McAuslan in the Rough

McAuslan in the Rough George MacDonald Fraser 'McAuslan in the Rough', the second volume of George MacDonald Fraser’s stories featuring “Old Private Piltdown” (as the court-material defence called him).Includes such episodes as the desert mystery of Fort Yarhuna, the Great Regimental Quiz, the search for a deserter in a native town threatened by epidemic, McAuslan in love, and his finest and funniest hour – as a caddy to that rugged Caledonian eminence, the Regimental Sergeant -Major, in a golf game whose importance, makes the Open Championship look like a seaside putting competition. As his chronicler reminds us: “McAuslan is always with us. He was probably at Cannae and Pharsalia, and hasn’t washed since. And you can bet that he’ll be there, more or less at attention, with his rusty rifle and his buttons undone, when the ranks fall in for Armageddon.” GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER McAuslan in the Rough For Sie, Caro, and Nicky some more stories Contents Cover (#u4a26568c-d08d-5aa0-b541-f89bc5123c77) Title Page (#ud4c1248c-0647-5782-888d-dd29a7102e94) Bo Geesty (#uf79b25d8-ed42-5cad-9b66-cc69f04a6faa) Johnnie Cope in the Morning (#u2ef1e01d-22bf-5da8-935d-f6fc5afdcfbb) General Knowledge, Private Information (#u302a003c-6ba0-5a24-b370-429d76e8663f) Parfit Gentil Knight, But (#litres_trial_promo) Fly Men (#litres_trial_promo) McAuslan in the Rough (#litres_trial_promo) His Majesty Says Good-Day (#litres_trial_promo) Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo) Glossary (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By the same author (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Bo Geesty (#ulink_665c60f1-022c-5386-8c44-c144e83f2296) See this fella, Bo Geesty? Aye, weel, him an’ his mates, they wis inna Foreign Legion, inna fort, inna desert, an’ the wogs wis gettin’ tore in at them. An’ a’ the fellas inna fort got killt, but when the relief colyum arrived a’ the fellas inna fort wis staundin’ up at the wall, wi’ their guns an’ bunnets on, like they wis on guard. But they wis a’ deid. The fellas in the relief colyum couldnae make it oot; they thought the place must be hauntit. So they did. It wis a smashin’ picture, but. —Private McAuslan, as critic, on the film of P. C. Wren’s Beau Geste Fort Yarhuna lies away to the south, on the edge of the big desert. It was there, or something like it, in the days when the Sahara was still grassland; in more modern times it saw long-range patrols of Alexander the Great’s mercenaries from fair Cyrene across the sandhills eastward, and it received the battered remnants of Hannibal’s regiments after Zama. It was garrisoned by Roman legionaries before the Vandals swept into it from the west, or Arab riders from the Great Sand Sea brought the first camels and planted the date-palms in the little village beneath its walls; it shielded the Barbary rovers’ sea-nests until a little detachment of U.S. Marines marched across the desert to plant the Stars and Stripes for the first time on foreign soil. The Caliphs ornamented its gateway, the Crusaders built the little shrine in the courtyard, the Afrika Korps stored the petrol for their panzers in its stables, the Highland Division left their inevitable “H.D.” trademark on its walls, and Private Fletcher (I suspect) scribbled “Kilroy was here” and “Up the Celtic” on its main gate. That was during the Twelve Platoon occupation, circa A.D. 1946. The reason for Fort Yarhuna’s long existence is that it commands a crossing of the great caravan trails, the last oasis on the edge of nowhere. The great trains from the south, with their ivory and gold and slaves, paused here before the last lap north to Tripoli and Tunis, or before they turned eastward for Egypt; coming in the other direction, it was where the Mediterranean traders tightened their girths and sharpened their weapons against the Touareg bandits who infested the southern roads through the biggest wasteland in the world. Fort Yarhuna, in fact, has seen a lot of hard service and is a very hot station. Its importance to me is that it was my first very own independent command, and the significance of that is something which Hannibal’s men, and Alexander’s, to say nothing of the Romans, Vandals, Crusaders and Leathernecks, would be the first to appreciate. Why we had to garrison it, nobody knew. The battalion was stationed on the coast, in civilisation, the war was over, and there was nothing to do except show the flag, bathe, beat retreat every Friday with the pipes and drums to impress the locals, and wait to be demobilised. But Higher Authority, in Cairo, decreed that Fort Yarhuna must be garrisoned—they may have had some vague fears of invasion from the Belgian Congo, or been unduly impressed by seeing The Desert Song, but more probably it was just military tidiness: Fort Yarhuna had always been manned, and it was officially in our battalion area. So, since I had been commissioned for six months and attained the giddy height of lieutenant, I was instructed to repair to Fort Yarhuna with two platoons, place it in a state of defence, occupy it for a month in the name of the King and the United Nations, close its gate at sunset, see that the courtyard was swept and free from litter, and in the event of an Arab uprising (I’m sure someone had seen The Desert Song) defend it to the last round and the last man etc., etc. Of course, there wasn’t a chance in a million of an Arab uprising. Since the Italians had been heaved out in the war, all that the genial Bedouin wanted to do was carry on loafing in the sun, catching cholera and plodding his caravans through Yarhuna village from nowhere to yonder; the nearest thing to illegal activity was the local pastime of looting the debris of war which Montgomery’s and Rommel’s men had left spread over the countryside, for in those days the whole way from Egypt to Tunis was a great junkyard of burned-out tanks, wrecked trucks, abandoned gear, and lost ammunition dumps. And whatever Cairo thought, the local official opinion was that the Arabs could have it, and welcome. I was more concerned at the possibility of a Twelve Platoon uprising. A month stuck in a desert fort would be no joy to them, after the fleshpots of the coast, and while six months had established a pretty good working relationship between me and my volatile command of Glaswegians and Aberdeenshire countrymen, I was a trifle apprehensive of being their sole authority and mentor so far away from the battalion, where you have the whole apparatus of Army, Colonel, Regimental Sergeant-Major and provost sergeant to back you up. The Colonel, that kindly, crafty old gentleman, gave me sound advice before I set out. “Work ’em stupid,” he said. “Every parade—reveille, first inspection, cookhouse, and company office—must be on the dot, just as though you were in the battalion. Anyone drags his feet by as much as a second—nail him. I don’t care if half the detachment’s on jankers. But if you let ’em slack off, or have time to be bored, they’ll be sand-happy before you know it. It can happen well inside a month; ennui has undermined more outpost garrisons than plague or enemy action, take my word for it.” And he went on to tell me harrowing tales of Khyber forts and East African jungle stockades, called for another whisky, and assured me it would be great fun, really. “To keep you occupied, you’re to dig for water, inside the fort itself. The place hasn’t been occupied for years, but there’s got to be a well somewhere, the Sappers say. If one is found, it’ll save the water-truck coming down every second day. You can pick up the drilling equipment at Marble Arch depot—they’ll give you a driver to work it—while Keith takes the detachment down to Fort Yarhuna and settles ’em in.” Keith was the second-lieutenant who commanded Eleven Platoon—the garrison of Yarhuna was to be a two-platoon force—so I despatched him and the command to the fort, while I went with one section to Marble Arch for the drilling gear. It was a long, dusty, two-day haul east on the coast road, but we collected the drilling-truck from the Service Corps people, were shown how the special screw attached to its rear axle could drill a ten-foot shaft six inches across in a matter of minutes, and told that all we had to do was proceed by trial and error until we struck water. I was in haste to get back along the coast and down to Fort Yarhuna to assume command before Keith did anything rash—young subalterns are as jealous as prima donnas, and convinced of each others’ fecklessness, and Keith was a mere pink-cheeked one-pipper of twenty years, whereas I had reached the grizzled maturity of twenty-one and my second star. Heaven knew what youthful folly he might commit without my riper judgement to steady him. However, we paused for a brief sight-see at Marble Arch which, as you may know, is one of the architectural curiosities of North Africa, being a massive white gateway towering some hundreds of feet out of the naked desert, a grandiose tombstone to Mussolini’s vanity and brief empire. It was probably a mistake to stop and look at it: I should have remembered that in the section with me was Private McAuslan, the dirtiest soldier in the world, of whom I have written elsewhere. Short, be-pimpled, permanently unwashed, and slow-witted to a degree in the performance of his military duties, he was a kind of battalion landmark, like the Waterloo snuff-box. Not that he was a bad sort, in his leprous way, but he was a sure disaster in any enterprise to which he set his grimy hand. As his platoon commander, I had mixed feelings about him, partly protective but mostly despairing. What made it worse was that he tried to please, which could lead to all sorts of embarrassment. When we got out of the truck to view the arch he stood scratching himself and goggling balefully up at it, inquiring of his friend Private Fletcher: “Whit the hell’s yon thing?” “Yon’s the Marble Arch, dozey.” “Ah thought the Marble Arch wis in London. Sure it is.” “This is anither Marble Arch, ye dope.” “Aw.” Pause. “Who the hell pit it here, then? Whit fur?” “The Eyeties did. Mussolini pit it up, just for the look o’ the thing.” McAuslan digested this, wiped his grimy nose, and like the Oriental sage meditating on human vanity, observed: “Stupid big bastard”, which in its own way is a fair echo of contemporary opinion of Il Duce as an imperialist. The trouble was that they wanted to climb the thing, and I was soft enough to let them; mind you, I wanted to climb it myself. And Marble Arch is really big; you climb it by going