by Alan Hackney
He would have telephoned Catherine, but the brigadier had forbidden any civilian contact.
All night he dreamed a recurring dream of the gymnasium at Gravestone, the interminable bouts of Flat Hand Boxing, and the P.T. instructor’s lecture on Unarmed Combat. “Watch closely,” in his high-pitched voice, “vulnerable parts of the body. The ’air, the ears, the eyes, the nose, the mouth. Movin’ further down, the solar wassname—plexus, stomach, the goolies, the shins, the ankles, the toes.” The list, with all its gruesome implications, churned round and round his brain till the morning.
Stanley breakfasted meagrely in a milk bar and went to report at the War Office.
Major Dale saw him. He was about to have his first tankard of tea.
“Good morning, Windrush,” he greeted Stanley. He unlocked a drawer, took out a teaspoon and a meat-paste jar half full of sugar and sweetened his tea. He locked up his little store again and gave Stanley a railway warrant.
“Glad to get you back all safe and sound,” he said. “HATRACK was very pleased with the whole show. He’s too busy to see you this morning, but he wants you to get back to Ewebourn airfield and hang on there, and he’ll be over as soon as he can get away.”
“But damn it,” said Stanley. “Ewebourn again?”
Major Dale looked up coldly from his tea.
“Paddington and change at Reading,” he said.
*
Stanley telephoned the R.A.F. station from the railway at Ewebourn. This was a mere two miles from the village, but the line made no such concession to the airfield, and was at no point nearer to it than five miles. Half an hour later an R.A.F. three-tonner arrived with Egan’s C.Q.M.S. on board.
He was plainly disgruntled at having to give up his seat in the cab to Stanley, and announced with some satisfaction that the truck was booked to go first in the other direction to draw rations before returning to the airfield.
It was after two when they arrived at the compound on the aerodrome. It was now uninhabited except for a handful of men temporarily on light duties, who acted as room orderlies and did a half-hearted picket at night.
“Captain Egan and the men are expected back later today, sir,” said the C.Q.M.S., making a show of dusting himself and rubbing bruises. “Perhaps you’ll sign detail for tomorrow, sir?”
Stanley took over notional command of the bleak little unit, an odd enclave in Air Force territory, and at three-thirty put under close arrest two men who had quite obviously been absent at the Packhorse. Then he sat down uncomfortably in Egan’s office and read magazines till the evening. By eleven there was still no sign of Egan, and Stanley went to bed.
Egan woke him at two-thirty. From the activity outside it was evident that they had just arrived.
“There you are,” said Egan. “Well, look here, old boy, did you inspect the cookhouse today? These chaps have had nothing since a haversack lunch and I find the cook in bed and no hot containers laid on. Didn’t any word arrive about hot meals? Surely we were expected?”
“As a matter of a fact,” said Stanley, somewhat offended, “no definite word at all arrived, but out of the goodness of my heart I got them to cut up a lot of sandwiches.”
“Well, there’s been some balls-up,” fumed Egan. “Apparently the picket and the prisoners in the Guard-Room have eaten most of the sandwiches, and I’ve got half the picket in the cookhouse now cutting some more. I expect a lot of the chaps will have gone to bed by the time there’s any sort of a meal ready.”
He went off busily to ginger up the cookhouse.
There were grumblings outside, and footsteps past as the irritated voice of one of the picked German speakers approached and receded again.
“—— get here at —— three in the —— morning and there’s —— all laid on. You’d —— think they’d —— have some —— food ready, wouldn’t you? But, no. Not a —— sign.”
“—— roll on,” agreed a companion voice.
Stanley turned over and went to sleep.
In the morning Egan enlarged on the futile and miserable route by which they had returned. The narrative was thickly peopled by harassed R.T.O.s and transit organisations.
“I’ve got it all down, old boy,” said Egan. “Heaven knows why the brig organised it that way. Bad staff work, in my opinion.”
He set to work at once on a detailed report for submission through Brigadier Tracepurcel to the General Staff.
Before lunch a despatch rider brought an envelope.
“New posting orders for you,” said Egan.
