Doom's Caravan

by Geoffrey Household

  With all the proper channels closed to me, my next move was foolish, angry, impatient and against all security rules. Suspects must not be scared until one is ready to pounce. But I couldn’t pounce, so when I had an opportunity to scare—just for a few hours—I decided to take it and see what would happen.

  This situation developed from plain bread-and-butter military security. Some ten days later a tall, Indian Army captain rode into our yard, looked round for somebody to hold his seventeen-hand charger and handed it over to Zappa who was plain terrified. I doubt if he had ever been nearer to a horse than the paddock rails.

  Captain Johns, commanding the 64th Indian Mule Company, strode jingling into my office, saluted it and sat down. In spite of Biddy’s opinion that I would have been a credit to any smart mess in India, I am sure that no one would even have passed me the marmalade after a month. But I must admit their officers were often very fierce and gallant to look at.

  ‘About that chap of yours, Holloway, who borrowed a mule off my company,’ he began.

  ‘I hope you got it back.’

  ‘Yes, in splendid condition. He has made friends with my Havildars—always in and out of their mess talking the most bloody awful Urdu I ever heard. I just wanted to say that you needn’t bother.’

  ‘Bother about what?’

  ‘Loyalty and all that. It’s your job, isn’t it? So I thought I’d tell you that if any of these Free India agitators turned up in the camp, my men would let me know at once and I should be down here the same morning.’

  I said that I was sure of it and that Holloway was not hanging round his camp on my orders. He was homesick for India.

  ‘I’ve never seen an Englishman handle a tulwar as he can,’ Johns said.

  The tulwar was a short, broad-bladed sabre. His sergeants carried the weapon more as a badge of rank, I think, than for carving up the enemy or clearing paths. You could call it a machete and not be far wrong.

  ‘He split a willow wand from a galloping mule, and then he dam’ near did it again on a motorcycle.’

  ‘We have a lot of strange skills,’ I replied, putting out a bit of propaganda for Field Security.

  I gave the captain a drink and said how gratified I was that he knew all about our functions and was ready to bring along any security problem even if it was only Lance-Corporal Holloway. He told me about his pleasant camp under the pines near Zghorta, but complained of the lack of good training country. The paths and roads were too easy, he said. On the other hand if the company marched out into the blue, it fetched up in cultivated fields or against a cliff.

  I got out the map with certainty that I was going to start some excitement and a juvenile delinquent’s indifference as to what it might be.

  ‘Follow along the foothills to Sir,’ I advised him, ‘and take the only mountain track there is. You can’t miss it. It leads you up to a dead end in a remote little valley with plenty of water. Camp for the night, and then back.’

  ‘It sounds just what the doctor ordered,’ he said. ‘Had I better let the Frogs or the Gendarmes know?’

  ‘I’ll do that for you, if you’ll send someone down to tell me what time your company will reach Sir. By the way, an English colonel’s widow and her daughter live in the big house. If you have some gin and your cook can turn out an edible meal, I think they’d love an invitation to the mess.’

  ‘My cook was my father’s,’ he said, ‘and there’s buckets of gin. Why don’t you join us up there?’

  I promised to do so if I could, but my plans were far from social. If the unexpected arrival of troops flushed any game out of that village, it should break uphill and Limpsfield and I would be there to receive it.

  The prospect of female society at the end of the march always sends horse and foot plunging urgently into cans of saddle soap and leather polish. Only two days later Johns sent down a magnificent, bearded Punjabi to tell me they would start next morning and be coming down into my valley about sunset.

  I had a long talk with Limpsfield and put him in the picture—all of it except Enwin and Khalid. I proposed that when the line of mules coming up from Sir appeared on the skyline above d’Aulnoy’s house we should be in position on the other side of the valley, looking down on the village from the rubbish dump. It was difficult, however, to get there secretly. We could not go up through Sir, nor could we take the track from Hermel in case it was guarded. The only possibility was to reach the high ground by way of that maze of paths and small holdings through which Limpsfield and I had ridden down.

  ‘We’ll get the truck to take us as far as the little café,’ I said, ‘and pretend to be out for a day’s quail shooting. You carry my twelve-bore and I’ll carry the gun case with our tommy gun in it. We walk uphill till we’re on the top and then wander back and forth until the houses below look much as we remember them. It may take us an hour or more to spot the track, but it shouldn’t be impossible. Anything wrong with that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Quail are out of season.’

  ‘Make it venison for the mess, then! There must be deer because I heard one. And I suggest we take Holloway with us—following respectfully behind with the cartridges and a game bag.’

  ‘He has his faults. But a good man in a scrap.’

  ‘I doubt if there will be one, but I want Hadji and the Colonel alive or dead.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll take the hand-cuffs.’

  I had forgotten that we had any—a left-over from days when Field Security was considered a branch of the Military Police.

  It was a glorious summer day and we passed briskly through the fields, exchanging salutations in soldier’s Arabic with everyone we met—in fact overdoing cordiality for we had trouble in declining offers of gun-bearers and dogs. There was nothing for it but to stop for a coffee with the French-speaking café proprietor and explain to him the principles of deer-stalking. He was dead certain that we would not find any for miles, but saw the point about dogs and camp-followers.

