THE SOLDIER’S LIFE
The camp grew apace. A great area, reaching nearly to the shadow of the
Pyramids, became covered over with tents; and many thousand men and
horses arrived down the long road from Cairo. The infantry quartered
themselves at the upper end, where the floor of the desert narrowed to a
valley climbing into the hills; light horse took the desert’s inner edge;
and army service and we artillery formed the triangle’s base, nearest the
palm grove. Steamrollers and gangs of native workmen drove roads across
the sands, reservoirs were built, wash troughs for the men were put up
and watering troughs for the horses. The camp continued to grow and to
improve.
Our first week was an evil one. We could not find our true position, so
that several times the horse-lines were relaid. Our tents were pitched
and repitched. And the sand, meeting us as strangers, was wearying beyond
belief. We set to wondering hard whether a soldier’s life would suit us.
But the start was the worst: there followed a change for the better.
Réveillé tumbled us out of bed on many a frosty morning. I say “tumbled
us out of bed,” but I mean turned us on our pillows, for it was Tank’s
jerky voice which would not be denied. About thirty of us slept in a
large tent, where the first morning lights came in through the open
doorways to lift the gloom and discover the forms of the sleepers. We
were packed tight, with arms thrown over one another and mouths open.
Some men would be gone altogether under a heap of clothing. Most mornings
I sat up with the last notes of the trumpet, for I was slow at dressing.
It might be someone else would rise to rub eyes and swear, but not often;
the sleepers rolled over, though maybe a fellow blinked and covered
himself up again or lit a cigarette. And then Tank’s jerky sentences
broke the peace. “Get up! Get up at once! What are you doing there!
Didn’t you hear Réveillé? Get up there!” Still slumbered on the tent. The
voice started again. “Get up! Get up, I say. Réveillé’s gone! I’ll peg
any man who doesn’t get up!” There might now follow a movement among the
sleepers, and with many a groan the tent would awake.
It was wise to make an early start dressing. Between “Réveillé” and “Fall
in” the interval was not long, and blankets must be rolled for inspection
and kits stacked outside by them. As all the fellows waited for the last
few minutes and dressed together, there was great scramble and confusion.
When the “Fall in” went, men still were running about, dumping down their
kits, putting on leggings, and pulling on coats. We fell in in two rows
at the end of our lines, and Tank called the roll.
Sands’s habit was to stroll across in the middle, and stand huddled in a
greatcoat, for he resisted the cold but indifferently. His face showed
very pinched and trembling, and he had much use for a handkerchief. The
roll call over, he read brigade orders, and maybe he added a few remarks
of his own upon our habits. Then came the first command of the day. “Turn
in! Cast off for water!” The rule was a man to two horses, but more
often it was a man to three or four. Those who stayed behind cleaned up
the lines and filled the nosebags, and a man went down to the camels to
bring up the day’s fodder. The journey to the water was tedious and not
without risk; but the vast congregation of horses at the other end was
a wonderful sight. There were many thousand moving to and fro. Halfway
on the road there, we met the sun rising behind the trees on the Cairo
highway. It was of immense size and blood red, and the long rays swept
across the desert, and set the horses’ backs shining. At once the chill
left the sands, though the cold stayed.
Often there was a long wait in the neighbourhood of the troughs, as the
water supply was wont to give out. Such times were spent calling to the
other fellows, begging cigarettes, or watching the happenings at the
village not far away. The place was for ever full of peasants moving
about their work. Women went down to the waterhole, bearing on their
heads large earthenware pots; children tended the flocks and herds; and
the men worked at their cultivation and led away into the palms camels
and bullocks. There was always a shrill crying of voices from over there,
and a barking of mongrel dogs. In time our turn came; we moved on to the
troughs; the horses saw the water and made a plunge for it, and there was
a breathless moment while they steadied down. They were given plenty of
time to drink. Presently sounded Sands’s voice: “Staff, files left! Walk,
march!” and we joined the great procession moving back to the lines.
On the return we heelroped and began the morning grooming. I rode a big
bony horse, who had known better days as a steeplechaser. He was so full
of angles I named him “The Director”; but he was an honest hack. It was
my daily penance to tend his wants and polish his coat, and slender
enough results did my labours bring me. All the sands of the desert made
a target of him; and many a measure of special feed went down his throat
without filling his hide. Yet I forgave him much, for he was a good
friend.
The men working on the feed passed down the rear of the lines, planting
a bag behind each horse. Sands walked up and down the horses’ heads,
watching the grooms from the tail of his eye. Here and there he stopped
and made examination. Often he suspected me. Frequently he came up and
rubbed his hand through “The Director’s” coat. On unlucky days a shower
of sand flew out. “Lake,” he screamed once, “the condition of this horse
is worthy of a court-martial. I thought you knew something about horses!