He showed them to Stanley. His attachment to HATRACK was cancelled and superseded by an immediate posting to Delhi. In a paragraph ironically headed “Embarkation Leave” it stated that in view of the urgency of the posting the granting of leave would not be possible. Immediate arrangements were to be made with A.O.C. Ewebourn for an air passage. Personal kit in excess of fifty pounds weight was to be dispatched from the unit by sea.
“Well, I shall be sorry to see you go, old boy,” remarked Egan, “despite the bad organisation of last night. Still, it’s your right place, really, isn’t it? That’s why you did your Japanese course, wasn’t it?”
“No,” said Stanley, “as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.”
He sorted his belongings on several ill-conceived systems into “Take With”, to go in his grip, and “Follow On”, for his steel ant-proof trunk. It was difficult to know how much tropical clothing to take on an air journey starting on a cold March morning. In the end, he left it too long and decided at the last moment to wear his cellular tropical shirt under his battledress, and take two pairs of shorts and a mosquito net packed in his grip, with some strange footless stockings known as hose-tops which he had been assured at the outfitters were considered essential for travelling in the East.
His solar topee was lashed insecurely to the outside of his grip, and next morning it was airborne with him through grey and cloudy skies which were to change within forty-eight hours to a perpetual steel blue, dotted with perpetually circling kitehawks.
The plane, with its mixed load of R.A.F. ground staff and Japanese translator, was dipping to land at Brindisi when the brigadier’s car was discovered, nine miles from Ewebourn, at the splintered foot of a telegraph pole.
It was completely burnt out. The remains in the steel frames of the two front seats were removed and later buried together with military honours in the ancient parish churchyard at Queen’s Wetherfold.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
STANLEY SAT GLOOMILY on his bed watching a procession of enormous black ants crossing the concrete floor and disappearing down a hole at the edge of the verandah step. It was afternoon, the hour of sleeping.
The ants were symptomatic in their size. Stanley had know that India was a place of vast distances, but he had not bargained for Delhi being enormous too. He had quickly learned that the L. of C. mess to which he was attached was in Delhi Cantonment; that New Delhi was several long miles away by tonga, and that Old Delhi was some distance from that. He had sightseen the Red Fort and Viceregal Lodge, and it had cost him nearly a pound for the tonga fare. If he went anywhere by foot it was dusty, and it became almost immediately obvious that wherever it was would be too far to walk.
The morning round of vendors—charwallah, shoeshine-wallah, fruit-wallah, raw-egg-and-vinegar man—was over, and the evening round (most of these again, as well as the dhobi and the book-wallah) was not yet due. They all had their origins in far-off compounds and bazaars, and all came on bicycles, even the book-wallah, more sophisticated than the others, wearing a mauve herringbone tweed jacket, under which the tails of his white shirt hung down over his saddle.
The astonishing case of books he brought on the bicycle offered a strange and exotic literary feast, mostly of an inflammatory character. The minor works of several major authors (if the titles seemed sufficiently promising) rubbed shoulders with lesser erotica in anonymous brown leather covers, in which the frank language of the barrack-room was consistent
ly used, though more accurately applied, and as the stories ran their frantic course, with incredible frequency. As if Lawrence, Boccaccio and the anonymous works needed the balance of a scientific background, support was lent by a number of technical treatises: Introduction to Sex, The Technique of Love, Friendship and Marriage and casebook selections from Kraft Ebing. Competing with these were political works by Indian authors: I Accuse England, An Indian Speaks, Verdict on Beverley Nichols by K. N. Jog, and Why are You Here, Tommy? All these the book-wallah would take back within a month. A five-rupee book could be returned, if unmarked, for three rupees, eight annas.
Stanley had already almost given up the attempt to break into the military machine proper, and was gradually succumbing to the heat and the book-wallah. The other members of the mud and plaster mess all seemed to be dim majors in the R.I.A.S.G. who were out all day at offices and in and out of the dining-room very perfunctorily at dinner. Their salaries (including several allowances for which Stanley seemed unlikely ever to qualify) were large and had an inflationary effect on local prices. There was as rigid a hierarchy of servants as was at one time to be found in the great houses of England, but they seemed to Stanley to lack all integrity. He had complained after three days to the Jemadar of the mess bearers about the rascally fellow allocated to him as a servant, and the man had been replaced by another who was a young cousin of the Jemadar bearer’s. The former bearer reappeared later, helping to clean Stanley’s shoes. The new bearer explained brightly that the former one was his uncle.
