by Rachel Hore
For after a two-month lull the bombers had returned. Over the previous week thousands of incendiary bombs had been dropped over London and Paul’s company of Pioneers were scrambled to help with immediate clearance after the rescue teams had finished. It was dangerous, distressing work and there seemed no end to it. It was never long after darkness had fallen and they’d returned to barracks after a hard day that the sirens were in full cry for the next onslaught. Paul would lie awake in the crowded public shelter tensing at each explosion, astonished that so many of the people around him had fallen quickly back into the routine with their thermoses of hot soup, their blankets and their knitting. It was the frightened eyes of the children that got to him. It wasn’t right that little kids should go through this, he thought, and his mind wandered to Hamburg, where he fervently hoped the same thing wasn’t happening to German children.
‘What’ll you have?’ Sir Henry asked. ‘They manage a pretty decent Martini here. Shame there’s no ice, but you can’t have everything.’
The Martini was indeed sustaining and Paul began to relax a little. He asked after Lady Kelling and Robyn and was briskly told they were both quite well.
Over dinner, which included an actual pork chop and a range of spring vegetables, Sir Henry listened sympathetically to Paul’s request.
‘I should think they need good sports like you,’ he agreed, tapping salt onto the rim of his plate. ‘And your knowledge of the lingo could be invaluable. I can’t make any promises of course, but I’ll put in a word with the colonel.’
‘That’s very good of you, sir.’
‘Not at all. I’m sorry you’ve had such a thin time of it, especially during the, er, emergency last year, but my hands were tied on that front, you do understand?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’ The reminder of his internment was a painful one, but Paul no longer felt it so keenly.
‘That’s settled then. Now, do you have any news of that Richards boy? I gather his father—’
But whatever Sir Henry had been going to say about the Richards family was lost to the baying of the sirens and almost immediately there was a great whoosh and an explosion that cracked the front windows and made the building shake. Several pictures fell off the wall and the lights flashed, then went out.
Although the evening ended in chaos, Sir Henry did not forget their conversation. A month passed and Paul had started to lose hope when a letter arrived from the regiment. The style was formal, distant even, but friendly platitudes were not what he was looking for. He was to report to the barracks in Aldershot the following week. It was with great excitement that he showed it to his friend Horst in the room they shared with two others.
‘You lucky swine,’ Horst said gloomily, lighting a cigarette. ‘It won’t be the same without you here.’
‘You know what they say, the English: “Be careful what you wish for.” Who knows what will happen to either of us.’
‘I will most probably die of boredom here. Still, I wish you luck.’ They shook hands and turned it into a mock wrestle. Paul would sorely miss Horst. He’d been the best friend he’d made since he’d arrived in Britain – apart from Sarah, of course.
As he edged forward on the crowded deck, Paul reached into his top pocket, brought forth his wallet and slipped out a photograph of Sarah. It was a formal portrait from before the war, a spare of one taken for some official document or other, and slightly creased. He’d come to like it because although in it Sarah wasn’t smiling, there was a hint of a smile there, as though she found some private thought amusing. He preferred it to another she’d given him in which Ivor’s face could be seen in the background. Paul sighed and tucked it away, returning the wallet to his pocket. His last encounter with Sarah, two months ago, had been heart-rending for both of them. They’d stayed at the vampish Mrs Bert’s again and when the time came for them to part they clung together as though they feared never to meet again. The letter he’d written on the ship would have travelled in the military bag home from Cape Town and – assuming it made it to Britain at all – it might be ages before it reached her and even longer before officialdom tracked him down in Egypt with a reply. But enough, now he was nearly at the top of the gangplank and all thoughts of home receded.
On the dockside, a perspiring sergeant waved irritably at a fly and rustled through the pages on his clipboard.
‘Hartmann, you said? D Company. Follow the others over there, will you?’
