D-Notice

by Bill Walker

  Turning so she wouldn’t see his own tears, he walked through the gate toward the gangway. It was only when he heard the Morgan’s engine revving up that he allowed himself a look in time to see the tiny car disappear around the corner.

  “I love you, Lillian,” he said, not caring if anyone heard him or not. Then he turned and made his way onto the ship.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sailing was delayed twelve hours due to a mechanical fault in one of the diesels, and during that first night on board, the bombers came over, dropping their high-explosive and incendiaries on the docks again. The ship, an old troop carrier commissioned in the last war, slipped out without a scratch, passing down the Thames silhouetted against a background of a London in flames.

  There was one near miss, hitting the leading tugboat, which went down in less than two minutes. Most of the ship’s compliment missed the excitement, however, as they were far too busy retching their guts out, due to a bad batch of fish served up by the less than sanitary ship’s galley. Some, like Brady, who seemed to have cast-iron intestines, had an uncomfortable night of mild cramps, while the rest lay in unrelenting agony.

  The trip out of the Thames Estuary and into the North Sea went without incident. The only aircraft spotted were the occasional Catalina on submarine patrol. It was when they reached the Channel, hugging the English coast, that the drone of approaching bombers could be heard overhead. And the sight was awesome.

  About a hundred Heinkel 111’s and Dornier 17’s blackened the sky like a plague of locusts, their fighter escort weaving vapor trails that crisscrossed the sky as they dodged the flight of Hurricanes the RAF had scrambled from Manston. The coastal Ack-Ack opened up with an ear-splitting “whack-whack” and the troop ship joined in with its aft gun. One Heinkel went down, orange flame and black oily smoke spewing out from one wing. It passed overhead disappearing over land to crash somewhere in a Kent field.

  As suddenly as it started, it was over, the bombers moving on to London as a part of the second wave. The remainder of the voyage was uneventful.

  On the fifth morning, his legs feeling like rubber bands, Thorley staggered onto the deck, his hands grasping for the rails as the ship gently rolled. The sun, a blazing red ball, hung above the North African desert, casting reddish glints off the water. It was already beastly hot, and his clothes stuck to his skin. The air smelt of dead fish and diesel fuel. In spite of the odor, his stomach growled, and he realized he was ravenous. The ship’s doctor had told him to drink water or tea, and nothing else. It had kept him from being dehydrated, but he’d lost ten pounds in the bargain and now his body was crying out for compensation.

  He went below and headed for the galley, a part of him growing wary as he neared it. But the smells coming from there—brewing tea, frying bacon and eggs—made him forget his unease. He entered the galley, picked up a sectioned tray and filled it to the brim with everything in sight. Brady found him ten minutes later gorging on his fifth kipper.

  “Back to the land of the living, I see,” Brady said, his grin widening.

  Thorley washed down his mouthful of food with tea and responded. “For a while I wished I were dead. What about you? You look entirely too cheerful this morning.”

  Brady sat across from him, his manner becoming conspiratorial. “I’ve been on a winning streak, old sod, like you’ve never seen. I’ve just about cleaned out all the high-rollers on this tub.” He laughed and swatted the table with his hand. “I’m tellin’ you, Mikey, you’ve never seen a sorrier bunch of poker players in all your days.”

  “No doubt, but some of them might be wanting to make you sorrier still. I’d watch your back.”

  “Not to worry, lad. This old sod’s been kicked around a time or two enough to know who might be a sore loser. The trick is not to be too smug about it. Otherwise they begin to get ideas, you see.”

  “So, what are you going to do with all of these ill-gotten gains, my friend?” Thorley asked, not really wanting to know, but having nothing else to say. He felt worlds better after having eaten, but his head still throbbed and the close humid air inside the ship made his skin itch.

  “I’ve been talking to some of the crew, and they said the best places to see the sights, as it were, were the Gezira Club and the Dug Out. One lad mentioned the Kit Kat, sayin’ it was off-limits. Now, that’s the place for me.”

  Thorley shook his head, a tiny smile forming on his lips. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. What about a place to sleep? We don’t report to Abbassia until the twenty-first. That’s two days after we disembark.”

