by Evelyn Waugh
While the first bells of Easter rang throughout Christendom, the muezzin called his faithful to prayer from the shapeless white minaret beyond the barbed wire; South, West and North the faithful prostrated themselves towards the rising sun. His voice fell unheeded among the populous dunes of Sidi Bishr.
Already awake, Guy rose from his camp-bed and shouted for shaving-water. He was brigade duty-officer, nearing the end of his tour of duty beside the office telephone. During the night there had been one air-raid warning. GHQ Cairo had been silent.
The brigade, still named ‘Hookforce’, occupied a group of huts in the centre of the tented camp. Tommy Blackhouse was Deputy Commander with the acting rank of full colonel. He had returned from Cairo on the third day of their sojourn in Egypt with red tabs and a number of staff officers, chief among them a small, bald, youngish man named Hound. He was the Brigade Major. Neither the Halberdiers nor in the Commandos had Guy met a soldier quite like Major Hound, nor had Major Hound met a force like Hookforce.
He had chosen a military career because he was not clever enough to pass into the civil service. At Sandhurst in 1925 the universal assumption was that the British army would never again be obliged to fight a European war. Young Hound had shown an aptitude for administration and his failures in the riding-school were compensated by prizes at Bisley. Later in the drift of war he was found in the pool of unattached staff officers in Cairo when Hookforce arrived leaderless at Suez. To them he came and he did not disguise his distaste for their anomalies. They had no transport, they had no cooks, they had far too many officers and sergeants, they wore a variety of uniforms and followed a multitude of conflicting regimental customs, they bore strange arms, daggers and toggle-ropes and tommy-guns. B Commando was ruled by a draconic private law and a code of punishment unauthorized by King’s Regulations. X Commando might have seemed lawless but for the presence of fifty Free Spaniards who had drifted in from Syria and been inexplicably put under command; beside their anarchy all minor irregularities became unremarkable. The camp police were constantly flushing women in the Spanish lines. One morning they dug up the body of an Egyptian cab-driver, just beyond the perimeter, lightly buried in sand with his throat cut.
When Major Hound left Cairo he had been told:
‘There’s no place here for private armies. We’ve got to get these fellows, whoever they are, reorganized as a standard infantry brigade.’
Later a recommendation was made that Hookforce should be disbanded and distributed as replacements. An order followed from London to hold fast pending a decision at the highest level as to the whole future of Special Service Forces. Major Hound kept his own counsel about these matters. They were not communicated to him officially. He learned them in Cairo on his frequent trips to the Turf Club and to Shepheard’s Hotel in conversation with cronies from GHQ. He mentioned the state of discipline in camp, also unofficially. And Hookforce remained at Sidi Bishr declining from boredom to disorder and daily growing more and more to justify the suspicions of GHQ.
Guy remained Intelligence Officer. Five spectacled men, throw-outs from the Commandos, were attached to him as his section. In the employment of these men he waged a deadly private war with the Brigade Major. Lately he had shed them, attaching them to the Signals Officer for instruction in procedure.
Breakfast was brought him at the office table; a kind of rissole of bully beef gritty with sand, tea that tasted of chlorine. At eight the office clerks appeared; at a quarter past Corporal-Major Ludovic, whom Ivor Claire had succeeded in promoting to headquarters. He gazed about the hut with his pale eyes, observed Guy, saluted him in a style that was ecclesiastical rather than military, and began ponderously moving papers from tray to tray; not thus the Brigade Major, who arrived very briskly at twenty past.
‘Morning, Crouchback,’ said Major Hound. ‘Nothing from GHQ? Then we can take it that the last cancellation stands. The units can get out into the country. How about your section? They’ve finished their signalling course, I think. How do you propose to exercise them today?’
‘They’re doing PT under Sergeant Smiley.’
‘And after?’
‘Infantry drill,’ said Guy, crossly improvising, ‘under me.’
‘Good. Smarten ’em up.’
At nine Tommy arrived.
‘More trouble with X Commando,’ said Major Hound.
