He said, ‘Not now, old chap. I’m trying to remember these.’
‘What are they?’
‘Arabic words tattooed on the two guys they found this morning.’
He worked for about ten minutes, and then leafed through a small paper-bound dictionary of Arabic and English. You could get them free at the NAAFI, and in the Camp clubs. The first thing he said when he finished was,
‘ ’strordinary.’
‘What is?’
‘Your Gyppo.’
‘Explain.’
‘As far as I can make out, these Arabic glyphs include hokm and maraa or marai.’
‘What do they mean?’
‘As far as I can make out, it means judgement by a woman, or has been judged by a woman.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Look, Charlie, you’ve got to start seeing things like a wog – the way those of us who’ve been out here a while see things. Getting these guys back alive is ’strordinary of itself. If we expected them back at all, it would have been as sliced-up bits of meat thrown over the wire, or dumped into the Canal. These two are given back alive, with arses they won’t sit down on for a couple of months, and a message to the perfidious Brits tattooed all over their guts . . . and the message is simply Leave our women alone. ’strordinary.’ He’d only just begun to use the word, and already it irritated me. It was one of those things we’d picked up from the latest Gainsborough film, and everyone was using it.
‘So you think they’d been misbehaving with Egyptian women?’
‘Respectable Egyptian women: the wog doesn’t give a toss about his whores. They must have been cuckolding the local nabobs, who’ve sent them back to us with a forceful reminder. The bosses will panic, and for weeks we’ll be buried in OODs about not tupping the local floosies.’ OODs were Orders of the Day, which were pinned up on noticeboards in the most unlikely places; so you could never keep up with them.
‘You’re right: that must be it.’ I muttered. I knew he wasn’t bloody right, but I wasn’t prepared to tell him what I did know. I hope I was casual enough when I asked, ‘What will happen to them?’
‘Immediate evac, I should think: it’s what happens to most of the casualties. They’ll be on a hospital ship up in the Med by tonight, with paste all over their bums. Ouch. Never more to grace these shores. I wonder how they’ll get the tattoos off.’
The Wing Commander wasn’t in his office. I mooched around it, looking at the papers pinned to the wall. They were mostly stores lists. Anyone who didn’t know any better would imagine that our section was an HQ repository of high-value radio spares. We did that as well, of course, which is where people like Pat Tobin and our MT section came in. Daisy heard the noise I was making, and came out of her den. When she saw it was me she put on a genuine smile, and walked slowly over to give me a peck on the cheek. That was a first. Bloody hell; maybe she really had gone doolally.
She said, ‘Thank you, Charlie. I told you not to do anything, but thank you anyway.’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘I know; but thank you for doing it anyway.’
‘Does it make you feel any better?’
‘Yes, surprisingly, although it shouldn’t do, should it? Revenge never gets you anywhere. I also feel a little guilty.’
‘Don’t: you didn’t do anything . . . and neither did I. Really . . . subject closed.’
‘I know. Your secret is safe with me.’
Round in bloody circles. That sailor who’d been disciplined for writing up Welcome to Wonderland on Port Said harbour wall didn’t know how right he was.
‘How about I pass your thanks on to the person who might really deserve it?’ I was only digging myself deeper.
‘Only if you’re careful, Charlie. They must be violent men. Don’t get yourself into trouble.’
I gave up. ‘Don’t worry; I won’t. When’s Mr Watson due back?’
‘This afternoon. He wants to see you before your next trip anyway.’
That was OK. I wanted to see him as well. I wanted to see just what kind of trap I’d walked into when I answered his summons to that little office in Kentish Town.
‘Your holiday trip’s been put off; you can put the bucket and spade away for the moment. The Brown Jobs have had a significant transport failure.’ Watson was smiling like he’d just knighted me. The joke was obviously at somebody else’s expense.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘The wogs whipped one of their lorries. Right from under the nose of the MPs I understand. There’s hell to pay down there.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. The Egyptians want us out of Egypt so they can have the Suez Canal all to themselves . . . so how does stealing a lorry advance their cause? We’ll need the lorries to go away in.’
‘Do you know, Charlie, ever since I invited you to join us out here all I seem to have heard is you whining I don’t understand, sir in my lug? Can’t you shut up, and give it a rest for once?’ He was on fine form, having reappeared with a case of RN gin. ‘Anyway the Gyppoes who want us out of Egypt aren’t the same Gyppoes who steal us blind. The latter want us to stay until we have nothing left worth stealing, then they’ll join the chaps who want us out. Two or three years, that’s my guess. That lorry will be repainted and modified already, and someone will have turned it into a one-man road transport company operating out of Luxor, or somewhere similarly romantic. Cheers.’
We were in his office, and M’smith was off to one side with a pile of message flimsies a
