by Roland Perry
Moody led him over to the Rebels. Gill and Murchison patted him, calming him down. They offered him a drink from his own designated wooden bowl. He lapped it up, intermittently looking up to watch and emit low guttural sounds just below a growl at one of the Arab boys, who all kept a wary distance.
‘What did I say about respecting him?’ Moody asked.
‘You’re so right,’ Featherstone observed. ‘Fearless little beggar, with a certain dignity.’
‘He is so sensitive to the difference between just playing with him, which we do, and making fun of him,’ Gill said. ‘Don’t you just love him? We must make his status official. He is already really one of us.’
The others nodded their agreement. Horrie wagged his tail, causing Featherstone to smile and to repeat earlier observations: ‘I always feel he knows what we are saying.’
They marched on another five kilometres and approached an Arab village. Hewitt ordered them to ‘march to attention,’ which saw rifles sloped, shoulders square and strides long and in step. The men stopped nattering to each other. It was meant to impress the village. All of its members seemed to have turned out to see them. The young Arab boys continued to be curious and cheeky.
‘C’mon, digger,’ one called, ‘eyes front. No girls here!’
‘At ease,’ another cried, much to the laughter of others.
Murchison could never resist some interplay. ‘Seieda, George,’ he called, using the Arab salutation and the name the diggers had for all Arabs, among others. The boy replied, ‘Good day, Wog!’
This drew laughs from the platoon ranks. Murchison did not like being trumped. Other boys were encouraged.
‘Going to Alexandria, eh, digger? We got really pretty girls for you. Sexeeee!’
‘Where, George?’ Murchison asked.
‘Anfousia Quarter. Between fort and palace. Sailors stay there. We show you. Nice area. Nice cafe.’
‘Very clean,’ another boy interjected, ‘very hygiene!’
All the boys cackled at that.
‘We take you!’ they almost cried in chorus.
‘Don’t worry, Murchie,’ Brooker said, ‘we are going to that quarter. I’ve heard of a good cafe there.’
‘Forget the bloody brothels, son,’ Moody said. ‘Alexandria is one of the great historical cities in the world. Founded by Alexander the Great in 331 BC.’
‘Yeah, the hookers are quite ancient, Murchie,’ Fitzsimmons commented, drawing laughs.
‘How come you know your history?’ Featherstone asked Moody. ‘You study it at school or uni or something?’
‘No. I did science subjects, although I wish I’d studied history. There were very good teachers at school.’
‘Which school?’
‘Scotch College.’
‘That’s strange,’ Fitzsimmons chipped in.
‘Why?’
‘Thought you’d be at Beer College.’
The exhausted platoon reached Alexandria’s outskirts and was surprised at its size, the big population and the very cosmopolitan look of the people. Some ignored them as just another bunch of foreign soldiers. Others waved and smiled. The Rebels noted the lack of high-rise buildings as they reached the tree-lined city centre, Mohammed Ali Square, with its large equestrian monument. The solid buildings were European in style with the Church of St Mark’s prominent. A halt was called due to the large number of buses and cars. Hewitt ordered them to break ranks and be back at the corner in four hours when they would be trucked back to camp. The Rebels followed Brooker to the Anfousia district with its narrow streets of cafes. Murchison was first to notice exotic women on some of the balconies and he nearly bumped into the others while craning his neck. Scantily clad women winked, wiggled their hips, waved, smiled from behind thin veils and called:
‘Come on, Aussie; we give you good time; we make love . . . good beer too . . .’
‘How do they know we’re Aussie?’ Featherstone asked.
‘The slouch hats and uniforms for a start,’ Fitzsimmons said, and added, ‘and some of them look like they might remember Brooker from the Great War.’
They reached a cafe called The Moroccan. Horrie was not allowed in. Featherstone volunteered to stay outside with him. The others entered the large, dimly lit, smoke-filled cafe where an Arab ensemble band, each man wearing a red fez, was playing music. They were struck by a heatwave of mixed smells; of beer, sweat, incense and cigar smoke. Almost all the tables were filled with military patrons from a variety of nations, including New Zealanders, South Africans, Free French, British, Americans and some Africans.