‘Damn.’
‘Graves is on his way to see you.’
‘Damn. Guy, have you still got those obliques of “Badger”?’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
‘Bung ’em back to GHQ. They won’t be wanted now.’
‘You needn’t stay in the office while Major Graves is here,’ said the Brigade Major to Guy. ‘Better get on with that drill parade.’
Guy went in search of his section. Sergeant Smiley called them hastily to their feet on his approach. Six cigarettes smouldered in the sand at their feet.
‘Fall them in in a quarter of an hour with rifles and drill order, outside the brigade office,’ he ordered.
For an hour he drilled them in the powdery sand. It all came back to him from the barrack square. He stood by the Brigade-Major’s window, opened his mouth wide and roared like a Halberdier. Inside the hut Major Graves was telling his tale of injustice and neglect. Corporal-Major Ludovic was typing his journal.
‘Man is what he hates’ he wrote.’ Yesterday I was Blackhouse. Today I am Crouchback. Tomorrow, merciful heaven, shall I be Hound?’
‘… The odd numbers of the front rank will seize the rifles of the even numbers of the rear rank with the left hand crossing the muzzles, magazines turned outward, at the same time raising the piling swivels with the fore-finger and thumb of both hands…’
He paused, aware of an obvious anomaly.
‘In the present instance,’ he continued, falling into a parody of his old drill-sergeant, ‘number two being a blank file, there are no even numbers in the rear rank. Number three will therefore for the purpose of this exercise regard himself as even….’
He concluded his exposition.
‘Squad, pile arms. As you were. Listen to the detail. The odd numbers of the front rank – that’s you, number one – will seize the rifles of even numbers of the rear rank – that’s you, number three..
The Brigade Major’s head appeared at the window.
‘I say, Crouchback, could you move your men a bit farther away?’
Guy spun on his heel and saluted.
‘Sir.’
He spun back.
‘Squad will retire. About turn. Quick march. Halt. About turn. As you were. About turn. As you were. About turn.’ They were now fifty yards from him but his voice carried.
‘I will give you the detail once more. The odd numbers of the front rank will seize the rifles of the even numbers of the rear rank …’
Behind their steamy goggles the men glimpsed that this performance was being played not solely for their own discomfort. Sergeant Smiley began to join his powerful tones to Guy’s.
After half an hour Guy gave them a stand-easy. Tommy Blackhouse called him in.
‘Most impressive, Guy,’ he said. ‘First rate. But I must ask you to dismiss now. I’ve got a job for you. Go into town and see Ivor and find out when he’s coming back.’
For a fortnight Ivor Claire had been absent from duty. He had led a party armed with tent mallets in pursuit of Arab marauders, had tripped on a guy-rope and twisted his knee. Eschewing the services of the RAMC he had installed himself in a private nursing-home.
Guy went to the car-park and found a lorry going in for rations. The road ran along the edge of the sea. The breeze was full of flying sand. On the beaches young civilians exposed hairy bodies and played ball with loud, excited cries. Army lorries passed in close procession, broken here and there by new, tight-shut limousines bearing purple-lipped ladies in black satin.
‘Drop me at the Cecil,’ said Guy, for he had other business in Alexandria besides Ivor Claire. He wished to make his Ea
ster duties and preferred to do so in a city church, rather than in camp. Already, without deliberation, he had begun to dissociate himself from the army in matters of real concern.
Alexandria, ancient asparagus bed of theological absurdity, is now somewhat shabbily furnished with churches. Guy found what he sought in a side street, a large unobtrusive building attached to a school, it seemed, or a hospital. He entered into deep gloom.
A fat youth in shorts and vest was lethargically sweeping the aisle. Guy approached and addressed him in French. He seemed not to hear. A bearded, skirted figure scudded past in the darkness. Guy pursued and said awkwardly:
‘Excusez-moi, mon père. Y a-t-il un prêtre qui parle anglais ou Italien?’
The priest did not pause.
‘Français,’ he said.
