DAY BY DAY
As time went on we grew more and more accustomed to our Eastern life.
With the passing of the weeks the weather became warmer, until it
dawned on our O.C. at last that, in the interests of his men's health,
he would have to ease off work a bit in the heat of the day. So it came
to pass that the bigger part of our training was carried out in the
early morning and at night, the long desert marches in the afternoons
being pretty well cut out. No one regretted it; those wallaby trots
pulled blasphemy and sweat out of the chaps in about equal proportions.
Besides, they were by this time in hard fighting trim; fit to go for
a man's life. It was quite an everyday occurrence for the crowd to
come into camp off an eighteen or twenty mile foot-slogging jaunt with
all on, have tea and a wash-up, and then trot into Cairo to spend the
evening. That shows the kind of training they were in.
But it wasn't "all work and no play." We had amusement and recreation
in plenty, between concerts at night, tennis, football, etc. on the
desert by day. We even ran a gymkhana once, and played polo and
wrestling on horseback—with donkeys as mounts. I don't think they
enjoyed it (the donkeys, I mean), and some of the competitors got in
the way of each other's clubs, and showed it. But the spectators were
tickled, and I fancy the natives sized us up as all mad—or tanked. Add
to this boxing, and Church Parade on Sundays, and you will have a fair
idea of how we put in time when we weren't training. The latter was
the least popular; it was held out on the desert where there wasn't a
vestige of shade. It's almost impossible to sleep in the full glare of
an African sun.
As a rule we had Saturday afternoons off, also Sunday from the
conclusion of Church Parade, besides an odd whole day or two, for which
we had to get a special pass. Sometimes a fellow got the chance of
going in to Cairo to fetch back a prisoner from the military jail. In
this connection I remember forming one of a corporal's guard dispatched
into the city to bring out a couple of chaps who had been run in by the
pickets for getting shikkared and playing round some. The O.C. let them
off with a caution—and a week later one was made a sergeant while the
other got his commission! Still, they were good boys, so the fellows
only laughed.
We were reviewed several times during our stay in Egypt—once by Sir
Ian Hamilton. Oh, the dust of those marches past! They had the cinema
going on us at the saluting point, but I'll take my oath they "snapped"
more dust than soldiers. We were dressing by the centre—at least we
were supposed to—but the line was hidden in such rolling clouds of
suffocating desert topsoil, that it was a matter of speculation as to
where the centre actually was. However, we marched as uprightly as the
soft going would allow, mounted our fiercest touch-me-if-you-dare-look,
and as the chaps actually in range of the camera averaged over six
feet in height right through, I guess we looked some fighting men, and
no error. It was a day of tropic heat, we had been kept standing-to
for over a couple of hours with full packs up, so our expression
wasn't to say curate-like—as a mob of Gippy hawkers and sightseers
who happened to get in the line of march at one time seemed to think,
for they turned tail and bolted like a harem of scalded tabbies. At
first it used to amuse us the way the citizens of Cairo stared at the
Australasian troops; the place was simply dry-rotted with sedition, but
after our chaps took it over there was jolly little talk of native
risings or such-like. Of course, there were little isolated pow-wows
now and then, but they always ended in such an all-fired jamboree that
the tenderfeet _effendis_ and solemn-faced _pashas_ thought the bottom
had fallen out of hell, and concluded to give the game best. Our chaps
had their own way of tackling the beggars. And it worked O.K.
At another time we were paraded in hollow square and addressed by the
Honourable "Tom" McKenzie, High Commissioner for New Zealand, and Sir
George Reid, representing Australia. They had come out from London,
and, needless to say, they got a boncer welcome from the boys. The
Maoris made the dust fly and set the desert shaking with a big _haka_
of greeting. Altogether things went off _kapai_, and I fancy the two
representatives of the "Fatherland" (both real sports and white men)
enjoyed themselves. Anyway, the men from Down Under were real glad to
see them; and when addressing the Division the speakers soon showed
that the pleasure was mutual.
