Leon Uris (43 page)

Chris removed his brother’s unwanted hands from him. “Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,” he said. “Let Jesus and Mary take care of their souls. I want their obedience, their unstinting obedience.”

Rory came to attention before a long table covered by green felt behind which a Captain Ellsworth was seated, flanked by Jeremy Hubble and Johnny Tarbox.

“Private Rory Landers reporting.”

“I’m Captain Ellsworth. Please have a seat.”

“And I am Lieutenant Hubble,” Jeremy said extending his hand. “I believe you know Serjeant Major Tarbox.”

“Yes, sir.”

“According to the questionnaire you filled out aboard ship, you may have some special qualifications for us,” Jeremy said.

“Certainly hope so, sir.”

“I’m to be in charge of a small gaffer unit,” Jeremy continued.

“Gaffer, sir?”

“It’s a Johnny-on-the-spot squad, problem solvers, men with various expertise. We are in need of an updated and simplified transportation manual.”

“You may have the wrong man, sir. I don’t know anything about military transport.”

“Mules, mule transport,” Jeremy said.

“May I ask the Lieutenant a question?” Rory asked.

“Certainly, and please consider this to be informal chitchat.”

“We are horse cavalry?”

“Indeed, horse cavalry,” Jeremy lied. “Appears that we may be fighting in some dicey terrain and command feels that mules will be better suited to pack in our supplies. Although the Seventh Light Horse are all magnificent riders, I understand, it seems there is a total lack of experience with mules. So, it’s a gaffer squad problem to set it up properly. Don’t worry, Landers, with any luck you may have several horses shot out from under you.”

The Captain picked up Rory’s questionnaire. “You say here you’ve had three years’ experience with mules.”

“That was a long time back. My da has a fair-sized sheep station on the South Island. He bought a large adjoining parcel of woodland, not ripe for sheep grazing or farming, so I talked him into importing a flock of deer for breeding and market.”

“Now, how did that go?”

“Too well,” Rory answered. “Trouble was, the deer raised hell with the forage and kicked up some fairly fragile topsoil. They needed a lot more space or we’d have to feed them entirely from stores. It raises the risk when you have to buy all their feed. We sold them out, at a very tidy profit. Sorry, I’m rambling on.”

“Actually quite interesting,” Ellsworth said, “carry on.”

“The section wasn’t ready for either planting or pasture, so I came up with another scheme. I thought we ought to breed mules.”

“What was behind your reasoning, Landers?”

Rory shrugged. “Seemed logical. There are hundreds of small farms, and common sense tells me that a mule can do half again the work of the best draft horse on the same amount of feed. The mule is even more economical in hilly terrain. In addition to agriculture, there are a lot of mining and timber operations which could be better served by mules.”

Seeing that Rory was on the new side of twenty, Captain Ellsworth asked, “How old were you when this took place?”

“I was eleven when I got the idea of importing reindeer and fourteen when I started breeding mules.”

“Your father must have had a great deal of confidence in you.”

Rory thought about that. Yes, the Squire gave him free reign when it came to anything about the farm. Maybe that was because Liam had trained him well.

“I know Squire, er…Landers,” Johnny Tarbox said. “He was the smartest farmer I ever met. He could look at a virgin piece of land and sense the winds, read the contours and smell and taste the soil and tell you within the bushel of what it would yield.”

“That’s right,” Rory whispered.

“What happened with the mule operation?” Captain Ellsworth asked.

“When you lose, there are all kinds of excuses. The reindeer bred naturally, too damned naturally,” Rory said. “Putting a stud donkey up to a mare is a real mess. We didn’t have a tradition of mule breeding so everything was trial and error. I’m not passing the blame, but I think the rock bottom cause of the failure was that the farmers and prospectors had formed notions about mules and didn’t know how to handle them.”

“You mean their stubbornness?”

“No, stubborn is the wrong label. Mules are very smart and when they appear to be stubborn it is usually from bad handling. Then, the owner gets the idea he can whip the work out of them, but a mule never forgets his whipping.”

