Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Fourteen

  Thirty-eight transports arrived in Alexandria, by degrees discharging company after company, battalion after battalion, for the next stage of their journey to Cairo. From the capital’s railway station to their destination on the fringes of the Western Desert, was a hot, uncomfortable march of several miles. When the first of those eighteen thousand men arrived, there was nothing but the looming Pyramids and a cluster of buildings around a country house hotel. The Mena House was requisitioned, and from that, Mena Camp took its name. Tents began to sprout like mushrooms, vast numbers of them, rapidly taking on all the aspects of a city. A city full of men.

  Liam had glimpsed Egypt briefly during a passage of the Suez Canal the year before, but at close quarters it made an impact for which he was no more prepared than those who had never seen anything but Australia. Bleached by centuries of sun and scoured by sand, Egypt, he found, was possessed of a vivid beauty that both excited and repelled him. There was light and colour everywhere, and the most appalling poverty he had ever seen. Scented flowers in formal gardens competed with the stench of decay in the streets, while marble palaces on grand avenues fronted a maze of foetid alleys in the native quarters. Electric trams and gleaming motor cars moved alongside biblical forms of transport: donkeys brayed and camels spat, while their owners screamed unintelligible insults at passing, goggle-eyed soldiers.

  The open desert possessed a different kind of beauty. For the first day or so after leaving Cairo, Liam found it a relief, although the nights spent on guard duty were unnerving. With moonlight bathing the Pyramids, the desert managed to exercise its own terrible fascination: the empty tombs of those long-dead pharaohs seemed alive with whispers and moving shadows, and the wraith-like kiss of the wind.

  Once the sun came up, rising with speed through each magical dawn, there was little time for dreaming, little time for anything but work. With the completion of the camp, those eighteen thousand men were plunged into an excess of drilling and marching and trench-digging that was intended to bring them to a peak of physical fitness. In effect, after the relative inactivity of their sea-voyage from Australia, it brought them virtually to their knees.

  As Liam wrote in one letter home, if the hours had been less punishing, if they’d had enough to eat and been allowed even one day off a week, the men could have adjusted. Even Sundays, he complained, were marked by early calls and church parades, and several hours’ drilling in the heat of the afternoon. After days spent marching through sand on no more than a bread-roll and a half-tin of sardines, heat-stroke and illness had most of them falling down like flies.

  At first, few had energy left to go into town, but resentment breeds its own energy. After almost three weeks without a break, trouble was building like a thunder-head.

  Physically exhausted, and as mentally adrift as his companions, Liam listened to the rumble of discontent and felt it echoed in himself. He too began to question the sense of things, not least the reasons for their stay in this outlandish place. With Christmas practically upon them, all he could hear were the calls of the muezzin from distant minarets, so alien compared to York and the clamour of church bells. Swept by a tide of homesickness, he found himself longing for sights and sounds not thought about in months.

  The patriotism he had privately scoffed at was burning inside, fuelled by letters from his brother, lucky enough to be in France and really doing his bit for England. Stuck in Egypt, doing nothing but march and drill, drill and dig, Liam was possessed by an envy he would not have thought possible on the day he enlisted. Here and now seemed such a terrible waste of time, while that noble cause, repeated in every lecture, of freeing the world from German imperialist aggression, seemed hollow indeed. Pointless while breaking their backs digging useless trenches in the desert, pointless in the face of endless hours on parade, when every missive from England contained news of great battles going on in France and Belgium.

  Every conversation echoed that common resentment. Even the least mutinous agreed that they had not joined up to listen to uplifting speeches by officers who had no more idea of war than a bunch of donkeys. They’d come to fight, not learn a set of petty rules and regulations laid down by a bunch of pen-pushers back home.

  Bored and tired and viciously frustrated, with day-leave denied, the troops began to depart each night in ever-increasing numbers, with leave and without it, for the fleshpots of Cairo. On five shillings a day the Australians were the best-paid of all the allied armies, and Liam, particularly, had never been so well-off. Even with half his pay allocated in Edward’s name to a York bank, he had more money at his disposal than Robin, and was determined to make the most of it.

