‘Ted and Fred: they were special, weren’t they?’
Arnold gave an embarrassed grunt and excused his emotions by saying, ‘They were my mates.’
‘What happened when you reached Suez?’
Arnold had had better luck than Simon. His relationship with Ted and Fred had survived for nearly a month in Egypt. There had been no emergency in those days, so the three went to a base depot for acclimatization before being sent to a camp at Mahdi where they shared a tent and waited for their movement orders. If no order arrived by mid-day. they were free to get passes out of camp and take the tram-car into Cairo. They usually went to a cinema but often enough they just walked about, grumbling to each other. They were browned off, not only because they were there, but because they felt no one cared whether they were there or not.
Ted and Fred were town-bred boys and did not find Cairo as strange as it seemed to Arnold. He had grown up in the Lake District and, wandering aimlessly through foetid, filthy, noisy, sun-baked streets, he longed for his own green countryside. Months passed before he was reconciled to the desert but now he said, ‘The desert’s all right when you get to know it.’
They had been nearly a month at Mahdi when Ted, who was the boldest of them, said to the sergeant, ‘What are we here for, sarge, mucking about in camp?’
The sergeant seemed to like his cheek. ‘You’ll find out soon enough, my lad,’ and a week later, when two men were needed to make up the complement of an out-going truck, he picked on Ted and Fred. Arnold, who had visited the zoo on his own, came back as the truck was moving off. He ran after it, shouting, ‘Where are they taking you?’
Ted and Fred, looking at him over the back flap, could only shrug their ignorance. Ted grimaced, comically rueful, but Arnold knew they were gratified at being chosen while he was not. The truck turned out of the compound and that was the last he ever saw of Ted and Fred.
‘I bet you missed them?’
Arnold stared ahead for a minute or two before he whispered, ‘I didn’t know how I was going to go on living.’
‘Were you on leave in Cairo?’
‘Not leave, exactly,’ Arnold had developed amoebic dysentery in the desert and had been sent back to base hospital. While he was away, his company had been ‘whacked up’ giving covering fire during the evacuation of Gazala.
‘Suppose I was lucky, really. A lot of my mates copped it.’
‘What do you think happened to the rest?’
Arnold shook his head. ‘Could have been sent to join other battalions. That happens when a company’s badly whacked up. Anyway no one knew where they were.’ And so Arnold was displaced and, like Simon, uncertain what lay ahead for them.
Whey they stopped to brew up, Simon drank his tea standing beside Arnold, feeling not only that their uncertainty was a bond but that there was sympathy between them. But he feared their attachment could not last. They could be separated by circumstances: even if they had the luck to remain in the same unit, they would be divided by rank.
He asked, ‘What about Ridley? — How did he lose his outfit?’
Simon learnt that Ridley had been wounded during the retreat from Mersa Matruh. Discharged from hospital, he found his company had been broken up so, like the other men left in the convoy, he belonged nowhere.
As they started again, the staff car pulled out from its position between trucks and Hardy, his head out of the window, shouted that he was taking the lead. He turned inland and they drove for an hour before being signalled to stop. When the convoy came to a standstill, Ridley jumped down from his truck and, coming to Simon, whispered fiercely, ‘Christ, if we leaguer here, we’re sitting ducks.’
Simon thought Ridley was right. The flat, bare mardam offered no protection and there was nothing in sight but a group of trucks some distance south. There was nothing to mark this stretch of desert, but Simon supposed it had some meaning for Hardy. Feeling that Ridley expected him to act, he went to the major and asked, ‘Are we to camp here, sir?’
‘No. Tell the men to stand to. I’ve something to tell you all.’
Papers in hand, the men drawn up in front of him, Hardy did his best to convey amiable authority. ‘I’ve called a halt so I can put you in the picture. We’re a mixed lot, as you know, and some of you are new to the desert. Others are not at their best, having returned from sick leave, but I think we can make ourselves useful. Orders are that we join with another detachment to form a mobile column. There’s a number of such columns down south — Jock columns they are called, after Colonel Jock Campbell, VC, who thought them up. Clever man. As I said, we’ll be at the southern end of the line — away from the big dogfight, I’m afraid, but with a job to do. We’re to swan about and sting the jerries whenever and wherever we get the chance.’
