I heard the shriek of an approaching shell, something hit the ground
beneath my feet, and I went sailing through the ether, to land softly on
an iron hospital cot in a small white-walled room. There was no doubt
that it was a most extraordinary happening. On the wall beside me was
a temperature chart, on a table by my bed was a goolah of water, and
in the air was that subtle Cairene smell. Yes, I was undoubtedly back
in Cairo. Obviously I must have arrived by that shell.
Then, as I was thinking it all out, appeared to me a vision in a long
white galabieh. It smiled, or rather its mouth opened, and disclosed
a row of teeth like hailstones on black garden mould.
"Me Abdul," it said coyly; "gotter givit you one wash."
I was washed in sections, and Abdul did it thoroughly. There came a halt
after some more than usually strenuous scrubbing at my knees. Mutterings
of "mushquais" (no good) and a wrinkled brow showed me that Abdul
was puzzled. Then it dawned on me. I had been wearing shorts at Anzac,
and Abdul was trying to wash the sunburn off my knees! By dint of bad
French, worse Arabic, and much sign language I explained. Abdul went
to the door and jodelled down the corridor, "Mo-haaaaamed, Achmed." Two
other slaves of the wash-bowl appeared, and to them Abdul disclosed my
mahogany knees with much the same air as the gentleman who tells one
the fine points of the living skeleton on Hampstead Heath. They gazed in
wonder. At last Achmed put his hand on my knee. "This called?" he asked.
"Knee," I told him.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "this neece--Arabic; this" (pointing to an
unsunburnt part of my leg)--"Eengleesh."
Then the washing proceeded uninterruptedly. "You feelin' very quais
(good)?" Abdul asked. I told him I was pretty quais, but that I had been
quaiser. "Ginral comin' safternoon and Missus," he informed me, and I
gathered that no less a person than the Commander-in-Chief (one of them)
was to visit the hospital. And so it happened, for about five o'clock
there was a clinking of spurs in the passage, and the matron ushered
in an affable brass hat and a very charming lady. In the background
hovered several staff officers. Suddenly their ranks were burst asunder
and Abdul appeared breathless.
He had nearly missed the show. He stood over me with an air of ownership
and suddenly whipped off my bed clothes, displaying my nether limbs. He
saw he had made an impression. "Neece is Arabic," he said proudly. It was
Abdul's best turn, and he brought the house down. The visitors departed,
but for ten minutes I heard loud laughter from down the corridor. Abdul
had departed in their wake, doubtless to tell Achmed and Mohammed of
the success of his coup.
I had been smoking cigarettes, but found the habit extravagant, as Abdul
appreciated them even more than I did. One morning I woke up to see
him making a cache in his round cotton cap. I kept quiet until he came
nearer, and then I grabbed his hat. It was as I thought, and about ten
cigarettes rolled on the floor. I looked sternly at Abdul. He was due to
wither up and confess. Instead he broke first into a seraphic grin and
then roared with laughter. "Oh, very funny, very, very funny," he said
between his paroxysms. Now what could I say after that? I was beaten and
I had to admit it, but I decided that I would smoke a pipe. To this end
I gave Abdul ten piastres and sent him out to buy me some tobacco. He
arrived back in about an hour with two tins worth each eight piastres.
"Me quais?" he asked expectantly. "Well, you are pretty hot stuff,"
I admitted, "but how did you do it?"
Abdul held up one tin.
"Me buy this one," he said solemnly; "this one" (holding up the other one)
"got it!"
"What do you mean, 'got it'?"
"Jus' got it," was all the answer I could get. Then to crown the
performance he produced two piastres change. Could the genii of the
_Arabian Nights_ have done better?
I was in that hospital for three months, and I verily believe that if it
had not been for Abdul I should have been in three months more. He had his
own way of doing things and people, but he modelled himself unconsciously
on some personality half-way between FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE and _Fagin's_
most promising pupil. The day I was to go he cleaned my tunic buttons and
helmet badge with my tooth-brush and paste and brought them proudly to
me for thanks. And I thanked him.
The last I saw of Abdul was as I drove away in the ambulance. A pathetic
figure in a white robe stood out on the balcony and mopped his eyes
with his cotton cap, and as he took it off his head there fell to the
ground half-a-dozen crushed cigarettes. It was a typical finale.
* * * * *