Solomon's Song

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Holy Mary mother of Jesus!’ Woggy exclaims, while the others are too gob-smacked to say anything. The dancer, still gyrating and wobbling, though the tassels have now come to a stop, lowers the bottle to the carpet and continues to dance, turning and whirling several times until it seems impossible that her sheer weight and momentum will not throw her from the tiny stage. Then she begins to slow down until she faces them again, her hips undulating slowly, stomach barely wobbling to the music, and opening her mouth she slowly pulls the snake out. In a trice it is wriggling in her hands, its head darting forward, its tongue testing the air, as she holds it triumphantly above her head.

  In the weeks to come the eighteen-inch snake will take on python-like proportions and the tit tassels will whirr like Crow’s old man’s windmill in a stiff breeze. The belly dancer’s hips will expand to the size of a buckboard on a sulky and her breasts will become bigger than Easter Show watermelons. They have had their money’s worth ten times over. Tired but happy they return to the Aden Club to rendezvous with Wordy Smith.

  An hour later they are still waiting for the lieutenant to arrive. Numbers Cooligan finally persuades the reluctant white-uniformed guard in a red fez at the gate to allow him to enter the club to see if the lieutenant isn’t waiting for them on the veranda. Most of the Australian officers have already departed for the ship, while those preparing to leave pause only long enough for a final soothing ale. They claim not to have seen the platoon commander all day. At half-past six the lads return to the ship and are put on a charge by the provost sergeant at the gate for staying out beyond the limit on their day passes.

  Crow Rigby finds Ben and reports the missing Wordy Smith.

  ‘He may have returned on his own,’ Ben says, shaking his head. ‘Dozy bugger.’

  But Wordy isn’t in his cabin or the officers’ mess and Ben returns to the lads. ‘Did he say anything when you left him?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, Library translated, he said something about “splendid specimens on the cliff”,’ Numbers Cooligan says.

  Library corrects him. ‘No, no, cliffproms splendspes, whato! Cliffs promise splendid specimens, what ho! He had his things with him, in his day kitbag.’

  ‘Any of you men have any experience cliff climbing? Or rock climbing?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Yeah, Sergeant,’ Hornbill volunteers, ‘I come from mountain country, I done a fair bit.’

  It is almost seven o’clock before Ben gets permission from his C.O. to leave the ship. They’ve obtained a length of rope from the chief petty officer, two torches and batteries from the quartermaster and a first-aid kit from the ship’s hospital. Sister Atkins, obliging with the latter, seems pleased to see Ben again.

  There is only one set of cliffs, to the right of the port as you enter the harbour, though hills stretch further back from them. Ben isn’t sure whether he hopes Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith has stuck to the cliffs and probably killed himself or gone into the mountains and become lost. The cliffs seem to be the logical place to start the search, are not too extensive and rise above the sea no more than a couple of hundred feet.

  By the time they arrive it’s almost dark and Ben sends Hornbill to one end of the top of the cliff face while he takes the other, instructing that they’ll meet in the middle, all the while looking downwards and shouting out in the hope of making contact with Ormington-Smith.

  Almost ten minutes later Ben hears Hornbill screaming, ‘Sergeant, over here!’

  When he arrives Hornbill is on his stomach, shining his torch directly downwards. From where he is standing Ben can’t see anything and so he joins Hornbill and shines his torch to double the beam. About thirty feet down, Wordy Smith is seen sitting on a ledge looking upwards, squinting into the beam of light. One of his boots and socks has been removed to show a large white foot.

  ‘Doangle!’ he shouts at them.

  ‘He’s done his ankle,’ Ben says quietly. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to get him up.’

  ‘Let me go, Sergeant?’ Hornbill offers.

  ‘Nah, I want the bastard to owe me,’ Ben says. ‘You reckon you can pull him up if I go down and rope him?’

  ‘Sure, Sergeant, if I can’t you can tie him and come back up and we’ll sort him out together.’