  Perpetually hungry, Liam’s first thought was always of food, and in Cairo the choice was vast, from the glittering restaurant of Shepheard’s, to cheaper but less salubrious establishments in the narrow back streets. To begin with, a decent meal with a few beers was all he indulged in, but he was soon infected with the atmosphere of excitement pervading these illicit trips into town.

  After weeks of confinement, the realization that it was possible to set fire to the rules and get away with it, went to every man’s head. Nightly forays became wilder, tinged by an atmosphere of hysteria as large groups gathered to drink and gamble and fornicate their way through the streets of Cairo. Out of sight of families and employers, with respectable communities left way behind in Australia, they were let loose on a land which had seen everything before, a city which was old in sin and well-used to catering to every conceivable taste.

  Liam had been away from home a long time. In the early days, grief had kept temptation at bay, but the licentious atmosphere was beginning to blunt his finer feelings. At first he stuck to Ned on their legitimate nights out, but his friend frequently disappeared without explanation, tapping his nose as he left Liam and Arnie behind. The rest of the crowd assumed Ned the Corp was away looking for sex, too mean to share the delights of a good brothel with them. Liam had other suspicions, but either way those abrupt departures put more distance between him and Ned than rank ever could.

  Feeling snubbed, he threw himself into the party. Exhausted by day, at night he seemed to float on a tide of exhilaration, buffeted back and forth against an exotic, lotus-strewn shore. And that shore seemed peopled by half the women of the world. Dark and fair, bold and shy, they inhabited the shadowy back streets in seedy rooms and opulent houses, guarded by ancient, painted Frenchwomen or homosexual Egyptian men.

  There were shows featuring eastern belly-dancers and young girls with fans, and there were others more rampantly seductive. On every street corner were postcards for sale and the kind of books that could never have seen the light of day where Victorian morality had gained a foothold. It was a land where sex was for sale, a land where every persistent and importunate native had a ‘sister’ who would love to entertain each fine, wealthy, good-looking soldier before he went to the war. The fact that such offers rapidly reached saturation point made them easy to resist, but the atmosphere, loaded with sexual invitation as it was, impinged upon them all. As far as Liam was concerned, much of what he saw produced nothing more than embarrassment or disgust; but it was also illuminating, larding both dreams and fantasies with an eroticism that had been absent before.

  On innumerable occasions he watched Arnie and those of like mind leave the bars to take their pick of the girls along the Haret el Wasser. Oddly enough, while he was prepared to drink and gamble with the best, and take his part in the wild dashes back to camp via any form of transport, hired or stolen, the one thing he could not bring himself to do was join them in this nightly ritual. Most of the time he wanted to, and could not understand the reticence which had survived the loss of almost every other inhibition. But regardless of either drunkenness or sobriety, and in spite of the good-natured baiting he endured from the bolder spirits, something stopped him.

  To begin with it was thoughts of Georgina, constant comparisons which sprang unbidden whenever he thought some girl or wo
man might be vaguely attractive; then he would look again, and find that she was not. It became a habit. He told himself that if he could just find a girl who looked like her, then everything would be all right. But Georgina’s true, pale fairness was as rare amongst these rich, dark plums as snow upon the desert’s face, while the fair European nurses at Mena and in the Cairo hospitals were as unattainable as women in purdah. Certainly to humble private soldiers like himself. He did suspect, however, that a few pips at the shoulder might have made all the difference.

  Of course, he had his suspicions about Ned, although his old friend still refused to be drawn. Liam saw Mary Maddox a few times, and she was cordial as ever, colouring only slightly when he mentioned their mutual friend. He bumped into her brother quite frequently, and although rank made it impossible to engage in more than a few minutes’ conversation, it was always heartening to see the pleasure in Lewis’s eyes, and to know that this desert training was as tough on the young mounted officers as it was for the infantry. Lewis had not lost his intensity, but it seemed to Liam had he had grown up a great deal. Catching the sight of him one night amongst a group of officers and nurses on the steps of Shepheard’s Hotel, Liam thought how relaxed and sophisticated he seemed. Envying him, imagining his dark and not unhandsome friend as a smooth and successful Lothario, Liam wished he could be so fancy-free. Wished too that he had never met Georgina Duncannon; or, having met her, that he could release himself from the obsession she had become.

