LIFE IN EGYPT
Christmas Day on the edge of the desert, within sight of the
Pyramids of Gizeh! The very last place in which I ever thought I
should celebrate the festive season. And the outlook was far from
"Christmassy": A big wide stretch of yellow sand; a rough, trampled
track styled a road; a straggling collection of low, flat-roofed,
mud-built native houses that looked as if they had been chucked from
aloft and stuck where they happened to pitch; a few vines, date
palms, and fig-trees, disputing the right to live in company with
some sun-baked nectarines and loquats; a foreground made up of tents,
both military and native, wooden shanties, and picketed horses; a
background of camp stores, mechanics' shops, and corded firewood,
closed in by a line of dusty poplars; in the distance the desert, a
vast study in monochrome, the horizon line broken in places by an
Arab village and cemetery, a camel train, and the forbidding walls of
some Egyptian grandee's harem; overhead a scorching sun shining in a
cloudless sky; underfoot the burning sand—and everywhere the subtle
aroma (or "sense," if you will) of the East, at once repellent and yet
attractive, calling with ever-increasing insistence to some nomadic
strain that has hitherto lain dormant in our beings—calling with the
call of the East....
There was general leave, of course. Most of the chaps took the Cairo
trail, those who remained doing so in nearly every case not from
choice, but dire necessity: a week's pay at the rate of 2_s._ per day
(once on active service we had to allot 3_s._) doesn't see one far in
Egypt. Our crowd elected to stay for dinner, and I must say the cooks
turned out an A1 meal. The turkey was missing, ditto the goose, but we
had as much frozen mutton, followed by Christmas duff, as we could find
room for. The wet canteen lay close handy, so the beer (English, too)
wasn't missing. The desert didn't look so dusty when we left the tables.
They are keen on the dollars, are the Egyptians. They swarmed round our
camp like a mob of steers round a water-hole in a dry spell; everywhere
you ran across their matchboard stores where you could buy 'most
anything, from a notebook to a glass of ice cream, made from camel's
milk! They had the time of their lives, especially the orange-sellers.
I have bought seven jolly good oranges for a half-piastre (1-1/4_d._)
more than once, but as a rule the price ranged from eight to twelve
for a piastre (2-1/2_d._) Barrows or baskets aren't in favour with the
Gippy fruit-sellers. They wear loose shirts and wide skirts, and by
making full use of these garments one man will carry nearly a sackful
of oranges—and at the same time help complete the ripening process. It
paid to wipe the fruit before eating it.
In Egypt a man's wealth and standing is usually reckoned on the basis
of the number of wives he possesses: when our crowd arrived many of the
fruit-sellers had only one—or one and an old one—yet inside a week
or two the same johnnies were bossing up a tidy little harem of prime
goods. So indirectly I guess our pay helped keep polygamy going—and
increased the population.
Egypt exists by favour of the Nile. Outside the irrigation belt lies
desert and nothing but desert—the Hinterland or Never-Never of
Northern Africa. Except for an oasis here and there the eye searches
in vain for a trace of greenery. A huge rolling plain of yellow sand
mixed with limestone, and carpeted in places with round, seemingly
water-worn pebbles, amongst which one finds agates in abundance;
here and there broken and serrated rocks outcropping boldly in
fantastic shapes from great drifts of storm-driven sand; a brooding
loneliness—there you have it.
And yet in the Valley of the Nile what a contrast! The very atmosphere
is redolent of fertility. Here is, indeed, a "land flowing with
milk and honey"; a land which, give it the water, will bloom like a
garden and smell like a huge pot-pourri. I have seen some of the best
country in four continents, yet I never ran across richer soil or more
exuberant growth than that of the Nile Valley. When one bears in mind
that the methods of irrigation and system of tillage are those of
the dim and distant past; that a metal plough is an object of mixed
curiosity and distrust; that steam is not; that the fertiliser used
(when it _is_ used) once sheltered, in the form of towns and villages
whose history was closed ere the Bible was written, the heads of their
own forefathers—then one is, indeed, forced to marvel at a land which
yields such husbandmen seventy- and eighty-ton crops of sugarcane to
the acre, and gives nine and ten cuttings of berseine—in the year,
while carrying at the same time the mixed flocks and herds of the lucky
proprietor. Little wonder, then, that the _fellahin_ pray to the Nile
as the Romans used to pray to Father Tiber—although hardly with the
same objects.
The climate of Egypt was rather a surprise to us. True, it was winter
when we arrived, but we had an idea that such a season existed in name
only in the Land of the Pharaohs. The first night, however, made us sit
up and think things, it was bitterly cold. Even packed nine in a tent
with two blankets and a greatcoat over us we could hardly get to sleep;
the tent felt like a refrigerator. Indeed, until we hit on the plan of
donning our greatcoats, and pulling on a pair of woollen socks, we were
anything but comfortably warm. The days were hot enough, it is true,
even in mid-winter, but it was not till towards the end of February
that the nights lost their bite. Before we left for Gallipoli, however,
we found a single blanket quite all right; as for the days, they were
something to remember in your prayers, the sun seemed to get right down
clear to your backbone, and stew the stiffening out of your spine.
