The Sheik and the Dustbin. George Fraser MacDonald

fortunately, but Sergeant Telfer had stopped and was staring back, goggle-eyed. Before I could speak the newcomer was addressing me again:

      “Got fifty lire, old man? ‘Fraid all I have is Egyptian ackers, and the Fairy Coachman won’t look at them. See him right, will you, and we’ll settle up anon. Okay?”

      That, as they say, did it. “Laddie” I could just about absorb (since he must have been all of twenty-seven and therefore practically senile), and even his outrageous assumption that my private and personal platoon were his to flunkify, and that I would caddy for him and pay his blasted transport bills - but not that careless “Okay?” and the easy, patronising air which was all the worse for being so infernally amiable. Captain or no captain, I put his clubs and valise carefully back in the ghari and spoke, with masterly restraint:

      “I’m afraid I haven’t fifty lire on me, sir, but if you care to climb back in, the ghari can take you to the Paymaster’s Office in HQ Company; they’ll change your ackers and see to your kit.” And just to round off the civilities I added: “My name’s MacNeill, by the way, and I’m a platoon commander, not a bloody dragoman.”

      Which was insubordination, but if you’d seen that sardonic eyebrow and God-like profile you’d have said it too. Again, it didn’t faze him; he actually chuckled.

      “I stand rebuked. MacNeill, eh?” He glanced at my campaign ribbon. “What were you in Burma?”

      “Other rank.”

      “Well, obviously, since you’re only a second-lieutenant now. What kind of other rank?”

      “Well … sniper-scout, Black Cat Division. Later on I was a section leader. Why … sir?”

      “Black Cats, eh? God Almighty’s Own. Were you at Imphal?”

      “Not in the Boxes. Irrawaddy Crossing, Meiktila, Sittang Bend—”

      “And you haven’t got a measly fifty lire for a poor broken-down old soldier? Well, the hell with you, young MacNeill,” said this astonishing fellow, and seated himself in the ghari again. “I’d heap coals of fire on you by offering you a lift, but your platoon are probably waiting for you to stop their motor. Bash on, MacNeill, before they seize up! Officers’ mess, Abdul!” And he drove off with an airy wave.

      “Hadn’t you better report to H.Q.?” I called after him, but he was through the gate by then, leaving me nonplussed but not a little relieved; giving lip to captains wasn’t my usual line, but he hadn’t turned regimental, fortunately.

      “Whit the hell was yon?” demanded Sergeant Telfer, who had been an entranced spectator.

      “You tell me,” I said. “Ballater Bertie, by the look of him.” For he had, indeed, the air of those who command the guard at Ballater Station, conducting Royalty with drawn broadsword and white spats. And yet he’d been wearing an M.M. ribbon, which signified service in the ranks. I remarked on this to Telfer, who sniffed as only a Glaswegian can, and observed that whoever the newcomer might be, he was a heid-case - which means an eccentric.

      That was the battalion’s opinion, formed before Captain Errol had been with us twenty-four hours. He had driven straight to the mess, which was empty of customers at that time of day, smooth-talked the mess sergeant into paying the ghari out of bar receipts, made free with the Tallisker unofficially reserved for the Medical Officer, parked himself unerringly in the second-in-command’s favourite chair, and whiled away the golden afternoon with the Scottish Field. Discovered and gently rebuked by the Adjutant for not reporting his arrival in the proper form, he had laughed apologetically and asked what time dinner was, and before the Adjutant, an earnest young Englishman, could wax properly indignant he had found himself, by some inexplicable process, buying Errol a gin and tonic.

      “I can’t fathom it,” he told me, with the pained expression he usually reserved for descriptions of his putting. “One minute I was tearing small strips off the chap, and the next you know I was saying ‘What’s yours?’ and filling him in on the social scene. Extraordinary.”

      Having found myself within an ace of bell-hopping for Captain Errol by the same mysterious magic, I sympathised. Who was he, anyway, I asked, and the Adjutant frowned.

      “Dunno, exactly. Nor why we’ve got him. He’s been up in Palestine lately, and just from something the Colonel said I have the impression he’s been in some sort of turmoil - Errol, I mean. That type always is,” said the Adjutant, like a dowager discussing a fallen woman. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he was an I-man.”

      “I” is Intelligence, and the general feeling in line regiments is that you can keep it; I-men are disturbing influences best confined to the higher echelons, where they can pursue their clandestine careers and leave honest soldiers in peace. Attached to a battalion, they can be unsettling.

      And Captain Errol was all of that. As he had begun, with the Adjutant and me, so he went on, causing ripples on our placid regimental surface which eventually turned into larger waves. One of the former, for example, occurred on his first night in the mess when, within half an hour of their first acquaintance, he addressed the Colonel as “skipper”. It caused a brief silence which Errol himself didn’t seem to notice; officially, you see, there are no ranks in the mess, but junior officers (of whom captains are only the most senior) normally call the head man “sir”, especially when he is such a redoubtable bald eagle as our Colonel was. “Skipper” was close to the edge of impertinence - but it was said so easily and naturally that he got away with it. In fact, I think the Colonel rather liked it.

      That, it soon became plain, was Errorl’s secret. Like his notorious namesake, he had great charm and immense style; partly it was his appearance, which was commanding, and his war record - the family of Highland regiments is a tight little news network, and many of the older men had heard of him as a fighting soldier - but most of it was just personality. He was casual, cocky, even insolent, but with a gift of disarmament, and even those who found his conceit and familiarity irritating (as the older men did) seemed almost flattered when he gave them his attention - I’ve seen the Senior Major, a grizzled veteran with the disposition of a liverish rhino, grinning sourly as Errol teased him. When he was snubbed, he didn’t seem to notice; the eyebrow would give an amused flicker, no more.

      The youngest subalterns thought him a hell of a fellow, of course, not least because he had no side with them; rank meant nothing to Errol, up or down. The Jocks, being canny judges, were rather wary of him, while taking advantage of his informality so far as they thought it safe; their word for him was “gallus”, that curious Scots adjective which means a mixture of reckless, extrovert, and indifferent. On balance, he was not over-popular with Jocks or officers, especially among the elders, but even they held him in a certain grudging respect. None of which seemed to matter to Errol in the least.

      I heard various verdicts on him in the first couple of weeks.

      “I think he’s a Bad News Type,” said the Adjutant judicially, “but there’s no doubt he’s a character.”

      “Insufferable young pup,” was the Senior Major’s verdict. “Why the devil must he use that blasted cigarette holder, like a damned actor?” When it was pointed out that most of us used them, to keep the sweat off our cigarettes, the Major remarked unreasonably: “Not the way he does. Damned affectation.”

      “I like him,” said plump and genial Major Bakie. “He can be dashed funny when he wants. Breath of fresh air. My wife likes him, too.”

      “Captain Errol,” observed the Padre, who was the most charitable of men, “is a very interesting chentleman. What d’ye say, Lachlan?”

      “Like enough,” said the M.O. “I wouldnae let him near my malt, my money, or my maidservant.”

      “See him, he’s sand-happy. No’ a’ there,” I heard Private McAuslan informing his comrades. “See when he wis Captain o’ the Week, an’ had tae inspect ma rifle on guard? He looks doon the barrel, and says: ‘I seem to see through a glass darkly.’ Whit kind o’ patter’s that, Fletcher? Mind you, he didnae pit me on a charge, an’