  She was both forbidden and unattainable, and nothing was ever going to change that. He told himself that he was being ridiculous, and several times swore he would tear up that photograph Robin had taken; but it was impossible. In the end, it seemed the only way to cure himself was to find a girl who looked nothing like Georgina Duncannon, and put into practice what he so frequently dreamed of doing.

  It turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined. The first time, the sheer squalor of the room quelled his passion. Even as the woman lit the lamps Liam walked out, pursued by shouts and curses. It was a while before inclination and opportunity combined again.

  The second time he went about it with more care, choosing a better-class brothel instead of a casual pick-up. Swallowing his initial nervousness, Liam explained to the Madame that he wanted someone young and clean, with fresh sheets on the bed. The woman was old and fat and grossly painted, but for a moment, as her eyes took in his tall, straight frame and the shock of fair hair falling across his forehead, she seemed about to suggest something else; then with a shrug she turned away. A girl was brought forward. Small and pretty in a childish, undeveloped fashion, she had beautiful eyes and a smooth olive skin. Briefly, Liam hesitated; this was not quite what he had envisaged. He preferred women to young girls, but any protest might be misunderstood. Recalling the look Madame had cast over him, it seemed more prudent to take what was offered.

  The room was hardly fresh, and the noise from the street outside was distracting. The girl quickly slipped off her evening dress and lay back on a wide feather bed, legs spread and awaiting him. As Liam glanced at her, slowly removing his tunic, she reached across to a bowl of fruit and began to peel an orange.

  That hardened lack of interest in what they were about to do was off-putting. He paused in the act of unfastening his shirt, aware that his edge of excitement was gone. Nothing about her stirred him; she might have been no more than a slab of meat displayed in a butcher’s window. He pictured all the men who had used her, and was no longer surprised by her attitude. Why should she care? He was just one more, and plenty would follow when he had gone. There was a moment’s regret for the money already spent, but it was impossible to claim what he had paid for. With a sigh, he donned his tunic and left.

  Back at camp, however, with his pity for the girl dispersed, he called himself a fool and a coward, wondering what was wrong with him that he could not perform the act other men found so simple. In an agony of frustration, he flung himself down and gave way to self-pity. Ned, returning refreshed from his night out, indulged in a burst of knowing laughter.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, you bloody idiot,’ he declared. ‘Nothing a decent woman couldn’t put right in no time flat. And for God’s sake don’t start comparing yourself to Arnie – we all know where he keeps his brains, and one day he’ll know about it! Besides,’ he added with a cryptic grin, ‘you can take it from me that most women prefer quality to quantity, and on that score, Arnie’s got no more idea than a second-rate ram!’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to talk,’ Liam complained bitterly, ‘you’ve got no problems that I can see! It is Mary Maddox you’re meeting, isn’t it?’

  Ned tapped the side of his nose. ‘Like I told you before – ask no questions, you’ll be told no lies.’

  With a derisory gesture, Liam sat up and lit a cigarette. ‘Well, I just hope nobody finds out, that’s all. She’ll be packed off home, and you’ll be on fatigues for the rest of the bloody war!’

  Ignoring that, Ned simply laughed. ‘Find yourself a nice little nurse,’ he blandly advised, ‘and keep clear of the bloody Wasser. Nothing but trouble there, mate.’

  Except as a patient, Liam’s chances of meeting up with a nurse were remote; they both knew that. Mary Maddox broke every rule in the book for Ned, but only because theirs was a relationship which had begun before they left Australia. Perhaps not openly acknowledged, but Liam had been aware of it. He did wonder, however, what Lewis would say if he knew; and indeed, how Mr and Mrs Maddox would view such an alliance.

