by Simon Raven
“Good even, Colonel,” she said.
“Good evening, 2/Lt Fezzez.”
“Now we know each other better, you should call me Jael.”
“Yes – er – Jael.”
“I have ordered some wine for us.”
“How nice…”
All through dinner she sat with her legs wide apart under the table. I couldn’t see this; I just knew, from the way she sat in her chair, that she was straddling like a gorilla. And of course the knowledge was torture. She didn’t say much, just grinned with her red mouth and poured about a gallon of wine into it. Then, over the coffee, she came right to the point.
“Colonel Fingel, I am randy for you.”
“Randy” really finished me off. If I didn’t have her I was going to go off bang. Never mind being substantive, never mind anything. Anyhow, I told myself; perhaps I’d been thinking too cautiously: for after all, if I made a good job of it, she’d be on my side from now on, she’d give me a good chitty when asked to report to the brass-hats, and I might yet get to see a rocket-launcher or even an Atomic Shell.
“Me too,” I said.
“Come then.”
But as I followed her fesses out of the dining-room, a dreadful thought struck me. Let us put it like this: you can have a circumcised goy but you can’t have an uncircumcised Jew. At some stage in our imminent intimacy, Jael was bound to find out that Fingel was a Philistine. Indeed, that might well be what the whole act was in aid of: suspecting that I was not really Jewish, 2/Lt Fezzez, glutton for duty as she was, had settled on a simple means of securing proof. But it was too late to retreat now, for if I did she would certainly guess why, and then the fat would be in the fire without even the fun of frying it first.
Then it occurred to me that I might get away with it if I pretended to extreme diffidence, insisted on absolute darkness, and somehow dissuaded her from preliminary manipulation. Or again, I thought, at moments of really high tension the distinction between Cavalier and Roundhead is less easily made by investigating parties. But despite such minor consolations I was anything but confident, as I slunk after her into her room, of my capacity to pass myself off on her as the genuine Semitic article.
I need not have worried. As I entered, she slammed the door behind me, ripped off her tunic with a snort, and advanced on me like an ogre at feeding time.
“And now, my lovely Colonel Goy,” she said, “I am going to undress you with these hands.”
She’d guessed, you see. She’d been brooding on the matter for some time, and earlier that day, when I’d shown myself indifferent to the question of why there are so few Jews in the British Army, she’d rumbled me flat. Any real Jew, questioned by another Jew about such a topic, would have carried on about it for a day and a half. I’d just dismissed the thing, ergo I could not be Jewish – and that, as it turned out, was what had turned her on. She was sick of neatly cut cocks, old bean; she wanted a goy’s toy to play with for a change. Heaven knows what had happened to her patriotism and her sense of duty. She just seemed to toss them off as briskly as she tossed off her knickers.
“Thanks be to Jahveh in Jerusalem,” she mouthed as she yanked down my trousers, “at last a proper roll of schmotter.”
And then she was off.
And now here we are, two days later, in Caesarea. Old bean, I was almost too exhausted, when we arrived, even to look at the famous statue of the Emperor Augustus (the only one which unambiguously shows his deformity). Old bean, Jael will not stop. Even when she’s driving, she’ll stick a muscular hand across for a quick bout of heavy – and I mean heavy – petting. It’s like living with a vampire – only it’s not my blood she’s draining. Old bean, I am at my wits’ end. Whenever I try to refuse to play, or to insist on something in return – like just the teeniest piece of intelligence about Israeli armaments – she simply threatens, if I do not comply most minutely with her filthiest urges, to show me up to her superiors as not being a Jew. The choice, then, is between being discredited and dismissed from Israel (without a jot of information to show for it) or being ground to death by this Hebrew Messalina. Whatever shall I do? Quite apart from anything else, she is also beginning to need another shave.
Yours de profundis
Fingel.
Kibbutz Aleph,
Near Lake Tiberias
Jan. 15
My Bean,
My last was written yesterday afternoon, from the very pit of despair, as you will probably have noticed. Since then two things have happened, one good and one bad.
