spite of the fact that I had been told at Cairo headquarters that it had been assigned solely for my occupancy.

  It appeared that another American naval officer, Commander Dickeman of the Civil Engineer Corps, who had come out to the Middle East via Hawaii and Singapore before war broke out in the Pacific, was in Massawa on a business visit. He had several engineering surveys of African facilities to make for the Navy Department before going back to Washington, and had arrived a week or two earlier in Massawa to check the machinery needs of that spot. There being no other place for him to live, he had naturally enough moved into the single house reserved for U.S. Navy use.

  Then, the week before, Colonel Claterbos from Asmara had sent down a Major Knapp of the Army Engineers to take charge of the Army construction work and transportation in the commercial port of Massawa. Knapp could find no place at all to live in Massawa and Commander Dickeman had generously invited him to share the cottage at the Naval Base some miles away till the Army could do something about it.

  So there were my quarters completely occupied, for the cottage was small and had only two single beds.

  Dickeman would be in Massawa at most only a couple of weeks more; there could be no question in the circumstances of his staying where he was. Major Knapp, very embarrassed, offered to move out immediately to make room for me.

  “But where will you go, Major?” I asked.

  “Damned if I know,” said the major. “There isn’t a vacant room in the whole blessed town. I’ve looked already. There’s a closed building, The Bank of Italy, facing the commercial docks that we’re using for Army offices right now; I was figuring on converting the second floo
r of that for living quarters, but it’ll take some time yet. You’ll find the British Army’s got every hotel in the town of Massawa, every Italian club, and every Italian government building, as well as part of this naval base, full of their own men. And Commander Dickeman can tell you the British Navy’s got every other usable building on the naval base, except this cottage, assigned to theirs.”

  “Yes, that’s so,” agreed Dickeman. “Maybe they haven’t got personnel enough to run this base, but anyway they’ve got enough to fill up all the livable quarters. All except one building,” and he pointed out a very fine two-storied stucco building facing the sea a quarter of a mile off. “You see that? That was the main quarters building for Italian naval officers. It’s fine inside—I’ve been there—terrazo floors, big rooms, some with private baths, wide terraces outside roofed over, batteries of shower baths, and, best of all, it’s close to the water. If there’s a sea breeze, you get it there. And what do you think they’ve done with it? They’ve given it to a private English company, Cable and Wireless, Limited, for their quarters, when, if, and as they ever need any. Right now Cable and Wireless is strictly limited around here; They haven’t got a cable and the Lord knows when they will have; they’ll probably never have a wireless here; and all they’ve got in that big building which’ll hold two dozen officers in comfort is two Cable and Wireless managers who’ve got nothing at all to do for months yet! So they’re putting in their time figuring on fixing up one whole floor into suites for themselves right now, and saving the other floor for maybe three or four cable operators in the sweet by and by. And where are all our men to run the naval base going to live? Those two limeys from Cable and Wireless say it was promised to them in London and they’re keeping it. If we need quarters, we can go and build a new building—as if you could do that by waving a wand around here, of all places!”

  Commander Dickeman, who felt warmly on the subject of quarters, and apparently with much reason, paused a moment, looked me over, then in pity at my perspiration-soaked state, suggested,

  “It’s too hot to talk. Let’s have a drink; you look as if you need it. I’ve got some ice and I’ve got some cans of pineapple juice I wangled off a ship here. Just a minute.”

  That cold pineapple juice with ice tinkling in the glass was a life-saver. I was both extraordinarily thirsty and hot, and it helped both ways. I guzzled a huge tumbler full. When it was gone, I sat back, feeling a little better.

  “Well, boys, I tell you what. Don’t you move out of here, Major; you might find yourself sleeping in the gutter, if they’ve got any gutters around here. But the British Navy is bound to take care of me. Now I’ve got a dinner date tonight with NOIC. I’m going over to take a look first at that building you say Cable and Wireless have got, and tonight I’ll see if Captain Lucas can’t fix it so I can have one of those rooms with a bath in it, and use some of the rest of it for the other officers Colonel Claterbos promised me. Tonight I’ll sleep on this settee I’m sitting on. I’ve done worse. And talking of baths, can you lend me a towel, Dickeman? I want to get into your tub right now!”

  “Certainly,” said Dickeman. “And I’ve got a tub of water cooling right now. Help yourself. Meanwhile, Major Knapp and I are driving over to Massawa for lunch. Don’t you want to come? You can have a bath afterwards.”

  “No, thanks. First things first with me; right now a bath comes first. Lunch can go hang.”

  They stepped out to Major Knapp’s waiting car, and I promptly turned to in stripping off my soaked clothes.

  I jumped into the well-filled tub, looking cool and inviting before me. It wasn’t; it was uncomfortably hot. Evidently Dickeman had run in too much hot water. I looked for the cold water faucet to cool the tub more, but there was only one faucet there and it wasn’t marked anything. I turned that on a moment to experiment, then hastily shut it off again. The water coming out was even hotter than what was already in the bath.

