The sheer volume and violence of it was paralysing. For a moment they stared in disbelief; then, as it dawned that the joke was no longer a joke, and the Despised Unwashed was become the Voice of Authority, Fletcher’s jaw tightened angrily and I caught his eye just in time.
‘Right, off you go,’ I said. ‘Three cans should do, and six brushes. Carry on, you three.’ They went, Fletcher casting a baleful glance at McAuslan who, ill-dressed in a little brief and insanitary authority, pursued them with invective. It was like listening to a Guards Drill Sergeant finally cracking up.
‘Ye hear that, ye middens? Three drums’n’six brushes, an’ don’t be a’ bluidy day aboot it! Ah’m watchin’ ye, Fletcher! Ah’ve got your number, boy! Double, ye horrible heap, ye! Keep the eye doon, Forbes, or yer feet won’t touch! Moo-ove yer idle body, Leishman, Ah can see ye —’
‘Take it easy, Corporal,’ I said, ‘they’re going.’ He wheeled round obediently, falling over himself and scrambling to disorderly attention, and I was about to advise him to moderate his word of command when I caught the glazed fanatical gleam in his eye and realised that the brute was drunk with power; the heady wine of authority was coursing through his system, and he was ready to decimate whole armies. It was quite frightening, in a bizarre way: McAuslan as Captain Bligh. A new and alarming prospect opened up – mutiny, for if this personality change was permanent it could only be a matter of time before Fletcher or some other indignant soul planted the tyrant one and qualified for a court-martial. Already I could hear the Colonel’s incredulous question: ‘You say Fletcher assaulted a superior? Who, for heaven’s sake?’ and my hollow reply: ‘Lance-Corporal McAuslan, sir . . .’ No. Something would have to be done, and speedily, whether the Brigadier and Errol liked it or not.
I was still debating the possibility of sending McAuslan on leave, or hiring Arab thugs to kidnap him, when we finished work for the day. Three Section, I was relieved to see, fell in of their own accord and marched back to the barrack-block paying no heed to Mad Lejeaune of the Legion, who lumbered in their wake, bawling the step – not only out of time with the squad, but with himself, too. His new uniform was fit only for the incinerator by this time, and his stripe was starting to come loose, which I hoped was an omen.
And then in a moment it was all out of my hands and forgotten about. Errol was just coming off the phone when I entered the company office, and before I could begin an impassioned plea for McAuslan’s reduction to the ranks on whatever pretext, he was issuing orders.
‘You know Bin’yassar Convent, don’t you? The Mother Superior’s been on the line to Brigade – it seems a big caravan of desert buddoo have shown up at the oasis, and she doesn’t like the look of them. You’ll take Eleven Platoon, battle order, three days’ rations, they’ll wear their tartans, and I’m giving you a piper. Get out there right away, sit down in the convent, and show the flag – you know the drill. It’s almost sure to be a false alarm, but we’ve got to keep the old girl happy. Right, move!’
It was a routine operation I had performed before, which was presumably why I’d been picked this time. The convent was about thirty miles away, on the very edge of the big desert, a relic of the days when the Crusaders patrolled the caravan trails. From time immemorial it had been occupied by the Sisters of some Order or other, and since it was in our protected zone we were occasionally called on to ferry supplies, make road repairs, and stand guard against possible emergencies. The North Sahara is one of the last lawless places on earth, or was then, and its inhabitants spend much of their time moving around; they may be anything from the gentlest of nomad herdsmen to Hoggar slavers and Targui gun-runners, and when they suddenly materialise on your doorstep it is as well to take precautions. The Mother Superior wasn’t a nervous woman, but as she explained in broken English when the platoon and I arrived that evening, some of her nuns were, and would we please play our music to reassure them and warn off these desert intruders.
Looking south from the high convent wall I couldn’t blame the nuns; there must have been two or three hundred black or red tents pitched round the palms of the oasis a mile away, with camel and horse herds as well as the usual goats. A reek of bitter smoke and other interesting African aromas drifted across the low sandhills, with the murmur of a great multitude. Through my binoculars I could make out groups of armed riders swathed in black, but whether they were wearing the veils which would have identified them as Touareg I couldn’t be sure. It was unlikely, so close to the coast. In fact, it all looked a good deal more romantic and sinister than it was; I doubted if tribesmen had laid a finger on Bin’yassar Convent in seven centuries, and the greatest danger from the present incursion was the cholera with which they would undoubtedly contaminate the local wells.