Paul joined the men piling onto the lorries. Even under cover, with everyone squeezed so close together on the plank seats, it was stifling. Someone handed in a water container and they filled their bottles and splashed each other’s faces, laughing, though in truth the reality of the climate was starting to sink in. Engines roared into life in a cloud of petrol fumes and one by one the lorries began to lurch forward, leaving the ships and the grey-white quayside buildings, the patient camels and the scrubby hillside behind. Through the half-open rear of Paul’s vehicle a hot breeze wafted that failed to freshen and soon it brought with it a gagging stink of sewage as they passed through the slums of Suez.
It was a relief to rattle out onto a desert road and along the banks of a lake of startling blue, but then that too was behind them and they entered a sandy landscape that seemed to stretch on for ever with no relieving feature. Grit swirled into the truck and got into everyone’s eyes and throats, so they fastened the tarpaulin across the back opening and the lorries juddered on in sweltering semi-darkness for what seemed to be hours. The other men, none of whom Paul knew well, swapped quiet banter, but he sensed their underlying sense of dread. The news about Tobruk had subdued them. A remark about them keeping the local gravediggers busy was met with silence and they only perked up when the truck slowed and street sounds of what must surely be Cairo reached their ears. They rolled up the tarpaulin and gazed out eagerly upon a new world. They saw men in long white jellabas and flapping slippers, mangy dogs that all seemed to Paul varieties of one dog lying prostrate in the shade or madly barking at traffic. They passed huts built out of sand, bright-coloured rugs hanging in the sun, intriguing glimpses of dark interiors, doorways before which small, dark-eyed children crouched in the dust drawing pictures with sticks. The smell was an unspeakable mixture of exhaust fumes, cooking oil and manure, with an exotic top note of incense.
Soon the streets broadened out and the buildings, in a variety of styles, grew higher, wider and more opulent, sprouting little balconies and canopies. From some hung flags, sometimes the Union Jack, which drew cheers from the soldiers. The truck stopped and started, flung its occupants about at sharp corners, but finally it swung between a pair of large gates, rattled across an expanse of bare ground and drew up outside a great, ornate portico. Here they climbed out, tired and blinking, hauling their kit, under the cruel sun.
Once inside they passed through warm, echoing gloom then out the other side into the brightness of a large, sandy square lined with trees. This was bordered by two long, three-storeyed buildings on either side, decorated with rounded arches. The fourth side of the square was edged by the silvery-grey Nile where, like a stage set, white triangular sails of feluccas slid past a vista of palm trees and misty old buildings. This must once have been a beautiful spot, Paul thought, an old palace, perhaps.
More trucks arrived and disgorged soldiers until a couple of hundred men milled about the square with their belongings, perspiring in the heat. Then an irritable sergeant-major with a sunburned face and forearms, brandishing another list, marched out and began to dispatch the newcomers to various parts of the buildings. ‘Some of you will have to kip on the balconies,’ he told Paul’s little group. ‘We’re full to overflowing.’
‘Hartmann!’ a familiar voice roared and Paul turned to be blinded by the sun. Shading his eyes, the dazzle morphed into the figure of a handsome, confident, khaki-clad officer standing squarely several yards away. Paul caught a glimpse of his face as the man stepped forward and he realized with a shock who it was.
&nbs
p; ‘Richards!’
‘Captain Richards to you, Hartmann. I suppose you’d imagine yourself the last person I expected to see thousands of miles from home, but you’d be wrong. They gave me advance warning, you might say.’
‘Did they? Sir.’ This was his old adversary, but Paul was thrown by the new relationship. Richards was the officer here and he, Paul, only a private. And Richards was clearly enjoying the fact.
‘Yes, you’re in our company here. Major Goodall is in charge, you’ll meet him shortly. I’m his second in command.’ He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and consulted a sheet of paper. ‘And do you know a man called, let’s see, Robert Black? His name’s on the list, but it’s not been checked off.’
‘He was here a moment ago.’ Paul looked about, but he couldn’t see Blackie among the men lugging their kit tiredly towards their designated sleeping quarters. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and forced himself to stay focused on Richards.
‘Right.’ He made a mark on his list. ‘You’d better get on, then. Nothing much to tell you boys at the moment. They say it’s chaos out there on the front line. We’re simply awaiting instructions.’
