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 . . .
For some reason that I’ll never understand, it steadied me. I clipped the wire, and as I unsnapped the mortar box catches it dawned on me what Errol was up to, the lunatic – and it seemed only sensible to lift the lid slowly, push in the wire, fumble artistically in the interior before closing the lid as though it were made of porcelain, and spare two seconds for a calculating look at the bewildered mob beyond the bridge. To my horror, they were advancing – I looked back at the platoon, fifty yards off, and sure enough Errol was kneeling at the other end of the wire, which was attached to a metal container – a petrol jerry-can, as it turned out. He had one hand poised as though to work a plunger; with the other he waved an urgent signal.
‘Get out of it!’ I yelled, and as MacLeod and his mate scattered and ran I seized McAuslan by the nape of his unwashed neck, running him protesting from the bridge before throwing him and myself headlong.
It worked. You had only to put yourself in the shoes of Burnous and Co. to see that it was bound to. We weren’t wiring things up for the good of their health, they must have reasoned: that sinister mortar box lying on the bridge must be packed with death and destruction. When I had rolled over and got the sand out of my eyes they were in full retreat across the market square, a great disordered rabble intent on getting as far as possible from that unknown menace. In a few seconds an army of rioters had been turned into a rout – and the man responsible was sitting at his ease on the jerry-can, giving me an airy wave of his cigarette-holder as I trudged back to the platoon.
‘You mad son-of-a-bitch!’ I said, with deep respect, and he touched his bonnet in acknowledgement.
‘Psychology, laddie. Not nearly as messy as shooting poor wee wogs, you bloodthirsty subaltern, you. That would never have done – not on top of the Brigadier’s hawks. Not all in one day. Cattenach would have had kittenachs.’ He chuckled and stood up, smoothing his immaculate khaki drill, and shaded his eyes to look at the distant remnant of the riot milling disconsolately on the far side of the market-place.
‘Aye, weel, they’ll no’ be back the day,’ he said, imitating a Glasgow wifey. ‘So. Where will they go next, eh? Tell me that, MacNeill of Barra – or of Great Western Road, W.2. Where . . . will . . . they . . . go?’
‘Home?’ I suggested.
‘Don’t you believe it, cock. Marbruk wasn’t with ‘em — he’ll still be holding forth to the main body down at Yassid. Oh, if we’d lost the bridge he’d have been over sharp enough, with about twenty thousand angry wogs at his back. But now . . . I wonder.’
I was still digesting the outrageous bluff he’d pulled. I indicated the jerry-can and the string of wire running to the bridge. ‘Do you usually carry that kind of junk in your jeep?’ I asked, and he patted me on the shoulder, as with a half-wit.
‘I’m the Intelligence Officer, remember? All-wise, all-knowing, all full of bull. Oh, look – soldiers!’ Half a dozen Fusilier trucks were speeding down the New Town boulevard towards us, and Errol shook his head in admiration as he climbed into his jeep.
‘Locking the stable door,’ said he, and winked at me. ‘I’d better go and see which one they’ve left open. Buy you a drink at Renucci’s, nine o’clock, okay?’ He waved and revved off with a horrific grinding of metal, changing gears with his foot, which takes lots of practice.
When I showed the Fusilier Company Commander the mortar box with its fake wire he didn’t believe it at first, and then congratulated me warmly; when I told him it had been Errol’s idea he grunted and said, ‘Oh, him’, which I thought both ungrammatical and ungrateful, and told me I was to withdraw my platoon to the hospital. So I passed the remainder of that fateful day chatting up the nursing staff, drinking tea, and listening with interest to Private McAuslan telling Fletcher that it was a bluidy good job that bomb hadnae gone off on the bridge, because me an’ Darkie an’ MacLood an’ Dysart would hiv’ got blew up, sure’n we would.
‘It wisnae a bomb, ye bap-heid! He wis kiddin’ the wogs. There wis nothin’ tae it.’
‘Are you tellin’ me, Fletcher? Ah wis there! Ah cairrit the bluidy thing! Help ma Goad, if Ah’d known! That man Errol’s a menace, so he is; he coulda goat us a’ killed, me ’an Darkie an’ MacLood an’ Dysart . . .’ You can fool some of the people all of the time.
It was only when the alert was over, and I had sent the platoon back to barracks with Telfer and foregathered at Renucci’s for the promised drink with Errol, that I learned what had been happening elsewhere. It had been high drama, and the clientele of Renucci’s bar and grill were full of it. After our episode at the bridge, things had fallen out as Errol had foreseen: Marbruk es-Salah, after whipping up his followers at Yassid Market, had launched them at dusk through the old Suk slave-market in an attempt to invade the business area of the New Town, two m
iles away from Kantara. Part of the Suk had been burned and the rest pillaged, and the enormous crowd would undoubtedly have broken out with a vengeance if they had not suddenly lost their leader.
‘Nobody seems to know exactly what happened,’ a stout civilian was telling the bar, ‘except that Marbruk was obviously making for the weakest point in the security cordon — you won’t credit it, but there wasn’t even a constable guarding the Suk Gate. God knows what would have happened if they’d got beyond it; sheer devastation and half the New Town up in smoke, I expect. Anyway, that’s when Marbruk got shot —’
‘But you said there were no troops there,’ someone protested.
‘Nor were there. It seems he was shot inside the Suk. What with the uproar and the fact that it was dark, even his immediate henchmen didn’t realise it at first, and when they did — sheer pandemonium. But they’d lost all sense of direction, thank God – otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here, I daresay.’
‘Who on earth did it? Did the police get him?’
‘You’re joking, old boy! In the Suk, during a riot, at night? I should think our gallant native constabulary are too busy drinking the assassin’s health.’ ‘I heard they got Marbruk’s body out . . .’
I lost the rest of it in the noise, and at that moment Errol slipped on to the stool next to me and asked what I was drinking.
‘Antiquary – hang on, I want to hear this.’