I nodded, and we set off south. He’d certainly given me something to think about. On the way he pointed out Lake Timsah and a couple of beach clubs. He said that sailing and swimming were usually safe there. I hated the word usually. The road was brutally hot, and decided to teach me my next Egyptian lesson . . . I’d lost count of them by then.
Just as we reached a place where two telegraph poles straddled the road, driving at about sixty, I caught a brief flash of light at about head height, and then there was a strange twanging sound – like a violin string breaking – as writhing bright sections of wire snaked by in the air on either side of us. The vehicle was tugged a few feet to the left, but Tobin held it, and floored the throttle. I noticed that he’d instinctively crouched down. So had I.
A mile later he breathed out and said, ‘Bastards!’ He must have thought me quiet, because he asked, ‘You OK, sir?’
‘Thank you, yes. I just have to get used to people trying to kill me again.’
‘Don’t worry, sir. That was Mile Twelve. They often strings those telegraph poles at Mile Twelve. What I’m worried about is that one day there’ll be a couple of bastards with Stens dug in alongside them; then we’ll cop it.’
‘These terrorists have got machine guns then?’
‘These terrorists are often off-duty Gyppo soldiers and policemen, sir. Sometimes I think they have more guns than we do. I does picket duties with a .303 and ten rounds; the wog trying to get through the wire has a Sten and thirty. The Gyppo cop guarding our gate one day will be trying to stab you in the bazaar the next. They are proper bastards, believe me.’
‘Why don’t we just knock down all the poles alongside the road?’
‘The ambassador doesn’t want us to do anything to annoy the Gyppoes, sir. It’s complicated, but you’ll quickly get used to it.’
‘Sounds stupid.’
‘Some Navy wag painted up a big sign on the dock at Port Said, where the big troopers come in. It read “Welcome to Wonderland”. Alice in Wonderland, geddit?’
‘What happened?’
‘They shipped him home in irons fer embarrassing the wogs. Surprised you needed to ask, sir.’
‘So am I. But don’t worry; I’m a quick learner.’
I’d bloody need to be at this rate.
The last time I saw somewhere that looked anything like RAF Deversoir it had been a concentration camp in Germany. The only difference from a superficial glance was that the inmates looked marginally better fed. It had a guardhouse, a functioning lift-arm gate and oil drums filled with concrete that Tobin had to weave around. There were two Egyptian policemen lounging under a scrubby tree outside. I committed their faces to memory in case I ever saw either of them coming up behind me in a bazaar.
Apart from that, Deversoir had a few unhappy flower beds lining its main internal road, some runways in the distance, and about thirty miles of barbed wire around it with the occasional lookout post. I don’t know why they bothered: no one could police a perimeter that length with anything less than a brigade. There were the usual workshops and garages, accommodation huts . . . and rows and rows of bleeding tents. I assumed that the tents were where the enlisted men lived, and pitied them, until Tobin brought us decorously to a stop alongside one.
‘ . . .’ome sweet ’ome, sir.’
‘It’s a bloody tent!’
‘Most of us live in tents, sir. I share mine with five other buggers; begging your pardon, sir.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘This is a four-man tent, sir . . . and there’s only two of you in it. You don’t know when you’re well off.’ Then he repeated, ‘. . . begging your pardon, sir.’
I suppose that, as tents go, it wasn’t a bad tent. It was probably twelve feet square ridged up to a central pole, and didn’t have too many repair patches. There was even height enough to stand up inside. All four sides were brailed up to the ridges to let the air and the sun in. Two camp beds, assorted low lockers, a low table and a couple of camp chairs. A cheap radio wired to an old car battery, and a pack of cards.
As I got down and lifted out my clobber I asked Tobin, ‘A few questions . . .’
‘Go ahead, sir.’
‘Where do I find Mr Watson when I need him, and where do I find you?’
‘Along the main drag another hundred yards, sir, and take the first on the right – the Wing Commander’s office is right in front of you. It’s made of wood so you can’t miss it.’
‘And you?’
‘Either the MT workshop, or in me tent – that’s the big job behind the Wing Commander’s office.’
‘Who’s your immediate boss?’
‘LAC Raynes, sir. He also runs the tent.’
‘What’s he like?’
Tobin looked quickly in either direction: evasive. Then, ‘Tosser, sir. No use at all. Anything you want you’d better ask me.’
‘What’s your other name?’
‘Patrick, sir. The lads call me Pat.’
‘Then thanks, Pat; for the ride, and the advice. I’ll be in touch.’
‘I’m sure you will, sir.’
As I walked into the tent space, perspiration running down my back, Oscar Wilde was lying face-down on one of the two beds, wearing a pair of shorts too small for him, and no shirt. His back and his legs were the colour of a Cherokee Indian’s. He had ignored me while I was still in the Land-Rover. He ignored me now, except for saying, ‘You won’t like it here. Nobody does.’
There was a concentration of scents drifting high in the tent. I couldn’t make out if it
