CHAPTER V
DAY BY DAY
Astime went on we grew more and more accustomed to our Eastern life. With the passing of the weeks the weather became warmer, until it dawned on our O.C. at last that, in the interests of his men's health, he would have to ease off work a bit in the heat of the day. So it came to pass that the bigger part of our training was carried out in the early morning and at night, the long desert marches in the afternoons being pretty well cut out. No one regretted it; those wallaby trots pulled blasphemy and sweat out of the chaps in about equal proportions. Besides, they were by this time in hard fighting trim; fit to go for a man's life. It was quite an everydayoccurrence for the crowd to come into camp off an eighteen or twenty mile foot-slogging jaunt with all on, have tea and a wash-up, and then trot into Cairo to spend the evening. That shows the kind of training they were in.
But it wasn't "all work and no play." We had amusement and recreation in plenty, between concerts at night, tennis, football, etc. on the desert by day. We even ran a gymkhana once, and played polo and wrestling on horseback—with donkeys as mounts. I don't think they enjoyed it (the donkeys, I mean), and some of the competitors got in the way of each other's clubs, and showed it. But the spectators were tickled, and I fancy the natives sized us up as all mad—or tanked. Add to this boxing, and Church Parade on Sundays, and you will have a fair idea of how we put in time when we weren't training. The latter was the least popular; it was held out on the desert where there wasn't a vestige of shade. It's almostimpossible to sleep in the full glare of an African sun.
As a rule we had Saturday afternoons off, also Sunday from the conclusion of Church Parade, besides an odd whole day or two, for which we had to get a special pass. Sometimes a fellow got the chance of going in to Cairo to fetch back a prisoner from the military jail. In this connection I remember forming one of a corporal's guard dispatched into the city to bring out a couple of chaps who had been run in by the pickets for getting shikkared and playing round some. The O.C. let them off with a caution—and a week later one was made a sergeant while the other got his commission! Still, they were good boys, so the fellows only laughed.
We were reviewed several times during our stay in Egypt—once by Sir Ian Hamilton. Oh, the dust of those marches past! They had the cinema going on us at the saluting point, but I'll take my oath they "snapped" moredust than soldiers. We were dressing by the centre—at least we were supposed to—but the line was hidden in such rolling clouds of suffocating desert topsoil, that it was a matter of speculation as to where the centre actually was. However, we marched as uprightly as the soft going would allow, mounted our fiercest touch-me-if-you-dare-look, and as the chaps actually in range of the camera averaged over six feet in height right through, I guess we looked some fighting men, and no error. It was a day of tropic heat, we had been kept standing-to for over a couple of hours with full packs up, so our expression wasn't to say curate-like—as a mob of Gippy hawkers and sightseers who happened to get in the line of march at one time seemed to think, for they turned tail and bolted like a harem of scalded tabbies. At first it used to amuse us the way the citizens of Cairo stared at the Australasian troops; the place was simply dry-rotted with sedition, but after our chaps took it over therewas jolly little talk of native risings or such-like. Of course, there were little isolated pow-wows now and then, but they always ended in such an all-fired jamboree that the tenderfeeteffendisand solemn-facedpashasthought the bottom had fallen out of hell, and concluded to give the game best. Our chaps had their own way of tackling the beggars. And it worked O.K.
At another time we were paraded in hollow square and addressed by the Honourable "Tom" McKenzie, High Commissioner for New Zealand, and Sir George Reid, representing Australia. They had come out from London, and, needless to say, they got a boncer welcome from the boys. The Maoris made the dust fly and set the desert shaking with a bighakaof greeting. Altogether things went offkapai, and I fancy the two representatives of the "Fatherland" (both real sports and white men) enjoyed themselves. Anyway, the men from Down Under were realglad to see them; and when addressing the Division the speakers soon showed that the pleasure was mutual.
It would be about this period that the Australasian forces began to be called "The Ragtime Army." I never knew who started the name, but anyway it stuck. Then some johnnie, gifted with the faculty of rhyme-stringing, took it into his head to compose a set of verses dealing with our daily life and training in Egypt, every verse ending with the words, "Only an Army standing by." This title also stuck, and it was quite an everyday occurrence for the infantry to march out of camp to the sung and whistled tune of the "Army standing by." The fact was, that the fellows were by this time trained to the hour; they were sick of the dust, heat, and flies of Egypt, and were longing to be up and doing. They had had as tough a gruelling as men could be put to, and were beginning to ask what was the good of it all if they were going to be kept"standing by" in a God-forsaken hole on the edge of the desert. You see, rumours were in the air; true, these "wireless" messages, it was proved, almost all emanated from a rather unsavoury source (the Anzacs will recognise the locality), but they travelled round the whole camp with most disconcerting frequency until one never knew what to believe and what not. And one of these rumours oft repeated was to the effect that the Australasians were destined to form the permanent Army of Occupation in Egypt. Hence the growing feeling of discontent, the constant grousing, and the daily lament of "Kitchener hasn't got any use for us; we're a 'Ragtime Army,' 'An Army standing by.'" But Kitchener knew what he was about. He generally does, come to think of it. He expected a lot from that ragtime push—and I reckon he was satisfied.
