by John Harris
‘I miss him,’ she said as an opening gambit.
‘I’m sure you do,’ Cozzens said, realising that she was offering him the opportunity he was seeking.
‘I’ll be glad when he’s back at the coast.’
‘So will I, Charley.’
‘Will it be long, do you think?’ she asked.
For a moment Cozzens puffed at his cigarette. This was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, because he had been very firmly instructed that there were to be no involvements on the frontier, no matter what happened.
‘Between you and me,’ he had been told, ‘we’ve been pushed into this business, by a few not very far-seeing officials in the past who failed to leave any get-out clauses for emergencies like this. We had to accept it.’
Cozzens became aware of Charley watching him closely. ‘I hope it won’t be too long,’ she said, grinning engagingly, ‘because there are too many of your bright young men who are suffering from the heat and the impression that a grass widow’s easy meat.’
Cozzens sighed. ‘Things have changed, Charley,’ he said. ‘But they’ll get him back as soon as they possibly can.’
She looked quickly at him, and his heart jumped abruptly as he noticed how much like her mother she was.
‘But I thought they were marching out tomorrow,’ she said. Cozzens swallowed. ‘So did I, Charley,’ he said. ‘But that was before the Sultan finally made up his mind and formally requested help.’
Her eyes hardened and for a moment she was silent, then she went on in an unsteady voice. ‘You mean he isn’t coming? Is that what you mean?’
‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what I mean, Charley.’
‘Oh, God!’ she said abruptly, and she spoke with such misery it twisted Cozzens’ heart.
‘I’m sorry, Charley.’
‘But I always understood—’
‘Billy’s a soldier. So am I. We have to do as we’re told. And you’ve heard all the bangs going off in Khaswe. We’ve rather got our hands full.’
‘You mean he might have to stay up there for a long time?’
Cozzens gestured lamely. ‘He might. He’s quite safe, though.’
She looked at him with an expression of pure hatred on her face. ‘I’m not worried about his safety,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m worried about me. Us. It’s all right for that dreadful old man in the Palace to insist on our staying in Khalit but has he thought what situations like this mean to families? It’s no wonder soldiers’ wives are always subject to nasty little innuendoes about sex. It’s no wonder so many of them get neurotic and go off the rails. I need my husband. I need him alongside me. And I don’t mean just at cocktail parties, either.’
As she stood up and turned away, Cozzens rose quickly, too, trying to pretend he hadn’t just been snubbed. He put out his cigarette and fished for another, catching sight of a bat outside in the garden beyond the embroidered Rabat curtains. It was swooping among the tamarisks and cypresses, and he watched it for a moment. Then, as he jerked his jacket straight, the windows seemed to leap in their frames and, almost with the rattle of the glass, he heard the heavy thud of an explosion nearby – heavier than any he’d so far heard. Undoubtedly it was something big going up.
Oh, God! he thought. Off we go again!
3
There were four Khaliti operators in the radio room at Dhafran, each equipped with a receiver, transmitter and headset, and the first bomb that went off wiped out the lot of them and all their equipment in one blow, leaving them sprawled among their chairs, their dead staring faces stuck like pin-cushions with the splinters of bakelite.
The second bomb exploded in the headquarters block and then there was a series all going off together – in the MT park, the telephone switchboard room and the officers’ mess. The thud of the first explosions brought the officers to their feet with a jerk. They were just sitting with their last drinks before bed when the mirror suddenly leapt from the wall and broke into pieces, and the mess waiter was on his knees in a wreckage of tables and chairs, pawing dazedly at the shattered glass from the bar with bleeding fingers.
As they dashed from the ante-room they saw that the front doors of the mess had been blown off their hinges and that the hall was a shambles of trampled glass, torn carpet, and broken palms. There appeared to be three dead men in uniform there, one European and two Khaliti, their bodies shockingly lacerated.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ someone said. ‘They got Philip! He was telephoning his wife in Khaswe. For God’s sake, shove the carpet over him!’
The Khaliti doctor was already on his knees by one of the mess waiters. He was sitting with his back to the wall and appeared to be cradling a shattered pot plant which had been blown from outside clean through the doors. His eyes were open but he made no complaint.