“Well,” Ellsworth challenged, “if that isn’t stubborn, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s like this, Captain,” Rory said, not having the slightest notion he was speaking to a veterinarian of nearly twenty years, “there are stubborn mules and there are wild mules. These mules are born wild, can be very dangerous, and you have no more chance of domesticating them than taming a hyena. There’s no choice but to destroy them. It
turns out we were breeding a pretty high percentage of wild ones.”

“I see,” Ellsworth said. “So you shot them in the forehead, right between the eyes.”

Rory grimaced. “No, their skulls are very thick and sometimes you don’t kill them. They can be in agony for hours. The sure way to destroy a wild mule is shoot through the eye, pointing up to the brain. They die instantly without suffering. One of the reasons I gave up on mules was that I found it too hard to kill them.”

“Well, you certainly can’t coddle a mule,” Ellsworth prodded. “How do you discipline them?”

“First, you give him his dignity. Make pals. Let him know you are in this together. Sir, I tame horses the same way. I don’t believe in breaking an animal. You talk to the mule by his name, give him the good word, always have some oats in your pocket. He’ll work himself to death for you, if he loves you.”

“You don’t break horses?” Ellsworth said very puzzled.

“Rory Landers talks a saddle onto a horse,” Tarbox said.

“Must take forever,” Jeremy said.

“A few hours, most of the time. All you really have to do is get across the idea he shouldn’t be afraid of you…that’s all they want to know.”

There was a silent time to digest this incredible idea from the officers, who had been rough riders most of their lives.

“I’m interested in your comment that the handlers, not the mules, are generally the ones at fault.”

“Yes, sir. Mules are a lot smarter than horses. If the mule feels something isn’t right, he’ll stand fast. He’s trying to tell you something. A lot of people take that for stubbornness.”

“For example?”

“If the mule doesn’t feel he is properly loaded, he may not budge until you fix up his pack. Or, if he’s going over shifty ground, a mountain trail or a swaying bridge, he’ll
stop and poke his way around till he feels secure. Horse gets his foot caught in barbed wire, he’ll jerk it out and likely rip himself. A mule will ease his foot free, carefully.”

“Fascinating,” Jeremy said.

“For the military they must be way better than a horse when it comes to transport,” Rory said.

“How’s that?”

“I’ve had them up in the mountains at night. They don’t spook at fire or noises. Ever watch their ears turn in the direction of sound? I’d wager they are excellent sentries.”

“How high is your average mule?”

“Our bucks ran around thirteen hands, jennies a hand shorter.”

“How much did you feed them a day?”

“Oh, I’d say twenty pounds of mix.”

“What will they carry?”

“About three hundred pounds, including their pack.”

Ellsworth went into the art of packing, knots, ties, halters, common ailments, care, sanitation. In the ensuing hours the Captain did not elicit a wrong or unsure answer. If this Landers chap didn’t know, he’d just say so.

At last Captain Ellsworth held up his hands and looked to Lieutenant Hubble to see if there were any further questions. “Thank you, Private Landers,” Jeremy said. “If you’ll wait outside we’ll call you back, shortly. Oh, by the bye, Tarbox tells me you knocked out the Aussie heavyweight champion.”

“Big target, sir. He was wide open.”

When the door was closed, Captain Ellsworth nodded in the affirmative and Serjeant Major Tarbox grinned widely. “Hubble, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” the Captain said.

“I pray to God he writes well enough to put together a simplified manual.”

“I’ve just the man to actually write the manual, sir,” Tarbox said quickly.

“Who is he?”

“Private Chester Goodwood. Actual fact, he’s English.”

“Does he know anything about mules?”

“He knows about writing. He wrote the love letters for half the lads aboard the
Wagga Wagga.
I mean he used words like ‘jasmine blooming in the spring.’”

“And he’s a pal of yours?”

“Sir, this kid’s old man is Sir Stanford Goodwood, a big-time banker in Hong Kong. He’ll be of unspeakable value when it comes time to work out the logistics.”

“Very well, we’ll interview him later,” Jeremy said. “So, you wouldn’t hesitate to give Landers a go as paddock master?” Jeremy confirmed with the Captain.

“I’d wager on him,” Ellsworth retorted.

“I have a good feeling, too,” Jeremy said. “He’s not a wild man, is he, Tarbox?”

“We’re Kiwis, sir. We’re not like that Aussie crowd, no sir. Rory Landers has a very sweet disposition.”

