The Complete McAuslan (54 page)

‘Hi, Corporal Mackie, whit are the wogs gettin’ het up aboot, then?’

‘Independence.’ Mackie had been a civil servant, and was the platoon intellectual. ‘Self-government by their own political leaders. They don’t like being under Allied occupation.’

‘Fair enough, me neither. Whit’s stoppin’ them?’

‘You are, McAuslan. You’re the heir to the pre-war Italian government. So do your shirt up and try to look like it.’

‘Me? Fat chance! The wogs can hiv it for me, sure’n they can, Fletcher? It’s no’ my parish. Hi, corporal, whit wey does the government no’ let the wogs have it?’

‘Because they’d make a bluidy mess o’ it, dozy.’ This was Fletcher, who was a sort of Churchillian Communist. ‘They’re no’ fit tae run a mennodge. Look behind ye – that’s civilisation. Then look ower there at that midden o’ a toon; that’s whit the wogs would make o’ it. See?’

So much for Ibn Khaldun and the architects of the Alhambra. Some similar thought must have stirred McAuslan’s strange mental processes, for he came out with a nugget which, frankly, I wouldn’t have thought he knew.

‘Haud on a minnit, Fletcher – it was wogs built the Pyramids, wisn’t it? That’s whit the Padre says. Aye, weel, there ye are. They cannae be that dumb.’

‘Those werenae wogs, ya mug! Those were Ancient Egyptians.’

‘An Egyptian’s a wog! Sure’n he is. So don’t gi’ me the acid, Fletcher. Anyway, if Ah wis a wog, Ah wid dam′ soon get things sortit oot aboot indamapendence. If Ah wis a wog – ’

‘That’s a helluva insult tae wogs, right enough. Ah can just see ye! Hey, fellas, meet Abu ben McAuslan, the Red Shadow. Ye fancy havin’ a harem, McAuslan? Aboot twenty bellydancers like Big Aggie frae the Blue Heaven?’ And Fletcher began to hum snake-charmer music, while his comrades speculated coarsely on McAuslan, Caliph of the Faithful, and I looked through the heat haze at the Old City, and thought about cool pints in the dim quiet of the mess ante-room.

It came, as it so often does, with daunting speed. There was a distant muttering from the direction of the Old City, like a wind getting up, and the market-place beyond the bridge was suddenly empty and still in the late afternoon sun. Then the muttering changed to a rising rumble of hurrying feet and harsh voices growing louder. I shouted to Telfer to fall in, and from the mouth of a street beyond the market-place a native police jeep came racing over the bridge. It didn’t stop; I had a glimpse of a brown face, scared and staring, under a peaked cap, and then the jeep was gone in a cloud of dust, heading up into the New Town. So much for the civil power. The platoon were fanning out in open order, each man with his rifle and a canvas bandolier at his waist; they stood easy, and Telfer turned to me for orders. I was gazing across the bridge, watching Crisis arrive in a frightsome form, and realising with sudden dread that there was no one on God’s green earth to deal with it, except me.

It’s quite a moment. You’re taking it easy, on a sunny afternoon, listening to the Jocks chaffing – and then out of the alleys two hundred yards away figures are hurrying, hundreds of them, converging into a great milling mob, yelling in unison, waving their fists, starting to move towards you. A menace beats off them that you can feel, dark glaring faces, sticks brandished, robes waving and feet churning up the dust in clouds before them, the rhythmic chanting sounding like a barbaric war-song – and you fight down the panic and turn to look at the khaki line strung out either side of you, the young faces set under the slanted bonnets, the rifles at their sides, standing at ease – waiting for you. If you say the word, they’ll shoot that advancing mob flat, and go on shooting, because that’s what they’re trained to do, for thirty bob a week – and if that doesn’t stop the opposition, they’ll stand and fight it out on the spot as long as they can, because that’s part of the conscript’s bargain, too. But it’s entirely up to you – and there’s no colonel or company commander to instruct or advise. And it doesn’t matter if you’ve led a section in warfare, where there is no rule save survival; this is different, for these are not the enemy – by God, I thought, you could have fooled me; I may know it, but I’ll bet they don’t – they are civilians, and you must not shoot unless you have to, and only you can decide that, so make up your mind, Dand, and don’t dawdle: you’re getting nine quid a week, after all, so the least you can do is show some initiative.