into a tiny door in one of its twin columns, ascending some steps, and then setting off, in total darkness, up an endless series of iron rungs driven into the wall. They go up forever, with only occasional rests on solid ledges which you find by touch in the gloom, and when you have climbed for about ten minutes, and the tiny square of light at the top of the shaft seems as small as ever, and your muscles are creaking with the strain of clinging to the rungs, you suddenly realise that the black abyss below you is very deep indeed, and if you let go. … Quite. McAuslan, naturally, got lost. He strayed on to one of the ledges, apparently found another set of rungs somewhere, and roamed about in the stygian void, blaspheming horribly. His rich Parkhead oaths boomed through the echoing tunnels like the thunderings of some fearful Northern god with a glottal stop, and the ribaldries of the rest of the section, all strung out in the darkness on that frightening ladder, mocking him, turned the shaft into a deafening Tower of Babel. I was near the top, clinging with sweating fingers to the rungs, painfully aware that I couldn’t go back to look for him—it would have been suicide to try to get past the other climbers in the blackness—and that if he missed his hold, or got exhausted playing Tarzan, we would finish up scraping him off the distant floor with a spoon. “Don’t panic, McAuslan,” I called down. “Take it easy and Sergeant Telfer’ll get you out.” Telfer was at the tail of the climbing procession, I knew, and could be depended on. ‘Ah’m no’ —— panickin’ ” came the despairing wail from the depths. “Ah’m loast! Ach, the hell wi’ this! —— Mussolini, big Eyetie git! Him an’ his bluidy statues!” And more of the like, until Telfer found him, crouched on a ledge like a disgruntled Heidelberg man, and drove him with oaths to the top. Once at the summit, you are on a platform between two enormous gladiatorial figures which recline along the top of the arch, supporting a vast marble slab which is the very peak of the monument. You get on to it by climbing a short iron ladder which goes through a hole in the slab, and there you are, with the wind howling past, looking down over the unfenced edge at the tiny toy trucks like beetles on the desert floor, a giddy drop below, and the huge sweep of sand stretching away to the hazy horizon, with the coast road like a string running dead straight away both sides of the arch. You must be able to see the Mediterranean as well, but curiously enough I don’t remember it, just the appalling vastness of desert far beneath, and the forced cheerfulness of men pretending they are enjoying the view, and secretly wishing they were safely back at ground level. We probably stayed longer than we wanted, keeping back from the edge or approaching it on our stomachs, because the prospect of descent was not attractive. Eventually I went first, pausing on the lower platform to instruct McAuslan to stay close above me, but not, as he valued his life, to tread on my fingers. He nodded, ape-like, and then, being McAuslan, and of an inquiring mind, asked me how the hell they had got they dirty big naked statues a’ the way up here, sir. I said I hadn’t the least idea, Fletcher said: “Sky-hooks”, and as we groped our way down that long, gloomy shaft, clinging like flies, a learned debate was being conducted by the unseen climbers descending above me, McAuslan informing Fletcher that he wisnae gaunae be kidded and if Fletcher knew how they got they dirty big naked statues up there, let him say so, an’ no’ take the mickey oot o’ him, McAuslan, because he wisnae havin’ it, see? We reached the bottom, exhausted and shaking slightly, and resumed our journey to Fort Yarhuna, myself digesting another Lesson for Young Officers, namely: don’t let your men climb monuments, and if they do, leave McAuslan behind. Mind you, leaving McAuslan behind is a maxim that may be applied to virtually any situation. We reached Yarhuna after another two-day ride, branching off the coast road and spending the last eight hours bumping over a desert track which got steadily worse before we rolled through Yarhuna village and up to the fort which stands on a slight rise quarter of a mile farther on. One look at it was enough to transport you back to the Saturday afternoon cinemas of childhood, with Ronald Colman tilting his kepi rakishly, Brian Donlevy shouting “March or die, mes enfants”, and the Riffs coming howling over the sand-crests singing “Ho!” It was a dun-coloured, sand-blasted square structure of twenty-foot walls, with firing-slits on its parapet and a large tower at one corner, from which hung the D Company colour, wherever Keith had got that from. Inside the fort proper there was a good open parade square, with barracks and offices all round the inside of the walls, their flat roofs forming a catwalk from which the parapet could be manned. It was your real Beau Geesty innit and it was while my section was debussing that I heard McAuslan recalling his visit to the pictures to see Gary Cooper in Wren’s classic adventure story. (“Jist like Bo Geesty, innit, Wullie? Think the wogs’ll get tore in at us, eh? Hey, mebbe Darkie’ll prop up wir deid bodies like that bastard o’ a sergeant in the pictur’.” I’ll wear gloves if I prop you up, I thought.) Keith, full of the pride of possession, showed me round. He had done a good job in short order: the long barrack-rooms were clean if airless, all the gear and furniture had been unloaded, the empty offices and store-rooms had been swept clear of the sand that forever blew itself into little piles in the corners, and he had the Jocks busy whitewashing the more weatherworn buildings. Already it looked like home, and I remember feeling that self-sufficient joy that is one of the phenomena of independent command; plainly Keith and the Jocks felt it, too, for they had worked as they’d never have done in the battalion. I went through every room and office, from the top of the tower to the old Roman stable and the cool, musty cells beneath the gatehouse, prying and noting, whistling “Blue heaven and you and I”, and feeling a growing pleasure that this place was ours, to keep and garrison and, if necessary, defend. It was all very romantic, and yet practical and worthwhile—you can get slightly power-crazy in that sort of situation, probably out of some atavistic sense inherited from our ancestors, feeling secure and walled-in against the outside. It’s a queer feeling, and I knew just enough from my service farther east to be aware that in a day or two it would change into boredom, and the answer, as the Colonel had said, was to keep busy. So I was probably something like Captain Bligh in the first couple of days, chasing and exhorting, keeping half the detachment on full parade within the fort itself, while the other half went out on ten-mile patrols of the area, for even with a friendly population in peacetime you can’t know too much about the surrounding territory. To all intents it was just empty desert with a few Bedouin camps, apart from Yarhuna village itself. This was a fair-sized place, with its oasis and palm-grove, its market and some excellent Roman ruins, and about a hundred permanent huts and little houses. It boasted a sheikh, a most dignified old gentleman whose beard was bright red at the bottom and white near his mouth, where the dye had worn off; he visited us on our second day, and we received him formally, both platoons in their tartans and with fixed bayonets, presenting arms. He took it like a grandee, and Keith and I entertained him to tea in the company office, with tinned salmon sandwiches, club cheese biscuits, Naafi cakes, a tin of Players and such other delicacies as one lays before the face of kings. The detachment cook had had fits beforehand, because he wasn’t sure if Moslems ate tinned salmon; as it turned out this one did, in quantity. He had an interpreter, a smooth young man who translated into halting English the occasional observations of our guest, who sat immovable, smiling gently beneath his embroidered black kafilyeh, his brown burnous wrapped round him, as he gazed over the square at the Jocks playing football. We were staying for a month? And then? Another regiment would arrive? It was to be a permanent garrison, in fact? That would be most satisfactory; the British presence was entirely welcome, be they Tripoli Police or military. Yes, the local inhabitants had the happiest recollections of the Eighth Army—at this point the sheikh beamed and said the only word of English in his vocabulary, which was “Monty!” with a great gleam of teeth. We required nothing from the village? Quite so, we were self-sufficient in the fort, but he would be happy to be of assistance. … And so on, until after more civilities and another massive round of salmon sandwiches, the sheikh took a stately leave. It was at the gate that he paused, and through his interpreter addressed a last question: we were not going to alter or remove any of the fort buildings during our stay? It was a very old place, of course, and he understood the British valued such things … a smile and a wave took in the carved gateway, and the little Crusaders’ shrine (that surprised me, slightly, I confess). We reassured him, he bowed, I saluted, and the palaver was finished. I’m not unduly fanciful, but it left me wondering just a little. Possibly it’s a legacy of centuries of empire, but the British military are suspicious of practically everyone overseas, especially when they’re polite. I summoned the platoon sergeants, and enjoined strict caution in any dealings we might have with the village. I’d done that at the start, of course, parading the whole detachment and warning them against (1) eating fruit from the market, (2) becoming involved with local women, (3) offending the dignity or religious susceptibilities of the men, and (4) drinking native spirits. The result had been half a dozen cases of mild dysentery; a frantic altercation between me, Private Fletcher (the platoon Casanova), and a hennaed harpy of doubtful repute; a brawl between McAuslan and a camelman who had allegedly stolen McAuslan’s sporran; and a minor riot in Eleven Platoon barrack-room which ended with the confiscation of six bottles of arak that would have corroded a stainless steel sink. All round, just about par for the course, and easily dealt with by confinement to the fort for the offenders. That in itself was a sobering punishment, for Yarhuna village was an enchanting place apart from its dubious fleshpots. Every day or so a little caravan would come