“We still need several more key men, Captain, and I don’t see them here,” Jeremy worried.

“Let me look over some of the people at my base,” the Captain offered. “We’ve a couple of groups arriving with mule experience. There’s a Punjab battalion of mule-packed mountain howitzers. I’ll find you a good packer and trail boss. Sikhs, you know, fierce fighters.”

“The turbaned chaps?”

“Yes, and they all speak English. You will need a veterinarian. A lot of the horse care and mule care is the same but, nonetheless, mules have their special problems. Hummm, see here. We’ve gotten in a group of Palestinian Jews who we will be training for our transport. Some of these chaps ran mules for the Russian Army, I’m told, and used mules for farming in Palestine. There’s bound to be several vets among them or, at least, someone with enough background to do the job…. Let me jot a note here…Punjab packer…Jew vet, English-speaking…”

Rory was once again welcomed to be seated.

Landers, we’ve had to diddle you about for reasons of
military security. What I tell you now is still hush-hush for several days. Kindly hold your breath before you scream”

Rory closed his eyes and braced himself.

“Captain Ellsworth here is the chief veterinarian for the British divisions stationed in the south.”

“I figured the Captain to be a vet,” Rory said.

“You’re shipping me to the mules, aren’t you?”

“No, we’re shipping the mules to you. All cavalry units have been disbanded and are being recommissioned as infantry, mostly. The Seventh New Zealand Light Horse is now the mule transportation battalion for the Anzac forces.”

“No cavalry, sir?”

“No cavalry. One does not question command decisions and orders. It is apparent, is it not, that there will be no need for cavalry in the upcoming campaign. I want you on the gaffer squad as a troubleshooter for anything and everything as we make this transformation. Your main assignment now is to write a manual, and after that you will be the battalion’s paddock master in charge of the four to five hundred mules we are expecting. And, to ease any pain and put you in the proper mood, there are first serjeant’s chevrons to go with the job.”

“Congratulations, Landers,” Captain Ellsworth said.

“Captain, let us be off to the mess. I’ll see you gentlemen in two hours. Bring along this, uh, Good…?”

“Goodwood, Chester Goodwood.”

Rory was a knot of intertwining bulging muscles, jaws clamped, fists clenched, neck veins distended. He turned to Johnny Tarbox with “killer” written all over him.

“You dirty no good son of a bitch!” Rory commented. “You knew about this yesterday. You fed me to these fucking mules when you went through my questionnaire. You could have torn up the fucking questionnaire. They’d have never known! You rotten son of a bitch!”

“Oh, I betrayed you, that it?”

“You son of a bitch!”

“All right, so I dispose of your questionnaire, then what? You end up shoveling shit in the paddock as a fucking private. Want a transfer! Fuck yes, I’ll get you a fucking transfer to the fucking infantry and you’ll march in the fucking desert in the fucking sun till you fucking drop! You! You ought to be kissing my feet, you asshole. First Serjeant chevrons! Five fucking years in the Royal Marines and I’m a fucking lance corporal and ten minutes and you’re a first serjeant! You dumb shit! There is no cavalry! And they didn’t consult me on the matter!”

Rory fell into a chair and blinked. As the enormity of Johnny’s recommendation sank in, Rory put his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he sniffled.

“And me, going into the ring with that fucking Butcher monster and letting him rain blows on me.”

“I said I’m sorry. I really mean I’m sorry.”

“And know something?” Tarbox said standing over Rory. “You should kiss my feet for getting you into the gaffers with the only decent pommy officer in Camp Anzac.”

“You going to keep ragging on me, now? I said I’m sorry.”

“Lookit these pommies,” Tarbox went on, “and remember how lucky we are to have Lieutenant Hubble. What’s more, he’s a genuine blue blood, a viscount. Fucking son of a fucking earl, that’s what!”

Rory looked up to Johnny and Johnny became worried. “What’s the matter with you, Rory?”

“They’re Ulstermen. Is he…is he the son of the Earl of Foyle?” Rory rasped.

“Something like that.”

“Jeremy and Christopher Hubble,” Rory whispered. “Jeremy Hubble.”

