Page 70 of Last Letter Home
‘We’ll see. And if I hear of you doing anything, anything at all, that affects morale, well, I’ll do what I need to, understand?’
‘Yes, sir, but you won’t.’ Every word felt ground out of him. He watched Captain Richards stroll away importantly in the direction of where he supposed the officers’ mess to be, and he hated him.
His dormitory stank of some noxious chemical that made his eyes water and since all the beds had been claimed he unrolled his sleeping bag on a shaded balcony where at least the smell wasn’t as bad, and lay down, soon slipping into an exhausted doze. When he awoke, the light was dim, but although the fierceness of the sun was gone, the air was still hot and treacly and his head ached. He stumbled inside to find some of the men still sleeping. A small, black-haired soldier by the name of Walters was sitting on his bed, tongue sticking out, laboriously writing a letter. ‘The message is we have the evening off,’ he told Paul, who nodded and asked the way to a bathroom.
Once he’d washed and tidied himself and found some water to drink, Paul felt better and went off to explore the barracks, eventually finding a clerk who furnished him with money and plenty of advice, some of it unwanted. Since there was no sign of Blackie or the others he’d grown friendly with he went out into the streets alone, determined to see round the city while he could. He signed out using his full name, Private Paul Nicholas Hartmann.
The adjustments to his name had been part of the conditions of acceptance into the regiment. If he was taken prisoner, he could be shot as a traitor if discovered to be German. He’d spent the last year practising a British accent, and if his fellows ever asked, he emphasized that his mother was English and they’d escaped the Nazis. He never spoke of his father or his childhood in Germany. It was partly self-preservation, but he still found the subject too painful for public airing.
It amazed him to see Allied troops of varying nationalities everywhere on the streets, enjoying an evening out. The clerk had warned him off the smart hotels, which were officers only, but he didn’t want such places anyway. He wished only to see the souks and the gardens and the architecture in peace, then find somewhere respectable for a quiet drink and something decent to eat.
Eventually he hailed a taxi, a broken coughing vehicle that dropped him near the packed terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel with its wicker tables and chairs. He wandered the pleasant fringes of the Ezbekieh Gardens for a while, enjoying the clamour of the birds and the sight of children playing. Afterwards, he visited a British club he had heard about and ate water buffalo steak, egg and chips, washed down with a pint of beer. He was surprised at how hungry he was.
It was dark when Paul came out of the club and the street lights shone with a soft blue light – no one here bothered to keep blackout. So it was that as he passed an archway which presented the vista of a garden with trees studded with coloured lights, he paused, thinking how pretty it was. English voices and the sound of laughter came from within, but a powerfully built Egyptian standing guard with arms folded stared at him in warning, so he prepared to move on.
It was at that moment that the archway darkened as the figures of two officers emerged, wreathed in the smoke from their cigars and reeking not unpleasantly of whisky.
‘Good Lord,’ one said, seeing Paul. ‘I know you from home, don’t I? Ivor Richards said your name was on the list.’
Despite the gloom, Paul recognized the friendly open face. It was sunburned, a little older, but there was no mistaking Harry Andrews. They shook hands warmly, Harry eagerly talking. ‘I’d heard from Jennifer that you’d joined up. I had a letter from her just last week, you know. She’s in the ATS.’
‘How is she?’
‘Rather enjoying being away from her mother.’
Paul laughed politely, remembering Sarah saying how infuriating Mrs Bulldock could be with her organizing and her tactless remarks.
‘I must say,’ Harry went on, ‘I’m surprised we’re here at all. Our company was kicking its heels in Aldershot back in March and all of a sudden they told us to pack our kit. There was to be an embarkation and they needed us to make up the numbers. Two days later we were steaming down the Channel.’
‘We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ The other man, a lieutenant, like Harry, who’d been quietly listening, had a reserved but amiable way of speaking.
‘Charles Keegan, this is Paul Hartmann. He’s in my platoon.’
‘Am I, sir?’ Paul said. ‘I didn’t know that.’ He wasn’t displeased.
In the conversation that followed they discovered they were all staying at the same barracks. ‘Would you like to share our taxi? No, not at all.’ It was getting late and Charles didn’t seem to mind so Paul gladly agreed. A taxi was duly hailed and they all climbed in, Charles kindly offering to take the seat in front so that Paul and Harry could talk.
‘You’ve come at a particularly bad time. It’s been hell out there in the desert. We’re only back to regroup. Once they’ve repaired enough lorries we’ll be off to the front again. Shouldn’t be long now, a day or two they reckon.’
‘So the fall of Tobruk doesn’t mean the end?’
‘Far from it. We’ll give the Jerries a run for their money yet.’
‘That hasn’t stopped people packing up and leaving Cairo,’ Charles said from the front.
‘He means foreign civilians. Half of them are off to Alexandria. There’s a real old panic on.’
‘I haven’t seen any signs of that,’ Paul said, genuinely puzzled. ‘The locals don’t seem worried. They’d fight for us, wouldn’t they, if it came to it? After all we’ve done for them?’
Harry laughed. ‘That’s not how they see it. Most of them would like us out of here. Their king is one of them. They’d have the German and Italian flags whipped up the poles in no time. Wouldn’t you?’ he addressed the driver, who merely waved a dismissive hand. ‘He doesn’t understand. But it won’t come to it,’ he continued cheerfully. ‘You wait and see.’
It was this heroic English cheerfulness that always surprised Paul. At first, when he’d joined up he’d thought it was an act, then he’d decided that they believed in it and tried adopting it himself. It didn’t stop him feeling frightened underneath, but it helped him keep going.
After the taxi dropped them, Charles wished Paul and Harry goodnight in the lobby, leaving them to talk.
‘It’s good to see someone else from Westbury. Jennifer’s an excellent letter writer, but not all the post makes it through – and there are things she can’t say, of course. How is morale? What does the country think about what we’re doing out here?’
‘I haven’t been back to Westbury much. For a long time I wasn’t allowed to, the rules of my release, and now with the Kellings gone, my only connection there is Sarah.’