through, straight out of the Middle Ages, with its swathed drivers and jingling bells and veiled outriders each with his Lee Enfield cradled across his knee and his crossed cartridge belts. (What the wild men of the world will do when the last Lee Enfield wears out, I can’t imagine; clumsy and old-fashioned it may be, but it will go on shooting straight when all the repeaters are rusty and forgotten.) The little market was an Arabian Nights delight with its interesting Orientals and hot cooking smells and laden stalls—lovely to look at, but hellish to taste—and I have an affectionate memory of a party of Jocks, bonnets pulled down, standing silently by the oasis tank, watching the camels watering, while the drivers and riders regarded the Jocks in turn, both sides quietly observing and noting, and reflecting on the quaint appearance of the foreigners. And for one day a travelling party of what I believe were Touaregs camped beyond the village, a cluster of red tents and cooking fires, and hooded men in black burnouses, with the famous indigo veils tight across their faces and the long swords at their girdles. They made no attempt to speak to us, but a few of them rode up to watch Twelve Platoon drilling outside the gate; they just sat their camels, immovable, until the parade was over, and then turned and rode off. “There’s your real Arabis,” said Sergeant Telfer, and without my telling him he posted four extra sentries that night, one to each wall. He reported what he had done, almost apologetically; like me, he felt that we were playing at Foreign Legionnaires, rather, but still. … Everything was quiet, the natives were friendly, the platoons were hard-worked and happy, and it was a good time to take precautions. We were in the second week of our stay, and there was just the tiniest sense of unease creeping into everyone’s mind. Perhaps it was boredom, or the fact of being cooped up every night in a stronghold—for what? Perhaps it was the desert, hot as a furnace floor during the day, a mystery of silver and shadow and silence by night; as you stood on the parapet and looked out across the empty dunes, you felt very small indeed and helpless, for you were in the presence of something that had seen it all, through countless ages, something huge beside which you were no bigger man an ant. It was a relief to come down the steps to my quarters, and hear the raucous Glasgow patter from the cheerful barrack-room across the square. And still nothing happened—why should it, after all?—until the beginning of the third week, when we started drilling for water. We had lost the first two weeks because of some defective part in the rear-axle drilling mechanism, and a spare had taken time to obtain from Marble Arch. It was a minor inconvenience, for the water-truck came from the coast three times a week, but a well would be a good investment for the future, for the only alternative water-supply was the oasis, and one look at its tank, with camels slurping, infants paddling, horses fertilising, grandmothers washing the family’s smalls, and everyone disposing prodigally of their refuse, suggested that our little blue and yellow purification pills would have had an uphill fight. With the truck fixed, we looked for a likely spot to drill. “We need a diviner,” I said. “One of those chaps with a hazel stick who twitches.” “How about McAuslan?” suggested Keith. “He’s allergic to water; all we have to do is march him up and down till he starts shuddering, and that’s the spot.” Eventually we decided just to drill at random, in various parts of the parade ground, for none of the buildings contained anything that looked remotely like the remains of a well. I tried to remember what I had ever learned of medieval castle or Roman camp lay-out—for Yarhuna’s foundations were undoubtedly Roman—prayed that we wouldn’t disturb any temples of Mithras or Carthaginian relics, and went to it. We drilled in several parts of the square, and hit nothing but fine dry sand and living rock. Not a trace of water. Some of the locals had loafed up to the gate to watch our operations, but they had no helpful suggestions to offer, so at retreat we closed the gates, put away the drilling-truck, and decided to have another shot next day. And that night, for the first time, the ghost of Fort Yarhuna walked. That, at least, was the conclusion reached by Private McAuslan, student of the occult and authority on lonely desert outposts, whose Hollywood-fed imagination could find no other explanation when the facts reached his unwashed ears, as they did next morning. What had happened was this. On the cold watch, the one from 2 to 4 a.m., the sentry on the parapet near the tower had seen, or thought he had seen, a shadowy figure under the tower wall, just along from his sentry beat. He had challenged, received no reply, and on investigating had found—nothing. Puzzled, but putting it down to his imagination, he had resumed his watch, and just before 4 a.m. he had felt—he emphasised the word—someone watching him from the same place. He had turned slowly, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a form, no more, but again the parapet had been empty when he went to look. He raised no alarm at the time, because, with Highland logic, he had decided that since there was nothing there, there was nothing to raise an alarm for, but he had told Sergeant Telfer in the morning, and Telfer told me. I saw him in my office, a tall, fair, steady lad from the Isles, called Macleod. “You didn’t get a good clear sight of anyone?” I said. “No, sir.” “Didn’t hear anyone drop from the parapet, either into the fort or over the wall into the desert?” “No, sir.” “No marks to show anyone had been there?” “No, sir.” “Nothing missing or been disturbed, Sergeant Telfer?” “Nothing, sir.” “Well, then,” I said to Macleod, “it looks like the four o’clock jump—we all know what can happen on stag; you think you see things that aren’t there …” “Yes, sir,” said Macleod, “I’ve had that. I wouldnae swear I saw anything at all, sir.” He paused. “But I felt something.” “You mean something touched you?” “Nat-at-at, sir. I mean I chust felt some-wan thair. Oh, he wass thair, right enough.” It was sweating hot in the office, but I suddenly felt a shiver on my spine, just in the way he said it, because I knew exactly what he meant. Everyone has a sixth sense, to some degree, and most of its warnings are purely imaginary, but when a Highlander, and a Skye man at that, tells you, in a completely matter-of-fact tone, that he has “felt” something, you do not, if you have any sense, dismiss or scoff at it as hallucination. Macleod was a good soldier, and not a nervous or sensational person; ne meant exactly what he said. “A real person—a man?” I said, and he shook his head. “I couldnae say, sir. It wasnae wan of our laads, though; I’m sure about that.” I didn’t ask him why he was sure; he couldn’t have told me. “Well, he doesn’t seem to have done any damage, whoever he was,” I said, and dismissed him. I asked Telfer, who was a crusty, tough Glaswegian with as much spiritual sensitivity as a Clyde boiler, what he thought, and he shrugged. “Seein’ things,” he said. “He’s a good lad, but he’s been starin’ at too much sand.” Which was my own opinion; I’d stood guard often enough to know what tricks the senses could play. But Macleod must have mentioned his experience among his mates, for during the morning, while I was supervising the water-drilling, there came Private Watt to say that he, too, had things to report from the previous night. While on guard above the main gate, round about midnight, he had heard odd sounds at the foot of the wall, outside the fort, and had leaned out through an embrasure, but seen nothing. (Why, as he spoke, did I remember that P.C. Wren story about a sentry in a desert fort leaning out as Watt had done, and being snared by a bolas flung by hostile hands beneath?) But Watt believed it must have been a pi-dog from the village; he wouldn’t have mentioned it, but he had heard about Macleod … I dismissed the thing publicly, but privately I couldn’t help wondering. Watt’s odd noises were nothing in themselves, but considered alongside Macleod’s experience they might add up to—what? One noise, one sand-happy sentry—but sand-happy after only two weeks? And yet Fort Yarhuna was a queer place; it had got to me, a little, in a mysterious way—but then I knew I was devilled with too much imagination, and being the man in charge I was probably slightly jumpier with responsibility than anyone else. I pushed it aside, uneasily, and could have kicked the idiot who must have mentioned the word “ghost” some time that day. That was the word that caught the primitive thought-process of McAuslan, and led him to speculate morbidly on the fate of the graveyard garrison of Fort Zinderneuf, which had held him spellbound in the camp cinema. “It’ll be yin o’ they fellas frae Bo Geesty,” he informed an admiring barrack-room. “He’s deid, but he cannae stay aff parade. Clump-clump, up an’ doon the stair a’ night, wi’ a bullet-hole in the middle o’ his heid. Ah’m tellin’ ye. Hey, Macleod, did your bogle hiv a hole in his heid?” “You’ll have wan in yours, McAuslan, if ye don’t shut upp,” Macleod informed him pleasantly. “No’ that mich will come oot of it, apart from gaass.” My batman, who told me about this exchange, added that the fellas had egged McAuslan on until he, perceiving himself mocked, had gone into sulky silence, warning them that the fate of Bo Geesty would overtake them, an’ then they’d see. Aye. And thereafter it was forgotten about—until the following morning, at about 5 a.m., when Private McLachlan, on guard above the main gate, thought he heard unauthorised movement somewhere down in the parade square and, being a practical man, challenged, and turned out the guard. There were two men fully awake in the gate-guardroom, and one of them, hurrying out in response to McLachlan’s shout, distinctly saw—or thought he distinctly saw—a shadowy figure disappearing into the gloom among the buildings across the square. “Bo Geesty!” was McAuslan’s triumphant verdict, for that side of the square contained the old stables, the company office, and Keith’s and my sleeping-quarters, and not a trace of anyone else was to be found. And Keith, who had been awake and reading, was positive that no one had passed by following McLachlan’s challenge (“Halt-who-goes-there! C’moot, ye b—— o’ hell, Ah see ye!”) It was baffling, and worrying, for no clue presented itself. The obvious explanation was that we were being burgled by some Bedouin expert from