‘Over ’ere, Dig!’ an Australian called and chairs were organised for the Rebels, who found themselves cheek-by-jowl with British soldiers (‘Tommies’), who were not thrilled at the new arrivals. They crowded into a packed room. The hum of conversation, punctuated by loud laughing, almost drowned out the band. Not even a snake-charmer could gain attention, except from Murchison, as a large asp uncoiled itself to the piped music of a cross-legged Arab wearing multicoloured coat, pants and fez.
‘That’s Joseph,’ Fitzsimmons observed, just as the room fell silent as a curvaceous dark-haired beauty began to create an exotic dance around the snake, which made his gradual elevation to the music. The veiled big-eyed dancer, wearing green shorts and a shirt tied beneath her ample breasts, gyrated her hips.
‘Jeez!’ Fitzsimmons said as the asp coiled up. ‘I’d get it up for her too!’
‘Shut up!’ a British soldier called. ‘You rude Aussie git!’
‘Nah,’ Fitzsimmons responded, ‘guess you’d have trouble, Tommy, eh?’
A few comments, mostly good-natured, flew between the two groups of soldiers. A polite Arab waiter asked if the Rebels wanted their hats hung up. Some removed their head-gear.
‘Here,’ Murchison said, ‘hang this up too.’
In the darkness and the smoke and with several hats in his hand, the Arab waiter did not realise he had been handed Doris, Murchison’s last snake. The Arab shrieked as he tried to dislodge the reptile from around his neck. He fell back onto the table of British soldiers, upsetting it and sending beers and food spilling to the floor. A Tommy flew at Murchison. Within seconds there was an all-in brawl.
Outside, Featherstone threw away a cigarette.
‘Stay right here, Horrie mate,’ he ordered and rushed into the cafe, where there was chaos. About 30 men tangled with each other while the other soldiers formed a rough semicircle watching the all-in tussle. Wild punches were thrown by both sides, with only a few landing as all tables were upturned, glasses were broken and the tumbling, wrestling, punching mass swirled close to the stage, causing the band to disperse. Murchison was the wildest fighter of the lot, flailing at every Tommy in or out of striking distance. By contrast, Moody prowled the perimeter of the ‘ring’ and ducked and weaved. Then he lined up opponents who stumbled in his direction for a big right-hand swinging punch. He was all method and cold intent, while avoiding being caught up in wrestling. He hit two Tommies square on the jaw, leaving them motionless.
In the rush of bodies, the snake-charmer had lost his reptile. Then Horrie waddled into the cafe. He spotted both Murchison’s snake Doris and the disturbed asp. He danced around them, barking and uncertain which one to attack. Meanwhile the Arab cafe owners tried to stop the brawl, which was not an uncommon occurrence in this quarter. The management called the police, who were close by. With cries of ‘Police! Police!’ the various soldier groups bolted for the doors and open windows. The Rebels continued some push-and-shove with the Tommies but soon were careering down a side alley as they heard police whistles, yelling and car sirens. Horrie bounced along with them, wagging his stump. He had missed snaring another reptile victim, but he was happy to be with his squad after the fracas.
‘That was great!’ a breathless Murchison said, wiping away blood from the corner of his mouth. ‘We’ve only been in Alexandria twenty bloody minutes! What a place! Love it!’
‘Everyone is accounted for,’
Brooker said, looking around at all the Rebels and then down at Horrie. Murchison expressed interest in the prostitutes but the others suggested that they have a ‘beer and a feed’ before any other ‘adventures.’ They found a quiet cafe a few streets away and settled down to some modest fare.
By chance they had chosen a cafe bar frequented by prostitutes, who had meals there before their nocturnal duties. Two stunning, long-limbed, very dark-skinned African women came in and found a corner seat without even batting an eyelid at the Rebels. Murchison did everything to catch their attention, short of sitting with them.
‘They’re not interested in you or any of us in here,’ Brooker explained. ‘Do you think they are going to flirt off-duty? No way! They want peace and quiet away from the terrible mob of sweaty blokes from all the nations on earth before they switch to vaudeville later in their houses of ill repute.’
Murchison fondled his beer and picked at his food, his eyes darting in the direction of the Africans. He seemed unconvinced but confused that his wordless charm and boyish good looks were having no impact.