After several individual forays into Cairo, Serjeant Major Tarbox and Rory Landers, sporting his new first serjeant chevrons, got the distinct impression that Cairo was not Paris.

Rory had come from the stillness of Christchurch into the bombast of an untidy swarm of crowds, shrill sounds, impatient horns, wild aromas, glaring sun, strangely hidden women in black, unkempt streets—all a confused bazaar that was the ancient system of order the Cairenes thrived in.

The city was now host to a new army, and every vendor and every beggar, bar, brothel, omnibus tour, cameleer, and merchant reacted. Thousands of newly minted and carved genuine ancient artifacts, as well as a brigade of guaranteed virgin prostitutes, suddenly appeared.

The influx of soldiers’ cash and their enormous thirsts produced foul vetches of native wines and beer leaving a trail of upchucks and near blindness.

The greed of the sellers was boundless. It was not as though they had invited this foreign army to their city.

In short order the Anzacs and the British despised Cairo, and the feeling was mutual except for the Pound Sterling. Coming from a land where a handshake was a man’s honor, the Aussies felt taken in. As a result, in their flamboyant campaign hats they led a number of rowdy retributions. The Cairo police were a bit timid, so the military patrols were cleaning up messes from dawn to dusk and back to dawn.

Rory, Johnny, and Chester had a priority: to find an oasis of solitude in the maniacal mélange.

Due to a visit in Cairo years earlier as a Royal Marine, Johnny Tarbox boasted he could better cut through the maze of grubs, gooks, and geeks. Johnny hunted down the boss of the Terrier pack outside the camp gate and came up with a full-blown thug named Walid.

The Terriers performed all manner of duties in the camp, from polishing shoes to running errands to escorting new arrivals up the pyramids.

Walid operated the employment center, assigning the better jobs to members of his extended family, friends, and those who kicked back the most baksheesh.

Figuring he was playing the system, Johnny offered a goodly sum of five quid to put him in touch with the right man in the old city.

Walid’s promises were extravagant and, for another two quid, Johnny could be connected with the “protector” for the lively Aguza District.

Tarbox knew that somewhere in those dark and twisting lanes with all that hollering and those delicious and non-delicious smells, there had to be a jewel of a hideaway…with belly dancers to the right and belly dancers to the left…and
decent
booze.

“We
have
to have decent booze.”

“My man will take care of you, first class,” Walid promised, and Johnny felt pleased with himself for cutting through all that chasing around and Oriental red tape.

First Serjeant Rory Landers took on the center of Cairo on the east side of the river and the Buluq District. A string of two- and three-star hotels lined the river bank. Rory felt a rooftop apartment with three bedrooms would be definitely in the realm of possibility.

As for Chester, they were worried about sending him into the morass of the marketplace. He was doing a bang-up job working on the mule manual. In fact, he was doing all three of their jobs.

However, when Rory and Johnny returned to camp a bit down in the mouth, Chester reckoned that Cairo had certain similarities to Hong Kong. Johnny and Rory agreed to let him join the search but ordered him to cruise only in the safer areas.

It was their fourth trip in, an overnighter, to stage the all-out hunt. They synchronized watches and fanned out They would return to the bar across from their hotel near the railroad station at two-thirty the following day.

The clock in the rail tower tolled three, which actually meant it was two o’clock because the clock was an hour off. The city shuttered itself for the midday respite from the debilitating wet heat fuming up off the Nile.

Rory was the first to return. He fended off the foul brew they attempted to foist on him and, after a lengthy discussion, won the debate with a bottle of uncut, unopened, brand-name gin.

Rory watched as the swirl of Terriers ground to a listless few, except for the kids still hustling Muslim worry beads, Catholic rosaries, kaffias, and trinkets they couldn’t mail to the girls back home.

Johnny Tarbox appeared like a mirage with steam shimmering up around him. He fell into a chair, limp.

“Nothin’.”

“Nothin’.”

“Fucking roaches had pet rats.”

“Wouldn’t put a pommy officer up in them.”

“The Casbah has eyes and ears,” Johnny said nipping the gin with an “ah.” “We’d be paying off half the gangsters in the old city to keep from getting our throats cut. They’re all sweaty and hairy and dirty in there, and the men are even worse.”

