a defenceless target was to be found, and then officially denied that they had received any information at all from the British.
As a solution, this appears extraordinarily unlikely. Had that been the case, the Germans would not have reacted so clumsily to the accusation of the sinking, and would, indeed, have had their story cut and dried, and, the ship safely sunk, indignantly denied all knowledge of it; and it seems improbable in the extreme that any Frenchman would have willingly and however indirectly been the agent responsible for sending perhaps over 1,000 of his countrymen to their deaths.
THERE CAN BE LITTLE DOUBT THAT THE PRIME RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE TRAGIC LOSS OF THE MEKNES LIES SQUARELY AT THE DOOR OF THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT. The official German News Agency said at the time: 'It was the duty of the British Government to inform the French Government of their intention to repatriate French soldiers and to wait for a reply as to whether the dangerous transport through the war zone could be assured of safe convoy.'
Did the British Government in fact so inform the French? An 'authoritative' British source said: 'The French… were notified in general terms of our intention to repatriate,' a vague, obscure and weak-kneed attempt at excuse-making that could hardly be bettered.
THE FRENCH SAID FLATLY THAT THEY WERE NOT INFORMED OF THE SAILING OF THE MEKNES.
What is beyond all dispute — and this is the crux of the matter — no safe conduct or guarantee was given by the Germans. Yet the criminally negligent decision was made to permit the sailing of this unarmed and unescorted vessel into the E-boat and U-boat infested Channel without waiting for a reply from the Germans. It would be interesting indeed to know what British Service or Government department was responsible for this decision. But one can safely assume that the blanket of official anonymity which covers up such a multitude of sins will remain firmly where it is and that none of the parties concerned is going to lift even a tiny corner lest the answers be found to lie uncomfortably close to home.
BESIDES, IN THE PRESS OF EVENTS OF A GREAT WORLD WAR, THE DEATH OF 300 NON-COMBATANTS IS A SMALL THING, QUICKLY AND COMFORTABLY FORGOTTEN AS THE FIRST SHARP HORROR OF THE TRAGEDY FADES AND FINALLY PASSES AWAY.
MacHinery and the Cauliflowers
'I find you well, Mr MacHinery?' Ah Wong asked courteously. He pronounced the name as 'Mackinelli' and although ten years in the Far East had accustomed MacHinery to this heathenish mispronunciation of a legendary Scottish clan name that ranked in antiquity with anything the Almanac de Gotha had to offer, nevertheless his proud Celtic soul winced whenever he heard it. Still, he reflected charitably, it was hardly Ah Wong's fault. Some parts of the world were still emerging from the caves, so to speak. Primitive, barbaric — in fact, MacHinery conceded generously to himself, very like the MacHinerys of a few centuries ago when the more pressing business activities of cattle-thieving and hacking opposing clansmen to pieces had left them little time for the more cultural pursuits of life. But twenty intervening generations had had their civilizing effect…
MacHinery fingered a beer bottle scar received in a political debate in Glasgow many years previously, and smiled tolerantly.
'I'm weel enough, Mr Wong. Fair to middling, you ken.'
'You do not look it,' Ah Wong said slowly. 'You are pale but you perspire freely. You perspire but you shiver and shake. And your eyes are not the eyes of a well man.' He turned to a wall cabinet and poured amber liquid into a tumbler. 'A well-tried specific from your own homeland, Mr MacHinery.'
'Och, man, it was chust what I was needing.' MacHinery drank deeply, shuddered violently and coughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. Ah Wong looked at him with suddenly narrowed eyes. Less than a month had elapsed since two sailors had inconsiderately dropped dead after drinking, in one of his emporiums, a bottle of what had purported to be proprietary Scotch and had it not been for the prompt midnight transfer of a couple of barrels of wood alcohol to the go-down of a cherished enemy and the sending to the authorities of a letter signed 'Pro Bono Publico', he might have been in trouble indeed. As it was, any adverse reaction to his Scotch now struck deep at Ah Wong's sensitive soul.