The good thing is that 2/Lt Fezzez has now succumbed to the circling of the moon and will not be molesting me for a while. Apparently she suffers more than most from lunar trouble; certainly she was very low as she drove me up here from Caesarea. It will take a good two days to restore her enthusiasm, by which time we should be back at Camp Uriah, where she will no longer have me to herself and evasion will be easier in consequence.
You will observe, however, that I write “should” be back in Camp Uriah (where we are due tomorrow) and you will correctly deduce a shade of doubt. This brings us to the bad thing that has happened. We arrived, early this evening, at Kibbutz Aleph, which is a sort of propaganda show-place situated not far from the banks of the Jordan and just south of the Sea of Galilee. Very pretty, very fertile, full of libraries, schoolrooms and ping-pong tables, this kibbutz is used as an enticement to European Jews who are thinking of going Zionist and might not be quite so keen if they were shown one of the really rugged set-ups in the desert. But there is one trouble with Aleph: it’s altogether too near the firing line, and indeed was very nastily raided by Arabs some years ago. For this reason they keep a twenty-four-hour piquet going; but at the same time, since they want visitors to get a peaceful impression, they don’t parade a guard in uniform, they just send the shifts sidling off to the outworks in civilian clothes, as if they were going off to pick oranges or something. When the shifts reach the trenches or whatever they take over the arms of the previous shift, and so no guest at Aleph is ever subjected to the sight of weaponry or otherwise alarmed in any way.
Unless, that is, the alarm is actually sounded – which it was this evening, ten minutes after Jael had booked us into our chalets. As I was sinking down into a much needed nap, being still heavily souffrant from the labours of Jael even though these had been suspended for the last twenty-four hours by the onset of her lunar affliction – as I was sinking down, I say, into blissful, hoggish slumber, a siren blew off like a hooter from hell, and one of the piquet, who was just going on duty, came running into my chalet to tell me to accompany him to the trenches, where he doubtless thought Colonel Fingel would be an asset. But since, as I’ve told you, the piquet are without uniform and without weapons until they have actually taken over their positions from their predecessors, I had no idea who this johnny was and told him pretty sharply to take himself off and to knock politely next time he wanted to enter a gentleman’s chalet – adding a few Fingelian refinements for good measure. (Silly of me; I should have known from that damned hooter more or less what was up.) Well, as it happened the alarm was false and the very next second a countermanding blast was blown for all clear; but by that time the damage was done. As Israelis count these matters, I had been overbearing and uncomradely in attitude; I had assumed privilege of rank; I had been unalert, idle, irresponsible and possibly cowardly in the face of enemy attack; and I had accused a fellow Jew of “banging in here like a whole herd of Gadarene swine” – which is about as tactful as spitting in Church. It only goes to show what happens if you drop your guard for one second – as I should never have done, of course, had I not been so debilitated by the monstrous antics of Jael Fezzez.
But then I’ve only got myself to thank for letting that start in the first place. No good trying to shift the blame. Anyway, the fact of the matter, now, is that sour and priggish countenances are being trained on the leper Fingel from every corner of this damned kibbutz. Dinner in the communal dining-room was a nig
htmare. Jael says that the head of the place has already rung up Camp Uriah to complain about my conduct, and she scathingly opines that I’ll be shipped back to Malta in disgrace and direct from Aleph. A decision will be promulgated by telephone from Camp Uriah tomorrow morning. At least, if they pack me back to Malta, I shall escape from Jael’s blackmailing groin-hold and a lingering death by sexual erosion. But it also means the end of my hopes of a substantive lieutenant–colonelcy – and probably the end of the temporary rank as well. Oi voi…perhaps I was never cut out for a colonel. I’ll write later to tell you the exact manner of my going. I only hope they make it quick.
Yours from the wailing wall
Fingel.
Camp Uriah
Jan. 17
Old Bean,
Saved by the bell (if only to fight another round).
