‘That’s right.’
I hesitated about telling Black to keep a close eye on him, and decided it was superfluous. Then I went back up the train, full of care, noticing vaguely that the two deserters were in a group playing rummy, and that the blinds were down on the padre’s compartment. Captain and Mrs Garnett had their door open, and were talking animatedly; in the background one of the twins was whimpering quietly.
‘But, darling,’ he was saying. ‘German measles isn’t serious. In fact, it’s a good thing if they get it when they’re little.’
‘Who says?’
‘Oh, medical people. It’s serious if you get it when you’re older, if you’re a girl and you’re pregnant. I read that in Reader’s Digest.’
‘Well, who’s to say it’s true? Anyway, I’m worried about Angie now, not . . . not twenty years hence. She may never get married, anyway, poor little beetle.’
‘But it may not be German measles, anyway, darling. It may be nappy rash or something . . .’
Everybody had their troubles, including the formerly incarcerated Arab legionnaire, who was now trying to get into the lavatory, and wrestling with the door handle. The young pilot officer was lending a hand, and saying, ‘Tell you what, Abdul, let’s try saying “Open Sesame” . . .’
All was well with the A.T.S., the Australians, and the airmen; the excitement caused by our halt had quieted down, and I closed my compartment door hoping nothing more would happen before we got to Jerusalem. How much trouble could the pouchy half-colonel make, I wondered. The hell with him, I had been within my rights. Was the young Jew a terrorist, and if he was, why had he stopped the train? And so on, and I must have been dozing, for I remember being just conscious of the fact that the rhythm of the wheels had changed, and we were slowing, apparently to take a slight incline, and I was turning over on the seat, when the shot sounded.
It was a light-calibre pistol, by the sharp, high crack. As I erupted into the corridor it came again, and then again, from the back of the train. An A.T.S. shrieked, and there were oaths and exclamations, and I burst into the guard’s van to find Sergeant Black at the window, his Luger in his hand, and the smell of burned cordite in the air. The train was picking up speed again at the top of the incline. The Jew was gone.
‘What the hell . . .’ I was beginning, and stopped. ‘Are you all right?’
He was standing oddly still, looking out at the desert going by. Then he holstered his gun, and turned towards me.
‘Aye, I’m fine. I’m afraid he got away.’
‘The Jew? What happened?’
‘He jumped for it. When we slowed down to take the hill. Went out o’ that windae like a hot rivet, and doon the bank. I took a crack at him, two or three shots . . .’
‘Did you hit him?’
‘Not a chance.’ He said it definitely. ‘It’s no use shootin’ in this light.’
There were people surging at my back, and I wheeled round on them.
‘Get back to your carriages, all of you! There’s nothing to get alarmed about.’
‘But the shooting . . .’ ‘What the hell . . .’
‘There’s nothing to it,’ I said. ‘A prisoner jumped the train, and the sergeant took a pot at him. He got away. Now, go back to your compartments and forget it. We’ll be in Jerusalem shortly.’
Through the confusion came Old Inevitable himself, the pouchy half-colonel, demanding to know what had happened. I told him, while the others faded down the corridor, and he wheeled to the drawling major, who was at his elbow, and bawled:
‘Stop the train!’
‘Now, take it easy,’ I said. ‘There’s no point in stopping; he’s over the hills and far away by now, and he’s a lot less important than the safety of this train. We’re not stopping until we get to Jerusalem.’
‘I’ll decide that!’ he snapped, and he had an ugly, triumphant look as he said it. ‘You’ve lost the prisoner, in spite of my instructions, and this train is being stopped . . .’
‘Not while I command it.’
‘You don’t! You’re a complete bloody flop! I’m taking over. John, pull that communication . . .’
It must have been pure chance, but when the major turned uncertainly to touch the communication cord, Sergeant Black was right in his way. There was one of those pregnant silences, and I jumped into it.
‘Now look, sir,’ I said to the half-colonel. ‘You’re forgetting a few things. One, I am O.C. train, and anyone who tries to alter that answers to a general court-martial. Two, I intend to report you to the G.O.C. for your wilful hampering of my conduct of this train, and your deliberate disobedience of orders from properly constituted authority.’
‘Damn you!’ he shouted, going purple.
‘You left the train when we halted, in flat defiance of my instructions. Three, sir, I’ve had about my bellyful of you, sir, and if you do not, at once, return to your compartment, I’m going to put you under close arrest. Sir.’
He stood glaring and heaving. ‘Right,’ he said, at last. He was probably wondering whether he should try, physically, to take over. He decided against it. ‘Right,’ he said again, and he had his voice under control. ‘Major Dawlish, you have overheard what has been said here? Sergeant, you are a witness . . .’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Black. ‘I am that.’
‘What do you mean?’ snapped the half-colonel, catching Black’s tone. ‘Let me tell you, Sergeant, you’re in a pretty mess yourself. A prisoner in your . . .’