‘Look, mate,’ Brooker added, ‘you can have a go at them when they finish their meals. Let ’em be now. They’ll let you know if they are interested, when they are ready. Not before. Remember, this is their turf, not ours.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them,’ Murchison said in whispered awe. ‘The bodies on them! The arses!’
The others laughed.
Murchison kept watching and when the girls reached for their purses, he pounced. He sidled to their table, sat down and chatted. He paid their meal bill and asked if they would like drinks. In a faltering, Frenchtinged lilt, the one he fancied most smiled a crater of white teeth, and said: ‘Come with us? We have the best wines at our place, okay?’
With that Murchison took the girls to the Rebels and introduced them and Horrie, who was sitting close to Moody waiting for table scraps. Moody leaned across to Fitzsimmons and whispered: ‘You’d better go with him and ride shotgun. Never know what will happen to the kid.’
‘They’ll fleece him for sure,’ Fitzsimmons said under his breath and stubbing his cigarette. ‘Better do my duty.’ He winked at Moody and then yelled to Murchison: ‘Hey, mate, mind if I join you?’
5
REVENGE
Horrie was roaming around the Ikingi camp at breakfast time visiting his many friends, for almost the entire battalion had taken to this most outstanding little character. But there was always the odd soldier who was indifferent to pets, and a couple who were hostile. One was Sergeant Ross ‘Gerry’ Fitzgerald, the most hated man at Ikingi, who was only tolerated by a few cowering sycophants from his platoon, who laughed along with his every mindless, sneering aside. He liked to brawl and was known for his bullying, especially of the rank and file, whom he delighted in attacking for the smallest detail, especially if they refused to drink with him after hours. Fitzgerald was a sly grogger through the day and by the end of daylight, he was often morose and ready for a ‘top up’ with the nearest soldier who dared to be near him. This particular morning, Horrie innocently padded his way into Fitzgerald’s tent. He approached the grunting, snoring man on his bunk and tried to lick his face. The big man awoke to the saliva-filled passion, swung off the bunk swearing and kicking at Horrie. The dog sidestepped him but was cornered. Fitzgerald lashed at him again, this time connecting with the dog’s upper left leg. Horrie let out a yelp, and scrambled for the tent flap with Fitzgerald stumbling after him trying to kick him again.
At that moment, a hung-over Murchison, his arm slung over Fitzsimmons’ shoulder, returned from Alexandria. After a night of carousing, they had hitched a truck ride back to camp at dawn. They saw a limping Horrie scuttle from the tent, with Fitzgerald following and yelling abuse: ‘Fuckin’ little wog dog! Next time I’ll fuckin’ kick you to death!!’
Fitzgerald wandered back into his tent. Murchison was intent on taking the big man on, but was restrained by Fitzsimmons, just as Moody and Brooker came out of the Rebels’ tent. Moody saw the forlorn, limping Horrie and asked what had happened. The four of them inspected the dog’s leg. It already had swelling, but it was pronounced ‘unbroken.’ Murchison, irritable and ready for action, had to be physically restrained by the other three, who dragged him back to their tent. They settled him down while Featherstone and Brooker bathed the sorry-looking Horrie and applied a bandage to his bruised leg. He loved the attention but refused to cheer up, his little tail motionless. Brooker surmised that Horrie knew the attention would not be so generous if he was his usual cheerful self.
‘If you take that bastard Gerry on,’ Moody said to Murchison, ‘that will be the end of Horrie. We’ll have to let him go.’
‘Yeah, worse,’ Fitzsimmons added, ‘that ugly bugger will shoot him, I swear!’
‘I want to bash his head in!’ Murchison said.
‘Sober up, kid,’ Moody said. ‘You’d be on a serious charge for tackling Gerry. He’s a sergeant-of-the-guard, you know. Just about the last of the NCOs who you could cross that way. There’d be hell to pay.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Gordie said, interested enough to look up from the radio set he was working on. ‘Snotty Johns happened to mention to someone that Gerry had bad breath. Gerry found out and threw him in the brig for a week. The bastard has rotten BO as well, but please don’t let him know I said so!’
‘Gerry should be nicknamed Fitzeverything,’ Fitzsimmons said.
‘Meaning?’ Moody asked.
