Redemption. - Redemption. Part 47
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Redemption. Part 47

"Chester! He's been gone since we arrived yesterday." "Goddamnit! I told that little bugger to stay in camp and work on the manual. We'd better start looking"

"Where?"

"The police, the morgue!"

"Calm down," Rory said. "Any kid who could stow away to New Zealand from Hong Kong..."

"I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to that Kid," Tarbox said. "I gave him over a hundred pounds out of our stash from the battalion safe. Ah Jaysus, he's been robbed and murdered. What do we do, Rory?"

"I say, for now, we sit tight and wait. If you have to visit a lady, I'll wait."

No, no, I'll stay here with you. Oh Chester, boy."

Private Chester Goodwood spent the first day walking along Ramses Road admiring the exquisite shops and, as it turned dark, worked his way through a host of bars and hotel lobbies collecting information. Like a good detective on the scent, he did not return to his hotel but grabbed a nap at the train station so he could start again at the crack of dawn.

Chester zeroed in on a petite but well turned-out travel agency and studied the clientele. A pair of big-time Arabs entered. A high-fashion European lady came and left. Several officers went in, none under the rank of major.

Chester was greeted with a very uppity sneer at the main desk, but the agent did catch a glimpse of Chester's hand on the counter with the corner of a five-pound note visible.

"I'm making some inquiries on behalf of my commanding officer," the private said.

"Please"-arms open, invited behind the counter into the seat and, chop-chop, coffee for the gentleman.

"I want the name of the concierge with the best connections in Cairo. Phone him and tell him I'm coming on behalf of my general. Please speak in English and you have earned yourself another five."

The magic name of Mr. Hamdoon Sira came up for the first time.

Chester then worked his way to the bell captains of several of the better hotels, confirming Sira's credentials. He finally found himself in the office of a solicitor who, for ten, would recommend Chester highly to his very good friend Hamdoon Sira.

Chester took a taxi across the 14th of October Bridge onto the forbidden island and stopped at the most magnificent hotel in the Near East, the Memphis Palace.

All the dinginess and noise of the other Cairo was muffled by banks of defending hedges and flowers. Arched and marbled, the hotel boasted legions of white-gloved attendants who seemed to walk slightly off the ground. It was genteel, good stuff. More like it, Chester thought. Moreover, Chester seemed quite at ease in the midst of all that rank. And tea music.

"I am Private Chester Goodwood, I believe Mr. Sira is expecting me," he said, slapping the old pound sterling into the assistant's hand. Chester knew that a pound on the rich man's side of the bridge went farther than a fiver on the poor man's side. It was a singular accomplishment of the wealthy and powerful not to overpay for things.

"Mr. Sira is with a guest. He will be with you directly."

A pommy colonel locked in on Chester, annoyed by the soldier's familiarity. He looked the lad up and down and assumed by his New Zealand patch that he was unaware of the custom. Enlisted personnel serving and waiting for their officers at the Memphis Palace had their own waiting area, out of sight of the main lobby.

"Soldier," the colonel said gruffly, "are you quite certain you are in the proper place?"

"Quite, sir. I am waiting to see Mr. Sira on behalf of Lieutenant General Mulesworthy."

"Oh...hmmm...carry on."

"Sir!" Chester said, cracking off a salute fit for the King himself.

Mr. Sira and Chester Goodwood sized one another up. Mr. Sira was, as anticipated, the Egyptian version of the Chinese concierge in the Peninsula Hotel. Sira appeared to be a man who had come up through the ranks and survived-and in Cairo that spoke loudly.

Chester was simply baffling-smooth cheeks, innocent smile, and mild manner.

Now, Chester thought, we can go into an Egyptian tango and start endless word games and play dodge, or he could shoot the old arrow straight to the heart.

"You have been passing out large amounts of money to gain contact with me," Hamdoon Sira said, utterly certain the private had to be fronting for some senior officer. Sira knew his name was not passed around lightly.

"Mr. Sira," Chester said, "here's the situation. I'm a Brit from Hong Kong and I've got two pals, New Zealanders We're part of a special squad and we have a great deal of camp leave. Two or three more men might be assigned to us, no more."

"You are representing the commander?"

"No, sir."

"Just what is it you think I can assist you with?"

"Camp Anzac is shit city incarnate. Over the river it's a real sleazy scene for enlisted personnel. We happen to be well financed and all we want is a quiet place where we can find some respite from our duties. As I said, we have ample funds."