Very late on the night of Fingel’s disgrace at Aleph, Jael had second thoughts. She realised that her indisposition would soon be over and that then she’d be razor-keen for Fingel again. However much she may despise me for my behaviour during the dud alarm, my goyish charms are still too novel to be dispensed with. This or something very near it is the only conceivable explanation of what followed.
On the morning after the hurly-burly, the expected telephone call came through from Camp Uriah. 2/Lt Fezzez was to take me to Tel-Aviv and park me in the worst hotel; she was then to collect the remnant of my kit from the Camp, along with an economy-class air ticket to Malta, and see me on to the first plane out. Very much what Jael had foretold but not at all what she now wanted. So she invented a tale to save Fingel’s blushing face. What happened was all her fault, she said to the head of the kibbutz, because she had upset me: she had laughed in my face, on the way down from Lake Galilee, because I had made a declaration of passionate love and asked her to marry me. Her mockery had so distressed me that at last she had taken pity – to the extent of administering an outsize tranquilliser when we arrived at the kibbutz. What with the tranquilliser, therefore, and what with my emotional crisis still bubbling away underneath its incipient effect, I had been in no condition, when the alarm went, to know where I was or what I was doing. Hence my tantrum when obtruded upon by the piquet. She (Jael) had not mentioned all this the night before because she had been rather ashamed of her behaviour (and of course I had been much too much of a gentleman to raise the matter on my part); but now she realised it was her duty to speak out for me. Would the head of the kibbutz (Jael concluded) now be so good as to ring up Camp Uriah, explain what had really happened and get permission for her to return there that day with Colonel Fingel in accordance with the original schedule?
Quite a cunning wheeze. The story was flattering to the charm of Israeli girlhood (a subject on which they need constant reassurance, as so many of their girls are just like Jael), and it also set me up in a pleasing light – as the Jew (supposed) who had behaved with the chivalry of an English gentleman and was prepared to suffer obloquy rather than impugn a lady’s name. The ruse worked. The head of the kibbutz telephoned the military, Fingel was deemed to be rehabilitated, and off we set in the Land Rover, Jael and I, heading south for Camp Uriah.
But now I was back with my original problem. I had not been saved so much as merely preserved, like a fruit, for Jael’s future consumption. As she drove, she babbled happily about the three months of ecstasy which lay before us. Already the effects of the moon were wearing off, as her demeanour made alarmingly plain, and almost any time now she might be ready for more action. It was now or never: if I did not find means of controlling her or disposing of her, by the next day at the very latest those nutcracker thighs would have my poor old carcass in thrall once more. What made it worse was that her hold on me was now doubled: not only could she blow up my pretence of being Jewish, she could at any time unsay what she’d said to save my face at Kibbutz Aleph. Or could she? After all, she’d dived in pretty deep –
– And then I suddenly saw how I could turn the tables. When we reached Camp Uriah, I would seek an interview with the Commandant…
“…Sir,” I said to him, “you have heard what led to the unfortunate incident at Kibbutz Aleph?”
“We have heard that you were not yourself, and why.”
“Exactly. I had proposed marriage to 2/Lt Fezzez and been turned down. In the circumstances, you will understand that a continued association must be embarrassing to both of us. Could you possibly find another junior officer to act as my aide from now on?”
The Commandant saw my point. 2/Lt Fezzez, praise be to Jahveh in Jerusalem, has been tactfully posted elsewhere, and has disappeared without a murmur; for in fact, old bean, she never had any hold on me at all: she could hardly show me up as a goy without explaining how she came by her proof, and she could hardly denounce my behaviour at Aleph without revealing that her previous defence of me was a ramping fib, told, as would rapidly have been discovered, from erotic partiality to Fingel. Her threat had always been futile; thank God I tumbled to this in time – if only just.
Fezzez’ replacement has now arrived, a lieutenant on the reserve doing her annual spell of service. This will be her last tour of duty, despite the exigent needs of her country, as she is nearly fifty-seven years old, rapidly balding, and (she tells me proudly) five times a grandmother. Tomorrow Granny and I set off on a gentle trip to Joppa, where I am to be taken over an orange-crating depot. I don’t seem to be getting much nearer to spotting rockets, but at least I’m still in one piece and more or less bien vu, which is saying a lot after the events of the past week.