It would be about this period that the Australasian forces began to
be called "The Ragtime Army." I never knew who started the name,
but anyway it stuck. Then some johnnie, gifted with the faculty of
rhyme-stringing, took it into his head to compose a set of verses
dealing with our daily life and training in Egypt, every verse ending
with the words, "Only an Army standing by." This title also stuck, and
it was quite an everyday occurrence for the infantry to march out of
camp to the sung and whistled tune of the "Army standing by." The fact
was, that the fellows were by this time trained to the hour; they were
sick of the dust, heat, and flies of Egypt, and were longing to be up
and doing. They had had as tough a gruelling as men could be put to,
and were beginning to ask what was the good of it all if they were
going to be kept "standing by" in a God-forsaken hole on the edge of
the desert. You see, rumours were in the air; true, these "wireless"
messages, it was proved, almost all emanated from a rather unsavoury
source (the Anzacs will recognise the locality), but they travelled
round the whole camp with most disconcerting frequency until one
never knew what to believe and what not. And one of these rumours oft
repeated was to the effect that the Australasians were destined to form
the permanent Army of Occupation in Egypt. Hence the growing feeling of
discontent, the constant grousing, and the daily lament of "Kitchener
hasn't got any use for us; we're a 'Ragtime Army,' 'An Army standing
by.'" But Kitchener knew what he was about. He generally does, come to
think of it. He expected a lot from that ragtime push—and I reckon he
was satisfied.
There has been a lot of rot written and said about the lack of
discipline in the Australian and New Zealand forces. There _was_
discipline, although not quite the same brand as that of the British
Army. It is true they didn't cotton on to saluting as an amusement,
and you can lay a safe bet they never will. But what of it? Their
own officers didn't press the point, knowing the class of men they
commanded. At the same time those officers knew that the rough diamonds
under their orders would play the game right to the last man; that
they would fight like lions in their own devil-may-care, reckless
way—and, if need be, die like men, with a careless jest or muttered
oath on their lips. I say there was the highest form of discipline in
the Australasian Army—the discipline that called on a man to die, if
necessary, that his comrade might live. Let the order go forth that a
certain position was to be held _at all costs_. Was it lost? No—except
over the dead bodies of the holders. Has a single instance come to
light in which even a platoon of Australian or New Zealand troops
abandoned their trench and bolted? No, even when out of ammunition and
unable to reply to a murderous fire. What was it that caused first one
line and then another of those big Australian Light Horsemen to charge
to certain death at Quinn's Post? Discipline! War discipline! The kind
that counts. They didn't salute much (except when in an unusually good
humour—or outside a big drink), even their own officers, but they
would follow those officers to certain death—and well the officers
knew it. They were just big, hard-living, hard-drinking, over-grown
boys: not exactly saints or respectable church-going citizens, I
fear. But they were white right through—even if they sometimes did
go looking for trouble! And there wasn't anything on the Gallipoli
Peninsula could show them the way when it came to scrapping. They were
absolutely the grandest fighting men that God ever put breath into! You
saw it in the square set of their jaws and the grim, straightforward
glance of their eyes. But parade-ground soldiering wasn't much in their
line, nor the cheering crowds either.
I think I have already stated that Cairo is a wicked old city. Well,
it is. There are places in Cairo that I wouldn't take my grandmother
through—places that would curl a padre's toenails backwards, or send
the blood to the cheek of a Glasgow policeman. Shebangs where they
sell you whisky that takes the lining of your throat down with it, and
lifts your stomach up to the roof of your skull; a soothing liquid that
licks "forty-rod," "chained lightning," or "Cape smoke" to the back
of creation; the kind of lush that gives you a sixty-horse dose of the
jim-jams while you wait. Real good stuff it is—for taking tar off a
fence.
There are streets in Cairo where the stench is so great that the wonder
is how any living thing can breathe it and survive; in comparison with
which a glue factory or fertiliser works is Attar of Roses, and an
Irish pigsty a featherbed in heaven; and yet in these streets—these
cesspools—the painted ladies of low degree live and move and carry on
abominations which are unnamable; things which the brute creation is
guiltless of.