Rory was unable to resist a beggar kid leading a blind and hideously warped old man. His coin brought on a swarm. He settled for a wooden crucifix carved from the true cross and shouted them away.

Johnny jerked a thumb in the direction of the island in the middle of the river. “There’s where it’s at, Rory. When
the Brits take over running a country, they make it comfortable for themselves at a cheap price. The Zamalek District has got the only beds in town without fleas.”

“Are you sure it’s off bounds?”

“Not officially, but they’ve got military police on every bridge, and patrols sweep up anything that looks like an enlisted man. We’re scum, cobber.”

“Makes you really want to fight for them.”

“Yeah,” Johnny muttered, “officers’ country deluxe…staff officers’ country. Nobody under a light colonel better blow his bugle over there. We got a tour of the gardens once when I was here. Like hotels you see in moving pictures…villas…gardens.”

A number of egalitarian plans began rotating in Rory’s mind.

“I hear you thinking, cobber, forget it. Anyhow, I found the best whorehouse in the old city—semi-exclusive—some real nice lookers in there. I think it’s a cold tub for me and then I’ll go fall in love,” Johnny said.

The clock in the train tower rolled half past three. It was two-thirty.

“Jesus!” Rory cried.

“Wot!”

“Chester! He’s been gone since we arrived yesterday.” “Goddamnit! I told that little bugger to stay in camp and work on the manual. We’d better start looking”

“Where?”

“The police, the morgue!”

“Calm down,” Rory said. “Any kid who could stow away to New Zealand from Hong Kong…”

“I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to that Kid,” Tarbox said. “I gave him over a hundred pounds out of our stash from the battalion safe. Ah Jaysus, he’s been robbed and murdered. What do we do, Rory?”

“I say, for now, we sit tight and wait. If you have to visit a lady, I’ll wait.”

No, no, I’ll stay here with you. Oh Chester, boy.”

*  *  *

Private Chester Goodwood spent the first day walking along Ramses Road admiring the exquisite shops and, as it turned dark, worked his way through a host of bars and hotel lobbies collecting information. Like a good detective on the scent, he did not return to his hotel but grabbed a nap at the train station so he could start again at the crack of dawn.

Chester zeroed in on a petite but well turned-out travel agency and studied the clientele. A pair of big-time Arabs entered. A high-fashion European lady came and left. Several officers went in, none under the rank of major.

Chester was greeted with a very uppity sneer at the main desk, but the agent did catch a glimpse of Chester’s hand on the counter with the corner of a five-pound note visible.

“I’m making some inquiries on behalf of my commanding officer,” the private said.

“Please”—arms open, invited behind the counter into the seat and, chop-chop, coffee for the gentleman.

“I want the name of the concierge with the best connections in Cairo. Phone him and tell him I’m coming on behalf of my general. Please speak in English and you have earned yourself another five.”

The magic name of Mr. Hamdoon Sira came up for the first time.

Chester then worked his way to the bell captains of several of the better hotels, confirming Sira’s credentials. He finally found himself in the office of a solicitor who, for ten, would recommend Chester highly to his very good friend Hamdoon Sira.

Chester took a taxi across the 14th of October Bridge onto the forbidden island and stopped at the most magnificent hotel in the Near East, the Memphis Palace.

All the dinginess and noise of the other Cairo was muffled by banks of defending hedges and flowers. Arched and marbled, the hotel boasted legions of white-gloved attendants who seemed to walk slightly off the ground. It
was genteel, good stuff. More like it, Chester thought. Moreover, Chester seemed quite at ease in the midst of all that
rank.
And tea music.

“I am Private Chester Goodwood, I believe Mr. Sira is expecting me,” he said, slapping the old pound sterling into the assistant’s hand. Chester knew that a pound on the rich man’s side of the bridge went farther than a fiver on the poor man’s side. It was a singular accomplishment of the wealthy and powerful not to overpay for things.

“Mr. Sira is with a guest. He will be with you directly.”

A pommy colonel locked in on Chester, annoyed by the soldier’s familiarity. He looked the lad up and down and assumed by his New Zealand patch that he was unaware of the custom. Enlisted personnel serving and waiting for their officers at the Memphis Palace had their own waiting area, out of sight of the main lobby.