Hamdoon Sira smiled. Well, now, the plot thickens...this child before him is certainly fronting for a prostitution ring, perhaps hashish smuggling, black market liquor, British army weapons...some such.

Chester read Hamdoon's smile. "We are not after running a whorehouse, drugs, or playing with dirty money. We are all proper people from proper homes and we don't wreck furniture."

Ah...Hamdoon Sira liked Chester Goodwood. "I like you. I admire candor. We see so little of it. I am totally sympathetic but I am afraid there is nothing-" Hamdoon halted as he looked directly into the face of a fifty-pound banknote.

Hamdoon had been in the hotel scene since childhood. Before the war the new, rich oil sheiks from the peninsula gave out lavish gratuities, but they were no longer able to come here due to the war. Otherwise, he had never seen anything larger than five pounds from a British officer, and then only rarely.

"If you will come back tomorrow," Sira said.

"No," Chester retorted. "We're soldiers and we've no time to play the game. I'm buying. We move directly or forget it."

By my father's beard, Hamdoon thought, this is one clever individual.

"I plead with you, Mr. Goodwood, you cannot change basic nature. We must do things in a traditional way. For what you want will take some time.... Just what are your requirements?"

"Garden, parlor, veranda, three bedrooms, roach-free, access to Memphis Palace-type liquor, police protection, and ladies on call."

"Hmmm," Sira pondered as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as though he were caressing the fifty-pound note. It would be no problem to obtain this for a staff officer, but none of them could pay the passage. With the sheiks in Turkish territory and ordinary travelers scarce, a number of villas sat empty. I go one step further, he decided, once I ascertain if..."Will there be a continuing way I could serve the situation?"

"You mean further commissions, somewhat more than a shilling from a Brit officer, damp with the sweat of his palm?"

A toothy smile and an innocent holding apart of Hamdoon's hands was followed by holding his heart.

"Absolutely," Chester said.

One does not come to decisions so quickly. What if this is a trap? What kind of trap? No, it was not a trap but one must discuss this with other parties, there must be conversation...the fifty-pound note was still before him. How much more was in stock? A hundred? A half-year's wages, maybe more! Does one reveal his sources so easily? After all, Hamdoon, he told himself, you are a great concierge in a cheap land. You know where everything is....

DO IT!.

Hamdoon picked up the phone, waited, then went into a passionate discussion and, after a time, set the phone down. "I believe I can do you some good. I have arranged an immediate appointment with a prominent gentleman or great honor and impeccable connections. Usually, it takes days to see him. He has made such arrangements for minsters, generals, great sheiks. BUT! Do not waste his time. You must be prepared to pay a great sum, at least sixty to seventy-five pounds a week, exclusive of the women and drink."

"I'll tell you what. I'll go ninety a week for the right place. You, Mr. Sira, make the deal for me. Anything you can get it for, under ninety, goes into your pocket plus another five a week."

"You must be prepared to pay in advance."

"Afraid not. We'll pay half a week in advance and the balance at the end of each week."

Hamdoon Sira was standing before a cask of gold. Only Allah knew what else he could provide these men. If only all the English were as forthright as Mr. Goodwood. He jotted the name of Farouk el Farouk. "I'll have the hotel limousine brought around for you."

Chester ripped the fifty-pound note in two and gave a half to Mr. Sira. "The rest when you close the deal."

The bell tower clock tolled eight-thirty, which meant it was seven-thirty. As dusk fell, the calls of the muezzins floated from the minaret tops. Rory and Johnny were on the verge of panic envisioning the dear innocent face of Chester lying in a slimy, cobblestoned gutter with his ears and tongue missing.

Bong...clang...burrrrr...bong... tolled the bells.

"Ah Jaysus! Chester! Johnny, it's Chester!"

"You dirty little sonofabitch, where have you been? We've been going crazy!"

"Ought to break your fuckin' neck, that's wot!"

Chester sighed. "I almost found us a place."

"Almost, what do you mean, almost!"

Chester recounted the day, up to the meeting with Farouk el Farouk.

"He had a real obscure office on the second floor of a building on Sheik el Bustan. Pleasant fellow. I cut through the red tape and laid out our purpose and requirements."

"Including the women?" Johnny wanted to know.

"Including the women," Chester assured him.

"Ah, good lad."

"There's some villas in the Zamalek. Most of his regular clients got caught in Switzerland or otherwise by the war. The pommy officers haven't got the money or are too cheap to take them off his hands. At first he didn't even want to show them to me."

"What happened?"