As the doctor got down to work the other officers picked their way past him, snatching at webbing and belts as they went. Outside, the air stank of smoke and there was a car burning by the headquarters building which appeared to be on fire. In front of it lay the guard, minus a leg, twitching and screaming in a way that hurt eardrums still recovering from the pressure of the explosions. Already the sound of a fire-engine was striking across the livid parade ground.
While they were still trying to decide where to head for first, the Brigadier appeared from his quarters. He was a tall man no longer young and no longer a British officer, thin as a lathe with a gaunt ravaged face that looked as though it were made of tanned leather. Jeremy Wintle had been in places like Dhafran for most of his life – so long, in fact, even the Hejri and the Jezowi sang ballads about ‘Owinda-el’ around their fires. He knew whom he could buy and whom he could bribe with promises of power or revenge upon ancestral enemies, and he was addressed always and with respect – even by his enemies – as Reimabassi, Warrior Lord. Nothing surprised him. Not even bombs.
‘What in God’s name was that?’ he demanded calmly.
‘The bastards must have planted explosives, sir,’ someone said. ‘Though Christ knows how.’
‘Who’s that under the carpet?’
‘Philip, sir. He was in the hall telephoning his wife in Khaswe.’
‘Always was a bit abrupt on the telephone,’ Wintle growled without intending to be smart or funny. ‘Someone had better put me in the picture.’
It was difficult, because no one else was in the picture, either, and they were still trying to explain when a British sergeant appeared in a car. He looked shocked.
‘Sir – sir–!’
‘Spit it out, man,’ Wintle snapped. ‘What happened?’
‘Bombs, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘Headquarters block, Sir! Door blown in. Man killed there. Guardroom! That one nearly got me, sir. MT park, sir! Sergeant Waterhouse, Int-Zaid Zufril and two of the Scouts killed there.’
Wintle frowned. ‘What about the wireless shack?’
‘That as well, sir. There’s nothing left of it.’
‘Blast!’ Wintle had been sending urgent messages to the radio room at the Palace in Khaswe for weeks now and was badly in need of replies. He turned to one of his officers. ‘You’d better get it working again. Pretty damn’ quick, too! We’re expecting the Old Boy’s instructions from Dhafran.’
‘About Hahdhdhah, sir?’
‘And Umrah and Zereibat. I’ve been warned to expect them. The old fool must have finally and officially decided to give up the Toweida Plain. I’ve been advising it for weeks.’
As the officer vanished, Wintle turned to the sergeant. ‘Telephones?’ He was known for not wasting words.
‘Cut, sir. The bomb at headquarters smashed the switchboard.’ Wintle turned to the remaining officers. ‘Malpass, run field telephone wires to all necessary points. And get a temporary switchboard connected up.’
‘Sir!’
‘Ahbub!’ A short Dharwa zaid stepped forward. ‘Get down to the MT park and see what you can make of the shambles.’
‘Yes, Reimabassi.’
‘Dec—’ Wintle turned to the medical officer kneeling on the floor ‘—can you get some of your people down to the guardroom and these other places? Storrs, see what you can make of the radio shack and let me know. See if you can find out what the position is. We must have everything working again and all traffic cleared. Those chaps on the frontier start off at midday tomorrow, and I want their channels working in case of trouble.’
4
All morning they had seen little groups of Hejri warriors moving about the few tree-grown spaces where the winter rains collected off the sides of the hills, and there had been a great number of pin-points of light in the hills the night before. The last Toweida tradesmen had brought news of strange horsemen in Hahdhdhah village, and Pentecost knew they were Hejris waiting to sweep into the fort as soon as the last lorry was clear. They were lying low, though, and he was puzzled because it wasn’t a Hejri habit to lie low and he had expected them to be nearer and more demonstrative. Nevertheless, he knew they were still all round him in the lower folds of the hills, waiting for that final exultant rush that would prove to them for good and all that the Toweida Plain was Hejri once more.