There are other streets in Cairo where the painted ladies of higher
degree—the very patricians of their profession—follow their calling
in an atmosphere of luxury permeated by all the seductive and sensual
voluptuousness of a land which for countless æons has been the home of
the voluptuary and the pleasure seeker; an atmosphere to breathe which
might shatter the vows of an anchoret.
There are houses in Cairo in which certain male and female vampires
batten and wax rich on the proceeds of a thriving trade in the White
Slave Market; houses in which wives are bought and sold like so many
bullocks; aye, and houses in which, if rumour say truly, a man will
sell you his own daughter—and not think it worth his while to witness
the wedding ceremony!
Yes, it is a wicked old city, the Rio Cairo. I have a lively
remembrance of a certain Sunday evening which I put in as one of a
strong Town Picket. Our "beat" lay for the most part in the localities
I have just been describing, and it would be putting it mildly to say
that we had our eyes opened to the pleasant little ways of the Eastern.
It was more than an eye-opener; it was a revelation. And in some ways
I reckon it was an education. At the same time I shouldn't advise the
prospective student to imbibe too deeply of that sink—er—well of
learning. I can smell that aroma even now.
About six or seven miles up the line from our camp lay the native
village of Maarg. I had heard that this was a typical Arabic-Egyptian
settlement, and that it was quite unvisited by the troops, so I
resolved to prospect it. Giving Church Parade a miss the following
Sunday, my mate and I toddled down to Helmieh Station, had an early
dinner in an eating-house there, and took train to Maarg Siding. The
country we passed through was very different from that which surrounded
our camp; it was all irrigated soil, hence the track wound through
a belt of land blooming with flowers, lush grass, and magnificent
berseine crops. Everywhere the date palm, the prickly pear, the banana,
and the fig grew in the most prodigal profusion; everywhere one saw
donkeys, buffaloes, camels, goats, and hybrid sheep revelling in the
midst of plenty. The soil simply exuded fertility; tickle its bosom and
the milk flowed.
Yet it wasn't worked. The surface was only scratched by an ox-drawn
wooden plough, the pattern for which came out of the Ark. True, it was
irrigated—as Joseph and his Brethren irrigated _their_ selections.
Here and there one caught a glimpse of a scantily clad _fellah_ raising
water from a channel by means of a rope attached to a weighted and
counterpoised pole and bucket, or slowly turning the handle of an
archimedean screw. Occasionally oxen were pressed into the service,
and kept to their work by women or children armed with goads. In such
cases the water was raised by the agency of a wheel furnished with
gourds, or sherds, attached equidistantly all round its circumference.
The ox walked round in a circle, its dexter optic being obscured by
means of a pad to prevent its entering on the broad way that leadeth to
destruction—and, incidentally, throwing the water supply out of gear.
When you bellowed _Ah-h-h!_ like a goat, it kept going on its circular
tour, and an abruptly terminated _Ye-e-es!_ caused it to come to a full
stop. It would rather stop than go any time.
We left the train at the siding, and bumped straight away into the
usual mob of donkey boys and beggars. Threading our way through this
lot we skirted a native café and store, and set out for the village
situated some half-mile to the right front, the crowd of jabbering
and gesticulating mongrels falling into procession behind us. In this
formation we betook us through a plantation of date palms, past a
paddock or two of vivid green berseine, and arrived at a flour-mill
on the outskirts of the settlement. An old dame with a face like a
gargoyle sat at the door selling sticky-looking native sweetmeats and
Turkish Delight, while inside the mill was a crowd of women and young
girls, some of the latter by no means bad-looking. When they smiled
(which later on they did) you had a vision of ivory teeth, flashing
eyes, and A1 lips and cheeks—the latter tinged with a nut-brown bronze.