However, there was the drill to go through, starting with the piper playing on the wall at sunset to let the Bedouin know we were in residence, and a parade outside next morning, with kilts and fixed bayonets. Highlanders are the most conspicuous troops there are, which was why we got this sort of job; the wildest of wild men in North Africa (or anywhere else for that matter) can recognise ‘Cock o’ the North’ when they hear it, and know they are in touch with the Army – it’s not a threat or even a warning so much as a signal, and unless they are really looking for trouble it has only one practical effect: they come closer to gaze silently on these strange northern barbarians in their weird green skirts and funny hats, and to listen to the eerie thrilling sound which fascinates the native ear from Casablanca to the South Seas. (Maybe we are one of the Lost Tribes; I wouldn’t be surprised.)
So during our stay there was a permanent semi-circle, thousands strong, a few hundred yards from the walls, staring in dead silence at the kilted sentries and waiting for the piper to start up again. They were entirely peaceful, but I suppose our presence may have spared the nuns some pilfering and annoyance. That was all there was to it, except that I had to spend every spare hour in attendance on the ancient Mother Superior, who was a clock-golf freak and counted all time lost when she wasn’t beating the daylights out of visitors with her putter. Constant practice had sharpened her game to the point where she could have given Greg Norman a stroke a hole, and after two days of watching her sink fifteen-footers I didn’t care if I never saw a golf ball again. (You were called on to do some peculiar things in the old British Army, but I can’t recall many stranger than following that bird-like little old woman in her white robe and wimple as she hopped round the clock-golf layout, rattling her putts across the baked earth with invariable accuracy and chirping triumphantly in Italian. Beaten seven and five in a Garden of Allah in the Sahara Desert. I wonder if it’s still there.)
On the third morning the oasis was deserted; the buddoo had vanished back into the big desert. The Catholic members of Eleven Platoon went to an early Mass while the Protestants stood about outside with arms folded, sniffing; I thanked the Mother Superior for her marathon putting lesson; the entire convent staff stood on the walls waving as we left, apparently convinced that we alone had saved them from sack and pillage – and only as we drove back into town did I recall that other minor crisis I had left behind in barracks three days ago. Had the iron discipline of Lance-Corporal McAuslan provoked a mutiny yet? Had he perhaps failed in some duty and been reduced to the ranks – the battalion would have been back home for two days now (I had missed the Waterloo Ball the previous night) and I couldn’t believe that the Colonel would lose much time in returning him to private life, so to speak. Yet with McAuslan, you never knew; he might have got himself recommended for a commission by now, or deserted.
I was not kept in suspense. Almost the first thing I saw as our lead truck turned into the barrack gate was the familiar unkempt figure crouching in the little rock-garden outside the guardroom, apparently foraging for bugs under stones. He had all the appearance of a defaulter on fatigues, which suggested that he was a private again, but with the sleeve of his denims in its usual mouldering state it was hard to tell whether there was stil
l a stripe there or not. I got out, told the trucks to carry on to the barrack-block, and addressed him.
‘What happened to you?’
He rose, shedding loose soil and debris, and gave me cordial greeting. ‘Aw, hullaw rerr, surr. Ye got back. The Fenian wimmen a’right, then?’
I assured him that the convent was safe, and repeated my question, and he wiped his nose audibly with a hand covered in compost; it didn’t make him a whit dirtier than he already was.
‘Ah got stripped,’ he announced, and heaved a sigh of deep resignation. ‘Bustit.’
‘Oh dear, that’s a shame,’ I lied. ′How did it happen?’
‘Aye, weel, ye see.’ He frowned, meditating, and passed a hand through his tangled hair, dislodging a well-built earthworm. ‘It wis because o’ MacGonagal.’
For a wild moment I thought he meant the poet. You see why: from taking up the cudgels in one branch of the arts, music, it would be a short step to brawling on the slopes of Parnassus – and then I remembered there was a MacGonagal in Three Section, a pugnacious Glaswegian recently posted to us from the Highland Light Infantry.
‘He got impident, an’ Ah belted him.’ That settled which MacGonagal it was, anyway. ‘It was just last night, efter the Waterloo Ball, when we were clearin’ up on the bandstand, pittin’ the furniture away, an’ that – ’
‘Don’t tell me the band had been playing “Because” and MacGonagal didn’t like it.’
‘Ach, no.’ He made a contemptuous gesture, scattering loam broadcast. ‘They widnae hiv the gumption tae play onything that good. Naw, MacGonagal just startit makin’ remarks, an’ Ah wisnae havin’ it – ’
‘McAuslan,’ I said patiently. ‘You were still a lance-corporal, weren’t you? Yes, so if MacGonagal was insolent to you, the proper course was to book him, not belt him. Right?’
