Solomon's Song (47 page)

The one curious aspect of this basically boring performance is that she continues picking up a copious number of coins without apparently ever depositing them anywhere. They leave when, to the general hilarity and agonised cries of the performer, some bastard, using a pair of tweezers and a couple of Swan Vesta matches, heats a coin to an almost red-hot condition and throws it onto the stage.

‘Shit!’ Hornbill says when they’re back in the alley. ‘That was a shit thing to do, even if she were no lady!’

Numbers Cooligan appears to be thinking, ‘If she’s done the splits two times a minute, that’s every thirty seconds, and what they thrown on the platform was a shilling each time, ’cause she didn’t pick up nothing less, then she’s making two bob a minute!’ He looks at them all. ‘Shit, that’s six pounds an hour! Jesus, and we felt sorry for her an’ all!’

‘Yeah, but what I want to know is where all them coins went?’ Woggy Mustafa says.

‘Where do you expect? In her purse o’ course,’ Crow Rigby replies.

In the cold light of morning, with their heads pounding something terrible from the previous night’s poisonous arak and after a good few of them have freed their stomachs of the atrocious Greek cafe meal taken at some time during their carousal, they collectively decide to give the dirty part of Cairo’s night life a big miss.

Belly Dunce and Snake, whether personally witnessed, or given the benefit of Numbers Cooligan’s phantasmagorical version, has set the standard by which they now judge these things. Cairo, as far as Ben’s platoon is concerned, has been permanently eclipsed by the little pisspot bazaar in Aden.

They also stay away from the brothels, apart from visiting one or two to take a quick squiz at the sheilas, who turn out to be dead ringers for the woman portrayed in various compromising positions connected to the ageing male appendage belonging to the socks-and-gartered form of the ubiquitous Herman the German of Hornbill’s uncle’s dirty postcards fame. Thus both the virginity and, with Cooligan, improbably, the exception, the physical health of the thirty members of Ben’s platoon remains intact.

Ben, who has attended a sergeants’ course on sexual hygiene, hasn’t attempted to frighten them, as have so many of the junior officers or sergeants lecturing their respective platoons on venereal disease. He simply says, ‘Get a dose and it’s a free ticket home, lads. Then they’re gunna write to your mum and tell her why you’ve been sent back. And you, Private Cooligan, could well be the first to go home.’

‘Me, Sergeant? Never. Pure as the driven. Left me darlin’ at ‘ome!’

‘Who’s that, the cat?’ Crow Rigby asks.

The behaviour of Ben’s platoon is no more than high spirits. They’re all big lads with too much energy, who wouldn’t harm a flea unless they found it on their own person.

However, there is a much more serious aspect of behaviour among the Australian contingent - drunkenness, attacks on the local population, desertion, stealing and the wilful destruction of property. There comes a point when the excuse of high spirits among young men bent on having a good time will no longer wash with the senior military and they call for an account.

The supreme commander of the Allied Forces in Egypt, General Maxwell, draws the attention of General Birdwood to the matter and he, in turn, refers it to General Bridges, who writes to the troops appealing to their finer spirit and their country’s good name abroad.

What follows is a pronounced improvement, but by early in January some three hundred men of the 1st Division are absent without leave, roaming about Cairo drunk and disorderly, thieving from the local population and defying the local authorities. In the British army this constitutes desertion and they are liable to be imprisoned or even shot, but under Australian law shooting a soldier isn’t allowed, nor, for that matter, is it even contemplated and smacks rather too much of the colonial past.

However, General Bridges institutes an investigation and somewhat to his surprise discovers that the trouble comes, to a very large degree, from the older soldiers, mostly veterans from the Boer War or men who have not been born in Australia, though a young Australian-born criminal element is also present.

Bridges, in a covert message to officers of every rank, asks for their suggestions as to what might be done.

Wordy Smith tells Ben. ‘You know what I would do, sir,’ Ben says at last.

‘What?’

‘Well, we know it’s not lads such as our own who are the villains.’

‘That’s right, it seems to be the older men, mostly ex-military and, they say, a young criminal element.’

‘Yeah well, they’re only a tiny fraction of the A.I.F., a pinch of sand in the desert, why don’t we just send them back home?’

‘What, cashier them?’

‘Isn’t that only for officers?’ Ben asks.

‘No, I don’t think so, but what you mean is send them home in disgrace?’

‘Well, yeah. Most, if not all, of the young lads are here to fight the Hun, they’re volunteers and damn proud of having been chosen for the privilege. Let’s send the troublemakers home, discharge them from the army altogether, we don’t need ‘em, all they’re doing is giving the rest of us a bad name.’

Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith claps his hands gleefully. ‘I say, that’s splendid, Sergeant, it’s almost bound to work.’ He looks at Ben admiringly. ‘You know, you really ought to be an officer, Sergeant Teekleman.’

Ben is genuinely appalled. ‘Thank you, sir, with the greatest respect, I would consider it a demotion.’

Wordy Smith persists, ‘I know you could do my job a lot better than I can, in fact mostly do. More importantly, I most certainly could not do yours. So, in a manner of speaking, I suppose it would be a demotion.’ He looks at Ben steadily. ‘Sergeant, it’s a truly grand solution, but I can’t submit it in your name to the C.O.’ Ben now sees his platoon officer is visibly blushing. ‘He’d… well, he’ll know I’ve been talking to … er, other ranks, that I’ve abused an officer confidence, so to speak.’

Ben grins. ‘Go for your life, sir. They’ll probably think you’re crackers.’

Wordy Smith grins back. ‘Nothing new in that, Sergeant.’

But it doesn’t turn out that way. Major Sayers takes the suggestion to his battalion commander Colonel Wanliss, who moves it further up the ladder to his brigade commander Brigadier M’Cay, who finally presents it to General Bridges. The three hundred men are sent back to Australia in disgrace, accompanied by a letter to the Australian press from Bridges explaining the reasons why they are returning. Except for the comparatively minor incidents which occur in every army, this very largely settles the issues of hooliganism, criminal drunkenness and violent and inappropriate behaviour by Australian troops in Egypt.

Working on the premise that a young man who is physically exhausted is less inclined to get up to mischief, General Birdwood sets about turning the Australian Division and the New Zealand Brigade into a concerted fighting force. While he stipulates the training required he leaves it entirely up to General Bridges and his Australian and New Zealand officers to undertake. Bridges works his men intensely hard and the training in the desert often goes for twelve or fifteen hours without respite. They march and fight mock battles and do manoeuvres under the glaring desert sun until the shirts cling to their backs. Often they find themselves caught in a dust storm brought on by the howling winds of the kamsin. In the first two weeks the average loss of weight over this period is almost eight pounds a man.

Ben is quick to cotton on to the recurrence of a problem which affected his men in their first three weeks in the desert. His platoon, along with their company, will often stop for a rest at sunset, their flanelette vests so wet they can be wrung out by hand. Then, the moment the sun dips behind the highest dunes, an icy breeze will begin to blow. The youngsters, exhausted from eight or ten hours of manoeuvres, think the breeze a blessed relief as it dries the wet vests clinging to their backs. In a matter of days nearly two hundred troops are down with pneumonia and several die. Ben’s platoon is bearing up well but Wordy Smith has developed a bad cold and is having trouble keeping up.

Ben visits his CO. to see if they can be issued with sweaters. Major Sayers sees the sense in this, but upon enquiry discovers that ordnance has no sweaters. The British army, whose responsibility it is to supply the cold-weather uniforms, has, perhaps understandably, not considered that troops training in desert conditions will require warm clothing. It will take several weeks before they can be ordered and transported from Britain and even longer if they are to come from Australia or New Zealand.

Ben calls Numbers Cooligan and Library Spencer to his tent the following morning. ‘Right, you two will go on sick parade tomorrow…’

‘Whaffor, Sergeant?’ Cooligan asks before Ben can complete the sentence.

‘Don’t jump the gun, Private Cooligan, and I’ll explain.’

‘Yes, Sergeant, sorry, Sergeant.’

‘You’ll go on sick parade, I’ve already spoken to the sergeant on duty and he’ll give you a chit, permission to miss tomorrow’s manoeuvres, bronchitis. Then I want you to go into Cairo, maybe you could try the Arabs in Mena first, see if you can buy thirty-two pullovers, all of them large.’

‘What, jerseys? What colour, Sergeant?’ Library asks.

‘Not sure we’ll be given the luxury of a choice, the essential thing is that they’re warm and that they’re large. Be too much to expect to find thirty-two large khaki sweaters for the use of. Oh, and try not to pay more than ten bob a piece.’

‘Yes, Sergeant… er… and the money?’ Numbers Cooligan asks tentatively. ‘That’s sixteen quid.’

‘Isn’t that about as much as you’ve made on that two-up school you run behind the Y.M.C.A. shack of an evening?’ Ben asks.

Numbers Cooligan visibly pales. ‘Er… ah… shit… ah, what game is that, Sergeant?’ Then quickly recovering, says, ‘Matter a fact, I’m dead broke, skint.’