  Ben searches for a while until he finds what seems like the best way down to the ledge. He’ll need both hands so he can’t take the torch and will have to rely on Hornbill lighting the way for him from the top. It takes him no more than five minutes to reach the lieutenant, whereupon Hornbill lowers the rope and Ben, balanced precariously on the narrow ledge, ropes Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith up and ties his kitbag to the rope as well. The lieutenant seems quite overcome and finds it impossible to get any words past his lips. ‘Don’t talk, just hang on tight while we get you up,’ Ben instructs him.

  Making sure Ormington-Smith is secure he calls to Hornbill to have a go at pulling him up. But thirty feet is a fair drop and even though Wordy Smith in appearance seems as light as a bag of chook feathers, without a tree or rock to anchor the rope his weight is too much even for a man as strong as Hornbill to pull up alone.

  ‘Wait on, sir,’ Ben instructs and makes his way back up the cliff. It is hard going in the dark and he loses his footing and several times a clatter of small rocks crashes down the cliff face into the sea below. Finally, he crawls back over the lip of the cliff and lies for a moment to recover.

  Between them they haul their platoon commander back up and after regaining his breath Ben examines the lieutenant’s ankle. It is badly swollen but doesn’t appear to be broken, though it is doubtful he will be able to walk. ‘We’ll manage between us, can you hop on one leg, sir?’

  Ormington-Smith nods, it is past eight o’clock and dark, the moon not yet up as they move out with Ormington-Smith between them, his arms clasped about their shoulders and utilising his good foot to hop. They have gone no more than a hundred yards when he suddenly stops, resisting their efforts to move forward.

  ‘What is it, Lieutenant, need a rest?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Sketbook!’ Wordy Smith says.

  ‘Sketbook? Oh, your sketchbook?’

  ‘Leftit.’

  ‘You what?’ Ben can’t believe his ears. ‘You left your sketchbook? Ferchrissakes, where?’

  ‘Clif-ace.’

  ‘The cliff face, on the ledge?’

  Ormington-Smith doesn’t reply but gives out a desperate cry, like a child suddenly threatened with a backhander from his father. He removes his arms from their shoulders and, turning, hops back towards the cliff face.

  ‘Bloody hell, we’ll get it in the morning!’ Ben shouts after him, but Ormington-Smith, as though possessed, keeps hopping frantically towards the cliff face in the dark.

  ‘Shit, he’ll kill himself,’ Hornbill shouts and together they set off after the lieutenant who has almost disappeared in the dark and is managing a remarkable pace hopping on one leg.

  They reach him at last and Ben wrestles him to the ground, but the scrawny subaltern seems possessed and he is hard put to restrain him. Ormington-Smith is whimpering and sniffling like a child as Ben finally subdues him. ‘Sketbook!’ he howls again.

  ‘Take it easy now, Lieutenant,’ Ben says, trying to calm him down, rising and then lifting him to a seated position. He reaches for the first-aid kit slung across his shoulder, takes out a bottle of water and, unscrewing it, hands it to Ormington-Smith. The lieutenant gulps at the bottle greedily, most of its contents spilling down the front of his torn tunic. ‘You all right?’ Ben now asks as the bottle is handed back to him, he can see that the lieutenant’s hand is shaking violently. Ormington-Smith nods and then suddenly begins to weep quietly.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Ben says softly, almost to himself. Then, in a calmer voice, he addresses his platoon commander, ‘We’re going back, sir, even if I have to carry you over my shoulders. We’ll be back for your sketchbook in the morning.’ He turns to where he thinks Hornbill is standing. ‘Private Horne, help
me get the lieutenant to his feet.’

  There is no reply.

  ‘Hornbill, you there?’ Ben shines the torch and sees that Hornbill isn’t where he supposed he was standing. ‘Private Horne!’ he shouts into the darkness. ‘Where the fuck are you!’

  ‘Coming, Sergeant,’ Ben hears Hornbill’s voice some distance away.

  ‘Get here will’ya, at the double!’

  Hornbill comes panting up in the darkness and Ben shines the torch into his face. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  Hornbill doesn’t reply but hands Wordy Smith’s sketchbook to the hapless lieutenant sobbing at Ben’s feet. ‘There you go, sir, safe and sound, no harm done.’

