Leon Uris (42 page)

The sudden eruption of the Anzacs from their entombment on the troopships was a wonderment for men and for boys becoming men taking their first steps beyond home.

Miracles, photographs from their geography textbooks, took life in the form of the Sphinx and pyramids all around them. Camels! Cloth-headed tops on the men…true and actual Arabs! Veiled women! It was the amusement park outside Sydney, wot!

To the Egyptians, this most recent onslaught, albeit peaceful, of another foreign army was absorbed with a shrug and the all encompassing allusion that it was “Allah’s will.” Unwelcome visitors had been the gist of their ancient and recent history, and soon the latest visitors would be absorbed in the bazaar that was Cairo.

These Anzacs were soldiers of great wealth receiving Pay of ten, fifteen, twenty English pounds a month, which would serve as a balm for the hell-raising they intended to impose.

Within hours of the Anzac arrival, a full brigade of vendors had established stalls at the camp gates, backed by a battalion of hawkers. Hundreds of young boys, whom the Anzacs called Terriers, hustled a variety of services. The
lads from down under soon realized they were princes in a land of poverty.

Mena was a haphazard site that housed an old Ottoman barracks. When the British relieved the Turks of Egypt there were additions for a permanent base. While some of the camp was in ready condition, a feverish building program was under way by swarms of laborers from the city.

Camp Anzac became a flash flood of men and equipment with temporary two-man tent areas, jerry-built structures for supplies, hospitals, and hospital and command centers.

The day laborers—vendors and Terriers, the native Egyptians—were at the bottom of the social rung, picturesque and not entirely to be trusted. These men and boys represented the sole piece of imperialism, the living proof that some people are not fit to do anything in their own country other than serve the colonizer.

Until an orderly camp and training regimen were established, Cairo was out of bounds, and the only recreation was to hire a Terrier for a night climb up one of the pyramids. Even though there were quite a few broken bones and some deaths, pyramid climbing continued until the British officers took firm control.

The pommy officers all arrived tapping the same brand of riding crop against their riding britches above their riding boots. There were several cavalry units at Mena, but even the pommy infantry and artillery officers carried the riding crop as some sort of scepter of office.

The Aussies and New Zealanders whose lives had been relatively free of caste were nonplussed by the unfriendliness, formality, and vain arrogance of their new commanders. It came from the very tone of their ever so British voices and the look of their ever so British eyes. For the first time they were given a definite feeling of not being seen as good as the other fellow. An unseen line had been drawn, unseen but quite deep, indeed.

Yet, two volcanic questions burned brightly as the
camp shaped up; namely, when do we get liberty into Cairo and
when do we get our horses?

Serjeant Major John Tarbox stomped his boots and snapped off a beautiful salute, as befitted his new C.O.

“Sir, Serjeant Major Tarbox, at your service!”

“At ease, Tarbox,” Christopher Hubble said. Chris neither rose nor extended a hand and seemed to be looking through and past the serjeant. Another officer, First Lieutenant Jeremy Hubble, sat nearby quite relaxed and smiled a friendly smile.

“I’m Major Hubble, battalion commander. The gentleman here is Lieutenant Hubble, coincidentally my brother.”

Jeremy came to his feet, extended his hand and shook Johnny’s warmly, to Christopher’s annoyance.

“Let us get to the point,” Chris interrupted. He leaned forward in much the same menacing manner his tutor General Brodhead did when he was dead serious. “There will be no cavalry in this expeditionary force. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I suppose so, Major.”

“All horse battalions are to be reconstituted into infantry, heavy weapons, sappers, howitzer artillery, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Except,” Christopher continued on, “for our Seventh New Zealand Light Horse, here. I have informed my officers as of this morning. The reason will become apparent.”

Johnny found a weak smile and managed to get it on his face.

“The Seventh Light Horse is now a transportation battalion, a mule transportation battalion.”

“Beg pardon, Major Hubble, but I don’t know a fuck-mg thing about mules.”

Jeremy laughed aloud.

“Nor, may I add, does anyone else around here,” Christopher snarled. “I strongly advise you to take this
news in stride and demonstrate that I have your full and unstinting cooperation.”