I saw rain only twice during the three months and a half we put in in
Egypt; it wasn't more than an anæmic Scotch mist on both occasions. I
reckon the average annual rainfall for those parts would figure out at
about point ten noughts and a one. We were told, however, that once in
every three years or so, the rain came down good-oh, and washed half
the houses away, at the same time cleaning things up generally. But the
natives take such things as a matter of course; being highly religious,
they observe that Allah wills it so, and set about rebuilding their
happy homes. I expect it's really a blessing in disguise, and the
overflow from these villages of theirs should certainly fertilise the
soil that receives it.
We were told by the local residenters that February was the month noted
for sandstorms. Well, we ran across two—or, rather, they ran across
us. We didn't like them a little bit. There was only one thing to
do—get under cover straight away and stay there till the beggars blew
themselves out. You would see them coming, for all the world like a big
yellow smoke-cloud stretched right across the desert. Then it was a
case of hop into your tent, fasten up the flap, and pray that some one
else had driven the pegs home. If even a single one should draw—ugh!
it gives me the shivers even now! Once I saw a pole go clean through
the top of a tent, the canvas, of course, sliding down like a parachute
and "bonneting" the inmates: I reckon it says something for the power
of their language when we heard it rising high above the storm.
I have mentioned that we came out from England as an infantry
company. Well, naturally we hoped to be attached to some battalion
of the N.Z.R.'s (which stands for New Zealand Rifles). Failing that
we reckoned on being split up and spread over the various infantry
battalions. So it came rather as a bit of a facer, when we were
paraded, told that a Field Company of Engineers and an Army Service
Corps Company was required straight away, and given our choice as to
which crowd we should care to take on. At first we were inclined to
think it was a bit of a bluff; but no, there was no get out about it.
Boiled down, it meant service with the Engineers, the A.S.C.—or our
discharge and passage back to New Zealand. We didn't like this stunt at
all, and at first some of the boys felt like shaking things up some;
but, of course, no one held for going home, so they made the best of a
bad deal and took their choice. I plumped for the Engineers; I had no
hankering after the A.S.C.—or "'Aunty' Sprocket's Cavalry," as it was
promptly dubbed, from the name of one of our officers who took on with
it. ("Sprocket," I may say here, is not what he calls himself.)
We had already been through the mill as infantrymen: we had now to
start in to train as engineers. It meant hustling some, for the time at
our disposal, we were told, didn't amount to much. Well, we had made
our choice, and although we felt a bit sore over being rushed, we knew
it was up to us to see the thing through to rights. So we got into the
collar straight away, consigned the war, the Army, and the New Zealand
Government to an even warmer location than Egypt—and put in overtime
imbibing engineering knowledge.
We had our work cut out, for we had to learn in the space of a few
weeks a course that, in the ordinary run, would have been spread
over more than the same number of months. But most of our fellows
had done work of a similar kind, so it was fairly well into their
hands. I reckon we had just about every trade and occupation that ever
was in our crowd, from civil engineers, miners, surveyors, marine
and electrical engineers, master mariners and mates, right down to
shearers, boundary riders, roustabouts and bushmen generally. Even
a few "cockies" were not missing. ("Cockie," by the way, is short
for "cockatoo," meaning, in the language of Australasia, a small
farmer.) Hence we made progress like a house on fire, and the officers
congratulated themselves on the kind of chaps the Lord had sent them.
Indeed, some of the sappers could have turned the commissioned officers
down had they chosen when it came to getting about a ticklish job—and
I guess the officers knew it. So we simply took the course on the run,
as it were, building bridges and blowing up same, digging trenches,
fixing up and fortifying positions, and so on.
I think, taking all in all, the lectures were the most popular
items on the list. Sometimes we had one every day, generally after
dinner—which is about the sleepiest time of the day in a hot country.
Snorers weren't liked; they disturbed both lecturer and audience.
Apart from the value of the lecture itself one was always sure of a
quiet, after-dinner smoke. Yes, I fancy those pow-wows ranked first in
popularity.
Then there was bomb making and throwing. There is a lot of
excitement to be got out of that racket—especially when you go in
for experimental work. Some of our home-made bombs were fearsome
contraptions. Most of us had quite a number of narrow shaves, and even
the niggers, keen as they were to sell their oranges, wouldn't come
within coo-ee of our mob when engaged in bomb-throwing operations.
They knew a thing or two, did those niggers.
I almost forgot to mention field geometry. I fancy it about divided
favour with bomb-work as an occupation. For one thing, it was more
restful and distinctly quieter; for another, it was a jolly sight
safer. You could sit down on the sand, when it wasn't too hot, and
get right into field geometry without having to keep your ears open
for a constantly recurring yell of: "Look out, boys! Here she goes!"
or—"Duck, damn you! I've got a whole slab in her!"