Shalom, old bean, it’s peace at last
for Fingel.
Corps HQ (‘K’ Mess),
Malta
January 21
O Bean, Bean,
Now I’ve seen everything.
After finishing and posting my last, and sucking down six soothing whiskies, I turned in for the night in my marquee. Hardly had my head hit the pillow, when there was a scratching at the entrance flap and then a voice in my ear, which said,
“Move over, little Colonel, and make room for your new comrade” –
GRANNY.
Whether she’d guessed I was a goy, I don’t know, but in any case she was delighted with what she found, and the old girl certainly knew a trick or two, I’ll say that for her. So I was just resigning myself to my new fate, when there was another scratch at the flap and a voice said,
“I am not to leave after all until dawn tomorrow. We have five last wonderful hours” –
FEZZEZ.
Whereupon Granny croaked that she’d arrived too late, and Fezzez yanked naked Granny out of the sack with one flick of her wrist, and Granny toppled Jael with a smart left hook, ripping her shirt from her back as she went, and before you could say Nebuchadnezzar these two butch Jewesses were milling away like tarts in a cowboys’ brothel, screaming insults to match. Thirty seconds later the piquet arrived. Fezzez and Granny were swept off still screeching like a pair of drunken parrots, and a little later I was summoned without ceremony to explain the affair to the Field Officer of the Week, who had been roused by the piquet commander. Explanation there was none fit to offer. I had my quietus next morning from the Commandant, who put the whole thing in a nutshell:
“One way or another, Colonel Fingel, you seem to have an unsettling effect on my officers, however carefully selected. I fear you must return to Malta.”
From Malta I am to be returned, as “superfluous to any credible requirement” (the General’s phrase), to the Regimental Depot. What the future holds I don’t yet know, but it certainly holds no colonelcies, substantive or other,
for Major Fingel.
Now that I am forever beyond Jael’s reach, I begin to miss her. For sheer ball-basteing mischief those daughters of Abraham beat everybody bar the monkeys.
F.
Fingel’s Aunt
“That woman must be put down,” Fingel said.
“That woman” was Mrs H. I. J. Peregrine-Pierce, wife of Lieutenant-Colonel H. I. J. Pereg
rine-Pierce OBE, our new Commanding Officer. He had joined our battalion, and so, most emphatically, had she, on our return from the East in the summer of 1967. Almost his first act as CO had been to call an officers’ conference in the Mess to discuss the conduct of the functions and entertainments with which we were to celebrate our reappearance in England. To everyone’s surprise, Mrs Peregrine-P. had turned up at the conference with him, indeed (as Fingel was later to remark) had virtually marched him into it; and then, having listened with fingers drumming while her husband read out a list of the proposed arrangements, had proceeded to harangue the meeting herself.
“As Senior Wife,” she said (we could hear the capital letters), “I am responsible for the Tone of the Regiment’s Social Occasions. To a considerable extent this depends on the bearing of the Younger and Unmarried officers, whom I shall now instruct in their Duties during the forthcoming celebrations.” She produced a list. “Major Fingel and Major Raven,” she barked, “follow me. Others will be called when wanted.”
And so Fingel and I had followed her into the Mess Secretary’s office, where she seated herself behind the desk and inspected us much as the proprietress of a French provincial restaurant inspects a customer who proffers a cheque.
“You are both nearly forty years old,” she said suddenly, “and both still single. Why is that?”
Fingel’s eyes began to glint.
“‘A soldier’,” he suggested lazily, ‘is better accommodated than with a wife.’ Shakespeare.”
“Then I do not agree with Shakespeare,” she said, looking like a rat-trap, “and neither, you will find, does Colonel Peregrine-Pierce. Once an officer is over twenty-five, he should put away childish things and settle down with a suitable partner. Officers who remain unmarried give examples of selfishness and extravagance. And often much worse,” she said, and snapped her mouth shut like a shrike crushing a beetle.