Aziz’s celebration would be quite an affair, he thought. He sat in on a diffa once with Wintle when he’d been in Dhafran and he could still remember the servants staggering through the crowd into the vast white woollen tent carpeted with Berber rugs, carrying the rice and meat on a huge silver tray. It had had an inscription running round it in flowing Arabic letters – To the glory of God, and of Allah, His prophet, and in trust of mercy at the end – and it had been full to the brim, edged with rice in a mound eight inches wide. Three grown lambs had been slaughtered to make a pyramid of meat in the centre such as the honour of a chieftain demanded, and surmounting the lot had been the heads, the ears out flat and the jaws gaping to show the cooked tongues and the long incisor teeth between the purple lips. It had been placed in the space between the guests while a stream of servants brought the copper bowls in which the cooking had been done and ladled out the rest of the meat, the entrails, the yellow fat and the brown twists of muscle and skin.
They had taken their lead from the chief – ‘In the name of God, the merciful, the loving kind’ – then they had set about it, occasionally dipping their fingers into it and plunging their burnt hands into their mouths to cool them. Wintle had thoroughly enjoyed himself, Pentecost remembered, though he himself had been faintly disgusted by the whole thing, by the way the Khaliti had torn up the meat with their fingers and kneaded the rice into little white balls and flicked them into their mouths with the thumb, stuffing themselves until their movements had grown sluggish and they had sat gasping for breath.
Although his precise manners had prevented him enjoying the obscenity of over-eating, he almost wished he could have been present at Aziz’s party. He hoped the old man would enjoy it.
He certainly intended to enjoy his own celebration with Charley. A few drinks and a meal at the Intercontinental, a bottle of bubbly and a large brandy each, maybe a bit of smoochy dancing to the Egyptian dance band, with Charley draped over his shoulders, her cheek against his, her body hugging him so that he could feel every curve and indentation of it against himself. He half smiled. He knew how it would end. It had happened before.
Suddenly, without a word, she’d grab his hand and pull him outside, and they’d hail a taxi back to the flat. She’d have her shoes in her hands as he unlocked the door and she’d be throwing her clothes across the room and searching with her lips for his mouth even before he’d slammed it behind them. That ought to be quite a celebration, too, he thought.
For a while, he’d thought they weren’t going to get away with it. Every day for the past week he’d been expecting the wash-out signal on the evacuation to come through – specially after the speech the Prime Minister had made – and the fact that they had got away with it had made their celebration the night before an occasion to remember. Lack had been grey-faced and bad-tempered as he’d left the fort, unable to make up his mind whether he was glad to be going or not. Almost, it had seemed, he had preferred to stay where he was to nurse his misery.
‘Don’t trip over your liver, chum,’ Beebe had advised cheerfully. ‘It’s hanging out this morning.’
Beebe was in a gay mood, glad to put Hahdhdhah behind him and looking forward to the perquisites of civilisation, and he stared about him through the open gates of the fort as though seeing the land around them for the first time. Through the archway, the Urbida hills looked like shelves of coarse-faced stone, joined to steep bare walls by narrow gorges and sandy paths, with the Addowara Pass into Khusar country like a knife-cut in the rock.
Nearby, Pentecost was giving final instructions to his party. He was dressed like a Christmas tree, with map case and binoculars hung about him, with all his equipment, revolver, pack and water bottle. For Christ’s sake, Beebe thought, they were only going to get in the goddam lorries and ride across the Plain of Toweida to the River Sufeiya! He expected to be in Dhafran in three days and at the coast in another week.
He glanced in the direction Pentecost was staring, towards the cloud of yellow dust that was being stirred up by Minto’s marching files of Scouts, Civil Guards and Toweida Levies. They looked smart enough but Beebe had thought they were all glad to turn their backs on the fort. Beyond them, he could see Lack’s lorries just entering Hahdhdhah village. Behind him Fox was sitting in the scout car, his eyes on the marching men, his head bent over the radio which had suddenly begun a frantic squawking.