‘Je veux me confesser, en français si c’est nécessaire. Mais je prèfere beaucoup anglais ou italien, si c’est possible.’
‘Anglais,’ said the hasty priest. ‘Par-là.’
He turned abruptly into the sacristy pointing as he went towards a still darker chapel. Khaki stockings and army boots protruded from the penitents’ side of the confessional. Guy knelt and waited, he knew what he had to say. The mutter of voices in the shadows seemed to be prolonged inordinately. At length a young soldier emerged and Guy took his place. A bearded face was just visible through the grille; a guttural voice blessed him. He made his confession and paused. The dark figure seemed to shrug off the triviality of what he had heard.
‘You have a rosary? Say three decades.’
He gave the absolution.
‘Thank you, father, and pray for me.’ Guy made to go but the priest continued:
‘You are here on leave?’
‘No, father.’
‘You have been here long?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘You have come from the desert?’
‘No, father.’
‘You have just come from England? You came with new tanks?’
Suddenly Guy was suspicious. He was shriven. The priest was no longer bound by the seal of confession. The grille still stood between them. Guy still knelt, but the business between them was over. They were man and man now in a country at war.
‘When do you go to the desert?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘To help you. There are special dispensations. If you are going at once into action I can give you communion.’
‘I’m not.’
Guy rose and left the church. Beggars thronged him. He walked a few steps towards the main street where the trams ran, then turned back. The boy with the broom had gone. The confessional was empty. He knocked on the open door of the sacristy. No one came. He entered and found a clean tiled floor, cupboards, a sink, no priest. He left the church and stood once more among the beggars, undecided. The transition from the role of penitent to that of investigating officer was radical. He could not now remember verbatim what had occurred. The questions had been impertinent; were they necessarily sinister? Could he identify the priest? Could he, if called to find a witness, identify the young soldier?
Two palm trees in a yard separated the church from the clergy, house. Guy rang the bell and presently the fat boy opened the door disclosing a vista of high white corridor.
‘I would like to know the name of one of your fathers.’
‘The fathers have this moment gone to rest. They have had very long ceremonies this morning.’
‘I don’t want to disturb him – merely to know his name. He speaks English and was hearing confessions in the church two minutes ago.’
‘No confessions now until three o’clock. The fathers are resting.’
‘I have been to confession to this father. I want to know his name. He speaks English.’
‘I speak English. I do not know what father you want.’
‘I want his name.’
‘You must come at three o’clock, please, when the fathers have rested.’
Guy turned away. The beggars settled on him. He strode into the busy street and the darkness of Egypt closed on him in the dazzling sunlight. Perhaps he had imagined the whole incident, and if he had not, what profit was there in pursuit? There were priests in France working for the allies. Why not a priest in Egypt, in exile, doing his humble bit for his own side? Egypt teemed with spies. Every troop movement was open to the scrutiny of a million ophthalmic eyes. The British order of battle must be known in minute detail from countless sources. What could that priest accomplish except perhaps gain kinder treatment for his community if Rommel reached Alexandria? Probably the only result, if Guy made a report, would be an order forbidding HM forces to frequent civilian churches.
Ivor Claire’s nursing-home overlooked the Municipal Gardens. Guy walked there through the crowded streets so despondently that the touts looking at him despaired and let him pass unsolicited.
He found Claire in a wheeled-chair on his balcony.
‘Much better,’ he said in answer to Guy’s inquiry. ‘They are all very pleased with me. I may be able to get up to Cairo next week for the races.’
‘Colonel Tommy is getting a little restive.’
‘Who wouldn’t be at Sidi Bishr? Well, he knows where to find me when he wants me.’
‘He seems rather to want you now.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’d be much use to him until I’m fit, you know. My troop is in good hands. When Tommy kindly relieved me of Corporal-Major Ludovic my anxieties came to an end. But we must keep touch. I can’t have you doing a McTavish on me.’
‘Two flaps since you went away. Once we were at two hours’ notice for three days.’