There has been a lot of rot written and said about the lack of discipline in the Australianand New Zealand forces. Therewasdiscipline, although not quite the same brand as that of the British Army. It is true they didn't cotton on to saluting as an amusement, and you can lay a safe bet they never will. But what of it? Their own officers didn't press the point, knowing the class of men they commanded. At the same time those officers knew that the rough diamonds under their orders would play the game right to the last man; that they would fight like lions in their own devil-may-care, reckless way—and, if need be, die like men, with a careless jest or muttered oath on their lips. I say there was the highest form of discipline in the Australasian Army—the discipline that called on a man to die, if necessary, that his comrade might live. Let the order go forth that a certain position was to be heldat all costs. Was it lost? No—except over the dead bodies of the holders. Has a single instance come to light in which even a platoon of Australian orNew Zealand troops abandoned their trench and bolted? No, even when out of ammunition and unable to reply to a murderous fire. What was it that caused first one line and then another of those big Australian Light Horsemen to charge to certain death at Quinn's Post? Discipline! War discipline! The kind that counts. They didn't salute much (except when in an unusually good humour—or outside a big drink), even their own officers, but they would follow those officers to certain death—and well the officers knew it. They were just big, hard-living, hard-drinking, over-grown boys: not exactly saints or respectable church-going citizens, I fear. But they were white right through—even if they sometimes did go looking for trouble! And there wasn't anything on the Gallipoli Peninsula could show them the way when it came to scrapping. They were absolutely the grandest fighting men that God ever put breath into! You saw it in the square set of their jaws and the grim, straightforwardglance of their eyes. But parade-ground soldiering wasn't much in their line, nor the cheering crowds either.
I think I have already stated that Cairo is a wicked old city. Well, it is. There are places in Cairo that I wouldn't take my grandmother through—places that would curl a padre's toenails backwards, or send the blood to the cheek of a Glasgow policeman. Shebangs where they sell you whisky that takes the lining of your throat down with it, and lifts your stomach up to the roof of your skull; a soothing liquid that licks "forty-rod," "chained lightning," or "Cape smoke " to the back of creation; the kind of lush that gives you a sixty-horse dose of the jim-jams while you wait. Real good stuff it is—for taking tar off a fence.
There are streets in Cairo where the stench is so great that the wonder is how any living thing can breathe it and survive; in comparison with which a glue factory or fertiliser works isAttar of Roses, and an Irish pigsty a featherbed in heaven; and yet in these streets—these cesspools—the painted ladies of low degree live and move and carry on abominations which are unnamable; things which the brute creation is guiltless of.
There are other streets in Cairo where the painted ladies of higher degree—the very patricians of their profession—follow their calling in an atmosphere of luxury permeated by all the seductive and sensual voluptuousness of a land which for countless æons has been the home of the voluptuary and the pleasure seeker; an atmosphere to breathe which might shatter the vows of an anchoret.
There are houses in Cairo in which certain male and female vampires batten and wax rich on the proceeds of a thriving trade in the White Slave Market; houses in which wives are bought and sold like so many bullocks; aye, and houses in which, if rumour say truly, a man will sell you his own daughter—and notthink it worth his while to witness the wedding ceremony!
Yes, it is a wicked old city, the Rio Cairo. I have a lively remembrance of a certain Sunday evening which I put in as one of a strong Town Picket. Our "beat" lay for the most part in the localities I have just been describing, and it would be putting it mildly to say that we had our eyes opened to the pleasant little ways of the Eastern. It was more than an eye-opener; it was a revelation. And in some ways I reckon it was an education. At the same time I shouldn't advise the prospective student to imbibe too deeply of that sink—er—well of learning. I can smell that aroma even now.