In the fort, watched by a Hahdhdhah boy, the garrison’s herd of goats were bleating in their pen near the timber store. Tonight, they’d probably all be slaughtered by the Hejris for their celebrations. They’d been living in the foothills watching the fort for weeks now and they were probably growing hungry and eager for a few home comforts. Beyond the goats he could see the stacked timber, the corrugated iron and asbestos sheets, all the pens crammed with enough stores to make a man wealthy for life. If Aziz had any sense, he’d clap a guard on it and keep the lot for himself but, Beebe suspected, he’d never even think of it and the whole lot would be smashed up and probably set on fire in one wild lustful looting that would leave them all as poor as when they’d started.
He saw Pentecost glance again at his watch. He could just imagine Lack sitting in the other scout car in Hahdhdhah, impatiently waiting for Stone at the radio to announce that the final lorry had left the fort.
Fox looked up. ‘We’re last out, sir,’ he said. ‘Captain Jeffreys left Zereibat ages ago and Captain Howard’s just started leaving Umrah. They’re in contact with each other.’
‘Bit early,’ Pentecost commented, his eyes on the road.
‘Normal enough for Captain Howard, sir,’ Fox grinned. ‘Always was a bit like a pram in a panic.’
He paused, listening to the radio and watching the plain. ‘Hope they didn’t pick ’em up in Dhafran, sir,’ he went on. ‘The Brigadier’ll play hell if he hears.’
Beebe interrupted. ‘Do we have to wait for the exact moment?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it just a goddam formality?’
‘To me,’ Pentecost said coldly, ‘midday is midday, not eleven-thirty or eleven-forty-five.’
‘Your watch might be wrong.’
‘I don’t wear watches that go wrong.’
Beebe grinned. ‘Your buddy at Zereibat seemed to think his watch might be wrong.’
Fox looked up, his pencil starting to move across a signal sheet. ‘Sounds like they’re clear of Umrah now, sir,’ he said. ‘Captain Howard’s reporting to Captain Jeffreys at Zereibat that tribesmen are heading past him to take his place.’
‘No comment from Dhafran?’
‘No, sir. No comment.’
Pentecost was frowning. ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘Have you heard Dhafran at all this morning?’
Fox was frowning too, now. ‘Come to think of it, no, sir. And since you mention it, Captain Howard sounds a bit fussed about it. Hang on a minute, sir—’
he grinned ‘—here they are now! Sounds like a rocket for him. They’re telling him to get off the air. They’re telling him – sir!’ Fox’s commentary grew to a shout as his pencil leapt across the sheet. ‘They’re telling him he’s – sir, for Christ’s sake, it’s coming through in clear! It’s priority to all Dhafran stations! “Umrah, Aba el Zereibat and Hahdhdhah will be held.”’ Fox spoke slowly, repeating the message aloud.’ “There will be no withdrawal – repeat no withdrawal – from the frontiers or from the Toweida Plain.”’
Pentecost’s jaw had dropped and Fox looked up, startled. ‘That’s what it says, sir.’
Alarmed suddenly, Beebe saw the expression on Pentecost’s face tighten. Fox was staring at him with bewildered eyes.
‘The last bloody minute,’ he said furiously. ‘The eleventh bloody hour! There’ve been bomb attacks in Khaswe and at Dhafran. They’ve been off the air since last night.’
‘Shut up, Sergeant!’ Pentecost turned to snap at Fox. ‘Tell him to repeat it. We’ve got to have it repeated. Make it “Most Immediate”.’
There was a tense silence in which Beebe realised that they were all watching Pentecost, all of them aware of the sudden change in the situation. Then they heard the harsh cheeping in the headphones again. Pentecost bent forward as Fox’s pencil whipped across the paper.
‘Again, Sergeant! I must have that once more.’
The radio clattered again then Fox slammed the switch over and turned to stare at Pentecost.
Pentecost was still studying the message, then Beebe saw him straighten up and run, clanking a little in his equipment, to stare across the plain. He swung round on Fox.
‘Sergeant Fox! The Very pistol! Fire a red, and then, for God’s sake, raise Captain Lack!’
Startled, Beebe heard the pop of the pistol and saw the Very light soar into the air. Immediately, his eyes swinging to the plain, he saw the marching men half-way to the village come to a halt. For a while, they seemed to be in some sort of confusion down there, then he saw it was because the lorry was turning. Immediately, he heard Pentecost speaking into the microphone, still calm, still surprisingly unruffled.