The Sheik and the Dustbin. George Fraser MacDonald

have shown more concern, but he wasn’t giving Cattenach that satisfaction - just his cool half-smile, and the second-in-command had to struggle to keep a grip on himself in the face of that dumb insolence. He took a breath, and then said with deliberation:

      “The trouble with you, and what makes you such an unpleasant regimental liability, is that while most of us couldn’t care more, you just couldn’t care less.”

      No one had ever heard Cattenach, who was normally a quiet soul, talk with such controlled contempt - and in the mess, of all places. A little flush appeared on Errol’s cheek, and he rose from his chair, but only to look Cattenach in the eye and say:

      “You know, that’s extremely well put. I think I’ll enter it in the mess book.”

      That was when I thought Cattenach was going to hit him - or try to, because Errol, for all his composure, was balanced like a cat. Suddenly it was very ugly, the Padre was making anxious noises, and the Adjutant was starting forward, and then Cattenach turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out. There was a toe-curling silence - and of course I had to open my big mouth, heaven knows why, unless I thought it was time to raise the conversation to a higher plane.

      “Why can’t you bloody well wrap up, just for once?” I demanded, and was told by the Adjutant to shut up. “I think you’ve said enough, too,” he told Errol. “Right - who’s for lunch?”_

      “I am, for one,” said Errol, unabashed. “Drama always gives me an appetite,” and he sauntered off to the dining-room, leaving us looking at each other, the Padre muttering about the pride of Lucifer, and the M.O., after a final inhalation of the Tallisker, voicing the general thought.

      “Yon’s a bad man,” he said. “Mercy is not in him.”

      That was a fact, I thought. Not only had he shown a callous disregard for the feelings of the Brigadier, bereaved of his precious pets, he had strained the egalitarian conventions of the mess to the limit in his behaviour to Cattenach - who, mind you, had been making a meal of his own dislike for Errol. It was all enough to make one say “Tach!”, as my grandmother used to exclaim in irritation, and lunch was taken in general ill-temper - except for Errol, who ate a tranquil salad and lingered over his coffee.

      And then such trivia ceased to matter, for at 2.15 came the sudden alarm call from the Police Commissioner to say that the unrest which had been simmering in the native quarter had suddenly burst into violence: a mob of Arab malcontents and bazaar-wallahs were rioting in the Suk, pillaging shops and fire-raising; one of the leading nationalist agitators, Marbruk es-Salah, was haranguing a huge gathering near the Yassid Market, and it looked only a matter of time before they would be spilling out of the Old City and rampaging towards the European suburbs. Aid to the civil power was a matter of urgency - which meant that at 2.45 the two three-ton trucks bearing the armed might of 12 Platoon pulled up on the great dusty square east of the Kantara Bridge, and I reviewed the force with which I was expected to plug that particular outlet from the native quarter.

      In theory, the plan for containing unrest was simple. The Old City, an impossible warren of tall crumbling buildings and hundreds of crooked streets and narrow alleys, spread out like a huge fan from the waterfront; beyond the semi-circular edge of the fan lay the European suburbs of the Italian colonial era, girdling the squalid Old City from sea to sea in a luxurious crescent of apartment buildings, bungalows, shops, restaurants, and broad streets - a looter’s paradise for the teeming thousands of the Old City’s inhabitants, if they ever invaded in force. To make sure they didn’t, the 24 infantry platoons of our battalion and the Fusiliers were supposed to block every outlet from the Old City to the New Town, and since these were innumerable, careful disposition of forces was vital.

      Kantara was an easy one, since here there was an enormous ditch hemming the native town like a moat, and the only way across was the ancient bridge (which is what Kantara means) which we were guarding. It was a structure of massive stones which had been there before the Caesars, twenty feet broad between low parapets, and perhaps twice as long. From where I stood on the open ground at its eastern end, I could look across the bridge at a peaceful enough scene: a wide market-place in which interesting Orientals were going about their business of loafing, wailing, squatting in the dust, or snoozing in the shadows of the great rickety tenements and ruined walls of the Old City. Behind me were the broad, palm-lined boulevards of the modern resort area, with dazzling white apartments and pleasant gardens, a couple of hotels and restaurants, and beyond them the hospital and the beach club. It looked like something out of a travel brochure, with a faint drift of Glenn Miller on the afternoon air - and then you turned back to face the ancient stronghold of the Barbary Corsairs, a huge festering slum crouched like a malignant genie above the peaceful European suburb, and felt thankful for the separating moat-ditch with only that single dusty causeway across it.

      “Nae bother,” said Sergeant Telfer. Like me, he was thinking that thirty Jocks with fifty rounds apiece could have held that bridge against ten times the native population - provided they were empowered to shoot, that is. Which, if it came to the point, would be up to me. But we both knew that was highly unlikely; by all accounts the trouble was at the western end of the Old City, where most of our troops were concentrated. Kantara was very much the soft option, which was presumably why one platoon had been deemed enough. They hadn’t thought it worthwhile giving us a radio, even.

      Since it was all quiet, I didn’t form the platoon up, but showed them where, in the event of trouble, they would take up extended line, facing the bridge and about fifty yards from it, out of range of any possible missiles from beyond the ditch. Then they sat in the shade of the trucks, smoking and gossiping, while I prowled about, watching the market for any signs of disturbance, vaguely aware of the discussion on current affairs taking place behind me.

      “Hi, Corporal Mackie, whit are the wogs gettin’ het up aboot, then?”

      “Independence.” Mackie had been a civil servant, and was the platoon intellectual. “Self-government by their own political leaders. They don’t like being under Allied occupation.”

      “Fair enough, me neither. Whit’s stoppin’ them?”

      “You are, McAuslan. You’re the heir to the pre-war Italian government. So do your shirt up and try to look like it.”

      “Me? Fat chance! The wogs can hiv it for me, sure’n they can, Fletcher? It’s no’ my parish. Hi, corporal, whit wey does the government no’ let the wogs have it?”

      “Because they’d make a bluidy mess o’ it, dozy.” This was Fletcher, who was a sort of Churchillian Communist. “They’re no’ fit tae run a mennodge. Look behind ye - that’s civilisation. Then look ower there at that midden o’ a toon; that’s whit the wogs would make o’ it. See?”

      So much for Ibn Khaldun and the architects of the Alhambra. Some similar thought must have stirred McAuslan’s strange mental processes, for he came out with a nugget which, frankly, I wouldn’t have thought he knew.

      “Haud on a minnit, Fletcher - it was wogs built the Pyramids, wisn’t it? That’s whit the Padre says. Aye, weel, there ye are. They cannae be that dumb.”

      “Those werenae wogs, ya mug! Those were Ancient Egyptians.”

      “An Egyptian’s a wog! Sure’n he is. So don’t gi’ me the acid, Fletcher. Anyway, if Ah wis a wog, Ah wid dam’ soon get things sortit oot aboot indamapendence. If Ah wis a wog—”

      “That’s a helluva insult tae wogs, right enough. Ah can just see ye! Hey, fellas, meet Abu ben McAuslan, the Red Shadow. Ye fancy havin’ a harem, McAuslan? Aboot twenty belly-dancers like Big Aggie frae the Blue Heaven?” And Fletcher began to hum snake-charmer music, while his comrades speculated coarsely on McAuslan, Caliph of the Faithful, and I looked through the heat haze at the Old City, and thought about cool pints in the dim quiet of the mess ante-room.

      It came, as it so often does, with daunting speed. There was a distant muttering from the direction of the Old City, like a wind getting up, and the market-place beyond the bridge was suddenly empty and still in the late afternoon sun. Then the muttering changed to a rising rumble of hurrying