About six or seven miles up the line from our camp lay the native village of Maarg. I had heard that this was a typical Arabic-Egyptian settlement, and that it was quite unvisited by the troops, so I resolved to prospect it. Giving Church Parade a miss thefollowing Sunday, my mate and I toddled down to Helmieh Station, had an early dinner in an eating-house there, and took train to Maarg Siding. The country we passed through was very different from that which surrounded our camp; it was all irrigated soil, hence the track wound through a belt of land blooming with flowers, lush grass, and magnificent berseine crops. Everywhere the date palm, the prickly pear, the banana, and the fig grew in the most prodigal profusion; everywhere one saw donkeys, buffaloes, camels, goats, and hybrid sheep revelling in the midst of plenty. The soil simply exuded fertility; tickle its bosom and the milk flowed.
Yet it wasn't worked. The surface was only scratched by an ox-drawn wooden plough, the pattern for which came out of the Ark. True, it was irrigated—as Joseph and his Brethren irrigatedtheirselections. Here and there one caught a glimpse of a scantily cladfellahraising water from a channel by means ofa rope attached to a weighted and counterpoised pole and bucket, or slowly turning the handle of an archimedean screw. Occasionally oxen were pressed into the service, and kept to their work by women or children armed with goads. In such cases the water was raised by the agency of a wheel furnished with gourds, or sherds, attached equidistantly all round its circumference. The ox walked round in a circle, its dexter optic being obscured by means of a pad to prevent its entering on the broad way that leadeth to destruction—and, incidentally, throwing the water supply out of gear. When you bellowedAh-h-h!like a goat, it kept going on its circular tour, and an abruptly terminatedYe-e-es!caused it to come to a full stop. It would rather stop than go any time.
We left the train at the siding, and bumped straight away into the usual mob of donkey boys and beggars. Threading our way through this lot we skirted a native café and store, andset out for the village situated some half-mile to the right front, the crowd of jabbering and gesticulating mongrels falling into procession behind us. In this formation we betook us through a plantation of date palms, past a paddock or two of vivid green berseine, and arrived at a flour-mill on the outskirts of the settlement. An old dame with a face like a gargoyle sat at the door selling sticky-looking native sweetmeats and Turkish Delight, while inside the mill was a crowd of women and young girls, some of the latter by no means bad-looking. When they smiled (which later on they did) you had a vision of ivory teeth, flashing eyes, and A1 lips and cheeks—the latter tinged with a nut-brown bronze.
Just now, however, there wasn't a smile in the bunch. They were as scared as a mob of full-mouth ewes. I doubt if some of them had ever seen a soldier in their natural—although I expect they had heard a lot about the boys. Anyway they just crowded into a corner of themill and squinted at us like a bunch of half-tanked parrakeets. Something had to be done. My mate solved the difficulty.
"How about buying the old lady out and filling up the nippers?" he said.
We did so, and in exchange for a few piastres received a fairly heavy consignment of bilious-looking lollies and Turkish Delight. These we straightway proceeded to hold up to the expectant view of the smaller kiddies. The thing worked like a charm: kids are the same all the world over. In a few minutes the mothers stole shyly forward and held up their babies to receive their rightful share of the unexpected windfall. Soon the whole crowd, mothers, kids, and flappers, were laughing and jostling round us to the admiration and envy of our retinue. They could not resist the call of those sticky confections. They had been seduced by a concoction of sugar and gum arabic. We bought the old Ishmaelite right out and distributedbacksheeshwith a lavishhand, then proceeded to "do" the township at the head of a now much augmented following. I guess they sized us up as a new brand in the public philanthropic line. It wasn't every day that millionaires who sported five-piastre pieces came to town. I fancytheircoinage was a copper one.
Maarg we found to be a typicalfellaheenvillage, inhabited by the usual mob of picturesque-looking and untidy natives, half Egyptian and half Arabic; goats, donkeys, bastard sheep, and hens. It boasted a miniature mosque, a grocery and provision store, a broken-down potter's factory, a cemetery, but no sanitation department. The low, dirty-white houses were topped by the customary flat roofs on which the family washing (when there happened to be any) flaunted its shameless nakedness. The streets, carpeted with the freewill offerings of the citizens, began anywhere and finished nowhere—except when they led you unsuspectingly into the living-room of one ofthe aforesaid citizens. On the whole we found Maarg to be a really interesting place, and the inhabitants even more interesting. But they took some getting acquainted with, for at first every woman and child bolted to cover as soon as we loomed in sight, following at a safe distance when we had passed on, and stopping when we stopped. We smiled our sweetest: no effect. We purchased lollies from the provision merchant and started scrambles among our own immediate train: they approached.
Those scrambles were the limit. They began with the nippers. Then the flappers joined in. Next the mothers, some with babies in their arms, took a hand in the deal. Finally the men, their dignity upset by the thought of so much good tucker going into other stomachs than their own, joined in the general mix-up, and the show ended in a flurry of legs and wings for all the world like a cross between a ballet dance and a Rugby scrum.