  “From what I’ve been told it’s Shepheard’s Hotel, hands down. Of course, it costs a few quid, so I hear.”

  “We don’t need to waste our money on luxuries.”

  “And why not? Do you think you’ll be needin’ it out in the middle of nowhere? Besides, it be my money that’s to be wasted. And I say we stay at Shepheard’s.”

  Thorley was in no mood to argue and let it go. He spent the rest of the voyage resting, conserving his strength for what he knew would be a strenuous course in desert survival. He also wrote a letter to Lillian. Or tried to. He’d wasted three sheets of his precious writing paper by the time he realized that who he wanted to write to was not his wife, but his son or daughter. The thought of his child had kept him from going out of his mind all during his time at Sandhurst and while he was suffering from the food poisoning. And it was only now, faced with disembarkation the next day, that he wanted to put all his thoughts on paper, thoughts he never confided to anyone, even Lillian. It was three in the morning Egyptian time when he began, and he stopped writing only when the announcement came for everyone to head up on deck. Packing the precious, unfinished missive away in his footlocker, he joined the throng on deck and watched while the ship made its way into the harbor in Alexandria.

  Once off the ship, Thorley joined Brady and the two of them took one of the river barges for the trip to Cairo, eschewing the regular transport. Aside from being cooler than the back of a truck, it allowed them to soak up some of the “local color,” as Brady put it. They arrived in the city just after noon.

  The streets of Cairo presented an interesting mix of both the ancient and the modern. Military transports, sleek Daimlers and Rolls-Royces competed with oxcarts and bicycles of every description; peddlers shouted from makeshift stalls hung with everything from dead chickens to pre-war Paris fashions. And the smell. The air was redolent with all manner of spices, cooking odors, and fresh dung. Flies abounded everywhere, and Thorley found it both amazing and repellent that the average Egyptian ignored them as they crawled over their flesh.

  Grabbing an ancient Austin taxi with a wheezing engine, they told the driver to take them to Shepheard’s Hotel, not knowing that it lay less than a quarter mile from where they stood. The journey took over an hour, however, caused by the snarl of midday traffic, and the driver’s good-natured attempt at showing them “the sights.”

  Thorley was more than grateful when they finally reached Shepheard’s. Hot and gritty from the ubiquitous dust, he wanted nothing more than to climb into a tub of tepid water, the last he would probably see once he reported to Abbassia. Alighting from the taxi, Thorley and Brady headed into the hotel.

  The lobby, cool, dark, and quiet, was a delightful mixture of high Victorian elegance and Middle Eastern pragmatism. Overstuffed chairs and chaise lounges lay scattered about amongst priceless antique paintings and statues, while belt-driven ceiling fans turned lazily overhead stirring air that reeked of Turkish tobacco and oiled leather. Taking all this in, Thorley realized that the war never felt farther away, and that made him feel guilty.

  Brady had already gone over to the registration desk and was talking to the dark mustachioed manager. It didn’t strike Thorley as strange until he was closer and noticed the familiar way they were conversing—as if they were old friends. When he reached the desk, Brady turned and clapped Thorley on the shoulders. “...Now, Abdul, I want the best you’ve got for me and my
comrade in arms, here.”

  Abdul bowed lightly from the waist. “Very good, Mr. Brady. So glad to see you again.” The little man darted off behind the key slots.

  “I thought you told me you’d never been out of Dublin until you joined up.”

  Brady laughed. “You must have been listening with half an ear, old sod. My father was an inveterate traveler, used to take all of us along. Cairo was a favorite port of call.”

  “Yes, but Abdul, there, knew you.”

  Before, Brady could answer, Abdul returned with two keys. “As I suspected, Mr. Brady, the keys to the suite had not been placed back in the slot. Enjoy your stay.”

  “That’s a good lad,” he said, heading for the lifts.

  Thorley followed, deciding to let the matter drop. After all, Brady had told him a lot of things about his life, most of it after they had consumed more than the usual amount of alcohol. It would be surprising if he hadn’t gotten something mixed up.