the oasis—but if so, he was an uncommon good second-storeyman, who could scale a twenty-foot wall and go back the same way, unseen by sentries (except, possibly, by Macleod), and who didn’t steal anything, for the most thorough check of stores and equipment revealed nothing missing. No, the burglar theory was out. So what remained? A practical joker inside? Impossible; it just wasn’t their style. So we had the inescapable conclusion that it was a coincidence, two men imagining things on successive nights. I chose that line, irascibly examined and dismissed McLachlan and his associates with instructions not to hear or see mysterious figures unless they could lay hands on them, held a square-bashing parade of both platoons to remind everyone that this was a military post and not Borley Rectory, put the crew of the drilling-truck to work again on their quest for a well, and retired to my office, a disquieted subaltern. For as I had watched the water-drill biting into the sand of the square, another thought struck me—a really lunatic idea, which no one in his right mind would entertain. Everything had been quiet in Fort Yarhuna until we started tearing great holes in the ground, and I remembered my hopes that we wouldn’t disturb any historic buried ruin or Mythraic temple or ancient tomb or—anything. You see the train of thought—this was a fort that had been here probably since the days when the surrounding land had been the Garden of Eden—so the Bedouin say, anyway—and ancient places have an aura of their own, especially in the old desert. You don’t disturb them lightly. So many people had been through this fort—Crusaders, barbarians, Romans, Saracens, and so on, leaving something of themselves behind forever, and if you desecrate such a place, who knows what you’ll release? Don’t misunderstand me, I wasn’t imagining that our drilling for water had released a spirit from its tomb deep in the foundations—well, not exactly, not in as many words that I’d have cared to address to anyone, like Keith, for example. That was ludicrous, as I looked out of my office and watched the earthy soldiery grunting and laughing as they refilled yet another dead hole and the truck moved on to try again. The sentry on the gate, Telfer’s voice raised in thunderous rebuke, someone singing in the cookhouse—this was a real, military world, and ghosts were just nonsense. More things in heaven and earth … ex Africa semper aliquid novi … Private McAuslan’s celluloid-inspired fancies … a couple of tired sentries … my own Highland susceptibility to the fey. … I snapped “Tach!” impatiently in the fashion of my MacDonald granny, strode out of my office and showed Private Forbes how to take penalty kicks at the goal which the football enthusiasts had erected near the gate, missed four out of six, and retired grinning amidst ironic cheers, feeling much better. But that evening, after supper, I found myself mounting the narrow stairway to the parapet where the sentries were just going on first stag. It was gloaming, and the desert was taking on that beautiful star-lit sheen under the purple African sky that is so incredibly lovely that it is rather like a coloured postcard in bad taste. The fires and lights were twinkling away down in the village, the last fawn-orange fringe of daylight was dwindling beyond the sand-hills, the last warm wind was touching the parapet, the night stillness was falling on the fort and the shadowy dunes, and Private Brown was humming “Ye do the hokey-cokey and ye turn aroond” as he clattered up the stairway to take his post, rifle in hand. Four sentries, one to each wall—and only my imagination could turn the silhouette of a bonneted Highlander into a helmeted Roman leaning on his hasta, or a burnoused mercenary out of Carthage, or a straight-nosed Greek dreaming of the olive groves under Delphi, or a long-haired savage from the North wrapping his cloak about him against the night air. They had all been here, and they were all long gone—perhaps. And if you smile at the perhaps, wait until you have stood on the wall of a Sahara fort at sundown, watching the shadows lengthen and the silence creep across the sand invisible in the twilight. Then smile. I went down at last, played beggar-my-neighbour with Keith for half an hour, read an old copy of the Tripoli Ghibli for a little while longer, and then turned in. I didn’t drop off easily; I heard the midnight stag change over, and then the two o’clock, and then I must have dozed, for the next thing I remember is waking suddenly, for no good reason, and lying there, lathered in sweat that soaked the clean towel which was our normal night attire, listening. It took a moment to identify it: a cautious scraping noise, as of a giant rat, somewhere outside. It wasn’t any sound I knew, and I couldn’t locate it, but one thing was certain, it hadn’t any business to be going on. I slid out and into my trousers and sandals, and stood listening. My door was open, and I went forward and listened again. There was no doubt of it; the sound was coming from the old stable, about twenty yards to my left, against the east wall. Irregular, but continuous, scrape-scrape. I glanced around; there were sentries visible in the dying moonlight on the catwalks to either side, and straight ahead on the gate-wall; plainly they were too far away to hear. As silently as possible, but not furtively, for I didn’t want the sentries to mistake me, I turned right and walked softly in front of the office, and then cut across the corner of the parade. The sentry on the catwalk overhead stiffened as he caught sight of me, but I waved to him and went on, towards the guardroom. I was sweating as I entered, and I didn’t waste time. “Get Sergeant Telfer, quietly. Tell him to come to the stable, not to make a sound. You three, come with me; you, McNab, up to the parapet, and tell the sentries on no account to fire until I give the word. Move.” Thank God, you don’t have to tell Jocks much when there’s soldiering to do; within five minutes that stable was boxed as tight as a drum—four of us in front of it, in line, crouching down; two riflemen some yards behind, to back up, and two men with torches ready to snap on. The scraping sound was still going on in the stable, quite distinctly, and I thought I could hear someone gasping with exertion. I nodded to Telfer, and he and one of the Jocks crept forward to the stable door, one to each of the heavy leaves; I could see Telfer’s teeth, grinning, and then I snapped—“Now!”, the doors were hauled back, the torches went on—and there they were. Three Arabs, glaring into the torch-light, two of them with shovels, a half-dug hole in the floor—and then they came hurtling out, and I went for the knees of the nearest, and suddenly remembered trying to tackle Jack Ramsay as he came weaving through our three-quarters at Old Anniesland, and how he’d dummied me. This wasn’t Ramsay, though, praise God; he came down with a yelp and a crash, and one of the Jocks completed his ruin by pinning him by the shoulders. I came up, in time to see Telfer and another Jock with a struggling Arab between them, and the third one, who hadn’t even got out of the stable, being submerged by a small knot of Highlanders, one of whom was triumphantly croaking “Bo Geesty!” No doubt of it, McAuslan had his uses when the panic was on. We quieted the captives, after a moment or two, but there wasn’t a word to be got out of them, and nothing to be deduced from their appearance except that they weren’t genuine desert Buddoos, but more probably from the village or some place farther afield. Two of them were in shirts and trousers, and none of them was what you would call a stalwart savage; more like fellaheen, really. I consigned them to the guardroom, ordered a fifty per cent stand-to on the walls, and turned to examine the stable. They had dug a shallow hole, no more, in the middle of the stable, and the reek was appalling. Camel stables are odorous at the best of times, and this one had been accommodating beasts, probably, since Scipio’s day. But we had to see what they’d been after, and since a good officer shouldn’t ask his men to do what he won’t do himself … I was eyeing one of the fallen shovels reluctantly when a voice spoke at my elbow. “Jings!” it said. “Hi, sir, mebbe it’s treasure! Burried treasure!” I wouldn’t have thought McAuslan’s deductive powers that fast, myself, but he explained that there had been treasure in Bo Geesty—“a jool, the Blue Watter, that Bo Geesty pinched aff his aunty, so he did.” From the glittering light in his eye I could see that his powers of identification would shortly lead him to the dream-stage where he was marrying Susan Hayward, so I indicated the shovel and asked him would he like to test his theory. He began digging like a demented Nibelung, choking only occasionally as his shovel released noxious airs, exclaiming “Aw, jeez!” before falling to again with energy. His comrades stood aside as he hurled great lumps of the ordure of centuries from the hole—even for McAuslan, I decided this was too much, and offered to have him spelled, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He entertained us, in gasps as he dug, with a synopsis of the plot of Beau Geste, but I can’t say I paid much attention, for I was getting excited. Whatever the Arabs had been after, it must be something precious—and then his shovel rang, just like the best pirate stories, on something metallic. We had it out in another five minutes, and my mounting hopes of earth-shaking archaeological discovery died as the torches revealed a twentieth-century metal box for mortar bombs—not British, but patently modern. I sent the others out, in case it was full of live ammo., and gingerly prised back the clasps and raised the lid. It was packed to bursting with papers, wedged almost into a solid mass, because the tin had not been proof against its surroundings, and it was with some difficulty that I worked one loose—it was green, and faded, but it was undoubtedly a bank-note. And so were all the rest. They were, according to the Tripoli police inspector who came to examine them next day, pre-war Italian notes, and totally worthless. Which was a pity, since their total face value was well over a hundred million lire; I know, because I was one of the suffering members of the court of inquiry which had to count them, rank, congealed and stinking as they were. As the officer who had found them, I was an obvious candidate for membership of that unhappy court, when we got back to the battalion; I, a Tripoli police lieutenant, a major from