We had a most interesting conversation with the Mayor, or Sheik, or whatever he was, of the community. He proved quite an affable old gentleman, able to speak a little English. He didn't seem quite able to size us up at first, and was naturally curious to know what had brought us to his township. We said we had come on a matrimonial project (we thought we might as well tell a good one when we were about it; they are all liars in those parts, anyway), whereat he pricked up his old ears, scentingbacksheesh. In answer to certain parental queries we informed him that we possessed a wife each already out in New Zealand (which was a lie), my mate owning to five kiddies, and I to a couple—the latter bit of information striking him as rather ludicrous seeing that I had just told him that I had been married a little over a year; however, I made it right by explaining that my family consisted of twins.
If we had been objects of curiosity beforewe were tenfold so now. The market was well stocked, and had we wished we could have been fixed up with a tidy little harem each right away. It was a toughish job keeping our faces straight, while the goods were paraded before us and a full inventory of each laughing-eyed young lady's charms and accomplishments made out. And some of them were real pretty; quite as modest, too, in their own way, as most white girls. Not that they were niggers (except in name); the colour of a ripe peach would about fill the bill; and when you get that brand of complexion added to a smallish mouth and chin, teeth like pearls, a short straight nose, a low broad forehead thatched with glossy, raven-black hair (plenty of it, too), you begin to tumble to the fact that thefellaheengirls weren'tallbehind the door when faces were served out. As regards hands and feet they could give points to most Englishwomen, while their action was a treat to watch. I guess the Eastern habit of carryingloads on their heads accounts for their graceful carriage. They were a smallish breed; slimly built and averaging about five feet and a fraction, I should say.
I forget what the price ruled at, taken in a camel, donkey, and goat currency. The sheik's own favourite daughters, I know, had a top-market reserve placed on them. They were certainly the pick of the bunch. Like most native women they had a tender spot in their hearts for men of the sterner Western breed—and likeallEastern girls they admired height and weight. We filled the bill; modesty debars me from saying more. They would have shaken the dirt—er, dust—of Maarg from their shapely little feet and followed us to Gallipoli had we asked them.
We didn't. We tore ourselves away, saying that we would return to see them the following Sunday. We meant it, too—being both fond of prosecuting the study of native types of mankind. But, alas! the following Sundayfound us on the sea, bound for the Dardanelles and Johnnie Turk. We presented our prospective helpmeets with sufficient Turkish Delight to ensure them dyspepsia for the ensuing seven days,backsheeshedtheir parents till they smiled sixteen to the dozen, and took the back trail, escorted all the way to the Siding by the united population of the settlement. I doubt if we should have saluted the General himself had we bumped up against him, we felt so good.
On the whole, we had a rather good time during our stay in Egypt. Our camp lay close to both Old and New Heliopolis. The new town was built as a kind of Eastern Monte Carlo, by a continental syndicate which, however, failed to obtain the necessary gaming licence. It is spotlessly clean, the streets are like glass, and the architecture mostly snowy-white and Corinthian-Roman in design. An enormous hotel, said to be one of the largest in the world, occupies the centre of a prettilyplanted square; there is a fine, showy Casino, and whole streets of beautifully designed buildings. It is, in fact, a model little town resting incongruously enough on the arid desert, a bit of Monaco transplanted to the land of the Pharaohs. A close inspection, however, reveals the fact that a large part of the solid-looking architecture is a sham, most of the ornamental work being moulded in stucco. In this connection the natives will tell you that when the heavy rains put in an appearance (they only visit these parts about once in every three years or so) Heliopolis begins to moult—in plain words the outer crust of lime washes away, and the town bears the appearance of a fleshless skeleton.
You can still see bits of Old Heliopolis—the Heliopolis of the Scriptures. In fact, the modern town is built partly on the site of the ancient city which the Virgin Mary passed through. Your guide will point out to you the Virgin's Well and what purportsto be the tree she rested under. You can swallow the latter assertion with a large mouthful of salt; the plant looks altogether too flourishing and full of life to have so many years on its head. The original Virgin's Tree is, I believe, to be found close handy—an old dead stump that might be any age. In the Virgin's Chapel adjoining you will find a number of beautiful mural paintings depicting the Flight into Egypt.