"We got into a backgammon game. You know, he had centuries of tradition behind him. When I had him down over two hundred I told him I'd call it even if he showed me one of the villas,"

"How was it?"

"Arabian nights...Scheherazade...on the Nile...open courtyard with a fountain, big balcony overlooking the river, numerous arched rooms built around the center square. It was in our budget with a case of whiskey and two cases of beer a week thrown in."

"I'll kill for it!" Tarbox cried.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told you about it, guys. I think if it was up to Farouk, he'd go for it...but he can't sell police protection to enlisted men in such thick officers' country, and secondly, if the British command got wind of it, they'd close him down."

"I don't want to hear any more!" Rory snapped.

"Jesus, the dirty bastards."

"And we're supposed to fight a fucking war with these guys!"

"Unless," Chester said, "and this is clear crazy-"

"Unless what?"

"Unless we got somebody of the rank of colonel or above to sign the paper, and he means an in-person colonel...no forgeries."

Cairo jumped back to life around them once again.

64.

There was no aspect of soldiering minuscule enough to be overlooked in the basic training that ensued at Camp Anzac. Eager young broadbacks from down under, many of whom had envisioned themselves in the thunder of a cavalry charge, were rudely introduced to the fundamentals of soldiering.

Basic training brought them to a point of physical hardness, to where they could drill in unison, salute their pommies with proper pomp, prepare themselves, their weapons, and their quarters for white-glove inspection, become intimate with their rifles, and fire them accurately.

No battalion was going to be snappier, shine brighter, shoot straighter, follow regulations better, or exercise harder than Major Christopher Hubble's.

His group quickly earned the reputation as one where survival till the end of the day was considered a personal triumph. He demanded of his officers that they not spare the sweat box, an upright coffin with two small air holes, for the man who did not salute sharply enough or have the corners of his bedding tucked immaculately. Aloof from his men, the major seemed to thrive on their loathing of him.

Once the basic training was completed, Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief. While the other battalions would now convert to infantry, artillery, engineers, and other support units of a brigade and division, the Seventh Light Horse could get on with its special training on mules.

No specialized course could be established for them because they did not have a guiding manual and could not complete the manual until certain experts arrived. Moreover, there was no packing equipment and, mostly...there were no mules.

While the four-man gaffer squad struggled with writing the manual and awaited the vet and packer to complete it, Major Hubble put his men into infantry training.

Llewelyn Brodhead was a marching general. No Anzac unit outmarched the Seventh Light Horse. They sprinted the short marches with light combat packs; they marched full-speed with field packs; they force-marched in full strength up to fifty miles over the sands. They marched in boot-top-covering, ankle-deep-sucking sand, dehydrating and blistering and getting double vision from the brutal sun, only to then be pelted and blinded by slicing sandstorms.

They crawled through sand, through and under barbed wire, with live gunfire, keeping bellies and asses flat. They attacked with grenades and mortars over the dunes.

Night marches in the sudden chill of the desert turned into night patrols. Either they were ambushed or they ambushed others. They stormed through defenses at fixed bayonets in games real enough to tell them that exhaustion can be blessed, if a mental fog enshrouds them, so long as they do not drop out of formation. The gunfire and explosions were tight enough around them to let them realize the fears of combat.

Those big Aussie and New Zealand beef-and-mutton eaters no longer poked fun at the scrawny limeys in the English units who knew the ways of Soldiering.

When they weren't marching or participating in battle exercises, they dug trenches and latrines and trimmed up their areas. Throughout the Anzac Corps, many officers were lax and allowed the soldiers to use Terriers to do a lot of the cleanup work.

Major Hubble forbade the use of Terriers by his men Major Hubble's punishments were double that of the rest of the corps. Major Hubble's battalion area was impeccable.

Even the stoutest Aussie desert rat buckled under the Egyptian sun, and what the sun didn't get, the sand did. Sand, sand, sand, sand. Clean the tent and it was filled with sand again in minutes. Sand in the mess kits. Sand in their teeth and hair. Sand in their clothing, up their rectums.

Yes, they would become good troops, given enough time. But as tough as they were, the Anzacs had a flaw. Almost all of them had come from rural settings free from exposure to the bacterias of urban "civilization." For the first time in their lives they were in total close quarters with crowds of humanity: crammed aboard troop ships, packed in the narrow streets of Cairo, at Camp Anzac. Their immune systems had not been built to handle the onslaught of typhoid and dysentery, stomach parasites, and killer influenza A third of them were down at all times from illness.