  Ben is almost too angry to speak. ‘You could have killed yourself, yer stupid bastard,’ he shouts at Hornbill. ‘What for? A bloody useless sketchbook, full of pictures of flamin’ flowers no one can see!’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ Hornbill says, in a contrite voice, then nodding his head to indicate the lieutenant at Ben’s feet, he adds, ‘Them flower paintin’s, they’s everything to him, Sergeant.’

  Wordy Smith has managed to get to his feet, hugging the sketchbook and standing on one leg sniffing. Both turn to look at him. ‘Thank you, Private Horne, thank you,’ he says quietly. ‘This sketchbook is more important to me than my life, but not more important to me than your life.’ It is said in a steady, perfectly modulated voice, not a single word bumping into another or joining together. Peregrine Ormington-Smith will never have a problem with his speech again.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE CALM BEFORE

  THE STORM

  Egypt 1914–1915

  The new and articulate Wordy Smith, while being on crutches for the next ten days, is a changed man. Though it cannot be claimed he has made the transition from hopeless to competent, he has, at least, decided to make up for his previously arcane speech patterns and almost total lack of communication by telling his platoon everything he hears in the officers’ mess. Or so he claims.

  Ben, who has cause to visit his cabin from time to time, does not let on to the platoon that Peregrine Ormington-Smith shares a cabin with the military liaison officer to the ship’s wireless room. Nonetheless, Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith is simply incapable of being deceptive and with a slip of the tongue on one or two occasions his source of information is discovered by the platoon. The wireless subaltern, it seems, has grown so accustomed to Wordy Smith’s inability to articulate that he talks quite freely about the messages coming through, airing his opinions on what goes in and out.

  Ben realises that his platoon officer, if discovered, will be placed in an extremely awkward position, not quite a court martial as he can hardly be accused of supplying information to the enemy, but he will still be in considerable trouble. He finds himself in a real quandary, as a sergeant he must co-operate with his officer, while at the same time he is responsible for the immediate welfare of his platoon.

  Even though the information from ‘Wordy’s Wireless’, as the platoon has dubbed the lieutenant’s cabin mate, cannot, in this instance, be said to be critical to their welfare, there is a very sound principle involved which every sergeant in every war ever fought would understand. It is simply that the more hard information you can get from an officer the more likely you are to prevent him from doing something stupid which may get you all killed. After years of saying as little as possible, Ormington-Smith must be actively encouraged and Ben decides to swear the platoon to secrecy.

  ‘No leaks yer hear? We’ve got this on our own. If it gets out where the lieutenant is getting his information he’s up shit creek without a paddle and so is Wordy’s Wireless, the ultimate source of our information. We’re sitting pretty, lads, so shut yer gobs. That’s an order.’ Ben looks searchingly into the eyes of every member of the platoon, extracting a silent promise from each of them. ‘Righto, Private Cooligan.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘You run the two-up school on E deck and you’re a bookmaker for the Tuesday-night fights, ain’t ya?’

  They all laugh and Cooligan colours. ‘Me, Sergeant? Never! The army has cured me o’ me wicked ways. All I wants is to fight Herman the German.’

  ‘Right, there will be times when the information we get from Wordy’s Wireless has to get out to the rest of the ship so, Private Cooligan, you’re our official mouth, our Gob Sergeant.’

  ‘What’s that mean, Sergeant?’

  ‘When stuff comes from Wordy’s Wireless that needs to get to the rest of the ship, you’re it. But don’t make it look that way, you mix what’s real with a fair amount of bullshit, just the way you did a moment ago – you know, but you don’t know, you heard, but you’re not sure where, something somebody said, putting two and two together, could be wrong but . . . It’s a question of mixing the right amount of fact with the correct proportion of crap. Can you do that, Private Cooligan?’

  ‘Can a crow fly?’ Crow Rigby quips and they all laugh.

  ‘No, no, I’m serious,’ Ben says. ‘It takes a fair amount of imagination and at least a pint of Irish blood in yer veins to do it right and Cooligan’s got both. What do you reckon, Private?’