A few minutes' walk will bring you to the foot of the oldest obelisk in the world, I believe: an obelisk compared with which Cleopatra's Needle is an infant in arms. Save for the marks of Napoleon's shot which it received during the Battle of the Mamelukes, its surface is practically unscratched. It is the dryness of the Egyptian climate, I reckon, that accounts for the staying powers of these old-timers. Most of them seem to have suffered more during Napoleon's short stay than they did during the flight of centuries.I guess his men were pretty rotten shots. I often wondered how they came to mess up the poor old Sphinx's nose, or what they were actually shooting at. It couldn't have been the old lady herself, for if they had they'd have missed her.
Still, I shouldn't say too much against Napoleon and his men, for the bread we ate while at Zeitoun was nearly all baked in the ovens originally built by them.
During our sojourn in camp we "did" the Pyramids of Gizeh, of course. It is a stiff climb to the top, especially if you are wearing riding breeches, but the view you get as a reward is really grand. The interior is also well worth a visit. You'll find the inside of this big sugar-loaf to be as hot as anything this side of Eternity, and you can't help wondering how you'd get out if the top fell in. By the way, most folks when they speak of the Pyramids seem to imagine there are only three in Egypt—those of Gizeh—yet there are severaldozens of them, big, medium, and little, scattered about the country. At one place (Sakkarra) I counted either fourteen or sixteen, ranging from little piccaninnies to the oldest one in the world, the Step Pyramid.
I also spent a most enjoyable day on the Nile, in a native boat—feluccasI think they are called, or our own particular craft may have been a smalldhow. We paid a visit to the palace of Pharaoh's daughter (the one that found Moses). The foundations and lower part of the original palace are still standing, the upper structure being more modern. The river washes the place on three sides, which, perhaps, accounts for it being fairly clean and fresh-smelling. Littlefellaheenvillages, partly fishing and partly agricultural, lie scattered here and there along the river banks just as they lay in biblical days. We visited one of these hamlets (they are all much the same), and breathed the usual mixed aroma of camels, goats, sheep, fowls, stale fish, andstale native. I don't wonder that Moses went to sleep there.
I had often read about the yellow Nile water: well, it is yellow enough, in all conscience. But it is a noble old river, and it slides placidly along as if well aware of the fact that Egypt exists on its good-natured benevolence. Its average breadth near Cairo would work out at about 300 yards, I should say. There is no sign of hustle or flurry about the Nile, and if you live near it for a spell you'll have a tough job keeping in the collar, for its spirit is apt to get into your blood some, and you'll find yourself dropping into as big a slow-go as the slowest of the natives who pray to it. And you'll enjoy the experience.
When the bank was good we used to make a point of visiting the show places that could be "done" during the hours of a Sunday. Thus we explored Sakkarra and the buried city of Memphis; saw and admired the excavated statue of Rameses; tried to read thebird-and-animal writing on the walls (some of which was paintedover 2000 yearsB.C., I believe—and still retains its colour); inspected the Tombs of the Sacred Bulls, and were beat to guess how in thunder the huge sarcophagi were got to where we found them. We also paid a visit to Barrage, the place of many dams and much engineering effort—not to mention really pretty gardens wherein one may picnic on lawns clothed with English grasses, and yet rest in the shade of purely tropical and sub-tropical palms and tree-ferns. Some of the chaps even managed to see Luxor, getting three days' leave for the trip. I drew a blank, however: the fare ran to £2 10s.or £3, and at the time I was dead up against it—much to my disgust, as I should have liked immensely to have had a look at the Fayyum, the Garden of Egypt.
Taking it bye and large I don't think we did at all badly in the sight-seeing line, from the Citadel and the Tombs of the Mamelukes inCairo to the Pyramids, the Nile, and other shows farther afield. We sailed in native boats, rode ingharris, and bestrode camels, mules, and donkeys to further orders. I don't think there was much lying within range of our purses that we failed to prospect. It is a mighty queer country is Egypt, and I hope to see more of it "when the Germans cease to trouble and the Turks are laid to rest."
Before closing this chapter I feel compelled to pay my grateful tribute to the many French friends we made while camped near Cairo. They were courteous and kindly at all times, and in the case of those who, like myself, had numerous opportunities of meeting them, their warm-hearted generosity and lavish hospitality will never be forgotten. They treated us more like brothers than chance acquaintances, inviting us into their homes, and going out of their way to show that they at least believed in the permanency of theentente cordiale. We were brothers-in-arms—just that. SurelyBriton and Frenchman shall ever remain so. That I know will be the abiding wish of every man of the Australian forces. I had previously met many of our Gallic friends and liked and admired them; now that we have had the opportunity of becoming better acquainted I embrace this opportunity of expressing my admiration and liking in the strongest possible terms. I feel that I could not do less.
Vive la France!