'You do not like my whisky, Mr MacHinery?' he asked slowly.
'Not like it?' MacHinery coughed. 'Hoots, mon, it's perfect, chust perfect.' MacHinery had, in fact, the misfortune to be allergic to any type of whisky but the part of the hard-drinking Clydeside engineer was no more difficult to sustain than the phoney accent that went with it. 'Chust a touch of fever, Mr Wong, that's all.' Experience had long shown him that no one cared whether the fever in question was chickenpox or the Black Plague.
'So.' Ah Wong relaxed a minute fraction, the most he ever permitted himself to relax. 'And you are the new chief engineer of the GRASSHOPPER, Mr MacHinery?'
'For ma sins,' MacHinery said bitterly. 'A filthier, rustier, auld bucket of bolts — '
'Beggars cannot be choosers, Mr MacHinery,' Ah Wong said coldly. He waved a piece of paper. 'And you are a beggar. According to this letter of introduction from my good friend Benabi, you'd been in the Djakarta gutters for weeks before he gave you this job. Even your chief engineer's ticket is a forgery — your real one was taken from you.'
'Aye, and a grosser miscarriage of justice — '
'Be quiet,' Ah Wong said contemptuously. 'The GRASSHOPPER'S cargo has been unloaded and cleared through customs?'
'Aye. Not thirty minutes ago.' MacHinery shivered again and stirred restlessly in his seat. Sweat poured down his face. Ah Wong affected not to notice.
'Good. You will have been given a private copy of the manifest.' He stretched out his hand. 'Let me see it.'
'Well noo, chust wait a minute,' MacHinery said cunningly. 'You ken who I am. The letter tells you. But I don't ken who YOU are. How do I know you ken one another? You and Benabi, I mean?'
'Fool,' Ah Wong said shortly. 'I, one of the biggest food importers in Malaya? Benabi, of Benabi's Tjitarum's truck farms, the biggest suppliers in Indonesia? Not know each other? Idiot!'
'There's nae call to be personal,' MacHinery said doggedly. 'I hae ma orders, Mr Wong. From Mr Benabi himself. You must match this, he says.' He drew a piece of rice paper from his wallet and showed Ah Wong a curious ink marking, smaller than a thumbnail.
'Of course,' Ah Wong smiled. He twisted a signet ring on his middle finger, pressed it on an ink pad and made an identical mark on the paper. 'The seal of the broken junk. We have the only two such signet rings in the world. Benabi and I — we are brothers.'
'You wouldna think it,' MacHinery said candidly. 'He's a tall, well built, good-looking cove, whereas you — '
'I spoke metaphorically,' Ah Wong said coldly. 'The manifest, Mr MacHinery.'
'Aye.' MacHinery rose, opened the Gladstone bag he'd left in the middle of the floor of Ah Wong's sumptuous apartment, fished out a manifest and handed it over.
'Why the bag?' Ah Wong asked in idle curiosity.
'Why the bag?' MacHinery echoed bitterly. 'The GRASSHOPPER'S two nights in Singapore and if you think I'm going to spend them aboard yon bloody flea-ridden, cockroach-infested hellhole, you — '
'Silence!' Ah Wong opened the manifest. 'Ah, yes. Sides of beef, one hundred. Of pork, two hundred. Bananas, onions, beans, peppers, eggplants, butter. Yes, yes, all seems there. Best Bandung cauliflowers, eighty crates. Lettuce, fifty. Yes, all in order.' He broke off, looked thoughtfully at MacHinery and said in Cantonese: 'I am going to kill you, my friend.'
'Whit was that?' MacHinery asked blankly.
'Nothing.' Ah Wong smiled. 'I thought you might be a linguist.' He picked up a telephone and spoke quickly in Cantonese, referring to the manifest from time to time and ticking off items with a pencil, then replaced the phone. He smiled again. 'Just ordering up some meat and vegetables from my go-down, Mr MacHinery. From your own cargo.'
'And the very cream of the crop, I'll be bound,' MacHinery said bitterly, 'Nae bloody flies on you