  As soon as we were over the crest we started to cast right and left, seldom agreeing on the exact view which had met our eyes when the terraces, the stone walls and the coastal plain first came into sight; but sticking to our rule of ignoring the growth of scrub and exploring any line where there were no boulders we eventually found the track. It was much easier to follow on foot than on motorcycles and nearly as fast.

  We had fourteen miles to cover, carrying some food and our rolled greatcoats for the night—a mere stroll for infantry but harder for sweating security men out of condition who never walked if they could help it. An hour before sunset we cautiously approached the clearing above the village. I posted Holloway and Limpsfield in the scrub on each side of it, and myself crawled forward until I could command the group of houses and the path.

  The scene below me was innocent enough: men beginning to drift in from the fields, smoke eddying up, women taking down their washing as the red sun lost heat in the off-shore clouds. There was some coming and going between the water and the mulberry under which we had sat, but I could not distinguish individuals.

  The site of the former quarry was obvious when one looked down on it. It was under that flat yard adjoining Yasser’s house, right up against the hillside, where a few cows and donkeys stood on the trampled earth. A nice touch was an olive tree in the centre which must have been planted in a trough or perhaps a hollow shaft which also served to support the beams. The construction of a strong, weight-bearing platform was a familiar technique for the fellahin. It was common enough to see a donkey, two fat grandmothers, furniture and a rich growth of grass on the flat roof of an Arab house.

  At that height I heard the mule company a minute or two before the villagers. Then the file snaked over the opposite ridge still unnoticed. The khaki puggarees, the brown faces, the mountain-coloured mules under their packs looked like a narrow mud-slide as they started down to the valley. A very prof
essional unit. There was not so much as a bright buckle to shine in the last of the sun.

  The village erupted like an ant-heap carrying off eggs into darkness. In a moment everyone was indoors except for a small knot of men, the soldier ants, agitatedly discussing what in the world had arrived and with what intentions. On the drive in front of the Ronson-Bolbec’s house three blocks of colour appeared—a bulky lump of blue as Biddy ran out to see what the excitement was, a slender streak of white for Valerie and red and black for Ahmed.

  The company right-wheeled away from the house, and fell out on both sides of the estate road. Captain Johns, followed by a mounted orderly with a pennon, trotted up to the house, evidently to ask if there were any objection to his company bivouacking where it was. He then returned to his men and mules, all dissolving in the last of the dusk to dark lines, spotted by faint lights and a good red glow from the field kitchen.

  And still the village was silent, and still nobody bolted up the path into our arms. A cavalry trumpet call, which I did not recognise, sent its forlorn, silver wail ricochetting round the bowl of the valley. Good old Khyber Pass stuff, right down to Captain Johns’ sabre. But real enough. I hear that in Italy the forward troops would often have run out of ammunition without the mule companies.

  It looked as if I had drawn a blank. Either the village held no strangers at the moment, or Yasser was confident that the troops would not discover anything out of the ordinary, at any rate before morning. We three cheered ourselves up with a bottle of Lebanese araq which I had brought—made from the grape not the palm and as good rough alcohol as one can expect—and set about a picnic prepared by my hotel. I never believed in army rations on occasions when my men were in any sense my guests.

  I kept watch all night sitting right on the edge of the path, for it was too dark to see any distance. I told Holloway and Limpsfield to turn in. I could not allow either of them to take the responsibility of firing on a fugitive. I did not at all like it myself. The consequence of bumping off Moustofi Khan without any watertight evidence against him did not bear thinking of. I very much wished that I was down at Captain Johns’ mess tent—or whatever hole in the ground was serving that purpose—boozing his gin with Biddy and Valerie.

  Dawn simply confirmed the impression of absolute innocence. All the men of the village had strolled over to talk to the Punjabis and watch the fun. So we breakfasted on bully beef and water and marched back over those weary fourteen miles. I could not explain to Holloway what we had been up to, but I did let him know for the sake of morale—of which he had twice as much as the rest of us anyway—that he had started it all off with his Yellow Socks.

  There was, however, one consequence of our fruitless expedition which was out of pattern. Not a word did I hear from Magnat. I expected that Ahmed would have gone running down to him to ask why the valley was under suspicion again and what a company of ferocious Indians was doing there. If that in fact had happened, I was going to tell Magnat that Johns had very properly asked me to give him notice of the route march, but that it was carried out before I had an opportunity.

  Yet nothing whatever was mentioned. That was a puzzler. The sudden arrival of the mule company was news, even if Ahmed had satisfied himself next day that the troops had never had any intention of throwing a cordon round the village. Men coming into Tripoli from Sir must have talked about it, but not as an event of special interest. It looked as if Ahmed must have played down the incident, passing the word round to those who had a guilty conscience that they were not to show any sign of it.

