Page 69 of Last Letter Home
‘That’s settled then. Now, do you have any news of that Richards boy? I gather his father—’
But whatever Sir Henry had been going to say about the Richards family was lost to the baying of the sirens and almost immediately there was a great whoosh and an explosion that cracked the front windows and made the building shake. Several pictures fell off the wall and the lights flashed, then went out.
Although the evening ended in chaos, Sir Henry did not forget their conversation. A month passed and Paul had started to lose hope when a letter arrived from the regiment. The style was formal, distant even, but friendly platitudes were not what he was looking for. He was to report to the barracks in Aldershot the following week. It was with great excitement that he showed it to his friend Horst in the room they shared with two others.
‘You lucky swine,’ Horst said gloomily, lighting a cigarette. ‘It won’t be the same without you here.’
‘You know what they say, the English: “Be careful what you wish for.” Who knows what will happen to either of us.’
‘I will most probably die of boredom here. Still, I wish you luck.’ They shook hands and turned it into a mock wrestle. Paul would sorely miss Horst. He’d been the best friend he’d made since he’d arrived in Britain – apart from Sarah, of course.
As he edged forward on the crowded deck, Paul reached into his top pocket, brought forth his wallet and slipped out a photograph of Sarah. It was a formal portrait from before the war, a spare of one taken for some official document or other, and slightly creased. He’d come to like it because although in it Sarah wasn’t smiling, there was a hint of a smile there, as though she found some private thought amusing. He preferred it to another she’d given him in which Ivor’s face could be seen in the background. Paul sighed and tucked it away, returning the wallet to his pocket. His last encounter with Sarah, two months ago, had been heart-rending for both of them. They’d stayed at the vampish Mrs Bert’s again and when the time came for them to part they clung together as though they feared never to meet again. The letter he’d written on the ship would have travelled in the military bag home from Cape Town and – assuming it made it to Britain at all – it might be ages before it reached her and even longer before officialdom tracked him down in Egypt with a reply. But enough, now he was nearly at the top of the gangplank and all thoughts of home receded.
On the dockside, a perspiring sergeant waved irritably at a fly and rustled through the pages on his clipboard.
‘Hartmann, you said? D Company. Follow the others over there, will you?’
Paul joined the men piling onto the lorries. Even under cover, with everyone squeezed so close together on the plank seats, it was stifling. Someone handed in a water container and they filled their bottles and splashed each other’s faces, laughing, though in truth the reality of the climate was starting to sink in. Engines roared into life in a cloud of petrol fumes and one by one the lorries began to lurch forward, leaving the ships and the grey-white quayside buildings, the patient camels and the scrubby hillside behind. Through the half-open rear of Paul’s vehicle a hot breeze wafted that failed to freshen and soon it brought with it a gagging stink of sewage as they passed through the slums of Suez.
It was a relief to rattle out onto a desert road and along the banks of a lake of startling blue, but then that too was behind them and they entered a sandy landscape that seemed to stretch on for ever with no relieving feature. Grit swirled into the truck and got into everyone’s eyes and throats, so they fastened the tarpaulin across the back opening and the lorries juddered on in sweltering semi-darkness for what seemed to be hours. The other men, none of whom Paul knew well, swapped quiet banter, but he sensed their underlying sense of dread. The news about Tobruk had subdued them. A remark about them keeping the local gravediggers busy was met with silence and they only perked up when the truck slowed and street sounds of what must surely be Cairo reached their ears. They rolled up the tarpaulin and gazed out eagerly upon a new world. They saw men in long white jellabas and flapping slippers, mangy dogs that all seemed to Paul varieties of one dog lying prostrate in the shade or madly barking at traffic. They passed huts built out of sand, bright-coloured rugs hanging in the sun, intriguing glimpses of dark interiors, doorways before which small, dark-eyed children crouched in the dust drawing pictures with sticks. The smell was an unspeakable mixture of exhaust fumes, cooking oil and manure, with an exotic top note of incense.
Soon the streets broadened out and the buildings, in a variety of styles, grew higher, wider and more opulent, sprouting little balconies and canopies. From some hung flags, sometimes the Union Jack, which drew cheers from the soldiers. The truck stopped and started, flung its occupants about at sharp corners, but finally it swung between a pair of large gates, rattled across an expanse of bare ground and drew up outside a great, ornate portico. Here they climbed out, tired and blinking, hauling their kit, under the cruel sun.
Once inside they passed through warm, echoing gloom then out the other side into the brightness of a large, sandy square lined with trees. This was bordered by two long, three-storeyed buildings on either side, decorated with rounded arches. The fourth side of the square was edged by the silvery-grey Nile where, like a stage set, white triangular sails of feluccas slid past a vista of palm trees and misty old buildings. This must once have been a beautiful spot, Paul thought, an old palace, perhaps.
More trucks arrived and disgorged soldiers until a couple of hundred men milled about the square with their belongings, perspiring in the heat. Then an irritable sergeant-major with a sunburned face and forearms, brandishing another list, marched out and began to dispatch the newcomers to various parts of the buildings. ‘Some of you will have to kip on the balconies,’ he told Paul’s little group. ‘We’re full to overflowing.’
‘Hartmann!’ a familiar voice roared and Paul turned to be blinded by the sun. Shading his eyes, the dazzle morphed into the figure of a handsome, confident, khaki-clad officer standing squarely several yards away. Paul caught a glimpse of his face as the man stepped forward and he realized with a shock who it was.
‘Richards!’
‘Captain Richards to you, Hartmann. I suppose you’d imagine yourself the last person I expected to see thousands of miles from home, but you’d be wrong. They gave me advance warning, you might say.’
‘Did they? Sir.’ This was his old adversary, but Paul was thrown by the new relationship. Richards was the officer here and he, Paul, only a private. And Richards was clearly enjoying the fact.
‘Yes, you’re in our company here. Major Goodall is in charge, you’ll meet him shortly. I’m his second in command.’ He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and consulted a sheet of paper. ‘And do you know a man called, let’s see, Robert Black? His name’s on the list, but it’s not been checked off.’
‘He was here a moment ago.’ Paul looked about, but he couldn’t see Blackie among the men lugging their kit tiredly towards their designated sleeping quarters. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and forced himself to stay focused on Richards.
‘Right.’ He made a mark on his list. ‘You’d better get on, then. Nothing much to tell you boys at the moment. They say it’s chaos out there on the front line. We’re simply awaiting instructions.’
‘Yes. We heard about Tobruk. Do you think we’ve still a chance, sir?’
‘Of course. We mustn’t have any talk like that now.’
‘No, sorry. Sir.’
Richards was studying him now, as though playing with him. ‘How did you do it, eh, Hartmann? You must have pulled the wool over someone’s eyes to get here.’
‘Not at all, sir. I wrote to the adjutant several times and Sir Henry kindly provided a reference.’
‘Did he now? Well, I have to say I was concerned when I heard. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, remember, will you?’
‘You don’t have to do that, sir.’
‘Oh, but I do. There may be hand-to-hand fighting. Don’t come whingeing to me about killing your own countrymen.’
‘I am here because I want to fight the evil that has taken over my homeland, sir. I won’t be asking for any favours.’