‘Sounds exciting, sir,’ Simon said.
‘Could be. Could be.’ Not wanting to overdo the amiability, Hardy jerked up his head and asked, ‘Any questions?’
‘I’ll say there are,’ Ridley whispered to Simon then, raising his voice, he adopted an obsequious whine quite different from his usual sardonic tone. ‘Do we go south straight away, sir?’
‘No, we’ll stick around here for a few days and wait for supplies. We need extra officers and, of course, artillery.’
‘This stinging the jerries, sir: how’re we to set about it?’
‘Ah!’ Hardy examined his papers and seemed relieved when he found the answer. ‘It’ll be a matter of swift raids and counter-attacks.’
‘I see, sir,’ Ridley respectfully said though, in fact, the answer did not tell them much. There was an uneasy silence then everyone listened, awed, as Ridley managed to bring out another question. ‘Sir, how’ll the column be made up? Number of trucks, guns and the like, sir?’
‘I think I can answer that,’ Hardy, his manner stern and competent, consulted his papers again but this time the answer was not at hand. Giving up, frowning his annoyance, he made a blustering attempt to extemporize. ‘There’ll be gunners, naturally. Artillery officer, of course. Enough infantry for close protection. Four lorries, I’d say — could be six. And . . . and so on.’
‘What about hardware, sir?’
‘Hardware? I suppose we’ll have to take what we can get.’
‘Plenty lying about, sir.’ Ridley, with satisfaction in his own knowledge, began to advise on things they might find useful, but Hardy would have none of this. Cutting through Ridley, he said, ‘Carry on, Boulderstone.’
‘Sir. Where are we making for, sir?’
The major had marked his command by putting on an impressive pair of field glasses. He now raised them to look at the only trucks in sight and after long contemplation said, ‘Yes, those are our chaps.’
He pointed into the south-west and as the men looked with him, their faces shone red with the setting sun.
Hardy seemed pleased with himself and shouted, ‘Get a move on, Boulderstone. No time to waste.’
The trucks filled. Simon was in the lead again. They set out to find company and cover before the night came down on them.
Four
Dobson had been right. There was going to be a scramble for the special train. To make matters worse, the train was late and those packed together on the platform were in a state of agitated anxiety, expecting tumult.
Cairo had become the clearing house of Eastern Europe. Kings and princes, heads of state, their followers and hangers-on, free governments with all their officials, everyone who saw himself committed to the allied cause, had come to live here off the charity of the British government. Hotels, restaurants and cafés were loud with the squabbles, rivalries, scandals, exhibitions of importance and hurt feelings that occupied the refugees while they waited for the war to end and the old order to return.
Now they were all on the move again. Those free to go, or of such eminence their persons were regarded as sacrosanct, had taken themselves off days before. It was said that the officers of General Headquarters had left in staff cars but, whether that
was true or not, there were still officers at Groppi’s. Now it was the turn of the English women and children who had obstinately remained in spite of warnings. The warnings had become urgent, and most of them had decided to leave.
Harriet was not among them but she was not far from them. Where she stood, awaiting the Alexandria train, she could look across the rail at the vast concourse packed on the platform opposite. She saw people she knew. She saw Pinkrose, hanging on to his traps and pushing first this way, then that, trying to find a position that would give him an advantage over the others. In his determined search and frequent mind changes, he thrust women from him and tripped over children, and so enraged the volatile Greeks, Free French, Poles and German Jews that they shouted abuse at him and blamed him for their fears. Hearing none of this, aware of nothing but himself, he struggled back and forth, losing his hat, regaining it, clucking in his agitation.