Just now, however, there wasn't a smile in the bunch. They were as
scared as a mob of full-mouth ewes. I doubt if some of them had ever
seen a soldier in their natural—although I expect they had heard a lot
about the boys. Anyway they just crowded into a corner of the mill and
squinted at us like a bunch of half-tanked parrakeets. Something had to
be done. My mate solved the difficulty.
"How about buying the old lady out and filling up the nippers?" he said.
We did so, and in exchange for a few piastres received a fairly heavy
consignment of bilious-looking lollies and Turkish Delight. These we
straightway proceeded to hold up to the expectant view of the smaller
kiddies. The thing worked like a charm: kids are the same all the
world over. In a few minutes the mothers stole shyly forward and held
up their babies to receive their rightful share of the unexpected
windfall. Soon the whole crowd, mothers, kids, and flappers, were
laughing and jostling round us to the admiration and envy of our
retinue. They could not resist the call of those sticky confections.
They had been seduced by a concoction of sugar and gum arabic. We
bought the old Ishmaelite right out and distributed _backsheesh_ with
a lavish hand, then proceeded to "do" the township at the head of a
now much augmented following. I guess they sized us up as a new brand
in the public philanthropic line. It wasn't every day that millionaires
who sported five-piastre pieces came to town. I fancy _their_ coinage
was a copper one.
Maarg we found to be a typical _fellaheen_ village, inhabited by the
usual mob of picturesque-looking and untidy natives, half Egyptian
and half Arabic; goats, donkeys, bastard sheep, and hens. It boasted
a miniature mosque, a grocery and provision store, a broken-down
potter's factory, a cemetery, but no sanitation department. The low,
dirty-white houses were topped by the customary flat roofs on which the
family washing (when there happened to be any) flaunted its shameless
nakedness. The streets, carpeted with the freewill offerings of the
citizens, began anywhere and finished nowhere—except when they led
you unsuspectingly into the living-room of one of the aforesaid
citizens. On the whole we found Maarg to be a really interesting place,
and the inhabitants even more interesting. But they took some getting
acquainted with, for at first every woman and child bolted to cover as
soon as we loomed in sight, following at a safe distance when we had
passed on, and stopping when we stopped. We smiled our sweetest: no
effect. We purchased lollies from the provision merchant and started
scrambles among our own immediate train: they approached.
Those scrambles were the limit. They began with the nippers. Then the
flappers joined in. Next the mothers, some with babies in their arms,
took a hand in the deal. Finally the men, their dignity upset by the
thought of so much good tucker going into other stomachs than their
own, joined in the general mix-up, and the show ended in a flurry of
legs and wings for all the world like a cross between a ballet dance
and a Rugby scrum.
We had a most interesting conversation with the Mayor, or Sheik, or
whatever he was, of the community. He proved quite an affable old
gentleman, able to speak a little English. He didn't seem quite able to
size us up at first, and was naturally curious to know what had brought
us to his township. We said we had come on a matrimonial project (we
thought we might as well tell a good one when we were about it; they
are all liars in those parts, anyway), whereat he pricked up his old
ears, scenting _backsheesh_. In answer to certain parental queries
we informed him that we possessed a wife each already out in New
Zealand (which was a lie), my mate owning to five kiddies, and I to a
couple—the latter bit of information striking him as rather ludicrous
seeing that I had just told him that I had been married a little over a
year; however, I made it right by explaining that my family consisted
of twins.
If we had been objects of curiosity before we were tenfold so now. The
market was well stocked, and had we wished we could have been fixed up
with a tidy little harem each right away. It was a toughish job keeping
our faces straight, while the goods were paraded before us and a full
inventory of each laughing-eyed young lady's charms and accomplishments
made out. And some of them were real pretty; quite as modest, too, in
their own way, as most white girls. Not that they were niggers (except
in name); the colour of a ripe peach would about fill the bill; and
when you get that brand of complexion added to a smallish mouth and
chin, teeth like pearls, a short straight nose, a low broad forehead
thatched with glossy, raven-black hair (plenty of it, too), you begin
to tumble to the fact that the _fellaheen_ girls weren't _all_ behind
the door when faces were served out. As regards hands and feet they
could give points to most Englishwomen, while their action was a treat
to watch. I guess the Eastern habit of carrying loads on their heads
accounts for their graceful carriage. They were a smallish breed;
slimly built and averaging about five feet and a fraction, I should say.