  After that much-looked-forward-to bath, Thorley dressed in the lightest weight uniform he possessed and joined Brady downstairs in the bar for one of its famous gin martinis. He found his friend sitting with another officer at a dimly lit corner table, two empty drinks apiece already before them.

  “Come on, boyo,” Brady said, waving him over, “you’ve got some catching up to do.”

  Thorley managed a smile, then sat in the one empty seat left at the tiny circular table, thinking that if he managed to survive the war, he’d end up a raging alcoholic.

  “Mikey, may I present Lieutenant Reginald Herter of the 22nd Guards.”

  “Call me, Reggie,” he said, extending his hand.

  Thorley took it, trying not to wince under the other man’s nutcracker grip. “Michael Thorley,” he said.

  “Reggie, me boy, tell Mikey what you just told me.”

  Reggie leaned forward and it was then that Thorley caught the heavy scent of gin and noticed the other man’s eyes drooping at half-mast. “Auchinleck’s got us all hopping, old boy. New offensive, probably in mid-November or thereabouts. Very hush-hush.” The man burped, his hand rising to his mouth too late to cover it. Thorley felt a wave of embarrassment for the man and annoyance at his carelessness.

  “If that’s true, why are you telling us?”

  Reggie waved it off as he snatched up his tumbler of gin. “Not to worry, old boy, Jerry’s too bloody busy trying to take Tobruk to worry about what’s coming up his bum.” Reggie laughed, causing his drink to spill on his tunic. “Bloody hell,” he cursed, trying to sop up the liquor with a wad of cocktail napkins. Thorley used the moment to signal Brady that it was time to go. He nodded his acknowledgment, then turned to Reggie, who appeared to have forgotten what they’d been talking about. “Sorry, Reggie, but Mikey and I must be on our way.”

  “Oh, do stay for one more round, old boy,” he said, belching between words. From Thorley’s perspective, the man looked as if he might keel over at any moment. Without answering, he and Brady left the man to his own devices and headed out into the night.

  In prewar days, it was said that Cairo at night was a sight that would dazzle the eye of the uninitiated. Now, with blackout regulations in force, it was all one could do to navigate in near pitch-blackness. He caught Brady as he was about to jump into a cab. “What the hell was all that about?”

  Brady grinned. “Just having a little fun.”

  “You call encouraging a man to betray his comrades a little fun?”

  “Oh, come now, Mikey, it wasn’t all that bad. The man was the talkative type. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else, perhaps someone less than trustworthy.”

  “That’s still no excuse—”

  “Mikey,” Brady said, his voice mildly scolding, “relax for God’s sake. We’ve got one last night of freedom. Let’s make the best of it.”

  Right then, Thorley decided that he’d had more than enough of Brady for one evening. “You go, I’m completely knackered. I’m going to get some rest.”

  A look passed over the Irishman’s features that in the deepening gloom Thorley could have sworn was the hot flash of anger. And then it was gone, replaced by the devilish gleam that was pure Brady. “Have it your way, Mikey,” he said, patting Thorley on the shoulder. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

  And then he was gone, the cab roaring off in a blue cloud of oily exhaust. Thorley returned to their suite and stripped off his uniform, glad that he’d decided to stay behind. If he knew Brady at all, before the night was through, he would have made every attempt to pair Thorley off with some woman of less than sterling repute, encouraging him to dip his wick.

  He preferred not to think of that. It reminded him of his last hours with Lillian. Even though they had reconciled, there were still those nagging tendrils of doubt in his mind. Had she given the man up, as she’d promised? There was no way to know, of course, now that he was thousands of miles from home. He would have to trust her; and he could never do so if he himself were unfaithful.

  Driving all of these thoughts from his mind, he pulled out the letter he’d started on the ship and reread what he’d written. It was good, it said most of the things he wanted to say, including the instructions to follow in case of his death, but something was missing. He spent the next two hours attempting to form these vague feelings into words, but the words, as obstinate as Sergeant Bell, refused to come. Frustrated, he put the letter away, doused the lights, and went to the windows. When he raised the blackout shades, cool night air blew in off the Western desert.