the Pay Corps, and a subaltern from the Green Howards, who said that if he caught some contagious disease from this job he was going to sue the War Office. We counted very conscientiously for above five minutes, and then started computing in lumps; the Pay Corps man objected, and we told him to go to hell. He protested that our default of duty would be detected by higher authority, and the Green Howard said that if higher authority was game enough to catch him out by counting this lot note by note, then higher authority was a better man than he was. We settled on a figure of 100,246,718 lire, of which we estimated that 75,413,311 were too defaced to be accepted as currency, supposing the pre-war Italian government were still around to support them. For the rest, the court concluded that the money had been buried by unknown persons from Yarhuna village, after having possibly been looted from the Italian garrison who had occupied the fort early in the war. The money had lain untouched until water-drilling operations, conducted by Lieutenant D. MacNeill, had alarmed the villagers, who might have supposed that their treasure was being sought, they being unaware that it was now quite worthless. Hence their attempts to enter the fort nocturnally on at least three occasions to remove their hoard, on the last of which they had been detected and apprehended. It was difficult to see, the court added, that proceedings could justifiably be taken against the three captured Arabs, and their release was recommended. Just for spite we also consigned the notes themselves to the care of the provost marshal, who was the pompous ass who had convened the court in the first place, and signed the report solemnly. “Serve him right,” grunted the Green Howard. “Let him keep them, and press ’em between the leaves of his confidential reports. Or burn ’em, if he’s got any sense. What, you’re not taking one of them, are you?—don’t be mad, you’ll catch the plague.” “Souvenir,” I said. “Don’t worry, the man it’s going to is plague-proof.” And when I handed it over, with a suggestion that it should be disinfected in a strong solution of carbolic, McAuslan was enraptured. “Och, ta, sir,” he said, “that’s awfy decent of ye.” “Not a bit; you’re welcome if you want it. You dug it up. But it’s worthless, mind; it won’t buy anything.” He looked shocked, as though I had suggested an indecency. “Ah widnae spend it,” he protested. “Ah’ll tak’ it hame, for a souvenir. Nice to have, like—ye know, tae mind us of bein’ inna desert.” He went slightly pink. “The fellas think Ah’m daft, but Ah liked bein’ inna fort—like inna Foreign Legion, like Gairy Cooper.” “You’ve been in the desert before, though. You were in the 51st, weren’t you—Alamein and so on?” “Aye, so Ah wis.” He sniffed thoughtfully, and rubbed his grimy nose. “But the fort wis different.” So it was, but I didn’t quite share his happy memories. As a platoon commander, I was painfully aware that it was the place where Arabs had three times got past my sentries by night. One up to them, one down to us. I was slightly cheered up when—and this is fact, as reported in the local press—a week later, the warehouse where the provost marshal had deposited his noisome cache was broken into by night, and the caseful of useless lire removed. There was much speculation where it had gone. I can guess. Those persistent desert gentlemen probably have it down in Yarhuna village to this day, and being simple men in some things, if not in breaking and entering, they doubtless still believe that it is a valuable nest-egg for their community. I don’t know who garrisons Fort Yarhuna now—the Libyans, I suppose—but if there’s one thing I’d bet on, it is that when the military move out again, shadowy figures will move in under the old carved gate by night, and put the loot back in a nice safe place. And who is to question their judgement? Fort Yarhuna will still be there a thousand years after the strongest banks of Europe and America have passed into ruins. Johnnie Cope in the Morning (#ulink_f309984d-cf4f-5d74-b530-f774e71047c6) When I was a very young soldier, doing my recruit training in a snowbound wartime camp in Durham, there was a villainous orderly sergeant who used to get us up in the mornings. He would sneak silently into our hut at 5.30 a.m., where we were frowsting in our coarse blankets against the bitter cold of the room, suddenly snap on all the lights, and start beating the coal-bucket with the poker. At the same time two of his minions would rush from bunk to bunk screaming: “Wake-eye! Wake-eye! I can see yer! Gerrup! Gerrup! Gerrup!” And the orderly sergeant, a creature devoid of pity and any decent feeling, would continue his hellish metallic hammering while he shouted: “Getcher cold feet on the warm floor! Har-har!” and sundry obscenities of his own invention. Then all three would retire, rejoicing coarsely, leaving behind them thirty-six recruits suffering from nervous prostration, to say nothing of ringing in the ears. But it certainly woke us up, and as I did my first early morning fatigue, which consisted of dragging a six-foot wooden table-top down to the ablutions and scrubbing it with cold water, I used to contrast my own miserable lot with that of his late majesty Louis XIV of France, whose attendants used a very different technique to dig him out of his scratcher. As I recalled, a valet in velvet-soled shoes used to creep into the royal bedchamber at a fairly civilised hour, softly draw back the curtains a little way, and then whisper: “It is my humble duty and profound honour to inform your majesty that it is eight-thirty of the clock.” That, now, is the way to break the bad news, and afterwards the body of majesty was more or less lifted out of bed by a posse of princes of the blood who washed, fed, watered and dressed him in front of the fire. No wooden tables to scrub for young Louis. And as I wrestled with my brush in the freezing water, barking my knuckles and turning blue all over, I used to have daydreams in which that fiend of an orderly sergeant was transported back in time to old Versailles, where he would clump into the Sun-King’s bedroom in tackety boots at 5.30, guffawing obscenely, thrashing the fire-irons against the fender, and bawling: “Levez-vous donc, Jean Crapaud! Wake-eye, wake-eye! Getcher froid pieds on the chaud terre! I can see yer, you frog-eating chancer! Har-har!” While I concede that this kind of awakening could have done Louis XIV nothing but good, and possibly averted the French Revolution, the whole point of the daydream was that the orderly sergeant would undoubtedly be flung into an oubliette in the Bastille for l?Gse majest?, there to rot with his red sash and copy of King’s Regulations, while virtuous recruits in the twentieth century drowsed on until the late forenoon. And while I stood mentally picturing this happy state of affairs, and sponging the icy water off the table-top with the flat of my hand, the sadistic brute would sneak into the ablutions and turn the cold hose on us, screaming: “Two minnits to gerron rifle parade, you ’orrible shower! Har-har! Mooo-ve or I’ll blitz yer!” I wonder that we survived that recruit training, I really do. You may suppose that that orderly sergeant’s method of intimating reveille was as refined a piece of mental cruelty as even a military mind could devise, and I daresay if I hadn’t later been commissioned into a Highland regiment I would agree. But in fact, there I discovered something worse, and it used to happen once a week, regularly on Friday mornings. In nightmares I can hear it still. On the other six days of the week reveille was sounded in the conventional way at six, by a bugler on the distant square playing the famous “Charlie, Charlie, get out of bed”. If you were a pampered brute of an officer, you used to turn over, mumbling happily, and at six-thirty your orderly would come in with a mug of tea, open the shutters, lay out your kit, and give you the news of the day while you drank, smoked, and coughed contentedly. But on Fridays it was very different. Then the duty of sounding reveille devolved on the battalion’s pipes and drums, who were bound to march round the entire barrack area, playing full blast. The trouble was, in a spirit of schadenfreud comparable with that of the Durham orderly sergeant’s, they used to assemble in dead silence immediately outside the junior subalterns’ quarters, inflate their beastly bags without so much as a warning sigh, poise their drum-sticks without the suspicion of a click, and then, at a signal from that godforsaken demented little kelpie of a pipe-sergeant, burst thunderously into the squealing cacophony and ear-splitting drum rolls of “Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin’ yet?” Now, “Johnnie Cope” is one of the most magnificent sounds ever to issue from musical instruments. It is the Highlanders’ war clarion, the tune that is played before battle, the wild music that is supposed to quicken the blood of the mountain man and freeze the foe in his tracks. It commemorates the day two and a quarter centuries ago when the broadswords came whirling out of the mist at Prestonpans to fall on Major-General John Cope’s redcoats and cut them to ribbons in something under five minutes. I once watched the Seaforths go in behind it against a Japanese-held village, and saw for the first time that phenomenon which you can’t really appreciate until you have seen it—the unbelievable speed with which Highland troops can accelerate a slow, almost leisurely advance into an all-out charge. And I’ve heard it at military funerals, after “Lovat’s Lament” or “Flowers of the Forest”, and never failed to be moved by it. Well played, it is a savage, wonderful sound, unlike any other pipe march—this, probably, because it doesn’t truly belong to the Army, but to the fighting tails of the old clansmen before the government had the sense to get them into uniforms. But whatever it does, for the Jocks or to the enemy, at the proper time and occasion, its effect at 6 a.m. on a refined and highly-strung subaltern who is dreaming of Rita Hayworth is devastating. The first time I got it, full blast at a range of six feet or so, through a thin shutter, with twenty pipers tearing their lungs out and a dozen side-drums crashing into the thunderous rhythm, I came out of bed like a galvanised ferret, blankets and all, under the impression that the Jocks had Risen, or that the MacLeods were coming to settle things with me and my kinsfolk at long last. My room-mate, a cultured youth of nervous disposition, shot bolt