No pay statement had as yet arrived from England, and Stanley was dependent on the field cashier for advances. From time to time he would call in at a headquarters and ask a staff captain about his posting. The main body of the Translators had dispersed to various centres thousands of miles away, but although Stanley was less than a month behind them there seemed no urgency in official circles to send him hotfoot on their heels. Indeed, there seemed to be a lack of interest in his future. Gradually, the walk to the tonga rank became more and more irksome, and Stanley became contented with letting the matter drift.
Two letters came for him, readdressed from the War Office.
His father’s he read first, and it struck him as strange.
My dear Stanley,
Now that you are in Cairo and subject to an annual rainfall of only 1.8 inches you will no doubt be missing the glories of the English spring. I am taking the opportunity of doing the spring-cleaning of the house myself, despite the defection of Sarah and the odd, uncooperative attitude of Mrs. Scully. I find the work most satisfying and am negotiating with the village stores for the purchase of metal and furniture polish in bulk. I do not get much time these days to pursue my researches, us there are so many things to polish.
There was a tiresome interruption the other day. I don’t think you met your mother’s brother, Bertram Tracepurcel, since you saw him when you were twelve in 1936. I had to attend his funeral the other day, as he had quoted me as next-of-kin.
The journey to Queen’s Wetherfold, where it took place, proved a useful time-table exercise, though I did not have time to plan it properly and arrived after the service had begun. It was a military affair and, as it transpired, a double funeral, for his batman had also been involved in the accident where he met his death.
Your sister Catherine was present, too, and deeply affected, but I found the proceedings most interesting. Catherine came back and spent the night here.
I would strongly advise you to see as much of the country as you can. I understand that Luxor and the Valley of the Kings are both very impressive.
Your affectionate
Father.
Catherine, too, seemed to share the inexplicable delusion that he was stationed in Cairo.
My dear,
I wonder if you have heard about Uncle Bertram’s accident? He and his servant were killed in a road accident in Berkshire on Monday. It was a great shock after seeing and talking with him so recently, and he was only forty-eight. A Major Dale from the War Office came to tell us. He was very sweet, but you can imagine it was a shock. He said Uncle Bertram always had a passion for driving things he shouldn’t and that he had always been afraid there would be an accident some day.
I went to the funeral and Father was there. He came late. But, Stanley, you know he always was a bit peculiar. I’m afraid he’s getting much worse. It was very worrying. We were coming out of the church to the grave when he arrived and he took off his hat. Stanley, he had a mob cap on underneath. As soon as I saw him I’m afraid I started to cry, but he seemed quite cheerful in an odd sort of way.
Afterwards I went back with him to Oldstones for the night and it was quite weird. The whole place, furniture and ornaments, shining like mad. He still had his mob cap on, and put an apron on too and kept going off to his study to do his work. He came out every now and then with a lot of ornaments on a tray, all sparkling, and went back with afresh load. Darling, he isn’t doing any writing. It’s awful.
I wish you were home again. I’ve spoken to Mrs. Scully who comes and does, but she says it’s useless trying to head him off the polishing.
Is Cairo really like the pictures? Must close now and do Michelin’s din-dins. He’s still hefty, going on for twenty pounds.
Love,
Kat.
Stanley was distressed by the news in the letters, but it occurred to him that he ought to be in much more of a turmoil than he was. The present scene, though in a way monotonous, was too obtrusive. Events in England already seemed comparatively unreal. He intended, however, to reply to these letters at once, and set about looking for stationery. The R.I.A.S.C. majors were of an economical turn of mind, and there was no writing paper provided in the bare and characterless ante-room of the mess. It meant buying from the book wallah when he came. Meanwhile Stanley went to sleep.
*
Events in Europe were coming very rapidly to a head now. Whole German divisions were beginning to surrender, then entire armies. The Russians were in Berlin and suddenly it was all over. Hitler married Eva Braun with his last breath, Goebbels poisoned his family and himself, and the dénouement quickly became complete. In the resulting confusion the HATRACK organisation was partly fused with another, partly sent to the British Army of Occupation to round up technicians, partly disbanded and irretrievably scattered. Large numbers of folk from the armies in Europe were diverted to India for the final effort against the Japanese. The R.I.A.S.C. majors talked of PYTHON and REPAT, but to many of them home-leave schemes and repatriation did not apply, for they had their origins in the country and had enlisted there.