  Cooligan is flattered. ‘I think you just done me a spot-on character reference, Sergeant. Gob Sergeant, eh? Is that a promotion, Sergeant?’

  Wordy’s Wireless proves to be a real bonus for the Click platoon and adds greatly to their reputation, they now become a valued source of information. Numbers Cooligan performs the role of chief rumour monger with a special brilliance, instinctively understanding the age-old Australian adage that bullshit baffles brains. The information tidbits Ben allows for dissemination spread outwards at an alarming speed and, in a matter of an hour or two, the entire ship knows the latest news. Numbers Cooligan is soon much sought out for information by blokes from the other platoons and, in the nature of these things, anything they know is given to him until there isn’t a lot happening on the ship that isn’t known to Ben.

  However, the very first piece of information Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith brings to the platoon is not from Wordy’s Wireless but the officers’ mess. Upon hearing it, it is the first time the enlisted men have felt anything but excitement at the prospect of getting stuck into the Hun.

  The day after they leave Aden for the Suez Canal and thereafter Britain, Wordy Smith tells them the horrific news brought back by the officers who spent the day at the Aden Club while he went specimen hunting on the cliffs. Several months previously two British battalions of regulars stationed in India, each a thousand men strong, passed through the port on their way to the Western Front. Like those from the Orvieto it was an occasion which saw some of their officers visit the club. Now members of the club have received letters from two of the officers who survived to say that one of the battalions has been reduced to three hundred men and the second has been almost completely annihilated.

  The news comes as a shock to the thirty thousand Australians and New Zealanders who, from the very beginning, have regarded the war in Europe as a grand opportunity to prove their worth as fighting men while, at the same time, seeing Europe and Britain with their mates. They are suddenly sobered by the thought that they too are destined for the same killing grounds that have butchered both regiments. Herman the German is proving to be less of a pushover than they’ve been led to believe.

  If the minimum recruiting age for men had been put at fifty, saving the young men for breeding and for work, the old men on both sides would have soon enough found another way to resolve the conflict. Young men, though, have always possessed a sense of immortality which their elders have exploited since time out of mind. The notion that they are invincible appears to be a part of the young warrior’s genetic code. In a peacetime society this is further evidenced by the fact that almost eighty-five per cent of all violent crime is performed by men under the age of twenty-eight. The young male seems to need an outlet for his aggression and, in the process, believes himself to be bulletproof righ
t up to the moment when a high-velocity Mauser bullet churns his innards to mincemeat.

  Sobering as the news of the two devastated battalions is, it doesn’t seem to greatly affect the desire of the young Australians to fight the Germans but now there is a rumour gaining notoriety on board that the British High Command does not fully trust the Australian irregulars, or believe that men can be trained effectively to fight a war in twelve weeks. This, in their minds, is especially true of the Australians, who, on the last occasion they fought beside British troops, gained a reputation for often ignoring the commands of their senior British officers. In truth, this only occurred in the Boer War on no more than half a dozen occasions when it became apparent to the Australian Mounted Rifles that the British officers, untrained in the guerilla tactics required in South Africa, were attempting to fight a war in the African bush as if they were back in the Crimea.

  Britain has always depended on the career soldier who never questions orders. The Australians, faced with similar bush conditions as at home, and living a not dissimilar lifestyle to the Boer enemy, quickly adapted to the hit-and-run commando style of warfare, much of which was conducted in the saddle.

  The British regulars took a hiding against the Boer irregulars, whose commandos were made up mostly of simple farmers with virtually no previous military training. But, like many of their Australian counterparts, the Boers rode like the wind and could shoot a man between the eyes at a thousand yards. They could attack a British unit and be twenty miles away before the British had time to pack up and move out in pursuit. In the peculiar African conditions they proved too elusive for the highly trained, rigidly disciplined British regulars, who found it difficult to adapt to this new kind of warfare. Only by sheer force of numbers and the personal understanding and leadership brought to the battlefield by that great general, Lord Roberts, did Britain finally succeed. By the time the war ended in victory for the British forces the Boers had been outnumbered six to one.