  Johns came in to thank me, saying that they had all enjoyed the operation but that the track up from Sir was far too easy for them. He had the same opinion of the Ronson-Bolbecs as everyone else. Ma had talked about India and asked more indiscreet questions, he said, than twenty German spies at the top of their form. Valerie he described as too well brought up, with no life in her. He told me about his wife. The only effect which the delectable Valerie had on him was to bring up memories of his own love. He had not seen her for two years. I suppose he had to wait another four, since his company would have been sent to Burma, not England and Normandy. Even the Crusaders could have their ladies shipped out as soon as the castle hall was habitable.

  But private loneliness is irrelevant. I’m talking of my own problem. And that was military loneliness. Isolation from all those proper channels which I used to swear by and from all those pleasant colleagues ready to take responsibility off one’s shoulders was becoming intolerable. It was that blazing idiot, Oliver Enwin, who had kept me going for the last months. Now that I was alone, I saw more clearly that I could not run a private war and that I was ignoring my principle that discipline meant freedom. A sense of duty which overruled discipline was as irresponsible as Oliver’s sense of honour. And how far was it a sense of duty, not private panic at the consequences of carrying on to the point of no return?

  That tête-à-tête with Biddy Ronson-Bolbec was the next unavoidable task on the programme. I met her at Sir and took her down to the El Mina bar. She appreciated the cooking even more than her daughter, but there was no gaiety. Loneliness again. Valerie had hardly been on speaking terms with her since the mule company marched away. She did not know why—perhaps because the jolly military environment had made Valerie feel cut off from her world. But there it was. The girl should be thankful that they could relax and eat. I was so wise and Valerie trusted me. Wouldn’t I spend a whole day with them and find out what the matter was?

  I had to go. Another day away from the office for no obvious purpose. My absences were becoming too frequent, and I was never at the other end of the telephone when required. I (b) approved of Field Security officers who got out and about instead of sitting in an office and creating paper. But, they had implied, there were limits.

  On my arrival Ahmed was cordial as usual. He knew that I was responsible for the appearance of the mule company, since Biddy had passed on to him what Johns said to her when he first rode up to the house; so I made no secret of it and told Ahmed that the company had found the track from Sir too easy for them. Did he know of another? He could not resist suggesting the path up from Ehden, to which I replied that I did not know it and would send Captain Johns to have a look. Honours even.

  Valerie was nowhere, but turned up for a drink before lunch. Her appearance shocked me. She was drawn, pale and big-eyed—looking in fact much like the dolly ideal of today. I asked her what she thought of Captain Johns. She replied that at least he was a nice, normal Englishman.

  The ‘at least’ made me wonder whether I myself was in the dog-house for some unknown reason, and not her mother at all. But Biddy jumped in. She said it was a pity Johns commanded nothing better than a native mule company. Considering that his family had served in India for two generations, one would have expected a crack regiment, would one not?

  ‘I hate that snobbish attitude!’ Valerie exclaimed.

  ‘The best people are always looked after.’

  ‘The best people stink!’

  ‘But so easy to talk to, Val. One doesn’t have to make an effort.’

  ‘Did you have to make any effort with Johns? You were tucking into his gin all right.’

  ‘One had to accept hospitality graciously.’

  ‘One has to accept nothing. One has to try to give.’

  ‘I gave quite enough in Cairo, and for you.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Spending every cent we had just to show off!’

  The conversation continued on these lines for some minutes more while I confined myself to making soothing noises. Clearly Valerie was flaming angry with her mother, not with me at all. Both of them seemed to be following that frequent pattern of a row between two women in which the true cause of battle is never mentioned, any old ammunition being dredged up from the mud of ancient resentments and fired off to poison rather than kill.

  Lunch was even worse to endure. I kept t
hrowing scraps of talk into the silence which Biddy did her pitiful best to pick up. She retired afterwards on the plea of a headache, probably genuine. Valerie, regardless of manners, also tried to escape, but I would not let her. I reminded her that we were supposed to be in love. She answered that she was sick to death of that nonsense.

  ‘Suppose my life depended on it being believed?’

  ‘Oliver never mentioned…’

  ‘Of course he didn’t! The arrangement in Tripoli was very convenient for you both. But think! Why should I have been so obliging?’

  She accepted that. After all, Oliver’s various movements and identities had made it plain that he was the very flower of the British Secret Service.

  ‘Who has it got to be believed by?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that. You would never give it away deliberately, but you might be up against very clever men.’

  ‘How much is my mother in with them?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure!’

  Another scrap of poison or did she know something which I did not? It seemed best for the moment to give my frank opinion.

  ‘I am as sure as I can be of anything. Biddy is indiscreet and a menace. But she would willingly die for her country—especially if there were a few generals looking on.’

  ‘Beast!’

  ‘O.K., I am! But that shows you don’t really doubt her.’

  ‘There’s always money. She might not enquire too closely where it came from.’

  ‘I’m here to look after that. Is it anything to do with sewing machines which is bothering you?’

  ‘Sewing machines? No! I just thought she was going to buy some on credit and never pay.’

  ‘Well then, what?’

  ‘It’s such a private thing between me and her. But after what you just told me about Oliver being in danger…’