The train was sighted and a groan went through the crowd. The train came at a snail’s pace towards the platform. The groan died out and a tense silence came down on the passengers who, gripping bags and babies, prepared for the battle to come. As the first carriages drew abreast of the platform, hysteria set in. The men who had been castigating Pinkrose for loutish behaviour, now flung themselves forward, regardless of women and children, and began tugging at the carriage doors. The women, suffering the usual disadvantage of having to protect families as well as themselves, were shrill in protest, but the protest soon became general. The carriages were locked. The train, slow and inexorable as time, slid on till it touched the buffers at the end of the line.
The scene was now hidden from Harriet by the arrival of her own train. Hardly anyone was risking the move to Alexandria and choosing among the empty compartments, she heard the clamour as the special train was opened up. She also heard the gleeful yells of the porters throwing luggage aboard. ‘You go. Germans come. You go. Germans come.’
Iqal might have his doubts about the German promises but the fellahin had heard there were great times ahead. The wonder was, Harriet thought, that they were all so tolerant of the losers. Even when poor, diseased and hungry, they maintained their gaiety, speeding the old conquerors off without malice. No doubt they would welcome the new in the same way.
Harriet’s train moved gently out. The uproar died behind her and she passed into the almost silent lushness of the Delta. Here was a region of dilatory peace that lived its own life, unaware of war and invaders. All over the Delta that stretched north for a hundred miles, black earth put out crops so green the foliage was like green light. Now, in high summer, this vibrancy of green was exactly as it had been when the Pringles first arrived. Then it had been Easter. Greece was aflower with spring but in Egypt there was neither spring nor autumn, only the heat of summer and the winter’s soft warmth.
Flat, oblong fields were divided from each other by water channels, and each produced crops without respite. Vegetables, flax, beans, barley, tobacco, cotton: all lifted their rich verdure repeatedly out of the same blackness for which Egypt had once been called the Black Land. Between the crops there were fruit trees: mangoes, pomegranates, banana palms, date palms, and sometimes a whitewashed tomb, like a miniature mosque, or a white house with woodwork fretted like a child’s toy.
Men, women and children went on working without looking at the train. Their persistence was leisurely and the train, too, was leisurely. Harriet was able to watch a water buffalo trudge a full circle, turning a water wheel that had outworn generations of buffaloes.
When, a year ago, she first saw the Delta, it was evening. The refugee ship had arrived early in the morning but people were not allowed ashore. They had to be questioned and given clearance. They were hungry. They had been told to bring their own food but in Athens the shops were empty of food, and there was none to be found. Harriet had brought some oranges on the quay and these had kept the Pringles and their circle of friends going for three days. Oranges had been the main diet in Athens for some weeks before the end and that was how they had existed; on oranges, wine and the exaltation of the Greek spring.
Berthed by the quayside at Alexandria, the passengers saw nothing but cases of guns and ammunition. No food. Then two soldiers had come to stare up at them and the passengers shouted at them in all the languages of Europe. The soldiers came to the edge of the quay, asking what it was the refugees wanted. ‘Food,’ shouted Harriet.
Food? — was that all?
The men went into a shed and came back with a whole branch of bananas. They broke off the fruits and threw them up over the ship’s rail and everybody scrambled for them. Harriet caught one and took it to share with Guy who sat where he had sat for most of the voyage, placidly reading the sonnets of Shakespeare.
‘Half each,’ she said and he smiled as she peeled off the green skin and broke the pink flesh, then watched as she bit into it.
‘What does it taste like?’
‘Honey,’ she said and the sweetness brought tears into her eyes.
Allowed to land, they were taken to an army canteen for bacon and eggs and strong tea. ‘Tea you could trot a mouse on,’ said Guy. The sun was low when they boarded the train and they journeyed into a country stranger than any other, yet suffocatingly familiar. The heat, the airless quiet, the rich oily colours reminded Harriet of old biblical oleographs seen at Sunday school. It was the ‘Land of the Pharaohs’, a land she had known since childhood.
‘Look, a camel,’ someone shouted and they all crowded to the window to see their first camel of Egypt lifting its proud, world-weary head and planting its soft, splayed feet into the sandy road. The workers were leaving the fields. A string of them wandered along the road, slowly, as though it did not matter whether they went home or not.
