by Simon Raven
“What are you going to do about your unpaid Mess bills here, and those cheques?”
“The Second in Command, as Mess President, has agreed to write off the bills and tear up the cheques.”
“Why on earth?”
“That joke about Dandini and the soldiers’ socks. He thinks I put it in as a hint that I’ve discovered that’s his little hobby. Now he too is keen to pave my path to external promotion. Which reminds me. Bachelor Colonels,” said Fingel, packing my dinner jacket, “will be much in demand on Malta, so I expect I shall be needing this.”
Colonel Fingel
Corps HQ,
Malta.
January 4
My dear old bean,
You’ll be pleased to hear that Lieutenant-Colonel Fingel has already made rather a hit on Malta. In a discreet way, of course; for it’s best behaviour from now on, old bean, at least until they see fit to make my temporary lieutenant-colonelcy substantive. Having this in mind, I decided to give the new-image Fingel a trial trot at the Club Ball on New Year’s Eve. Wit without ribaldry, gallantry without salacity, jollity without inebriety – all these were to be the qualities of the sociable off-duty Colonel Fingel, who was also to be a real pukkha sahib but without any of the old racialist knobs on. (A mild liberal streak is essential for promotion these days.) So I got myself up a treat in your dinner jacket, introduced myself modestly to my new colleagues, danced with the General’s wife and also with his unmarried sister, hinted at a deep, tragic and entirely honourable love affair in my youth which explained why I had remained a bachelor ever since (the girl broke her neck in a hunting accident in the Shires a week before the wedding and the shock prostrated me for months, etc., etc.), stood my whack of the harry champers but never so much as belched the whole evening, and gave an overall impression of being a twenty-four-carat Buchan character with an interesting dash of E. Philips Oppenheim. Never has your “soup and fish” been worn to such elegant advantage.
Things have gone quite well with the “on duty” Colonel Fingel too. My immediate boss is a mild-mannered Staff Brigadier whose hobby is butterflies; my job consists in collating information about the attitudes and behaviour of Arabs along the Mediterranean coast. I pass my working hours in an old-fashioned colonial office with a fan and am free to spend nine out of ten of them reading or doing what I will – except leaving the place for any longer than it takes to have a pee. For the great bore is that it is very difficult to get time off: the General is a bit of a martinet and puts the wind up my nice little Brigadier, who has a neurotic horror of letting me out of my office (though he knows as well as I do how little I have to do in it) in case the General should come nosing round and spot an empty desk. Still, il faut souffrir un peu pour être colonel, and there are palpable splendours.
Thus for my quarters, I have two rooms and a private bathroom in HQ A Mess, and a grovelling Maltese servant. The food is disgusting, but I have found two just tolerable restaurants within half a mile, where I am paying my bills (in accordance with the new career-building Fingel lifestyle) strictly in cash. Whose cash, do I hear you enquire? Well, should you happen to have missed that gold ticker of yours, console yourself with thinking that it fetched £79 for the Feed Fingel Fund at the top pop shop in Valletta. Sorry, old bean, to be quite so exploiting, but when you’re turning over a new leaf, as I am, it is necessary to carry substantial assets with you (which is possibly why so few people ever succeed in turning over a new leaf).
Tonight, at least, there will be no cash outlay, as I am to dine with the General – my official welcome to his Staff. I rather think that sister of his is a bit stuck on me; she certainly protruded her abdomen pretty forcibly when we danced together at the Ball.
Cheers for now,
Fingel.
Malta,
Jan. 6
Old Bean,
No doubt about it: the General’s sister is scorching her panties for Fingel. I think it was that story about my fiancée busting her neck that brought it on; nothing like a spot of melodrama for tuning up bored ladies of a certain age. As it happens, she’s not so old but what Fingel could plug himself in with some pleasure; but the new Fingel lifestyle discourages liaisons with close connections of one’s General, and even if it didn’t, the General himself certainly would. For I fear he’s decoded the message already (there’s probably been similar trouble before), and indeed he’d be very slow if he hadn’t, because after dinner she sat me down under her enormous photograph album and started playing thighsies beneath it (while showing me pics of her bouncing about on Mombasa beach, etc., a decade or two ago) with all the delicacy of a rhinoceros.