I forget what the price ruled at, taken in a camel, donkey, and goat
currency. The sheik's own favourite daughters, I know, had a top-market
reserve placed on them. They were certainly the pick of the bunch. Like
most native women they had a tender spot in their hearts for men of the
sterner Western breed—and like _all_ Eastern girls they admired height
and weight. We filled the bill; modesty debars me from saying more.
They would have shaken the dirt—er, dust—of Maarg from their shapely
little feet and followed us to Gallipoli had we asked them.
We didn't. We tore ourselves away, saying that we would return to
see them the following Sunday. We meant it, too—being both fond of
prosecuting the study of native types of mankind. But, alas! the
following Sunday found us on the sea, bound for the Dardanelles and
Johnnie Turk. We presented our prospective helpmeets with sufficient
Turkish Delight to ensure them dyspepsia for the ensuing seven days,
_backsheeshed_ their parents till they smiled sixteen to the dozen, and
took the back trail, escorted all the way to the Siding by the united
population of the settlement. I doubt if we should have saluted the
General himself had we bumped up against him, we felt so good.
On the whole, we had a rather good time during our stay in Egypt.
Our camp lay close to both Old and New Heliopolis. The new town was
built as a kind of Eastern Monte Carlo, by a continental syndicate
which, however, failed to obtain the necessary gaming licence. It is
spotlessly clean, the streets are like glass, and the architecture
mostly snowy-white and Corinthian-Roman in design. An enormous hotel,
said to be one of the largest in the world, occupies the centre of a
prettily planted square; there is a fine, showy Casino, and whole
streets of beautifully designed buildings. It is, in fact, a model
little town resting incongruously enough on the arid desert, a bit of
Monaco transplanted to the land of the Pharaohs. A close inspection,
however, reveals the fact that a large part of the solid-looking
architecture is a sham, most of the ornamental work being moulded in
stucco. In this connection the natives will tell you that when the
heavy rains put in an appearance (they only visit these parts about
once in every three years or so) Heliopolis begins to moult—in plain
words the outer crust of lime washes away, and the town bears the
appearance of a fleshless skeleton.
You can still see bits of Old Heliopolis—the Heliopolis of the
Scriptures. In fact, the modern town is built partly on the site of
the ancient city which the Virgin Mary passed through. Your guide will
point out to you the Virgin's Well and what purports to be the tree
she rested under. You can swallow the latter assertion with a large
mouthful of salt; the plant looks altogether too flourishing and full
of life to have so many years on its head. The original Virgin's Tree
is, I believe, to be found close handy—an old dead stump that might
be any age. In the Virgin's Chapel adjoining you will find a number of
beautiful mural paintings depicting the Flight into Egypt.
A few minutes' walk will bring you to the foot of the oldest obelisk in
the world, I believe: an obelisk compared with which Cleopatra's Needle
is an infant in arms. Save for the marks of Napoleon's shot which it
received during the Battle of the Mamelukes, its surface is practically
unscratched. It is the dryness of the Egyptian climate, I reckon, that
accounts for the staying powers of these old-timers. Most of them seem
to have suffered more during Napoleon's short stay than they did during
the flight of centuries. I guess his men were pretty rotten shots. I
often wondered how they came to mess up the poor old Sphinx's nose, or
what they were actually shooting at. It couldn't have been the old lady
herself, for if they had they'd have missed her.
Still, I shouldn't say too much against Napoleon and his men, for
the bread we ate while at Zeitoun was nearly all baked in the ovens
originally built by them.
During our sojourn in camp we "did" the Pyramids of Gizeh, of course.