‘Ye don’t understand, sur. It wisnae me he was cheeky to. Ah couldnae book him.’ He clawed at his midriff in perplexity, and there was a sound of damp cotton tearing. ‘It was just that he startit makin’ insultin’ remarks, about the pictur’. Ye know, the big pictur’ o’ oor fellas haudin’ ontae the cavalry’s stirrups an’ chargin’ alang wi’ them an’ gettin’ tore intae ra Frogs. Aye, ra Stirrup Charge. Here, it’s a smashin’ paintin’, yon, so it is!’ He beamed in admiration through his grime. ‘Ought tae be onna calendars an’ whusky bottles, so it should.’
I decided I wasn’t hearing aright. McAuslan the music critic I had been prepared to accept – just. But McAuslan stirred to violence because of aspersions cast on a Victorian painting . . . no. Where would it end? He’d be battering people over Henry Moore and Stravinsky before you knew it.
‘What,’ I asked with bated breath, ‘did MacGonagal say about the painting, McAuslan?’
‘He said it wis bluidy rubbish,’ replied McAuslan indignantly. ‘Ah didnae mind that, but. Fella’s entitled tae his opinion, like ye said. But then he sez: “Whit’s it meant tae be aboot, onywye?” So Ah tellt him. Ah sez: ”That’s oor fellas – oor regiment, no’ the bluidy H.L.I. – haudin’ ontae the cavalry’s stirrups an’ chargin’ alang wi’ them an’ gettin’ tore intae ra Frogs. Winnin’ ra Battle o’ Waterloo, MacGonagal,” Ah sez, “pittin’ the hems on Napoleon, see?” “Zatafact?” sez he – ye know, sarcastic-like. “Weel, Ah’ll tell ye sumpn, McAuslan,” sez he. “Ah don’t think your bluidy regiment wis chargin’ wi’ the cavalry at a’. Ah think they were tryin’ tae haud them back.”’
‘Dammed cheek!’ I exclaimed.
‘That’s whit Ah said!’ cried McAuslan, vindicated. ‘Ah sez: “Look, MacGonagal, no bluidy fugitive frae the Hairy-Legged Irish is gaun tae say that aboot this regiment! Ye bluidy leear, you tak’ that back or Ah’m claimin’ ye!” “Ach, away an’ shoot a few more cheeses,” sez he, an’ gives me the V-sign. So that wis when Ah pit the heid on him.’
So it hadn’t been a case of wounded artistic sensibilities, but ” of regimental honour, which was rather different.
‘An’ he beltit me back, an’ we got tore in.’ His voice took on a plaintive chant which was familiar. ‘An’ then the Gestapo came, an’ beltit the both o’ us, and pit us in the cooler – ’
‘Yes, I understand,’ I said. ‘Well, he had provoked you, but you shouldn’t have hit him, just the same.’ An intriguing thought struck me. ‘You came up before the Colonel this morning, I suppose – what did he say when he heard why you’d been fighting?’
‘Och, he wis awfy decent, but. He’s a great man, yon,’ said McAuslan affectionately. ‘When we wiz marched in, an’ the R.S.M. cries: “Here Lance-Corporal McAuslan an’ Private MacGonagal been gettin’ wired intae each ither’ – or sumpn like that, onywye – ra Colonel tak’s one look at me an’ sez: “Ah don’t believe it.” Funny, him sayin’ that, sur; Ah mean, Ah’ve been marched in before.’ He shook his matted head, puzzled, and I didn’t like to tell him it was the lance-corporal’s stripe the Colonel hadn’t been able to believe.
‘Aye, weel, he heard the evidence frae ra Gestapo, an’ we didnae hiv nuthin’ tae say, so he gives MacGonagal seven days and shoots him oot. Then he sez tae me: “Ah sympathise wi’ yer reaction, Corporal, but Ah’m afraid ye cannae continue as an N.C.O. Ah’ll hiv tae reduce ye tae the ranks, an’ gi’ ye one day’s C.B.” But he smiled, quite joco. An’ that wis it.’
Trust the Colonel to find a painless way of busting him. It had been bound to happen eventually, and it couldn’t have been done more tactfully – mind you, the excuse had been made in heaven. I surveyed him, grubby and dishevelled but apparently content, and since we were conversing so amiably, for once, I ventured a sensitive question.