“Unstinting, sir.”

“Unstinting,” Chris repeated through clenched teeth It had gone down hard as hell with the officers earlier, it would be a shock right straight down the line. Chris lifted the Tarbox records and plopped them in the center of the desk and went through them with agonizing deliberateness.

“Now then, Tarbox, you are one of the battalion elders, what?”

“I suppose so, sir, I’m uh…thirty-four.”

“Thirty-six,” Rubble corrected.

“If you count various contingencies.”

“What contingencies?”

“I lied about my age when I ran off to do a hitch in the Royal Marines.”

“And you rose to the rank of lance corporal in five years.”

“I was a full corporal, sir, and except for a misunderstanding when I failed to catch the last liberty boat—”

“Because you were locked up in the Singapore jail for, shall we say, a barroom brawl, after which you received punishment in the form of thirty days of bread and water, and reduction in rank to lance corporal.”

It was not my fault, Johnny thought, the goddamn prostitute’s pimps jumped me. He was about to make his case but thought better of it.

“So, you’re not really a proper serjeant major, are you?”

Oh Jaysus, Johnny thought, here it comes! “I certainly am, sir, in a manner of speaking.”

“Oh, really? Kindly explain yourself.”

“We don’t have many standing units in New Zealand and because of my superior horsemanship and devotion, I commanded the Royal Color and Honor Guard, itself.”

“That would be a half-dozen horses for ceremonial occasions, right?”

“Well, sir…”

“So, you really weren’t a proper serjeant major?”

“If I may say so, sir, everybody in North Island and South Island knew Johnny Tarbox. Dads used to say to their kids, ‘May you only grow up to ride like Johnny Tarbox. He does the King’s colors proud.’ The instant the war broke out, knowing my fame, I was asked to travel from one end of the country to the other and, pretty much single-handed, I signed up enough lads for four entire Light Horse battalions.”

“And you consider yourself quite the horseman?”

“There may be a few men better, but you’ll have to look damned hard to find them. I’ve done everything with a horse except fuck them and eat horseshit.”

Jeremy broke up as Christopher went sallow, then stared, glazed blue eyes continuing to look through his man almost with hatred.

“I appreciate the differences between our cultures, but in the future, I shall consider obscene language before an officer as a punishable offense.”

Johnny reddened and his mouth went dry.

“Have you ever been in charge of men?” Jeremy asked.

“Yes, sir, half my life, Lieutenant. I ran the big droving crews for the sheep and cattle stations all over the country. I’ve handled up to twenty men on some jobs.”

Christopher shrugged. “Do you want this chap, Lieutenant?” he asked his brother.

“I do. Serjeant Tarbox is just what the doctor ordered for me.”

Christopher rubbed his chin with his hand, as though Johnny were a head of cattle to be judged. Then he flipped through the report again.

“Well, you’re not a proper serjeant major,” Christopher repeated. “I’ll have to find a proper serjeant major elsewhere. I’m certain I can requisition one from a British unit. Well, your Kiwi countrymen saw fit to swear you in as a serjeant major and I am going to allow you to retain the rank if YOU do your job flawlessly and unstintingly. Am I clear?”

“Exactly what is my job, sir?”

“The men in this battalion are all creditable horsemen are they not?”

“They’re the greatest, sir.”

“Well, then, you convert them into the greatest mule hustlers, packers, and trail men.”

“I am forming a gaffer squad,” Jeremy said.

“A gaffer squad?”

“A small unit of mule specialists. It will be up to us to write a simplified manual, obtain the proper gear, work out miles of logistics and training, and be central to the task of indoctrinating the men and building this battalion from the hooves up,” Jeremy said.

“I don’t know how many mule men we’re apt to find here, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll probably get some from other units as they arrive in Egypt. Meanwhile, your lads filled out questionnaires en route, aboard ship. Go through these and find me the most likely prospects.”

As Jeremy handed Johnny two boxes of questionnaires, he nodded and smiled. “Look forward to working with you,” he said.

“This is absolutely hush-hush,” Chris interrupted. “Not a living, breathing soul, until we are ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain Ellsworth, the chief veterinarian with the British Corps, will come to Mena in three days—on Wednesday—to question any men who have mule knowledge,” Jeremy said, patting the man on the shoulder.