It is a stiff climb to the top, especially if you are wearing riding
breeches, but the view you get as a reward is really grand. The
interior is also well worth a visit. You'll find the inside of this
big sugar-loaf to be as hot as anything this side of Eternity, and
you can't help wondering how you'd get out if the top fell in. By the
way, most folks when they speak of the Pyramids seem to imagine there
are only three in Egypt—those of Gizeh—yet there are several dozens
of them, big, medium, and little, scattered about the country. At one
place (Sakkarra) I counted either fourteen or sixteen, ranging from
little piccaninnies to the oldest one in the world, the Step Pyramid.
I also spent a most enjoyable day on the Nile, in a native
boat—_feluccas_ I think they are called, or our own particular
craft may have been a small _dhow_. We paid a visit to the palace
of Pharaoh's daughter (the one that found Moses). The foundations
and lower part of the original palace are still standing, the upper
structure being more modern. The river washes the place on three sides,
which, perhaps, accounts for it being fairly clean and fresh-smelling.
Little _fellaheen_ villages, partly fishing and partly agricultural,
lie scattered here and there along the river banks just as they lay
in biblical days. We visited one of these hamlets (they are all much
the same), and breathed the usual mixed aroma of camels, goats, sheep,
fowls, stale fish, and stale native. I don't wonder that Moses went to
sleep there.
I had often read about the yellow Nile water: well, it is yellow
enough, in all conscience. But it is a noble old river, and it slides
placidly along as if well aware of the fact that Egypt exists on its
good-natured benevolence. Its average breadth near Cairo would work out
at about 300 yards, I should say. There is no sign of hustle or flurry
about the Nile, and if you live near it for a spell you'll have a tough
job keeping in the collar, for its spirit is apt to get into your blood
some, and you'll find yourself dropping into as big a slow-go as the
slowest of the natives who pray to it. And you'll enjoy the experience.
When the bank was good we used to make a point of visiting the show
places that could be "done" during the hours of a Sunday. Thus we
explored Sakkarra and the buried city of Memphis; saw and admired
the excavated statue of Rameses; tried to read the bird-and-animal
writing on the walls (some of which was painted _over 2000 years_ B.C.,
I believe—and still retains its colour); inspected the Tombs of the
Sacred Bulls, and were beat to guess how in thunder the huge sarcophagi
were got to where we found them. We also paid a visit to Barrage, the
place of many dams and much engineering effort—not to mention really
pretty gardens wherein one may picnic on lawns clothed with English
grasses, and yet rest in the shade of purely tropical and sub-tropical
palms and tree-ferns. Some of the chaps even managed to see Luxor,
getting three days' leave for the trip. I drew a blank, however: the
fare ran to £2 10_s._ or £3, and at the time I was dead up against
it—much to my disgust, as I should have liked immensely to have had a
look at the Fayyum, the Garden of Egypt.
Taking it bye and large I don't think we did at all badly in the
sight-seeing line, from the Citadel and the Tombs of the Mamelukes in
Cairo to the Pyramids, the Nile, and other shows farther afield. We
sailed in native boats, rode in _gharris_, and bestrode camels, mules,
and donkeys to further orders. I don't think there was much lying
within range of our purses that we failed to prospect. It is a mighty
queer country is Egypt, and I hope to see more of it "when the Germans
cease to trouble and the Turks are laid to rest."
Before closing this chapter I feel compelled to pay my grateful
tribute to the many French friends we made while camped near Cairo.
They were courteous and kindly at all times, and in the case of those
who, like myself, had numerous opportunities of meeting them, their
warm-hearted generosity and lavish hospitality will never be forgotten.
They treated us more like brothers than chance acquaintances, inviting
us into their homes, and going out of their way to show that they at
least believed in the permanency of the _entente cordiale_. We were
brothers-in-arms—just that. Surely Briton and Frenchman shall ever
remain so. That I know will be the abiding wish of every man of the
Australian forces. I had previously met many of our Gallic friends
and liked and admired them; now that we have had the opportunity of
becoming better acquainted I embrace this opportunity of expressing my
admiration and liking in the strongest possible terms. I feel that I
could not do less.
_Vive la France!_