upright from his pillow with a wordless scream, and sat gibbering that the Yanks had dropped the Bomb, and, as usual, in the wrong place. For a few deafening moments we just absorbed it, with the furniture shuddering and the whole room in apparent danger of collapse, and then I flung open the shutters and rebuked the musicians, who were counter-marching outside. Well, you try arguing with a pipe-band some time, and see what it gets you. And you cannot, if you are a young officer with any notions of dignity, hie yourself out in pyjamas and bandy words with a towering drum-major, and him resplendent in leopard skin and white spats, at that hour in the morning. So we had to endure it, while they regaled us with “The White Cockade” and the “Braes of Mar”, before marching off to the strains of “Highland Laddie”, and my room-mate said it had done something to his inner ear, and he doubted if he would ever be able to stand on one leg or ride a bicycle again. “They can’t do that to us!” he bleated, holding his nose and blowing out his cheeks in an effort to restore his shattered ear-drums. “We’re officers, dammit!” That, as I explained to him, was the point. Plainly what we had just suffered was a piece of insubordinate torture devised to remind us that we were pathetic little one-pippers and less than the dust beneath the pipe-band’s wheels, but I knew that if we were wise we would just grin and bear it. A newly-joined second-lieutenant is, to some extent, fair game. Properly speaking, he has power and dominion over all warrant officers, N.C.O.s and private men, including pipe- and drum-majors, but he had better go cannily in exercising it. He certainly shouldn’t start by locking horns with such a venerable and privileged institution as a Highland regimental pipe band. “You mean we’ll have to put up with that … that infernal caterwauling every Friday morning?” he cried, massaging his head. “I can’t take it! Heavens, man, I play the piano; I can’t afford to be rendered tone-deaf. Look what happened to Beethoven. Anyway, it’s … it’s insubordination, calculated and deliberate. I’m going to complain.” “You’re not,” I said. “You’ll get no sympathy, and it’ll only make things worse. Did complaining do Beethoven any good? Just stick your head under the pillow next time, and pretend it’s all in the mind.” I soothed him eventually, saw that he got lots of hot, sweet tea (this being the Army’s panacea for everything except a stomach wound) and convinced him that we shouldn’t say anything about it. This, we discovered, was the attitude of the other subalterns who shared our long bungalow block—which was situated at some distance from the older officers’ quarters. Complain, they said, and our superiors would just laugh callously and say it did us good; anyway, for newcomers to a Highland unit to start beefing about the pipe band would probably be some kind of mortal insult. So every Friday morning, with our alarms set at five to six, we just gritted our teeth and waited with towels round our heads, and grimly endured that sudden, appalling blast of sound. Indeed, I developed my own form of retaliation, which was to rise before six, take my ground-sheet and a book out on to the patch of close-cropped weed which passed in North Africa for a lawn, and lie there apparently immersed while the pipe band rendered “Johnnie Cope” with all the stops out a few yards away. When they marched off to wake the rest of the battalion I noticed the pipe-sergeant break ranks, and come over towards me with his pipes under his arm. He was a small, bright-eyed, elfin man whose agility as a Highland dancer was legendary; indeed, my only previous contacts with him had been at twice-weekly morning dancing parades, at which he taught us younger officers the mysteries of the Highland Fling and foursome reel, skipping among us like a new-roused fawn, crying “one-two-three” and comparing our lumbering efforts to the soaring of golden eagles over Grampian peaks. If that was how he saw us, good luck to him. “Good morning to you, sir,” he said, with his head cocked on one side. “Did you enjoy our wee reveille this morning?” “Fairly well, thanks, pipey,” I said, and closed my book. “A bit patchy here and there, I thought. Some hesitation in the warblers—” I didn’t know what a warbler was, except that it was some kind of noise you made on the pipes “—and a bum note every now and then. Otherwise, not bad.” “Not—bad?” He went pale, and then pink, and finally said, with Highland archness: “Would you be a piper yoursel’, sir, perhaps?” “Not a note,” I said. “But I’ve heard ‘Johnnie Cope’ played by Foden’s Motor Works Brass Band.” For a moment I thought he was going to burst, and then he began to grin, and then to laugh, shaking his head. “By George,” said he. “A brass band, hey? Stop you, and I’ll use that on Pipe-Major Macdonald, the next time he starts bumming his chat. No’ bad, no’ bad. And does the ither subalterns enjoy oor serenade?” “I doubt if they’ve got my ear for music, pipey. Most of them probably think that if you played ‘Too Long in this Condition’ it would be more appropriate.” He opened his eyes at that. “Too Long in this Condition” is a pibroch, long and weird and full of allusions to the MacCrimmons, and not the kind of thing that ignorant subalterns are expected to know about. “Aye-aye, weel,” he said, smiling. “And you’re Mr MacNeill, aren’t you? D Company, if I remember. Ah-huh. Chust so.” He regarded me brightly, nodded, and turned away. “Look in at the office sometime, Mr MacNeill, if you have the inclination. Chust when you’re passing, you understand.” And that small conversation was a step forward—a bigger one, really, than playing for the company football team, or getting my second pip as a full lieutenant, or even crossing the undefined line of acceptance by my own platoon—which I did quite unintentionally one night by losing my temper and slinging a mutinous Jock physically out of the canteen, in defiance of all common sense, military discipline, and officer-like conduct. For the pipey and I were friends from that morning on, and it is no small thing to be friends with a pipe-sergeant when you are trying to find your nervous feet in a Highland regiment. He was in fact subordinate to the pipe-major and the drum-major, who were the executive heads of the band, but in his way he carried more weight than either of them. He was the musician, the authority on air and march and pibroch, the arbiter when it came to any question of quality in music or dancing. Years at his trade had left him with a curious deformity in which the facial muscles had given way on one side, so that when he blew, his cheek expanded like a balloon—an unnerving sight until you got used to it. He had enormous energy, both in movement and conversation, and was never still, buzzing about like a small tartan wasp, as when he was instructing young pipers in the finer points of their art. “God be kind to me!” he would exclaim, leaping nervously round some perspiring youth who was going red in the face over the intricacies of “Wha’ll be King but Cherlie”. “You’re not plowing up a pluidy palloon, Wilson! You’re summoning the clans for the destruction of the damned Hanovers, aren’t you? Your music is charming the claymore out of the thatch and the dirk from the peat, so it is! Now, tuck it into your oxter and wake the hills with your challenge! Away you go!” And the piper would squint, red-faced, and send his ear-splitting notes echoing off the band-room walls, very creditably, it seemed to me, and the pipey would call on the shades of the great MacCrimmon and Robin Oig to witness the defilement of their heritage. “It’s enuff to make the Celtic aura of my blood turn to effluent!” was one of his more memorable observations. “It’s a gathering of fighting men you’re meant to be inspiring, boy! The noise you’re makin’ wouldnae collect a parcel of Caithness tinkers. You’ll be swinging it, next! Uplift yourself, Wilson! Mind, it’s not bobby-soxers you’re tryin’ to attract, it’s the men of might from the ends of the mountains, with their bonnets down and their shoes kicked off for the charge. And again—give your bags a heeze and imagine you’re sclimming up the Heights of Abraham with Young Simon’s caterans at your back and the French in front of you, not puffing and wheezing oot some American abomination at half-time at a futball match!” And eventually, when it had been played to his satisfaction he would beam, and cry: “There! There’s Wilson the Piper, waking the echoes in majesty before the face of kings, and the Chermans aall running away. Now, put up your pipes, and faall oot before you spoil it.” This was his enclosed, jealously-guarded world; he had known nothing else since his boy service—except, as he said himself, “a wee bitty war”. Pipers, unlike most military bandsmen, tend to be fighting soldiers; in one Highland unit which I visited in Borneo only a few years ago, the band claimed to have accounted for more Communist terrorists than any of the rifle companies. And in peacetime they were privileged people, with their own little family inside the regiment itself, and the pipey presided over his domain of chanters and reeds and dirks and rehearsals and dancing, and kept a bright eye cocked at the battalion generally, to make sure that tradition was observed and custom honoured, and that there was no falling off in what he would describe vaguely as “Caledonia”. If he hadn’t been such a decent wee man, he would undoubtedly have been a “professional Highlander” of the most offensive kind. The only time anyone ever saw the pipe-sergeant anything but thoroughly self-assured and bursting with musical confidence was once every two months or so, when he would produce a new pipe-tune of his own composition, and submit it, in a state bordering on nervous hysteria, to the Colonel, with a request that it might be included in the next beating of Retreat. “Which one is it this time, pipey?” the Colonel would ask. “ ‘The Mist-Covered Streets of Aberdeen’ or ‘The 92nd’s Farewell to Hogg Market, Calcutta’?” The pipey would scowl horribly, and then hurriedly arrange his face in what he supposed was a sycophantic grin, and say: “Ach, you’re aye joshing, Colonel, sir. It’s jist a wee thing that I thought of entitling ‘Captain Lachlan Chisholm’s Fancy’, in honour of our medical officer. It has a certain … och, a captivatin’ sense of the bens and the glens and the heroes, sir—a kind of … eh … miasma, as it were—at least, I think so.” “Does it sound like a pipe-tune?” the Colonel would ask. “If so, by all means play it. I’m sure it will be perfectly splendid.” And at Retreat, with the pipey in a frenzy of excitement, the band would perform, and afterwards the pipey would approach the Colonel and inquire: “How did you like ‘Captain Lachlan Chisholm’s Fancy’, Colonel, sir?” And the Colonel, leaning on his cromach, would say: “Which one was that?” “The second last, sir—before ‘Cock o’ the North’.” “Oh, that one. But that was ‘Bonnie Dundee’, surely? At least, it sounded like ‘Bonnie Dundee’. Come to think of it, pipey, your last composition—what was it?