So I got rather a cold good night from Mr and Mrs General. I hope my efforts at reform are not going to be bitched up by –
– Had to break off just now because my Brigadier sent for me. It seems that I am to be sent on a Mission. The General has picked me to go on a kind of liaison trip in Israel of all places: we’re doing a three-month swop of Staff Officers with the Hebrews to promote understanding and good will, tira lira, meaning they’ll want to guzzle up all the info I’ve gathered about the Arabs, so they won’t be very pleased when they find out that I’ve only been in my job for five days. When I put this to the Brigadier, he said that the General was impressed by my personality and trusted me to put up a good show, my lack of knowledge notwithstanding. If you ask me, he’s bothered by all the heaving that went on under the album last night and wants to get me out of the way of his sister before she runs her knickers right up to the mast-head. But apparently there’s also another reason, one which gave the Brig. some embarrassment.
“The thing is, Fingel,” he said, “that they’ve indicated that they would strongly prefer us to send – well – a Jewish officer, if we have one. They think he would be more sympathetic.”
“Well, that counts me out,” I said. “I’m about as kosher as a pork pie.”
“Oh, you don’t have to be absolutely orthodox,” he said, “they don’t expect that. Just Jewish by blood.”
“But I’m not,” I said. “Ill-bred I may be, but I’m not a bloody Yi – ”
“–Please, Fingel,” he implored, “don’t make it difficult for me. The fact is that we have no Jewish officer available; but your physical appearance is such that you could… just…pass for Jewish. In an Austrian sort of way. Your name will pass too. We want you to pretend to be Jewish in order to humour them.”
“Vat’s in it vor me?” I said. “A crown of thorns if they find out the truth?”
“It’s no joking matter, Fingel. It’s important that we should be on good terms with the Israelis, and you, in a sense, will be our Ambassador.”
Of course I could refuse on grounds of conscience, but I’ve decided to go. After all, if the General wants me off the scene for a while there’s no point in staying on it; and anyhow it’s one way of getting myself out of this dreary office. There could be credit in the affair if I make myself agreeable to the Chosen; there will certainly be a cash bonus, as I shall be paid a special allowance to put me in funds to cut a suitable figure.
The masquerade begins in three days’ time with a flight from here to Tel-Aviv. Meanwhile I’m punching up on my bible. As the Brig. says, although I’m not to wear funny hats or anything weird like that, I must know a bit of my own history, as a Jew, and be prepared to take an interest. Apparently my term of duty will start with a guided tour round the sights of the country, so I must have a few appropriate scriptural gobbets on the tip of my tongue – and also know the difference between the Mishnah and a Mezuzah. And another thing: I’ve been told to take an interest, while I’m there, in the sort of things they won’t be eager to show me, like instances of disaffection or bad morale, or, on the other hand, the state of their advanced rocketry (and tactical atomic weapons, if, as has recently been rumoured, they’ve found a cheap and easy way of running them up). This means that I have to make my Jewish act go with a real swing, or I’ll never get near any apparatus more up to da
te than a camel.
So this is our man in Jerusalem designate signing off for now. More from the Land of Canaan.
Love from
Fingelstein.
Camp Uriah,
Near Tel-Aviv.
January 10
Dear Bean,
Red carpet time for Fingel. I was given a first-class seat in the aeroplane yesterday afternoon, and waiting at the airport to greet me was a deputation headed by an Israeli Major-General, and further consisting of a gaggle of Staff Colonels and spare Majors and, last but not least, of Second Lieutenant Jael Fezzez (a female), who is to be my driver and general assistant. We all rumbled off in a military charabanc, had dinner in the best non-kosher restaurant in Tel-Aviv, and swept out here to Camp Uriah, where I was installed in a palatial marquee and then briefed about my programme. This, as advertised, is to start with a five-day tour of the Promised Land, conducted by 2/Lt. Fezzez, who will be driving us in a Land Rover. I didn’t take in much about what will happen later, because liberal rations of whisky were being offered; but clearly I’m to be softened up by trips and treats for quite some time to come. Then, I suppose, they’ll be on to me for all that Near Eastern Intelligence which I haven’t got…but that problem can wait.