“Soldier,” the colonel said gruffly, “are you quite certain you are in the proper place?”

“Quite, sir. I am waiting to see Mr. Sira on behalf of Lieutenant General Mulesworthy.”

“Oh…hmmm…carry on.”

“Sir!” Chester said, cracking off a salute fit for the King himself.

Mr. Sira and Chester Goodwood sized one another up. Mr. Sira was, as anticipated, the Egyptian version of the Chinese concierge in the Peninsula Hotel. Sira appeared to be a man who had come up through the ranks and survived—and in Cairo that spoke loudly.

Chester was simply baffling—smooth cheeks, innocent smile, and mild manner.

Now, Chester thought, we can go into an Egyptian tango and start endless word games and play dodge, or he could shoot the old arrow straight to the heart.

“You have been passing out large amounts of money to gain contact with me,” Hamdoon Sira said, utterly certain the private had to be fronting for some senior officer. Sira knew his name was not passed around lightly.

“Mr. Sira,” Chester said, “here’s the situation. I’m a Brit from Hong Kong and I’ve got two pals, New Zealanders We’re part of a special squad and we have a great deal of camp leave. Two or three more men might be assigned to us, no more.”

“You are representing the commander?”

“No, sir.”

“Just what is it you think I can assist you with?”

“Camp Anzac is shit city incarnate. Over the river it’s a real sleazy scene for enlisted personnel. We happen to be well financed and all we want is a quiet place where we can find some respite from our duties. As I said, we have ample funds.”

Hamdoon Sira smiled. Well, now, the plot thickens…this child before him is certainly fronting for a prostitution ring, perhaps hashish smuggling, black market liquor, British army weapons…some such.

Chester read Hamdoon’s smile. “We are not after running a whorehouse, drugs, or playing with dirty money. We are all proper people from proper homes and we don’t wreck furniture.”

Ah…Hamdoon Sira liked Chester Goodwood. “I like you. I admire candor. We see so little of it. I am totally sympathetic but I am afraid there is nothing—” Hamdoon halted as he looked directly into the face of a fifty-pound banknote.

Hamdoon had been in the hotel scene since childhood. Before the war the new, rich oil sheiks from the peninsula gave out lavish gratuities, but they were no longer able to come here due to the war. Otherwise, he had never seen anything larger than five pounds from a British officer, and then only rarely.

“If you will come back tomorrow,” Sira said.

“No,” Chester retorted. “We’re soldiers and we’ve no time to play the game. I’m buying. We move directly or forget it.”

By my father’s beard, Hamdoon thought, this is one clever individual.

“I plead with you, Mr. Goodwood, you cannot change
basic nature. We must do things in a traditional way. For what you want will take some time…. Just what are your requirements?”

“Garden, parlor, veranda, three bedrooms, roach-free, access to Memphis Palace-type liquor, police protection, and ladies on call.”

“Hmmm,” Sira pondered as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as though he were caressing the fifty-pound note. It would be no problem to obtain this for a staff officer, but none of them could pay the passage. With the sheiks in Turkish territory and ordinary travelers scarce, a number of villas sat empty. I go one step further, he decided, once I ascertain if…“Will there be a continuing way I could serve the situation?”

“You mean further commissions, somewhat more than a shilling from a Brit officer, damp with the sweat of his palm?”

A toothy smile and an innocent holding apart of Hamdoon’s hands was followed by holding his heart.

“Absolutely,” Chester said.

One does not come to decisions so quickly. What if this is a trap? What kind of trap? No, it was not a trap but one must discuss this with other parties, there must be conversation…the fifty-pound note was still before him. How much more was in stock? A hundred? A half-year’s wages, maybe more! Does one reveal his sources so easily? After all, Hamdoon, he told himself, you are a great concierge in a cheap land. You know where everything is….

DO IT!

Hamdoon picked up the phone, waited, then went into a passionate discussion and, after a time, set the phone down. “I believe I can do you some good. I have arranged an immediate appointment with a prominent gentleman or great honor and impeccable connections. Usually, it takes days to see him. He has made such arrangements for minsters, generals, great sheiks. BUT! Do not waste his time. You must be prepared to pay a great sum, at least
sixty to seventy-five pounds a week, exclusive of the women and drink.”