“You are dismissed. Now remember, hush-hush,” Chris said.

As the serjeant closed the door, Jeremy thought, oh Christ. Christopher spent a good part of his life irritated with him, and he wore that irritated expression now.

“We’ve got a good man there,” Jeremy said, hoping to divert Chris’s course. “All right, you’re about to piss petrol.”

Chris snorted until he was contained. “I believe you
and I had better clear a few things up before we are involved with another enlisted man. I am saddled with a rather difficult situation of being your brother, and if you indeed take this gaffer squad, we will be working extremely closely.”

“I don’t see why you went out of your way to humiliate Serjeant Tarbox, and I seriously wonder if intimidation is the way to build a battalion,” Jeremy answered.

“Oh, dear old Jeremy must be Mister Good Chap, one of the lads.”

“What the hell did I do so horrible, shake his hand?”

“First a handshake, then, do sit down for tea…or let’s make that gin and tonic. Jeremy, we are not dealing with proper manners, and the first job is to teach them discipline. We must never loosen the leash on them. I intend to turn this battalion into a proper British battalion, like the Coleraines.”

“They aren’t the Coleraines, Christopher. They don’t shed the old tear when they hear ‘God Save the King,’ nor would they gladly die in battle for the Earl of Foyle. Look at these men. They’re half again as big as your scrawny Englishmen. They live in the open and they eat beef and they don’t know from blue blood. What the hell is this all about? We are three men in a peeling room halfway around the world barfing about mules and mule shit and you act like we’re changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. Please, Chris, loosen up on the table manners. We’re talking about very tough men and mules.”

“Jeremy, you are not rolling around in the mud with these men the way you did on the rugby pitch, and you’re not standing elbow-to-elbow drinking cheap ale in their pubs, showing off your tattoos.”

“Tattoos,” Jeremy said, “now there’s a thought. Suppose any of the Earls had tattoos?”

“I have ordered my officers to lay down the law from day one. As for us, in the first instance, I’ll no longer overlook your insubordination because of family circum
stances and, in the second instance, we do not carry the same rank. This is my battalion, Lieutenant, and I was given this command because of the severity of its mission.”

“You and General Brodhead are pretty cozy. I’m sure he’ll honor my request for a transfer.”

“Shall we speak calmly and without rancor?” Christopher said quickly.

“Why not?”

“I have made vows to both Mother and Father that I will do all in my power to see that you return home in one piece—”

“And without disgracing the family honor. Well, Chris, you are no longer the keeper of a self-pitying drunk.”

“Your request will go no further than my desk.”

“You know why? I’ll tell you. These colonials are not patsies, and you don’t know a fiddler’s fart about how to deal with men. You want me to run the gaffer squad and be at your side in case you start to muck up.”

“You think rather fondly of yourself,” Chris said. “Let me say this clearly and calmly. Do not tinker with a system of order which has been keenly developed over the span of a thousand years and has resulted in the greatest nation mankind has ever known. Officers of my stripe have made the British Army a magnificent institution.”

God Almighty, Jeremy cringed, trying to hold himself together…it was Apprentice Boys’ Day on Derry’s Walls all over again, raining pennies down on the Catholics in Bogside.

“We are the most fortunate people on earth,” Chris continued coolly. “Our station was fixed at birth and privilege is our birthright. That’s the way the universe spins, that’s the way the world operates, that’s how the British Army works, that’s why we have an empire. Rip everything apart and exchange the have-nots with the privileged, and in ten years it will return to the way it was in the beginning. Jeremy Hubble is not going to change the
natural order of things, and Jeremy Hubble better realize he is here on earth to protect his privilege.”

Jeremy laid his hands on his brother’s shoulders softly and looked at him pleadingly. God, if he could only get through somehow.

“Chris, when will you ever learn what father never learned, what grandfather never learned. You can’t get the loyalty of men through intimidation.”

“I’d say they did rather well.”

“They got wealthy. In a battalion like this there has to be respect for their dignity. You cannot own a man’s soul. Molly O’Rafferty left me because she would not surrender her soul.”