At this moment, Miss Fezzez is fussing around outside the marquee, counting the kit we’re to take and ramming it into the Land Rover. I don’t quite know what to make of her, but am rather bothered by the clear disapproval which she showed of the feasting and junketing last night. She’s a wide, squat creature, of about twenty years old, very dark and somewhat in need of a shave, with enormous bra-less knockers under her khaki skirt and bandy thighs like nutcrackers, which frequently protrude from under her regulation skirt despite her angry efforts to confine them. Or rather, they did last night, but today she’s wearing trousers and combat boots. The boots make her calves look like a pair of caveman’s clubs with the bludgeoning ends uppermost, while the trousers strongly assert the bandiness of her hams, which make a broad elipse – nearly a circle – when she is standing to attention. This she insists on doing whenever she talks to me as if to convey the exclusively military nature of our association – which she further proclaims by interspersing her austere and practical remarks with ferocious barks of “sir”. Typical conversation:
“You will need one valise, sir, which you already have, and two haversacks. The latter, sir, I shall procure for you.”
“Surely the valise will be enough, Jael. We’re only away for five days.”
“I am Second Lieutenant Fezzez, sir, and I am telling you you will need two haversacks to carry water-bottles and hard-tack rations. There are no restaurants, sir, in the desert. I shall go now to the store and get the haversacks – and the camp beds.”
“Can I help?”
“No, sir. I am quite sufficient to carry two haversacks and two camp beds.”
And so she is. I hope the camp beds are for emergency use only.
Nothing overt has yet been said about my being a Yid, but of course I have been billed as such by HQ at Malta and it is absolutely taken for granted that my attitudes will be pro-Jewish and pro-Zionist. Several times last night disparaging references were made to the general characteristics of the “goyim”, who did not, I was told, appreciate the Israeli achievement (whereas I, it was implied, was naturally bound to do so). The only “goy” they have much time for is Liddell Hart, whom they seem to regard as the founding father of their Army and the inspiration behind their system of training officers. If 2/Lt Fezzez is representative of the system, Liddell Hart has a lot to answer for: you never saw such a savagely bossing little baggage. She has just announced, “Three minutes and twenty seconds to the start-time, sir”, so I’d better be on my feet – otherwise she’ll lead me to the Land Rover in chains.
Shalom (which means “peace be with you” in these parts, not that there is much with 2/Lt Fezzez banging about)
from
Fingel.
Sodom
Jan. 12
Old Bean,
We’re spending tonight in a kind of Government hostel on the shore of the Dead Sea, Sodom being no longer a city but only an encampment for workers on the salt flats. 2/Lt Fezzez wanted to put up a tent and eat hard-tack, and tried to pretend there was nowhere we could stay. But I spotted this hostel place, and told her that I was going to dine and sleep in it, and she could bloody well make herself miserable in a tent if she wanted to. Rather to my surprise, she gave in at once and consented to come with me.
But when I think it over, I know perfectly well why she did: she hasn’t succumbed to the lure of relative comfort or anything corrupt like that; she’s simply determined (in accordance, one supposes, with her orders) not to let me out of her sight. I can hardly go for a widdle without 2/ Lt Fezzez tagging on to make sure I don’t stumble on Israeli State secrets in the pisser. Why she should want to stick so close to me in Sodom, where there’s nothing to see but salt, I can’t imagine. But she’s staying as near as she can get, in the very next room to my own, on the other side of a very thin partition (probably with a spy hole in it). At this moment she’s thumping around singing a nationalistic song in Hebrew and (I hope) putting on something decorative for dinner – I’m heartily sick of those combat boots.
To be fair, though, she’s been a very interesting guide. We’ve been to see lots of good antiquities and visited several important schools and hospitals and so on, and whether what we see is Ancient or Modern she always knows a bit about it and trots it out rather racily. Example (coming into Sodom this evening):
“Sodom was one of the two legendary Cities of the Plain, sir, the other being Gomorrah. In Gomorrah” – absolutely po-faced…“was pleasure between ladies with instruments, in Sodom was all-male anal intercourse. This made Jehovah so angry that he turned all the perverts into lumps of salt.”