Once or twice during our training we had a written examination
covering the work, both practical and theoretical, we had done; and
the examining officer smiled on us like a tabby with new kittens when
he came to read our papers. Joking apart, he was more than pleased,
and he didn't forget to tell us so. This sort of thing may strike the
reader as a bit far-fetched—sort of blowing one's own trumpet; but if
the said reader will pause to consider the class of men that composed
our company he will be bound in common fairness to admit that I am
not straining things too much. Colonial training, I reckon, isn't the
worst preparation for most branches of the service; it turns out _men_
anyway. And you don't run across illiterates in the colonies—even way
back in the Never-Never.
Once or twice we took part in field manœuvres—or Divisional Training,
to use the proper term. For our little lot such things usually meant
hard graft with the pick and shovel plus a lot of tough marching. The
fun seemed to go to the infantry and mounted men—if there was any fun
in the game. Sometimes we were out for only a single day, but it mostly
worked out at a night and a day. Once we were away from camp for five
days and nights. In all cases actual war conditions were observed.
I shan't forget the last Divisional Training we took part in. The idea
was that the enemy, an infantry column, was strongly entrenched at
some point unknown out in the desert. The attacking party, a division
of Australian and New Zealand infantry, was to march out of camp at
sunset, duly discover the enemy's position, and deliver a night attack
with its full strength. The "enemy," to which my company was attached,
left early the same morning, being given a day in which to select the
position and fortify it.
Our luck was out when it came to dig. My word that subsoil was hard!
In some places, graft as we might, three feet was all we could sink
the trenches; we seemed to have struck the bedrock of Egypt. After
messing up our tools badly and losing a lot of sweat we gave it best,
contenting ourselves with raising the parapet where necessary, so as to
afford the requisite cover and shelter to the defenders.
Our own O.C. was naturally anxious to make an A1 show in his
particular line, so we prepared a boncer defensive position. We had
stacks of wire, and we didn't spare it, shoving up entanglements that
called for some getting through all along the line. It was understood
that the wire would be plain stuff; but on the quiet, and to make
matters more realistic, we shoved in a couple of strands of barbed—and
smiled expectantly. We also rigged up a real good outfit in the way of
coloured flares, and fixed dummy mines here and there in front of the
entanglements; the latter were harmless, of course, but they sounded
pretty bad when sprung.
The trenches were manned at the appointed time, the flares set, the
mines connected up to the exploders, and everything made ready against
the advance of the attacking division. Our chaps (the engineers) were
spread along the position and placed in charge of the mines, flares,
etc. It was slow work waiting; lights were forbidden, so we couldn't
even smoke. It wasn't to say warm, either, and I reckon every man of
us would a dashed sight sooner have been snug in camp.
Presently our patrols sent in word of the approach of the enemy's
scouts, the main body having halted under cover of a dip in the ground
about 1000 yards back. We had arranged a big collection of jam tins
and similar alarms along the front of the entanglements, and it wasn't
long until they began to play a lively tune in one or two places. We
guessed what had happened: some of the aforesaid scouts had run foul
of the wire, and owing to the barbed stuff we had mixed through it,
couldn't get clear for love or money. We sent out a party to make them
prisoners, and they were ignominiously herded in, protesting the while
in lurid language against what they styled "a crook trick."
The first attack was delivered fairly early in the night, and resulted
in a decided repulse for the enemy. Hardly a man reached the
entanglements, for our flares lit up the heavens with a wealth of
illuminating colours never before seen in the desert ("just like a ——
picture show," as one of the officers remarked), and the explosion of
a mine or two caused them to beat a hasty retreat. They didn't seem to
fancy those mines a little bit, and had evidently some doubts as to
their harmlessness. The whole thing was fairly realistic, what with the
heavy rifle fire and the language, and both sides soon warmed up to
their work. In fact, things got so warm that several lively bouts with
Nature's own weapons took place between our patrols and some of the
enemy who had crawled up with the intention of cutting the wire.
The next attack in force came off in the early hours of the morning,
and after a long and fierce scrap the position was carried. In spite
of the fact that they were under a deadly Maxim and rifle fire at
point-blank range, those heroic infantrymen set to work in grim
earnest, pulling down our entanglements and stamping out our flares.
Time after time we notified them that they were all dead men over and
over again, but they couldn't see it, and were disposed to argue the
matter. Rifle fire, we soon saw, had no effect; however, there were
plenty of handy-sized flints and agates lying around, and a judicious
application of the same caused a considerable amount of delay and some
loss to the enemy. I wonder what the umpires thought? They didn't
show up during this phase of the operations—perhaps because of the
reception that had been accorded them some little time previous, when
both sides mistook them for an enemy patrol!
On being cleared out of our trenches, we retired to a new position on
some rising ground, beat off the pursuing foe, and, operations ceasing,
went into bivouac. Afterwards, the umpires gave out their report, and
we felt good when it was announced that the attacking column had taken
almost thrice the number of hours allotted to them in which to storm
our position. But the infantry never quite forgave us for that barbed
wire. The mines were also a sore point. And when we pointed out that it
was simply realism we were after, their comment was brief and caustic:
"Realism be damned!—look at our clothes!"