‘Yes. We heard about Tobruk. Do you think we’ve still a chance, sir?’
‘Of course. We mustn’t have any talk like that now.’
‘No, sorry. Sir.’
Richards was studying him now, as though playing with him. ‘How did you do it, eh, Hartmann? You must have pulled the wool over someone’s eyes to get here.’
‘Not at all, sir. I wrote to the adjutant several times and Sir Henry kindly provided a reference.’
‘Did he now? Well, I have to say I was concerned when I heard. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, remember, will you?’
‘You don’t have to do that, sir.’
‘Oh, but I do. There may be hand-to-hand fighting. Don’t come whingeing to me about killing your own countrymen.’
‘I am here because I want to fight the evil that has taken over my homeland, sir. I won’t be asking for any favours.’
‘We’ll see. And if I hear of you doing anything, anything at all, that affects morale, well, I’ll do what I need to, understand?’
‘Yes, sir, but you won’t.’ Every word felt ground out of him. He watched Captain Richards stroll away importantly in the direction of where he supposed the officers’ mess to be, and he hated him.
His dormitory stank of some noxious chemical that made his eyes water and since all the beds had been claimed he unrolled his sleeping bag on a shaded balcony where at least the smell wasn’t as bad, and lay down, soon slipping into an exhausted doze. When he awoke, the light was dim, but although the fierceness of the sun was gone, the air was still hot and treacly and his head ached. He stumbled inside to find some of the men still sleeping. A small, black-haired soldier by the name of Walters was sitting on his bed, tongue sticking out, laboriously writing a letter. ‘The message is we have the evening off,’ he told Paul, who nodded and asked the way to a bathroom.
Once he’d washed and tidied himself and found some water to drink, Paul felt better and went off to explore the barracks, eventually finding a clerk who furnished him with money and plenty of advice, some of it unwanted. Since there was no sign of Blackie or the others he’d grown friendly with he went out into the streets alone, determined to see round the city while he could. He signed out using his full name, Private Paul Nicholas Hartmann.
The adjustments to his name had been part of the conditions of acceptance into the regiment. If he was taken prisoner, he could be shot as a traitor if discovered to be German. He’d spent the last year practising a British accent, and if his fellows ever asked, he emphasized that his mother was English and they’d escaped the Nazis. He never spoke of his father or his childhood in Germany. It was partly self-preservation, but he still found the subject too painful for public airing.
It amazed him to see Allied troops of varying nationalities everywhere on the streets, enjoying an evening out. The clerk had warned him off the smart hotels, which were officers only, but he didn’t want such places anyway. He wished only to see the souks and the gardens and the architecture in peace, then find somewhere respectable for a quiet drink and something decent to eat.
Eventually he hailed a taxi, a broken coughing vehicle that dropped him near the packed terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel with its wicker tables and chairs. He wandered the pleasant fringes of the Ezbekieh Gardens for a while, enjoying the clamour of the birds and the sight of children playing. Afterwards, he visited a British club he had heard about and ate water buffalo steak, egg and chips, washed down with a pint of beer. He was surprised at how hungry he was.
It was dark when Paul came out of the club and the street lights shone with a soft blue light – no one here bothered to keep blackout. So it was that as he passed an archway which presented the vista of a garden with trees studded with coloured lights, he paused, thinking how pretty it was. English voices and the sound of laughter came from within, but a powerfully built Egyptian standing guard with arms folded stared at him in warning, so he prepared to move on.
It was at that moment that the archway darkened as the figures of two officers emerged, wreathed in the smoke from their cigars and reeking not unpleasantly of whisky.
‘Good Lord,’ one said, seeing Paul. ‘I know you from home, don’t I? Ivor Richards said your name was on the list.’
Despite the gloom, Paul recognized the friendly open face. It was sunburned, a little older, but there was no mistaking Harry Andrews. They shook hands warmly, Harry eagerly talking. ‘I’d heard from Jennifer that you’d joined up. I had a letter from her just last week, you know. She’s in the ATS.’
‘How is she?’
‘Rather enjoying being away from her mother.’