I see you never saw a horse before you came here! That’s not the way to
use a brush, man! Give it to me!” He seized the brush and rubbed with
great vigour until the dust went into his eyes and nose. Then he fled
for another victim. Sands maddened most of his men; but he only amused
me. There was something likeable deep down in him. I am sure he saw the
humour of his doings. Often I caught him smiling as he turned away.
When we were all full weary in the arm, and the professional loafers
had disappeared on one errand or another, Sands would bethink him of
breakfast. “In rear of your horses!” came the order. “Stand to your
nosebags! Pick up your dressing on the right there! Oxbridge, do you hear
me!” On these occasions Tank stationed himself at one end of the line and
wagged his hand in an agitated way. “Pick up your dressing there; pick
up your dressing!” he cried in jerky notes. Then Sands called out again.
“Are you ready to feed, Corporal?” “Yes, sir.” “Feed, trumpeter!” And the
trumpeter blew “Feed.”
Of all the good comrades who had come on this expedition—of those, I
mean, who could drive the devil of tedium from you at least notice—there
was none better than the trumpeter. He could tell a wittier story than
anyone else; he could tell a story more wittily than anyone else; he
could act better, mimic better, dance better, lie better, laugh better
than anyone in the tent; he could do anything that helped to hurry
time. Night after night he was the centre of a shaking circle. If half
his tales were true he had lived a strange life. He was full of energy
and full of resource, and carried a stout heart in his body. To a
dispirited army he was worth a battery of guns. There were other fellows
on the staff. There were public-school men like Hawkins and Jimmy Bull;
there was Woods who never looked dirty, and Stokes who never looked
clean. There was big Bill Eaves who always was crying out, and yet was
a good man. There was Mossback from the bush who had brains in place of
education; and Corporal Baker who took life heavily and was a good man
at his work, though he would have been the better for a wash. There was
Wilkinson, tall, lean, and dark; and Lewis, tall and fair, with the face
of a girl. There were others to tell you of some day.
“Cookhouse” was blown soon after the “Turn out.” In these early days we
squatted on our kitbags, plates on knees, and chewed up sand with the
bread and meat. Later we were given tables and forms, and mess-houses
were built us. But at first, as I say, we sat down in the sand to eat,
and the food was rough and not plentiful.
A canteen was opened near our lines, where you could buy a few things at
a heavy price to help down the bread and sand. We spent a good deal of
our money there, so that most breakfast times saw us emptying sardines
and salmon on to our plates. And it was “Pass the blasted bread there!”
and, “Fer Gawd’s sike, pass the jam!”
The first weeks of our arrival brigade orders forbade the riding of a
single horse, and we exercised them about the desert in long files at
the cost of our legs. Tramping in the sand was heartbreaking work, and
we marched miles a day; but the mornings were exhilarating, and the day
never grew too warm. There was no threat of the evil summer to follow.
Our journey led us among the sandhills, where we were lost to sight of
everything but dismal sweeps of sand. Or we topped a rise and were shown
afar off the palm groves on the desert edge, and beyond them the great
city of Cairo. To the right hand stood the Pyramids, and past them a
vast stretch of desert dotted with solitary palms, and palms in groves,
and near the skyline other Pyramids. It was splendid to halt up here
and overlook the wide country. The orange sellers, trailing gorgeous
rags, followed us, and you might lie a few minutes sucking cool oranges,
forgetful of the drudgery of every day. Even Sands fell into thought a
little while on these occasions. We returned to the lines to water and
feed. In the afternoon we exercised again. This was the manner of our
living those first weeks.
* * * * *
When you went by the guard at Mena House, and turned to the left to
strike the long road to Cairo, you passed in a moment from sandy ways
into the arms of a passionate throng gathered outside the gates. It
needed a man of purpose to reach his goal undeterred. Brown, frantic
faces closed in; gorgeous robes flowed before your eyes. Guides,
donkeymen, camel drivers, money changers, fruit sellers, sweet sellers,
motor drivers, beggars, fortune tellers, stamp dealers, postcard vendors,
cigarette sellers, curio sellers, silk and cloth merchants—one and
all screamed and pulled at you for patronage. Restaurant price lists,
advertisements of hot baths or addresses of friendly ladies fluttered
in your face. You were pulled to the nearest donkey, you were pushed to
the nearest camel; a gharri backed into your path, and a motor hooted
beside you. It was “This way, Australia! Australia very good, very nice!