‘I know. Greek nonsense. When there’s anything really up I shall hear from Julia Stitch before Tommy does. She is a mine of indiscretion. You know she’s here?’
‘Half X Commando spend their evenings with her.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t remember me.’
‘My dear Guy, she remembers everyone. Algie has some sort of job keeping his eye on the King. They’re very well installed. I thought of moving in on them but one can’t be sure that Julia will give an invalid quite all he needs. There’s rather too much coming and going, too – generals and people. Julia pops in most mornings and brings me the gossip.’
Then Guy recounted that morning’s incident in the church.
‘Not much to shoot a chap on,’ said Claire.’ Even a clergyman.’
‘Ought I to do anything about it?’
‘Ask Tommy. It might prove a great bore, you know. Everyone is a spy in this country.’
‘That’s rather what I thought.’
‘I’m sure the nurses here are. They walk out with the Vichy French from that ship in the harbour. What’s the news from Sidi Bishr?’
‘Worse. A little worse every day. B Commando are on the verge of mutiny. Prentice has confined them to camp until every man has swum a hundred yards in boots and equipment. They’ll shoot him when they go into action. Major Graves still thinks he ought to command X Commando.’
‘He must be insane to want to.’
‘Yes. Tony is having a bad time. The Grenadiers are all down with Gyppy tummy. Five Coldstreamers put in to be returned to their regiment. Corporal-Major Ludovic is suspected of writing poetry.’
‘More than probable.’
‘Our Catalan refugees have even got Tommy worried. An Arab mess waiter went off with A Commando’s medical stores. We’ve got four courts-martial pending and ten men adrift. God knows how many arms stolen. The NAAFI till has been burgled twice. Someone tried to set the camp cinema on fire. Nothing has been heard of the Brigadier.’
‘That at least is good news.’
‘Not to me, Ivor.’
They were interrupted by a shrill guttersnipe whistle from the street below.
‘Julia,’ said Claire.
‘I’d better go.’
‘Don’t.’
A minute later Mrs Algernon Stitch was with them. She w
ore linen and a Mexican sombrero; a laden shopping basket hung over one white arm. She inclined the huge straw disc of her hat over Claire and kissed his forehead.
‘Why are your nurses so disagreeable, Ivor?’
‘Politics. They all claim to have lost brothers at Oran. You remember Guy?’
She turned her eyes, her true blue, portable and compendious oceans upon Guy, absorbed him and then very loudly, in rich Genoese accents, proclaimed:
‘C’e scappata la mucca.’
‘You see,’ said Ivor, as though displaying a clever trick of Freda’s, ‘I told you she would remember.’
‘Why wasn’t I told you were here? Come to lunch?’
‘Well, I don’t know exactly. It’s awfully kind of you…’
‘Good. Are you coming, Ivor?’
‘Is it a party?’
‘I forget who.’
‘Perhaps I’m best where I am.’
Mrs Stitch gazed over the balcony into the gardens.
‘Forster says they ought to be “thoroughly explored”,’ she said. ‘Something for another day.’ To Guy. ‘You’ve got his Guide?’
‘I’ve always wanted a copy. It’s very scarce.’
‘Just been reprinted. Here, take mine. I can always get another.’
She produced from her basket a copy of E. M. Forster’s Alexandria.
‘I didn’t know. In that case I can get one for myself. Thanks awfully, though.’
‘Take it, fool,’ she said.
‘Well, thanks awfully. I know his Pharos and Pharillon, of course.’
‘Of course; the Guide is topping too.’
‘Have you brought me anything, Julia?’ Claire asked.
‘Not today, unless you’d care for some Turkish delight.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Here you are. I haven’t finished shopping yet. In fact, I must go now.’ To Guy. ‘Come on.’
‘Not much of a visit.’
‘You should come to lunch when you’re asked.’
‘Well, thank you for the sweets.’
‘I’ll be back. Come on.’
She led Guy down and out. He tried to circumvent her at the door of her little open car but was peremptorily ordered away.