‘Charge magazines, Sar’nt Telfer! Corporals, watch those cut-offs! Mackie – if McAuslan gets one up the spout I’ll blitz you! Here – I’ll do it!’ I grabbed McAuslan’s rifle, jammed down the top round, closed the cut-off, rammed home the bolt, clicked the trigger, and thumbed on the safety-catch while he squawked indignantly that he could dae it, he wisnae stupid, him. I shoved his rifle into his hand and looked across the bridge again.

The rattle of the charging magazines had checked them for barely an instant; now they were coming on again, a solid mass of humanity choking the square, half-hidden by the dust they were raising. Out front there was a big thug in a white burnous and red tarboosh who turned to face the mob, chanting some slogan, before turning to lead them on, punching his arms into the air. There were banners waving in the front rank - and I knew this was no random gang of looters, but an organised horde bent on striking where they knew the forces of order were weakest—I had thirty Jocks between them and that peaceful suburb with its hotels and pleasant homes and hospital. Over their heads I could see smoke on the far side of the market . . .

‘Fix bayonets, Sarn′t Telfer!′ I shouted, and on his command the long sword-blades zeeped out of the scabbards, the lockingrings clicked, and the hands cut away to the sides. ‘Present!’ and the thirty rifles with their glittering points went forward.

That stopped them, dead. The big thug threw up his arms, and they halted, yelling louder than ever and shaking fists and clubs, but they were still fifty yards from the bridge. They eddied to and fro, milling about, while the big burnous exhorted them, waving his arms – and I moved along the line, forcing myself to talk as quietly as the book says you must, saying the proper things in the proper order.

‘Easy does it, children. Wait for it. If they start to come on, you stand fast, understand? Nobody moves – except Fletcher, Macrae, Duncan, and Souness. You four, when I say ‘Load!’ will put one round up the spout – but don’t fire! Not till I tell you.′ They had rehearsed it all before, the quartet of marksmen had been designated, but it all had to be repeated. ‘If I say ′Over their heads, fire!’, you all take aim, but only those four will fire on the word. Got it? Right, wait for it . . . easy does it . . . take Blackie’s name, Sarn′t Telfer, his bayonet’s filthy . . . wait for it . . .’

It’s amazing how you can reassure yourself, by reassuring other people. I felt suddenly elated, and fought down the evil hope that we might have to fire in earnest – oh, that’s an emotion that comes all too easily – and walked along the front of the line, looking at the faces – young and tight-lipped, all staring past me at the crowd, one or two sweating, a few Adam’s apples moving, but not much. The chanting suddenly rose to a great yell, and the crowd was advancing again, but slowly this time, a few feet at a time, stopping, then coming on, the big burnous gesticulating to his followers, and then turning to stare in my direction. You bastard, I thought – you know what it’s all about! We can fire over your head till we’re blue in the face, but it won’t stop you – you’ll keep coming, calling our bluff, daring us to let fly. Right, son, if anyone gets it, you will . . .

They were coming steadily now, but still slowly; I judged their distance from the bridge and shouted: ‘Four men – load! Remainder, stand fast! Wait for it . . .’

A stone came flying from the crowd, falling well short, but followed by a shower of missiles kicking up the dust ahead of us. I walked five slow paces out in front of the platoon – believe it or not, that can make a mob hesitate – and waited; when the first stone reached me, I would give the order to fire over their heads. If they still kept coming, I would take a rifle and shoot the big burnous, personally, wounding if possible – and if that didn’t do it, I would order the four marksmen to take out four rioters. Then, if they charged us, I would order rapid fire into the crowd . . .

By today’s standards, you may think that atrocious. Well, think away. My job was to save that helpless suburb from the certain death and destruction that mob would wreak if they broke through. So retreat was impossible on that head, never mind that soldiers cannot run from a riot and if I ordered them to retire I’d never be able to look in a mirror again. But above all these good reasons was the fact that if I let that horde of yelling maniacs reach us, some of my Jocks would die – knifed or clubbed or trampled lifeless, and I hadn’t been entrusted with thirty young Scottish lives in order to throw them away. That was the real clincher, and why I would loose up to three hundred rounds rapid into our attackers if I had to. It gets terribly simple when you’re looking it in the face.

The shouting rose to a mad crescendo, they were a bare thirty yards from the bridge, the burnous was leaping like a dervish, you could sense the rush coming, and without looking round I shouted:

‘Four men – over their heads . . . fire!’

It crashed out like one report. One of the flag-poles jerked crazily – Fletcher playing Davy Crockett – and the crowd reared back like a horse at a hedge. For a splendid moment I thought they were going to scatter, but they didn’t: the big burnous was playing a stormer, grabbing those nearest, rallying them, urging them forward with voice and gesture. My heart sank as I took Telfer’s rifle, for I was going to have to nail that one, unarmed civilian that he was, and I found myself remembering my awful closing line: ‘Well, that’s that’ from that ghastly play in Bangalore . . .