  I began to catch the significance of Commander Dickeman’s casual remark, which before I had ignored—“a tub of water cooling right now.” I had wondered why the tub happened to be full when I wanted a bath, now I saw it. There was evidently only one kind of water on tap in Massawa—hot. If you didn’t want a hot bath—and who did?—you filled the tub in the morning and let it stand all day before your evening bath, trusting to evaporation from its surface to cool it a little. Perhaps it worked, but the tubful I was in hadn’t stood long enough. It was too hot for my purposes. I jumped out and began to swab myself with the towel.

  I got back into my wet clothes; that didn’t make any difference for I realized that if I had any dry ones at hand, they would be just as wet in a few moments. Then I called the houseboy, who seemed to know a little English, and sent him down to the water front to retrieve my bags from the custody of the Sudanese sentry.

  CHAPTER

  18

  NEXT MORNING FOUND ME MOVING into Building 108, the one assigned to Cable and Wireless, Limited. Captain Lucas, with some difficulty, had arranged for my occupancy and that of such other officers as I might bring, but only, he regretted to inform me, on a temporary basis till Cable and Wireless said they required it all for themselves. Beyond that, the matter was out of his hands. London had turned it over to Cable and Wireless and unless I could persuade them to relinquish or London to change its assignment, nothing more could be done.

  For the moment, I wasn’t concerned. Not for months did it seem Cable and Wireless could colorably say they needed the building except at most for the four rooms their two managers were already using; long before then, I was sure they would see our need was greater than theirs, and agree to relinquish it or at least to split its use. So I forgot the question and moved. All the first floor and most of the second was empty. I chose a corner room on the second floor facing the sea, which gave me a cross-draft as well as a private shower (no tub, this time).

  Meanwhile, I had acquired a few other things—first of all, a house-boy of my own, brought round by a friend of his serving as houseboy to Commander Callwell, R.N., executive officer at the Royal Naval Base. Commander Callwell’s houseboy recommended him highly, so I hired him. His name, I was assured, was Ahmed Hussein.

  That was the only thing of which I was ever assured regarding Ahmed. He was a very black young Sudanese (not to be confounded with American Negroes who were all West African), barefooted, of course, draped in a white robe topped off by a turban which he spent most of his time winding. Ahmed and I completely didn’t understand each other, since he talked only Arabic and I didn’t. However, I was fairly good at pantomime by now and I had hopes Ahmed might pick up some English.

  Ahmed’s job was to make my bed, take care of my room, send out the laundry, and get it back (this last no minor trick). What wasn’t his job, but what turned out to be the only thing Ahmed ever took the slightest interest in, was to shine up my automobile.

  For I now had a car. Major Knapp had taken out the afternoon before from under the wraps in which it had been stored in the Army warehouse, awaiting my arrival, the car assigned to me as Commanding Officer of the Naval Repair Base—a brand-new 1942 Chevrolet sedan, complete with driver. The driver was, as usual, an Italian, an ex-enlisted man now a P.O.W., but wearing civilian clothes as they all did. He had quite a rig which made him look like a movie director—leather puttees, riding breeches, an Army wool shirt, and no hat at all. How he ever survived in that costume I could never figure out, but perhaps his luxuriant hair, of which he was very proud, helped. At least he could talk fair English.

  My Chevrolet was the only U.S. military car in Eritrea that was not painted in the Army khaki color. When I got it, it was still its original glossy black, and I concluded that as I was not in the Army, I should be different and leave it that way, black.

  That suited Ahmed right down to the ground. He could get a shine on that black enamel that would have been absurd to attempt on the flat Army field paint that covered all other cars, and whenever I wanted Ahmed, I could always find him
shining away on that car, regardless of what else he should have been doing.

  I paid Ahmed (in Italian lira) thirty cents a day, plus his board. He wasn’t worth it.

  With my clothes unpacked and stowed either in the closet or the bureau, most of which I did myself to show Ahmed what was expected of him, I shoved off to inspect the town of Massawa and its two remaining harbors. We drove slowly off the Abd-El-Kader Peninsula so I might have a better chance to observe what I had missed before on my racing entry into the naval base establishment.

  There was more to it than I had thought. Beyond the deserted naval shops was a huge barracks building, stuccoed masonry as usual. This I now saw was housing Indian troops. Behind that building was a maze of one-storied wooden barracks, portable apparently, which were full of Sudanese soldiers. Further along was another stuccoed masonry building, two floors, looking very much like the building in which I was now quartered, except that this building, alone of all those I had seen, was surrounded by barbed wire, entanglement style, with only a narrow gate through it, also of barbed wire, which was closed.

  Apparently this was a specially important building, converted perhaps either to an ammunition magazine or to the decoding chambers to warrant all that protection. I indicated it to my driver, asked what it was.

  “Brothel,” he responded briefly.

  “A brothel?” I repeated, astonished.

  “Si, signor Commandante. Army brothel. Black girls for Sudanese, Indians.”

  I shut up. A beautiful building to be wasted on an Army brothel! I wondered whether the barbed wire entanglements were to keep the black girls in or to keep the colonial troops out, but I didn’t ask. All the same, I made a mental note to see at some future date about acquiring that building for possible use as quarters for ourselves.