The sun set and twilight merged and darkened the fields. Half-way between Cairo and Alexandria, the train stopped at Tanta. A Greek girl called out, ‘My God, look at Tanta!’ They looked and experienced the first shock of Egyptian poverty. Tanta station was in a culvert overhung by the balconies of gimcrack flats where washing was strung on lines and rubbish was heaped for the wind to blow away. Fat men in pyjamas lay in hammocks or stood up sweating and scratching and leering down on the women in the train. Many of the refugees were Athenians, used to a city of marble. In Alexandria, where it rained, the bricks had been baked but there was no rain in the Delta. Tanta was the dun colour of unbaked clay.
Beggar children whined up at the train, banging on it to demand attention. As the train pulled out, they ran beside it, their bare dirty feet slapping the ground until they were lost in the twilight. Then darkness came down and there was nothing to see but the palm fronds black against the afterglow of sunset.
Here was Harriet at Tanta again. The same fat men sprawled on the balconies, the same children whined at her, the same smell of spice, dung and death hung in the air, but none of it disturbed Harriet now. Tanta was a part of Egypt. It was the nature of things, and her only thought was to get the journey over. If asked, she would have said she did not dislike Tanta as much as she disliked Alexandria. Though she deplored her mid-week separation from Guy, she dreaded the time when her job would end and she would have to move from Cairo. Built on a narrow strip of land between a salt lake and the sea, Alexandria, she felt, was depressing and claustrophobic. Castlebar, who went each week to tutor the son of an Alexandrian Greek banker, had said to Guy, ‘You’ll enjoy it. The fashionables are quite amusing,’ but Guy was not among ‘the fashionables’. His college was not even in Alexandria. It was beyond the eastern end of the long Corniche that ran from the Pharos, all round the old port, and stretched in an endless concrete promenade, until it was lost in desert. Guy was in the desert. He taught English at a business college where the sons of tobacco and cotton barons wanted to learn a commercial language. When Guy organized a series of lectures on English literature, a deputation of students came to tell him that they did not need to know about literature. They did not want English, as Guy understood it. They wanted something calle
d ‘commercial English’.
Alexandria was famous for its sea-breeze but the breeze could often bring in a summer mist. When Harriet left the train, she found the sun hidden by a moisture film that increased the greyness of the streets. The townspeople were queuing up outside banks or hurrying from shop to shop, buying as though against a siege. There was unease in the air, the same unease that Harriet had felt in Athens when the Germans reached Thermopylae. In Cairo people were saying that the rich business community of Alexandria had appointed a reception committee to prepare a welcome for Rommel. That was probably true but the rich were stocking up before the invaders came to empty the shops. Cars, packed with supplies like the cars outside the American Embassy, stood ready for those who thought it wiser to flee. Some of them were lagged with mattresses as a protection against aerial bombardment.
Harriet took a bus along the Corniche. There was a drabness about the streets and she felt that some bright constituent was missing. She realized that the young naval men, who went about in white duck, as light-hearted as children, were missing from among the people on the pavements. She supposed that shore-leave had been stopped.
That day no one had time to lie on the beach. The long grey sea edge, usually full of bathers, was deserted except for a few small boys. The vacuous greyness of the town depressed her. She realized she had become acclimatized to Cairo’s perpetual sunshine and rumbustious vitality. Here the long sea-facing cliff of hotels and blocks of flats had a winter bleakness as though all life had moved away.
In Cairo, the German occupation was still merely possible: here, apparently, it was a certainty. She decided she would stand none of Guy’s heroics. She would take him back to Cairo that very night.
In normal times, Guy would have been on leave. The college had shut for the summer but, feeling he had no right to take leave, he had remained to conduct a summer course in English. Only a few students, eager to excel or to gain his favour, had enrolled but they were enough to give him a sense of purpose. He would argue that the school was part of the college curriculum and he could not abandon it. She would argue that it was not and he very well could.
Fortunes of War Page 11