—‘The Unloading of the 75th at Colaba Causeway’, or something—it sounded terribly like ‘Highland Laddie’. Of course, I haven’t got your musical ear …” “And he can say that again, and a third time in Gaelic,” the pipey would rage in the band-room afterwards. “God preserve us from a commanding officer that has no more music than a Border Leicester ewe! ‘The Unloading of the 75th’, says he—dam’ cheek, when fine he knows it was caalled ’The Wild Green Hills of—of—of—ach, where the hell was it, now …” “Gorbals Cross,” the pipe-major would suggest. “No such thing! And, curse him, he says my composeetions sound like ‘Bonnie Dundee’ and ‘Highland Laddie’, as if I wass some penny-whistle street-musician hawkin’ my tinny for coppers along Union Street. Stop you, and I’ll fix his duff wan o’ these days. I’ll write a jazz tune, and get it called ‘Colonel J. G. F. Gordon’s Delight’, and have it played in aall the dance-halls! He’ll be sorry then!” And yet, there was no one in the battalion who knew the Colonel better than the pipey did, or was more expert in dealing with that tough, formidable, wise old commanding officer. The truth was that in some things, especially his love for his regiment, the wily Colonel could be surprisingly innocent, and the pipey knew just where and when to touch the hidden nerve. As in the case of Private Crombie, which would have sent our modern Race Relations Board into screaming fits of indignation. He was in my platoon, one of a draft which joined the battalion from the Liverpool Scottish. They were fascinating in their way—men with names like MacGregor and Cameron and MacPherson, and all with Scouse accents you could have cut with a knife. Genuine Liverpool Scots, in fact, sons and grandsons of men who had settled on Merseyside, totally Lancashire in everything but name and race. But even among them, Private Crombie stood out as something special. He was what used to be called a Negro. Which would not have mattered in the least, but he also happened to be a piper. And when he marched into company office about three days after he joined, and asked if he could apply to join the battalion pipes and drums, I confess it came as a shock. No doubt it was all the fault of my bad upbringing, or the dreadful climate of the 1940s, but my immediate (unspoken) reaction was: we can’t have him marching in the pipe-band, out in the open with everyone looking. We just can’t. I maintain that this was not what is called race prejudice, or application of the colour bar. It was, as it appeared to me, a sense of fitness. If he had been eight feet tall, or three feet short, I’d have thought the same thing—simply, that he would have looked out of place in a Highland regimental pipe-band. But that, obviously, was something that could not be said. I asked him what his qualifications were. He had those, all right. His father had taught him the pipes—which side of his family was black and which white, if either was, I never discovered. He had some sort of proficiency certificate, too, which he laid on my desk. He was a nice lad, and painfully keen to join the band, so I did exactly what I would have done in anyone else’s case, and said I would forward his application to the pipe-major; my own approval and the company commander’s went without saying, because it was understood that the band, or any other specialist department, got first crack at a qualified man. He marched out, apparently well pleased, Sergeant Telfer and I looked at each other, said “Aye” simultaneously, and awaited developments. What happened was that the pipe-major was on weekend leave, so Crombie appeared for examination before the pipe-sergeant, who concealed whatever emotion he felt, and asked him to play. “I swear to God, Mr MacNeill,” he told me an hour later, “I hoped he would make a hash of it. Maybe I was wrong to think that, for the poor lad cannae help bein’ a nigger, but I thought … well, if he’s a bauchle I’ll be able to turn him doon wi’ a clear conscience. Weel, I’m punished for it, because I cannae. He’s a good piper.” He looked me in the eye across the table, and repeated: “He’s a good piper.” “So, what’ll you do?” “I’ll have to tell the pipe-major he’s fit for admeession. He’s fitter than half the probationers I’ve got, and that’s the truth. I chust wish to God he was white—or no’ so black, anyway.” Remember that this was almost thirty years ago, and there have been many changes since then. Also remember that Highland regiments, being strongly national institutions, are sensitive as to their composition (hence the old music-hall joke on the lines of: “ ‘Issacstein?’ ‘Present, sir’. ‘O’Flaherty?’ ‘Present, sir’. Woinarowski?’ ‘Present, sir’. Right—Cameron Highlanders present and correct, sir.’ ”) Carefully, I asked: “Does his colour matter?” “You tell me, sir. What’ll folk think, if they see our pipe-band some day, on Princes Street, and him as black as the ace o’ spades, oot front, in a kilt and bunnet, blawin’ away?” I could pretend that I rejected this indignantly, like a properly enlightened liberal, but I didn’t. I saw his point, and I’d have been a hypocrite if I’d tried to dismiss it out of hand. Anyway, there were more practical matters to consider. What would the pipe-major say? What, if it came to that—and it would—would the Colonel say? The pipe-major, returning on Monday, was in no doubts. He wasn’t having a black piper, not if the man was the greatest gift to music that God ever made. The pipey, genuinely distressed, for he was torn between his sense of fitness on the one hand, and an admiration for Crombie’s ability on the other, asked the pipe-major to give the lad an audition. The pipe-major, who didn’t want to be seen to be operating a colour bar, conceived that here was a way out. He listened to Crombie, told him to fall out—and then made the mistake of telling the pipe-sergeant he didn’t think the boy was good enough. That did it. “No’ good enough!” The pipey literally danced in front of my table. “Tellin’ me, that’s been pipin’—aye, and before royalty, too, Balmoral and all—since before Pipe-Major MacDonald had enough wind to belch oot his mither’s milk, that my judgement is at fault! By chings, we’ve lived tae see the day, haven’t we chust! No’ good enough! I’m tellin’ you, Mr MacNeill, that young Crombie iss a piper! And that’s that. And fine I know MacDonald iss chust dead set against the poor loon because he’s as black as my boot! And from a MacDonald, too,” he went on, in a fine indignant irrelevance, “ass if the MacDonalds had anything to hold up their heids aboot—a shower of Argyllshire wogs is what they are! And anither—” “Hold on, pipey,” I said. “Pipe-Major MacDonald is just taking the line you took yourself—what’s it going to look like, and what will people think?” “Beside the point, sir! I’m no’ havin’ it said that I cannae tell a good piper when I hear one. That boy’s good enough for the band, and so I’ll tell the Colonel himself!” And he did, in the presence of Pipe-Major MacDonald, myself (as Crombie’s platoon commander), the second-in-command (as chief technical adviser), the Regimental Sergeant-Major (as leading authority on precedent and tradition), and the Adjutant (as one who wasn’t going to be left out of such a splendid crisis and scandal). And the pipe-major, who had the courage of his convictions, repeated flatly that he didn’t think Crombie was good enough, and also that he didn’t want a black man in his band, “for the look of the thing”. But, being a MacDonald, which is something a shade craftier than a Borgia, he added: “But I’m perfectly happy to abide by your decision, sir.” The Colonel, who had seen through the whole question and back again in the first two minutes, looked from the pipe-major to the pipey, twisted his greying moustache, and remarked that he took the pipe-major’s point. He (the Colonel) had never seen a white man included in a troop of Zulu dancers, and he’d have thought it looked damned odd if he had. The Adjutant, who had a happy knack of being contentious, observed that, on the other hand, he’d never heard of a white chap who wanted to join a troop of Zulu dancers, and would they necessarily turn him down if one (a white chap, that was) applied for membership? The Colonel observed that he, the Colonel, wasn’t a bloody Zulu, so he wasn’t in a position to say. The second-in-command remarked that the Gurkhas had pipe bands; damned good they were, too. The Colonel looked at the R.S.M. “Mr Mackintosh?” This, I thought, would be interesting. In those days few R.S.M.s had university degrees, or much education beyond elementary school, but long experience, and what you can only call depth of character, had given them considerable judicial wisdom; if I were on trial for murder, I’d as soon have R.S.M. Mackintosh on the bench as any judge in the land. He stood thoughtful for a moment, six and a quarter feet of kilted, polished splendour, and then inclined his head with massive dignity towards the Colonel. “It seems to me, sir,” he said carefully, “that we have a difference of expert opeenion. The pipe-sergeant holds that this soldier is a competent piper; the pipe-major considers he is not. But, not bein’ an expert mysel’, I don’t know what standard is required of a probationary piper?” And he looked straight at the pipe-major, who frowned. “The boy’s no’ that bad,” he conceded. “But … but he’ll look gey queer on parade, sir.” The second-in-command said that you couldn’t put a square peg in a round hole. Not unless you forced it, anyway, in his experience. The Adjutant said someone would be sure to make a joke about the Black Watch. Which, since we weren’t the Black Watch, would be rather pointless, of course, but still … The Colonel said the Adjutant could stop talking rot, and get back to the point, which was whether Crombie was or was not a fit and proper person to be admitted to the pipe band. It seemed to the Colonel that, in spite of the pipe-major’s reservations about his proficiency, there was no reason why Crombie couldn’t achieve a satisfactory standard … The second-in-command