Paul laughed politely, remembering Sarah saying how infuriating Mrs Bulldock could be with her organizing and her tactless remarks.
‘I must say,’ Harry went on, ‘I’m surprised we’re here at all. Our company was kicking its heels in Aldershot back in March and all of a sudden they told us to pack our kit. There was to be an embarkation and they needed us to make up the numbers. Two days later we were steaming down the Channel.’
‘We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ The other man, a lieutenant, like Harry, who’d been quietly listening, had a reserved but amiable way of speaking.
‘Charles Keegan, this is Paul Hartmann. He’s in my platoon.’
‘Am I, sir?’ Paul said. ‘I didn’t know that.’ He wasn’t displeased.
In the conversation that followed they discovered they were all staying at the same barracks. ‘Would you like to share our taxi? No, not at all.’ It was getting late and Charles didn’t seem to mind so Paul gladly agreed. A taxi was duly hailed and they all climbed in, Charles kindly offering to take the seat in front so that Paul and Harry could talk.
‘You’ve come at a particularly bad time. It’s been hell out there in the desert. We’re only back to regroup. Once they’ve repaired enough lorries we’ll be off to the front again. Shouldn’t be long now, a day or two they reckon.’
‘So the fall of Tobruk doesn’t mean the end?’
‘Far from it. We’ll give the Jerries a run for their money yet.’
‘That hasn’t stopped people packing up and leaving Cairo,’ Charles said from the front.
‘He means foreign civilians. Half of them are off to Alexandria. There’s a real old panic on.’
‘I haven’t seen any signs of that,’ Paul said, genuinely puzzled. ‘The locals don’t seem worried. They’d fight for us, wouldn’t they, if it came to it? After all we’ve done for them?’
Harry laughed. ‘That’s not how they see it. Most of them would like us out of here. Their king is one of them. They’d have the German and Italian flags whipped up the poles in no time. Wouldn’t you?’ he addressed the driver, who merely waved a dismissive hand. ‘He doesn’t understand. But it won’t come to it,’ he continued cheerfully.
‘You wait and see.’
It was this heroic English cheerfulness that always surprised Paul. At first, when he’d joined up he’d thought it was an act, then he’d decided that they believed in it and tried adopting it himself. It didn’t stop him feeling frightened underneath, but it helped him keep going.
After the taxi dropped them, Charles wished Paul and Harry goodnight in the lobby, leaving them to talk.
‘It’s good to see someone else from Westbury. Jennifer’s an excellent letter writer, but not all the post makes it through – and there are things she can’t say, of course. How is morale? What does the country think about what we’re doing out here?’
‘I haven’t been back to Westbury much. For a long time I wasn’t allowed to, the rules of my release, and now with the Kellings gone, my only connection there is Sarah.’
‘Sarah Bailey? I didn’t know you two were friends. Jennifer says she’s worked miracles at the Hall.’
‘She does work very hard, poor thing.’ There must have been something about the tone of his voice, a softness, perhaps, that Harry, who was a good reader of emotions, picked up on.
‘So that’s the size and shape of it. Sarah, eh? Jennifer didn’t tell me about that.’
‘I imagine that she doesn’t know. It’s a not a big secret, but I don’t think Sarah speaks about it in Westbury. Not everyone would understand.’ He didn’t like to say that Mrs Bailey was not altogether happy that Sarah was seeing him, although she’d not tried to prevent it. He was not a little hurt by this and by the fact that Sarah had not allowed the relationship to be known about, though he understood. Westbury had known him as the German gardener who’d been interned.
‘Listen, old man.’ Harry looked about at the soldiers passing through, signalled a greeting to one or two, then drew Paul to one side, where their conversation couldn’t easily be overheard. ‘I need to warn you.’
Paul felt a weariness, sensing what Harry was about to say. He approved of Harry, and trusted him, though he hardly knew him. He was straightforward and liked most people and wasn’t bothered if they didn’t like him back, though most did. His men would follow him because they trusted him, but he lacked, Paul guessed, a natural authority over them. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t seen promotion.