  A sliver of moon shone high in the sky and the blanket of stars overhead shone like a bright pinpoint tapestry. Cairo stretched out before him, a dark gray mass creeping over the landscape, every window dark as his own. It made him feel as if he were in a mausoleum.

  Looking off to the west once more, he tried to imagine what it would be like living out there day after day on patrol with the L.R.D.G., sleeping out under that vast canvas of light, the air crisp and clean, and silent as the grave. A part of him realized that he was scared, and yet he was also more excited than he could ever remember. Shivering, he turned from the window, padded to the bed and climbed in, careful to replace the mosquito netting so that none of the pesky little blighters could dive-bomb him as he slept. Sleep, however, came hard. His mind raced with all manner of thoughts, and in spite of the cool breeze, his body felt tense, causing him to toss and turn for what must have been hours. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the sound of Brady stumbling in sometime before dawn, accompanied by the soft titter of feminine laughter.

  Chapter Twenty

  Thorley awoke, his mind in a fog of vague nightmares. The light in the room told him it was well after dawn, and a squinty-eyed glance at his watch confirmed it.

  6:13.

  Their orders were to report to a Lieutenant David Lloyd Owen at Abbassia Barracks at precisely seven. That left precious little time to dawdle. Shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his brain, Thorley staggered to his feet and made his way over to the door that separated his room from Brady’s. It lay ajar, and he could see that the blackout shades were still drawn. From the light coming through the door of his own room, he saw Brady sprawled across the bed, his arm around a dusky Egyptian woman with coal-black hair and the ample proportions of a belly dancer.

  Good old Brady, true to form. He would have been disappointed to have discovered his wild and wayward friend any other way. Remembering the time, he suppressed a grin and walked into the room, throwing open the blackout shades as he went. Light flooded the room and Brady groaned, trying to bury his face in a pillow. His companion reacted differently, springing awake in an instant, her dark sloe-eyed face filled with fear. She spotted Thorley and her expression turned wanton, mocking. She didn’t bother to cover herself, either, letting her heavy breasts with their large, nearly black aureolas and taut nipples advertise their availability.

  “We’ve got to be at the barracks in forty minutes, Corwin. Let’s get cracking.”
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  Brady groaned again, motioning Thorley away with a limp-wristed wave.

  “Not on your life, let’s go.”

  “Bloody Christ, why don’t you just shoot me and get it over with,” Brady said, rolling over onto his back. He spotted his companion, and rolled his eyes. She smiled, revealing a broken front tooth. “Go on, me darlin’, time to be shovin’ off.”

  The woman threw off the bedclothes and reached for her dress, a shabby print that had seen better days. Thorley spotted a tattoo on her capacious rump, the design both inscrutable and unfamiliar. After she dressed and left, Brady crawled from the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, where he doused his head under a stream of tepid, faintly brown water.

  Soon, they were outside the hotel, where they hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take them to Abbassia Barracks.

  Located in the center of Cairo, the barracks had been built in the late nineteenth century; and its imposing edifice of stone and iron occupied an entire city block. Home to various regiments over the years, it was now the main headquarters of the Long Range Desert Group, as well as the Officer Cadet Training Unit.

  After a mad dash through downtown Cairo, narrowly avoiding catastrophe no less than five times, the cab pulled up in a cloud of dust and deposited Thorley and Brady at the main gate. Thorley paid the driver, who thanked him profusely in a rapid stutter, and roared off.

  After identifying themselves at the gate, they reported to Lieutenant Owen in the main office overlooking the dun-colored quadrangle. Owen, a slight man of medium height with a warm, easy manner, gave them the cook’s tour of the barracks, ending up in what was to be their room, a narrow warren at the southwest corner they would share with two other men who had not yet arrived.

  To Thorley’s surprise, the ensuing week went rapidly. Unlike the tyrannical Sergeant Bell, the officer in charge of training them in desert survival techniques, was calm and patient. He tutored them, making sure that every one of the fifteen men undergoing training understood what was at stake.