said that many black chaps were, in point of fact, extremely musical. Chap Armstrong, for example. Not that the second-in-command was particularly partial to that kind of music. The Adjutant opened his mouth, thought better of it, and the Colonel went on to say that it wasn’t a man’s fault what colour his skin was; on the other hand, it wasn’t anyone’s fault that a pipe band was expected to present a certain appearance. There he paused, and then the pipe-sergeant, who had held his peace until the time was ripe, said: “Aye, right enough. Folk would laugh at us.” The Colonel, without thinking, said stiffly: “Oh? Who?” “Oh … folk, sir,” said the pipey. “People … and ither regiments … might …” The Colonel looked at him, carefully, and you could see that the die was cast. It wasn’t that the Colonel could be kidded by the pipey; he wasn’t the kind of simpleton who would say “Damn what other people and other regiments think, Crombie is going to play in the pipe band, and that’s that.” But if he now made the opposite decision, he might be thought to be admitting that perhaps he did care what other people thought. It was a very nice point, in a delicately balanced question, the pipey had just made it a little more tricky for him, and both the Colonel and the pipey knew it. “Mr Mackintosh?” said the Colonel at length, and everyone knew he was looking for confirmation. He got it. “The pipe-major, sir, describes Crombie as nott bad,” said the R.S.M. slowly. “The pipe-sergeant says he is good. So I take it he can qualify as a probationary piper. That bein’ so—we’ve taken him as a soldier. Whatever work he’s suited for, he should be given. If he’s fit to march in a rifle company, I’m poseetive he’s fit to march in the pipes and drums.” And again he looked at the pipe-major. “Good,” said the Colonel, and because he was an honest man he added: “I’m relieved. I’d not have cared to be the man who told Crombie the band couldn’t take him. I’ve no doubt he knows exactly how good a piper he is.” And Crombie played in the pipe-band—having been admitted for all the wrong reasons, no doubt. I’m perfectly certain that the Colonel, the pipe-major, and the pipe-sergeant (in his own perverse way) wished that he just wasn’t there, because he did look odd, in that day and age, and there’s no use pretending he didn’t. Although, as the second-in-command remarked, some people probably thought that a pipe-band looked a pretty odd thing in the first place; some people thought it sounded odd, too—not as odd as those bands one saw at the cinema, though, with the chap Armstrong and fellows called Duke and Earl something-or-other. Probably not titled men at all, he suspected. Personally, I was glad about Crombie. It wasn’t just that I felt the same way as the R.S.M. (that deep and mysterious man), but that I could see that Crombie loved what he was doing, and was good at it. And when I review my memories of that pipe-band now, thirty years on, I don’t think of Crombie at all, which probably proves something. Mention “pipers” to me, and my immediate recollection is of “Johnnie Cope”, and the way they used to batter our ear-drums on a Friday at dawn. Incidentally, that peculiar little bit of subaltern-baiting came to an abrupt end, thanks to the cunning of Lieutenant Mackenzie, in a week when I was out on detachment. It seems that the Colonel stayed late in the mess one Thursday night, his wife being away in Cairo, and yarned on with the subalterns in the ante-room until after two in the morning. And being too tired to make the two-mile drive home to the married quarters, he accepted the suggestion of Mackenzie that he stay over for the night—in a vacant room in the subalterns’ quarters. So the Colonel borrowed a pair of pyjamas and burrowed in for the night, remarking cheerfully that he hoped he’d sleep as soundly as he used to do when he, too, was a one-pipper with not a care in the world. “And he did, too—until precisely 6 a.m.,” Mackenzie informed me later. “And then the pipey and his gang sneaked up, as usual, and took deep breaths, and started blowing the bloody roof off, right outside the old boy’s kip. I’ve never,” Mackenzie went on contentedly, “actually seen a hungry vulture with a firecracker tied to its leg. And, brother, I don’t need to. He came out of that room like Krakatoa erupting, fangs bared and blood in his eye. I’d no idea the old man could shift like that. And I’ll bet you’ve never seen an entire pipe band in full flight, either—not just retreating, but running like hell, and somebody with his foot through the big drum. If the Colonel hadn’t been in bare feet, he’d have caught someone, and there’d have been murder done. Anyway, when the smoke had cleared, he was understood to say that the pipe-band could henceforth sound ‘Johnnie Cope’ on the other side of the barracks, round Support Company, and if they ever set foot within two hundred yards of any officers’ quarters again, he, personally, would reorganise them in several unusual ways. This is an edited version, of course. And that,” concluded Mackenzie smugly, “is the pipey’s eye on a plate. Thank your clever old Kenny. We’ll sleep in peace on Fridays after this.” Strangely enough, we didn’t. Probably we were suffering from withdrawal symptoms, but Friday reveille, with only the distant drift of the band, found us fractious and peevish. Even my room-mate said he missed it, rather; he liked the bit where the drummers crashed out their tattoo at the beginning, it made him feel all martial, he said. We didn’t actually go the length of asking the band to come back, but there was no doubt of it, Friday wasn’t the same any more. The only time I heard them beat reveille outside the subalterns’ quarters again was a long time after, when we had moved back to Edinburgh, and the old Colonel had gone. It was on my last Friday in the Army, just before I was demobilised, and I like to think it was the pipey’s farewell gift. It had all the old effect—I finished up against the far wall, thrashing feebly in a state of shock, while “Johnnie Cope” came thundering in like a broadside. I had a new room-mate by this time, a stranger to the battalion, and when he could make himself heard he announced his intention—he was a large, aggressive young man—of going out and putting an immediate stop to it. “Don’t you dare,” I shouted above the din. “Let them alone. And think yourself privileged.” Nowadays, in middle age, I’m accustomed to waking up in the ordinary way, with a slightly fuzzy feeling, and a vague discontent, and my old broken shoulder aching, and twinges in my calves and ankles. And sometimes, if my thoughts turn that way, I can think smugly that one of the compensations nowadays is that there are no tables to scrub, or men of ill-will hitting the coal-bucket with the poker, or hounding me out into the ablutions through the snow—and then I feel sad, because never again will I hear “Johnnie Cope” in the morning. General Knowledge, Private Information (#ulink_ca080b1c-63f2-51f3-88b8-6c184922bf45) All my life I have been plagued by a marvellous memory for totally useless information. Probably no other human being now alive could tell you (or would want to, for that matter), all in one breath, that the woman in whose coal cellar Guy Fawkes hid his explosives was called Mrs Bright, that Casanova, Charlemagne, and Hans Andersen were all born on 2 April, and that Schopenhauer couldn’t abide carters cracking whips beneath his bedroom window. And add, for good measure, the names of the Oxford batsmen who succumbed to Cobden’s devastating hat-trick in the University match of 1870. You get no marks for knowing these things, as people were always telling me at school. Other children knew the subjunctive of moneo, and exactly where to drop the perpendicular in Pythagoras, how to dissect an adverbial clause (I didn’t even know what an adverb was, and don’t push me even now), and how to do volumetric analysis. They absorbed these matters without difficulty, and poured them out on to paper at examinations, while I sat pathetically, having scrawled my name, and the number “1” in the margin, wondering if the examiners would allow me anything for knowing that the ice-cream Chico Marx sold in A Day at the Races was “tutsi-fruitsi”, and that there was an eighteenth-century buccaneer who became Archbishop of York, that the names of the Bounty’s quartermasters were Norton and Lenkletter, or that Martin Luther suffered from piles. It wasn’t even respectable general knowledge, and heaven knows I tried to forget it, along with the identities of the playing cards in Wild Bill Hickok’s hand when he was shot, the colours of all the football teams in the old Third Division (Northern Section), and the phrase for “Do you surrender?” in the language which Tarzan spoke to the apes. But it still won’t go away. And an exhaustive knowledge of utter rubbish is not a social asset (ask anyone who has been trapped next to me at a party) or of more than limited use in keeping up with a television quiz show. Mr Gascoigne’s alert, glittering-eyed young men, bristling with education, jab at their buzzers and rattle out streams of information on Sumerian architecture and Gregorian music and the love poetry of John Donne while I am heaving about in my armchair with my mouth full, knocking over teacups and babbling frantically: “Wait, wait!—King’s Evil! No, no, dammit—the other thing that Shelley’s nurse died of—didn’t she?—No, wait—Dr Johnson—or Lazarus—or, or what’s his name?—in that play—not bloody Moli$eGre!—hang on, it’s coming! The … the other one—with the drunk grandee who thinks he’s somebody’s father …” And by then they are on to Hindemith or equestrian statues at Sinigaglia. It is no consolation to be able to sit growling jealously that there isn’t one of them who could say who it was that Captain Kidd hit over the head with a bucket, or what it was that Claude Rains dropped into a wastepaper basket in the film Casablanca—and then memory of a different kind takes hold, and I am back in the tense and smoky atmosphere of the Uaddan Canteen, sweating heavily on the platform with the other contestants, and not a murmur from the Jocks and Fusiliers packed breathlessly waiting in the body of the hall, with a two-pound box of Turkish Delight and the credit of the regiment to play for, as the question-master adjusts his spectacles, fixes me with a malevolent smile, and asks: Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/george-fraser/mcauslan-in-the-rough/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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