I particularly like “ladies with instruments”.
What is noticeable, however, is that we have never been near any military installations. I keep hinting that I’d like to see some soldierly sights, but all she says is, “That will be for later. This week is for cultural, geographic and civic.” And another thing: in between being cultural, geographic and civic, she’s trying to pump me. Not about anything important, or even about my coastal Arabs, but about my own attitudes (a) as a Jew to the British Army, (b) as a British officer to the Israeli Army, and (c) as a Jew from outside to Israel. No harm in it, I suppose, but I find it irritating, so I’m trying to pump her back. What was her education? How and why did she become an officer? What’s her usual job? Neither of us, I should add, is getting anywhere. Sample, from early this morning:
“How many officers at your Malta Headquarters, sir, are of the Jewish race?”
“Very few, Jael.”
“2/Lt Fezzez, please. Is that because the British Army does not like Jews or because Jews do not like the British Army?”
“I don’t know. What made you choose the Army for a career?”
“In Israel it is different. In Israel, sir, we are all soldiers. How did you find Camp Uriah?”
“I wasn’t shown enough of it to say. When are we going to see other Army Camps?”
“I told you. This week, SIR, is for culture. How do you find our roads?”
“Bumpy.”
“They are not bumpy. They are excellent.”
“You’d know better than I. Do you do a lot of this kind of thing?”
“What kind of thing?”
“Driving visiting officers around.”
“I have been detailed to drive you, sir, because, as you observe, I speak English.”
“Very well too. Where did you learn it?”
“From my teacher. This town we now enter is called Garth. Here there is a factory for socks…”
And so on.
Well, I’ve no objection to playing quizzing games with Fezzez for the next few days, and I always enjoy this kind of trip, but I’m afraid that I’m not making quite the right impression. Perhaps I
’m not enthusiastic enough about the orphanages; perhaps I shouldn’t have called the roads bumpy. Whatever the reason, it’s clear that Fezzez is not entirely sure of me, is indeed very wary of me, and since she’ll be reporting back at the end of our jaunt, it’s important that I should change this. If Fezzez gives me the thumbs down, I shall never get near a kosher rocket or even a machine gun; I shall be sent home empty (even perhaps early, if they really take against me) and that will mean the end of any chance of my being made substantive. I’ve got to mind my ‘p’s and ‘q’s, old bean, and above all I’ve got to stop Fezzez from nosing out that I’m a goy. She’s been giving me some pretty close looks, so she may be having her doubts already.
Ah well. Time for our Sodomite din-din. I will say this for Israel – the wines are damned good, if ever Fezzez lets one get near them.
Mene mene tekel upharsin
and love from Fingel.
Caesarea
Jan. 14
My dear Bean,
A deadly and ironic twist of fortune. Read and mark.
That night at Sodom, just after I last wrote to you, Fezzez turned out for dinner like Jezebel en fête. She’d had the shave she needed; she’d done her hair up in a pile like a pyramid; she’d painted her lips pillar-box red; and she was wearing one of those page-boy tunic things which stop a short way down the thighs – with stockings and suspenders underneath it instead of the usual tights. The last time I’d seen her in a skirt she kept tugging it down: this time she positively rolled out her thighs like barrels. Oh ho, says I to myself, this is the Mata Hari bit; she’s dropping the ice curtain and turning temptress in order to get Fingel off his guard.
The worrying thing was that in an awful kind of animal way she was terrifically lust provoking. Those huge expanses of circular sinew – how one ached for their mighty grip, how one longed to feel them shudder like mountains in an earthquake. That scarlet gash of a mouth – one could almost hear the obscene shrieks of pleasure pouring out of it. But that way, I knew, lay madness and disaster. Colonel Fingel must keep his cool. To go beddybyes with Second Lieutenants in Sodom would be asking for every kind of trouble in the book.