‘Tell me, McAuslan . . . something that’s been puzzling me. That tune, “Because”. Where did you first hear it, d’you remember? And why do you like it so much? Does it just appeal to you, or is there some special reason?’
‘Och, Ah can tell ye that, sur.’ He scratched happily. ‘First time Ah ever heard “Because” wis in the auld Happy Days cabaret in Port Said, back in ’42. Ye know the Happy Days, sur – in behind Simon Arts?6 No? Aye, weel, that’s where Ah heard it. Greatest tune that ever wis. So it is. Efter that, Ah used tae get ma mate Wullie Ferguson tae play it on his mooth-organ, when we wis inna desert, inna war.’
‘Fifty-first Div? Eighth Army?’
‘That’s right, sur. Wullie played it awfy bonny, but.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Wullie? He bought his lot just efter Alamein. Land-mine.’ He shook his head. ‘He wis a good mucker, just the same, Wullie.’
So that was it. Only it wasn’t, apparently, for he went on: ‘But whit Ah like best aboot “Because” is that it minds me o’ the auld Happy Days. Aw, we had some rerr terrs in that place, Ah’m tellin’ yel’ He scrubbed his nose with his sleeve, beaming with reminiscence. ‘Aye, wi’ the wog band playin’ “Because”. See, there wis this big belly-dancer, an’ it wis her signature tune, an’ she did her stuff tae it. Goad, but Ah fancied that wumman! Never got near her, mind. None o’ us did. But the tune stuck in ma heid. Fatima, her name wis.’ He gave a rasping sigh. ‘Ma Goad, see her an’ her tambourine!’
Well, there are worse reasons for being a music-lover, I suppose. He sighed again and spat, surveying the guardroom rockery with sloth-like reluctance.
‘Aye, weel, this’ll no’ pay the rent. Mind if Ah cairry on, sur? Ah’ve tae finish weedin’ this lot or big McGarry’ll kill me, swine that he is.’ He scooped up a pawful of mud. ‘It wid scunner ye, no kiddin’. Stoor an’ muck an’ wee crawly beasties! See them, Ah hate them! Ach!’
‘Carry on, McAuslan,’ I said, and as I turned away I added, not quite insincerely: ‘Anyway, I’m sorry you lost your stripe.’
‘Ach, Ah’m no’ bothered,’ said he, clawing at the soil. ‘It’s better bein’ back wi’ the boys, Fletcher ‘n’ Forbes an’ them. Ah didnae like havin’ tae boss them aboot. Ye know sumpn, sur?’ He paused, squatting, weighing a handful of ordure in a philosophic way. ‘Ye hiv tae
be a right pig tae get promotion. Aye, an’ it turns ye intae a worser pig, the higher up ye get, Ah’m sure o’ that. Weel, ye ken that yersel’.’ Grunt, grunt, I thought. ‘So Ah’m no’ carin’ aboot getting bustit. Ah wisnae much o’ a lance-jack onywye. Ah did everythin’ wrang.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you did too badly,’ I consoled him. ‘At least you never lost a guardroom.’
‘Loast a guardroom?’ said McAuslan incredulously. ‘How the hell could Ah? Ah mean, Ah know Ah’m dumb, but it would tak’ a right bluidy eejit tae dae that!’
‘You’re probably right,’ I said humbly. ‘Carry on, McAuslan.’
The Gordon Women
There is a story they tell in Breadalbane:
Gordon of Achruach was at feud with Campbell of Kentallan, who hired certain Gregora, landless men, who took the Gordon unawares while he was hunting in the Mamore. And they cut off his head and put it in a bag to show the Campbell that the work was done. That was the way of it.
And as they fared for Kentallan the Gregora came by the Gordon’s door at Achruach, and went in, and the Gordon’s wife (little knowing she was a widow) bade them to table, as the custom is, and went out for the Athol brose. And while she was gone the Gregora winked at one another, and set the Gordon’s head on a dish, with an apple in the mouth, to see what the good wife would make of it. That is the Gregora for you, hell mend the black pack of them.
And the good wife came in, and saw her man’s head bloody on the board, but kept her countenance and said never a word, only smiled on the Gregora and bade them good cheer. The Gregora wondered at this. Has she not seen it? was in the mind of each of them. Still looked she never on the head, but said a word to her ghillie and sent him forth. And smiling on the Gregora, she told them a tale, never looking at the head, and held them spellbound, for she was great at the stories, and very fair besides. The Gregora wondered, has she not seen it yet? This is not canny, was in their minds, and they said they must be for the road, but she held them there by her tale and her presence, and so they bided whether they would or no. That was the way of it.