  After that, he steered clear of the Haret el Wasser, but not for the reasons Ned listed. In truth, Liam’s fear of humiliation temporarily outweighed his desire for sexual experience.

  Just after Christmas, when three hundred men were posted absent without leave, one battalion was forced to abandon a parade for the simple reason that there were not enough men present. The next day, a strong picket line was placed across the road from Mena to Cairo, and all passes rigorously checked. Hard on that, training was intensified, longer marches into the desert became the order of the day, and some units – including Liam’s – were exiled to garrisons along the Suez Canal.

  There, although the food still consisted largely of bread and jam, sardines and bully beef, it was just adequate, and Sunday became at last a day of rest. Church Parade was still compulsory, but apart from that the men did have a free day at their disposal. They began to behave more like tourists and less like vandals, and the numbers going sick from exhaustion dropped dramatically.

  But then a different problem began to make itself felt. Until one of their number went down with it, venereal disease had been something of a joke amongst Liam’s unit, but after Arnie reported sick they never saw him again. Despite feeling that he, more than most, had ‘asked for it,’ all were shocked by the treatment meted out. Under military guard he was taken to join the increasing numbers who had ‘wilfully’ contracted the disease, and as per the regulations, his paybook was stamped accordingly and he was forced to wear a white band on his arm, ‘like a leper,’ as Liam put it. Arnie had been a fool, that was agreed, but the disease could have been contracted just as easily by a man who had succumbed to temptation only once. Liam felt sick when he recalled his past intentions, and guilty that he had not tried harder to keep Arnie away from prostitutes. Conscious of having abandoned the boy, Ned felt worse. They went down to the barbed-wire compound the next Sunday afternoon, with fruit and cigarettes.

  They were turned away. No one was allowed to speak to the patients, not even their guards. As Ned and Liam stood outside in the burning sun, all they had from Arnie was a half-hearted wave. He looked like a dog which had been tethered and penned and does not know why. Liam took a long, bitter pull at his cigarette then stubbed it viciously into the sand.

  ‘A fine way to make an example of us!’

  ‘Come on,’ Ned murmured, ‘there’s no point in standing here, staring. They’re like animals in a bloody zoo.’

  It was a harsh lesso
n and one which sobered them all. Rumour had it, correctly so for once, that the VD cases were to be repatriated to Australia along with some of the worst criminal offenders. It seemed an ignominious end to what had begun so hopefully six months before, and the bulk of general opinion gave one reason: Egypt.

  With the novelty worn away, even rebellion lost its attraction and the troops settled down to something approaching acceptance. Life, however, continued to provide its irritations. Course desert sand found its way into eyes and ears and noses; it was in their food and in their bedding, and the frequent dust-storms were misery for man and beast alike. After four months Liam began to wonder, along with everyone else, if they would ever leave the dirt and grit to get on with the job for which they had left Australia.

  Those eight and ten mile marches out into the desert with machine guns and rifles and heavy packs seemed just as pointless and pitiless, but it began to be noticeable even to the least enthusiastic that they were pulling together under their officers and NCOs. For the first time they were beginning to feel like fully-trained fighting men, instead of an ill-directed rabble. Liam, who had always been something of a loner, was discovering the tactical advantages of team-work, the necessity of reliance upon others. He was also finding pride in himself. Training and a seemingly natural ability had made of him an excellent marksman, the best of his platoon, while four months of trench-digging had developed a muscular strength more than equal to his height. He was twenty years old, lean and fit, and he could not wait, as he wrote more than once to Robin, to see some real action.

  By the middle of March, with the issue of new rifles, rumours began to fly. Some said they were about to leave for France, others that the Canal was to be defended against an attack by the Turks. But with the naval bombardment of the Dardanelles having failed, there was also talk of an infantry campaign in that area, the object being to capture Constantinople and thus knock the Turks out of the war. Success would release Britain’s Russian allies from the Black Sea, where they had been blockaded for months, and seal up Germany’s back door into the Mediterranean. With stalemate on the Western Front, it was a success the Allies badly needed.