Oringies five one piastre! Nessles chocolate two piastres! Donkey, sir!
Camel, very good, very nice!” And on your part it was, “Go to blazes,
the lot of you!” The tramcar alone kept a dignified silence, for it was
oversure of patronage. It had no upper story; and those who were cheated
of room inside, climbed atop and dangled their legs over those below. A
shouting, singing, swearing company set off for the mysterious pleasures
of the waiting city.
At last you found your way to gharri or motor, paid your fare, sank down
inside; and with fierce cries and a cracking of the whip or a sounding
of the horn, you moved to the outskirts of the throng. A last brown face
looked over the side and screamed, last dirty arms were waved in your
face, and in a moment interest in you died, and the gathering swooped
upon new victims. Then you were leaving the waiting camels, and eating up
the miles to the town.
All the way the road was filled with hurrying soldiers—tramsful,
gharrisful, carsful of them. They forked their legs over tiny donkeys,
they rolled to and fro on camels. There were those also who walked; but
in these early and wealthy days they were not many. We passed people on
the return journey—army service waggons loaded up, platoons of infantry,
peasants back from market, children driving home flocks of sheep and
goats. Once I saw a solitary figure praying on a carpet by the wayside.
The desert was behind. True, on either side of the way stretched sand;
but peasants worked here, and presently the countryside would grow green
with crop. Now and again canals cut up the ground, and from them wandered
away irrigation schemes of ancient pattern, put in motion by a listless
bullock at a waterwheel. Quite suddenly one left behind such relics of
past days, and came on the fringe of Cairo.
Had you left camp towards evening it was dark by now, and the tall houses
frowned down or stared with their lighted windows. In the streets two
continents rubbed shoulders, and faces of all shades and dresses of many
fashions came into the light of the lamps as you rattled by. In course
of time there appeared a quarter with broad thoroughfares and handsome
shops, and tall houses built in French style; and somewhere here the
journey ended.
The town was full of soldiers—Australians, New Zealanders, and English
Territorials. They owned the place. They swaggered, hurried, or mooched
down every street, stared into every shop, and commonly explored the
inside. At all corners they were meeting and calling out; every dozen
paces they pulled up to examine the wares of native merchants. No
article hawked through the streets was too useless to find a purchaser.
The fellows were like children in their delight, and the majority were
orderly and well behaved.
They invaded the eating houses and the cafés; and patronised with equal
goodwill the best hotels and the lowest wine dens. Men sat at beflowered
tables who scarce knew the use of a napkin. In their purchases they
were no less large minded. If there were customers for charms and glass
necklaces, there were those who bargained for Persian carpets.
When the calm stars overhead had turned somewhat farther in their
courses, and the lusty diners below thought strange thoughts born of the
wine they had passed over-freely, it was then that the darker places of
the city beckoned, and did not beckon in vain.
You left this great lighted square, where wealth and propriety sat
side by side, you followed the length of an ill-lit arcade, you turned
one turning and then another, and, behold, you might have travelled a
thousand miles. The streets had shrunk to ill-lit crooked lanes, homes
of strange smells, strange cries, and vague flitting forms. The tall,
dirty houses leaned over you, leaving no more than a strip of sky filled
with stars, and that very far away. When you passed the flaring lights
flickering in the windows, painted faces smiled at you and eager hands
beckoned. Out of wineshops sounded the notes of cheap pianos, and you
heard the noise of dancers’ feet, and it might be watched their shadows
tossed across the windows. The doorways were filled with soldiers and
women and haggling native merchants; and men lurched out to threaten
passers-by, or to be hurried from the scene by comrades. There came the
roll of tom-toms, or the high notes of reedy pipes; and maybe in some
den you caught a glimpse of two or three cross-legged players, and a
brown woman jerking herself through the steps of a dance. At any of these
places hands might be laid on your shoulders, and hot, haggard faces
might peer invitingly into your own.
All the while the business of every day went forward, so that children
played at hide and seek round your legs, men urged laden donkeys through
the congregation, and bawled the virtues of their wares. Staling meat and
butter and vegetables lay on the slabs of the shops, and vehement women
bargained there for to-morrow’s dinner. You were buffeted and jostled
from turning to turning, and your senses were excited and sickened by
sights and odours. The breath of the multitude was heavy in your face.
The cool of night found no way down there.
But it was not in these streets the strangest happenings took place,
nor was it during the first hours of dark. There were many lanes to be
followed, there was much wine to be spilled ere you had learned all.
First you drifted to the Bullring, where much was to be seen and done;
then you passed to the Wazir, where fresh secrets might be discovered.
And then you——. Dear sir, over the nuts and wine, come, listen to me.