‘Fitz means “the bastard of.”’ ‘So your antecedents somewhere in the past must have branched off as “the bastard of Simon” or a name like that?’
‘Yes, but I prefer it came from Fits of laughter.’
The Rebels had a conference. Moody thought it was his responsibility to ‘square off’ for Horrie. Some suggestions, such as two of them jumping him in the latrine, were rejected.
‘Gotta be done at night so he can’t recognise the man committing the assault,’ Brooker suggested.
Moody thought while the others argued, then he said: ‘Got it! We find out when he is next on guard duty at night. Then we hit him.’ He looked up at all the expectant faces. ‘I mean, I’ll hit him.’
‘You?’ Murchison said with a trace of disdain. ‘I admire your pluck, cobber, but Gerry’s about a head taller.’
‘And nearly twice as heavy!’ Shegog added as he set up his easel for his portrait painting. ‘He’s a brute. You can’t beat him in a fight.’
‘Correct,’ Moody said, ‘but this must not be a fight. He must be hit once, maybe twice, by surprise in the dark.’
The others were stunned by his clinical precision, and determination.
After a prolonged silence, Featherstone asked: ‘Won’t he recognise you even at night?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Moody with a sly grin. ‘He’s a vain prick. He can’t see too well without his glasses. I’m told the bully-boy sometimes doesn’t wear them, especially in pitch black when you often can’t see out here anyway.’
Two nights later, the word circulated that Fitzgerald would be in command of guard duty at the isolated main guard post some 50 metres from the camp. The area was open to anyone straying into the camp and had attracted Arabs who couldn’t resist stealing. In centuries-old desert tribal law this could result in a severe penalty, even death. But foreigners were considered fair game for pilfering. The Arabs were rarely deterred by the presence of guards at the perimeter of the widespread camp of tents, and youths and young boys in particular were cunning and audacious in slipping past guards by day and night.
Moody slipped out of the Rebels’ tent just before 2 a.m. and walked a wide circuit of the tents. He approached the main guard-house, which was a makeshift hut with a corrugated iron roof. Moody pulled on a black face mask and crept to within 30 metres of the hut. At 2 a.m., he could just make out someone, probably Fitzgerald, leaving the main guard-house with a torch for his ritual visit to all the camps’ six outer-lying posts,
which were spaced about 50 metres apart. Moody, heart pounding, followed the source of the bobbing light and moved up to within a few metres of the striding Fitzgerald, who stopped when he thought he heard movement. He pointed his torch. Its light fell a few metres from Moody, who had to be sure this was the target he was aiming at.
‘Who goes there?’ Moody said in a rumbling voice, disguising his own.
‘The sergeant-of-the-guard!’ Fitzgerald replied, adjusting his glasses and reaching for a holstered revolver.
‘Sergeant Fitzgerald?’ Moody asked.
‘Yes!’
Moody rushed forward and from a side-on position swung his right fist hard at the big man’s jaw. Fitzgerald moved his head towards his attacker and Moody’s fist collected the sergeant’s bulbous nose. He slumped to his knees with a groan. Moody was away. Seconds before Fitzgerald had stumbled back to the main guard-house to raise the alarm, Moody was back in the Rebels’ tent.
‘Did you get him?’ Murchison asked, as all the Rebels waited for his response under the uncertain light of one kerosene lamp. Moody did not reply. Instead he took off his boots and flexed his right hand. He sauntered over to Horrie, who was off his bunk greeting his favourite Rebel. Moody bent down and placed his right hand under the dog’s nose. Horrie sniffed and then licked a little trickle of blood from a cut on the knuckle. Moody patted his head. The dog wagged his tail. The kerosene light was doused as movement was heard outside.
‘I take it that’s a “yes”?’ Murchison asked.
‘Might see the result in the morning,’ Moody said as shouting commenced outside. Several of the Rebels sniggered as one of the camp’s searchlights snaked over their tent.
‘Must be a wog thief,’ Fitzsimmons said. ‘Bastard! Bet he’s got bad breath and body odour as well.’
The others laughed and settled to sleep despite the commotion outside the tent as a small party prowled the grounds inside and out of the Ikingi camp in search of an assailant of the sergeant-of-the-guard.