Ben hands Library Spencer four oversized white English five pound notes. ‘There’s plenty enough there to buy ‘em and to cover your expenses, don’t come back without the goods, lads, and I wouldn’t mind some change neither.’

The two lads return to their tents. ‘Shit, how’d he get twenty quid out the army?’ Cooligan asks.

‘He probably didn’t,’ Library replies.

‘Whatcha mean? Ya reckon he’s payin’? Out his own pocket? Twenty quid? No flamin’ way, mate!’

‘His name’s Teekleman!’

‘So?’

Library Spencer sighs. ‘You ever drink Tommo & Hawk beer?’

‘Sure, it’s a good drop. Ballarat.’

‘In Victoria it’s made by a company called Solomon & Teekleman, they own the brewery in Ballarat among another squillion things.’

‘That’s him?’

Library nods. ‘Not him personally, his family.’

‘Shit hey!’ Cooligan jerks his head backwards, looking at Library quizzically, ‘G’arn, yer bullshittin’ me? The beer? That’s him? Jesus H. Christ!’

Numbers Cooligan and Library Spencer arrive back at Mena camp with an Arab boy who looks to be about twelve years old, leading a donkey carrying a large hessian-wrapped bale half the size of a wool bale on its back. They pull up as the sun is setting over the Great Pyramid and just as the Clicks return, exhausted from an eight-mile march into camp after all-day exercises in the desert. The men drop their kit and rifles and flop down on the sand beside the donkey while Cooligan and Library Spencer help the boy unload the bale.

‘How’d yer go, lads?’ Ben asks.

‘Good. Real good, Sergeant.’

‘Righto, let’s take a look.’

Cooligan cuts the string tying the bale together and it flops open to reveal a large pile of high-quality khaki pullovers. Library and Numbers Cooligan are both wearing Cheshire cat grins.

‘Khaki, Sergeant! Hows about that, eh?’ Cooligan says, proud as punch.

‘Well done, lads!’ Ben exclaims. He is clearly impressed.

‘Library ‘ere done it, Sergeant,’ Numbers Cooligan says in a rare moment of modesty.

‘We both did,’ Library says, unaccustomed to the praise. ‘I did a bit o’ thinking and Numbers did the bargaining.’

‘Egyptian police, Sergeant. Library thought it out and we went to their headquarters in Cairo, cost a bit but we got the donkey and the boy buckshee.’

Ben is busy counting the pullovers and now looks up, ‘There’s fifty-two here.’

Numbers Cooligan shakes his head. ‘Yeah well, I thought I’d make an investment of me own like, Sergeant.’

‘How much did you pay for these?’

‘Eight bob each, Sergeant. Cooligan did the bargaining,’ Library repeats proudly.

‘Yeah, but it become a bit complicated see,’ Cooligan says hurriedly. ‘Eight bob each, plus the two pound we give the police lieutenant and the quid we give the sergeant in their ordnance, then the ten shillings for the cop at the gate who let us ‘ave the kid what’s just been nicked fer stealing the donkey, and then just when we’s loaded up…’

‘Hold it, Private Cooligan!’ Ben commands. ‘Why is it that I somehow know it’s all gunna come to exactly twenty quid?’

‘Just a mo, Sergeant, or I’ll forget where I was… oh yes, just as we’s about to say “Oo-roo, ta-ta”, with the donkey loaded an’ all, the lieutenant comes out, the same bloke what’s already done us for two quid, and says it’s three quid for the police captain or the deal is off!’ Cooligan looks at Ben. ‘I tried to argue that we done a deal, Sergeant, but he don’t want to know. Then I says, “Righto, no deal, gi’s back the money!” I’m thinkin’ like, yer know, ter bluff him. “No no! No money you get back! Three pound. The captain very hungery!” he says, looking real nasty. They’s a bunch o’ crooks, that lot, Sergeant, villains to the last man.’ Cooligan gives a disdainful sniff and continues, ‘Then there’s four shillin’s for a binder, just lamb and rice at a Greek’s, two beers, one and six, a shillin’ for the hessian and the string, sixpence for a bunch a carrots for the donkey,’ Cooligan smiles benignly, ‘and a shillin’ to the Arab lad who stole it. And, oh yeah, I nearly forgot, two bob fer me and Library’s tram fare to town in the first place.’ Cooligan finishes, ‘There yer go, Sergeant.’

‘And that’s precisely twenty pounds,’ Ben repeats, a touch sardonic.