After a month of desultory reading Stanley was added to the duty officer roster, but word came shortly that he was to go on to the Intelligence depot at Chotanagar. He went, on advice, to the Officers’ Shop and on his kit allowance fitted himself out with a fair proportion of the monstrous equippage traditionally considered necessary for travel and field operations in the East. There was a mighty bed-roll, with blankets and the heavy quilt, in a gaudy yellow, known as a rezai. His camp bed had a mahogany frame and was of considerable weight, but when he got into the train he became aware of the inadequacy of his outfit.
In the compartment was an Indian Army captain in a blue flannel shirt, and an Indian civilian gentleman. These were clearly connoisseurs of Indian travel. The former had, in addition to an array of tin trunks, two outsize vacuum flasks for hot and cold liquids, hampers of fruit and a Primus stove. The Indian civilian gentleman had brass pots of ghi and aromatic powders and sauces, a dangerous little spirit lamp, and a bottle of water, with which last he retired for an hour at dawn to the lavatory. In his waking hours he sat up on his bunk, feet tucked under him in the folds of white muslin with which he was swathed, nodding and smiling to himself behind his glasses—steel-rimmed, with pale-blue wool wrapped round the bridge.
The Indian officer, a Captain Khan, ignored him, spat cheerfully and frequently out of the window, and fried himself eggs. These he would from time t
o time offer to Stanley, and he conversed heartily, with curiously integrated English idioms.
“Vell, old boy,” he said. “You’re going to Chotanagar? It is damn awful place. Fifty-fourth Cavalry are there. They’re an absolute shower, old boy. Not enough bull, you know. It’s a terrible country. All backward, like Old Father Time over there. Don’t you agree, old boy? A few times doubling round the e-square would wake these johnnies up, eh? You have read Jorrocks? It is damn fine book. Do you mind my asking, old boy? Are you Escotch? My squadron commander, Major Laurie, he is Escotch, and a damn good chap. Do you play polo, old boy?”
At stops he would send off for strange sweetmeats and haggle over the price. When Stanley left the train at a junction to join the narrow-gauge line to Chotanagar he rapidly organised three porters, rejecting summarily the first two to appear, gave Stanley a final fried egg rolled in a chupati and shook hands.
“Vell, old boy,” he said cheerfully, “here you are. Play hell with those bastards if they don’t stay with your kit till train leaves. Look in at my regiment if you ever come to Dahmpore, and remember to meet my cousin-brother Asan if you go on leave to Naini Tal. He is B.A. of Punjab University and military contractor.”
The Anglo-Indian engine-driver leaned out of the cab in his white topee, jerked the train a foot forward to throw off any hesitant hangers-on, and the great express steamed slowly out.
The friendly brown features of Captain Khan projected from the window.
“Salaam aliakam, old boy,” he called. “Keep off the Nasik whisky. Only drink Escotch.”
The cantonment at Chotanagar was a more settled and opulent place than the war-expanded shanty town at Delhi. A number of spacious stone-built barracks and messes graced the cantonment, and around them grew large and shady trees. From the Clive Hospital at one end to the white houses of the richer contractors at the far fringe, it was well established and contented. The Indian cavalry lines were less well appointed and Captain Khan must have been disgusted at the lack of a polo ground. The bazaar was compact and uninteresting, and between these two areas lay two cinemas, the Elphinstone and the Bijou, both with corrugated iron roofs and with one projector apiece, so that in each there was a ten-minute interval, halfway through a film, for the reels to be changed. They changed their programmes daily, showing Indian films on alternate days. Sometimes an advertising procession for an Indian epic would pass Stanley’s verandah. A man playing Eastern music uninhibitedly on a saxophone, would be followed by a bicycle-wheeled barrow exhibiting posters, behind which came two other men with drums, crying their wares. Once they brought an elephant past, too, a man riding on its neck, and the animal’s sides and rump covered, as if a perambulating grey blackboard, with chalked exhortations in the Devanagri script.