‘Having fun, Dand?’ said a voice at my elbow, and there was Errol beside me, cupping his hands as he lit a cigarette. Thank God, reinforcements at the last minute – and then I saw the solitary jeep parked by the trucks. Nobody else. He drew on his cigarette, surveying the crowd.

‘What’ll you do?’ he asked conversationally – no suggestion of assuming command, you notice; what would
I
do.

‘Shoot that big beggar in the leg!’

‘You might miss,’ he said, ‘and sure as fate we’d find a dead nun on the ground afterwards. Or a four-year-old orphan.’ He gave me his lazy grin. ‘I think we can do better than that.’

‘What the hell are you on, Errol?’ I demanded, in some agitation. ‘Look, they’re going to – ’

‘Not to panic. I’d say we’ve got about thirty seconds.’ He swung round. ‘You, you, and you – run to my jeep! Get the drum of signal wire, the cutters, the mortar box, and double back here – now! Move!’

‘Are you taking command?’

‘God, you’re regimental. I’ll bet you were a pig of a lancejack. Here, have a fag – go on, you clot, the wogs are watching, wondering what the hell we’re up to.’

The lean brown face with its trim Colman moustache was smiling calmly under the cocked bonnet; his hand was rock-steady as he held out the cigarette-case – it was one of those hammered silver jobs you got in Indian bazaars, engraved with a map and erratic spelling. And he was right: the yelling had died down, and they were watching us and wondering . . .

Three Jocks came running, two with the heavy drum of wire between them on its axle, the third (McAuslan, who else?) labouring with the big metal mortar box, roaring to them tae haud on, he couldnae manage the bluidy thing, damn it tae hell . . .

‘Listen, Dand,’ said Errol. ‘Run like hell to the bridge, unrolling the wire. When you get there, cut it. Open the mortar box – it’s empty – stick the end of the wire inside, close the lid. Got it? Then scatter like billy-be-damned. Move!’

Frankly, I didn’t get it. He must be doolaly. But if the Army teaches you anything, it’s to act on the word, no questions asked – which is how great victories are won (and great disasters caused).

‘Come on!’I yelled, and went for the bridge like a stung whippet, followed by the burdened trio, McAuslan galloping in the rear demanding to know whit the hell was gaun on. Well, I didn’t know, for one – all I had room for was the appalling knowledge that I was running straight towards several hundred angry
bazaar-wallahs
who were bent on pillage and slaughter. Fortunately, there isn’t time to think in fifty yards, or to notice anything except that the ragged ranks ahead seemed to be stricken immobile, if not silent: the big burnous, out in front, was stock-still and staring, while his followers raged behind him, presumably echoing McAuslan’s plea for enlightenment. I had a picture of yelling, hostile black faces as I skidded to a standstill at the mouth of the bridge; the two Jocks with the wire were about ten yards behind, closing fast as they unreeled the long shining thread behind them; staggering with them, his contorted face mouthing horribly over the mortar box clasped in his arms, was Old Insanitary himself. He won by a short head, sprawling headlong and depositing the box at my feet.

‘The cutters!’ I snapped, as he grovelled, blaspheming, in the dust. ‘The cutters, McAuslan!’

‘Whit cutters?’ he cried, crouching like Quasimodo in the pillory, and then his eyes fell on the menacing but still irresolute mob a scant thirty yards away. ‘Mither o’ Goad! Wull ye look at yon? The cutters – Ah’ve goat them! Here th’are, sur – Ah’ve goat them!’ He pawed at his waist – and the big wire cutters, which he had thrust into the top of his shorts for convenient carriage, slid out of view. And it is stark truth: one handle emerged from one leg of his shorts, the second handle from the other.

I’m not sure what I said, but I’ll bet only dogs could hear it. Fortunately MacLeod, one of the wire-carriers, was a lad of resource and rare self-sacrifice; he hurled himself at McAuslan, thrust his hand down the back of his shorts, and yanked viciously. There was an anguished wail and a fearsome rending of khaki, the cutters were dragged free, and as I grabbed them in one hand and the wire in the other, McAuslan’s recriminations seemed to fill the afternoon. He was, it appeared, near ruined, an’ see his bluidy troosers; there wis nae need for it, MacLood, an’ ye′ll pey for them an’ chance it, handless teuchter that ye are . . .