‘Not a prisoner,’ I said. ‘A man who had warned us about the railway line and was being carried on to Jerusalem, possibly for interrogation.
He looked from me to Black and back again. ‘I don’t know what all this is about,’ he said, ‘but there’s something dam’ fishy here. You,’ he said to me viciously, ‘are going to get broken for this, and you, Sergeant, are going to have a great deal of explaining to do.’ He wheeled on his buddy. ‘Come along, John.’ And they stumped off down the corridor.
When they had gone I lit a cigarette. I was shaking. I gave another one to Black, and he lit up, too, and I sat down on a box and rested my head on my hand.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand it either. But there is something dam’ fishy, isn’t there? How the hell did he get away?’
‘I told ye, sir. He jumped.’
‘Oh, yes, I know. But look, Sergeant, let’s not fool around. Between ourselves, I’m not Wild Bill Bloody Hickock, but he couldn’t have broken from me, so I’m damned sure he couldn’t break from you. People as experienced as you, I mean, you carry a Luger, you know?’
He said, poker-faced, ‘I must have dozed off.’
I just looked at him. ‘You’re a liar,’ I said. ‘You never dozed off in your life – except when you wanted to.’
His head came up at that, and he sat with smoke trickling up from his tight mouth into his nostrils. But he didn’t say anything.
‘What are we going to tell them in Jerusalem?’ I said.
‘Just what I told you, sir. He was a gey fast mover.’
‘You could get busted,’ I said. ‘Me, too. Oh, it’ll be well down my crime-sheet, after tonight. I’ve done everything already. But it could be sticky down at your end too.’
He smiled. ‘My number’s up in the next couple of months. I’ve got a clean sheet. I’m no’ worried about being busted.’
He seemed quite confident of that. He looked so damned composed, and satisfied somehow, that I wondered if perhaps the exigencies of the journey had unhinged me a little.
‘Sergeant Black,’ I said. ‘Look here. The man was a terrorist — you think so, anyway. Well, why on earth . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Never mind,’ I said wearily. ‘The hell with it.’
I knew what he was going to come back to. Terrorist or not, he had saved the train, and everyone on it, me and the pouchy half-colonel and Angie and Petey and the A.T.S. and lavatory-locked legionnaire. Why, God alone knew. Maybe he hadn’t meant to,
or something. But I knew Black and I were speculating the same way, and giving him the benefit of the doubt, and thinking of what would have happened if he had been a terrorist, and there had been tabs on him in Jerusalem.
‘The hell with it,’ I said again. ‘Sergeant, I’m out of fags. You got one?’
It was while I was lighting up and looking out at the desert with the ghostly shimmer that is the Mediterranean dawn beginning to touch its dark edges, that for no reason at all I remembered Granny’s story about the cattle-train at Tyndrum. I suppose it was the association of ideas: people jumping from trains. I told Sergeant Black about it, and we discussed grannies and railways and related subjects, while the train rattled on towards Jerusalem.
Just before we began to run into the suburbs, the white buildings perched on the dun hillsides, Sergeant Black changed the topic of conversation.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about yon half-colonel,’ he said.
‘I’m not worried,’ I said. ‘You couldn’t call it worry. I’ve just got mental paralysis about him.’
‘He might think twice about pushing charges against you,’ said Black. ‘Mind you, he stepped over the mark himsel’. He wouldnae come well out of a court-martial. And ye were quite patient wi’ him, all things considered.’ He grinned. ‘Your granny wouldnae have been as patient.’
‘Huh. Wonder what my granny would have said if she had been wheeled before the brigadier?’
‘Your granny would have been the brigadier,’ he said. ‘We’re here, sir.’
Jerusalem station was an even bigger chaos than Cairo had been; there were redcaps everywhere, and armed Palestine Police, and tannoys blaring, and people milling about the platforms. Troop Train 42 disgorged its occupants: I didn’t see the half-colonel go, but I saw the Arab Legion forming up to be inspected, and Captain Garnett and his wife, laden with heaps of small clothes and handbags from which bottles and rolls of cotton wool protruded, carrying Angie and Petey in a double basket; and the A.T.S. giggling and walking arm-in-arm with the Aussies and the R.A.F. types, and the padre with loads of kit, bargaining with a cross-eyed thug wearing a porter’s badge. Sergeant Black strode through the train, seeing everyone was off; then he snapped me a salute and said:
‘Permission to fall out, sir?’
‘Carry on, Sergeant,’ I said.
He stamped his feet and hoisted his kit-bag on to his shoulder. I watched him disappear into the crowd, the red hackle on his bonnet bobbing above the sea of heads.
I went to the R.T.O.’s office, and sank into a chair.
‘Thank God that’s over,’ I said. ‘Where do I go from here? And I hope it’s bed.’
The R.T.O. was a grizzled citizen with troubles. ‘You MacNeill?’ he said. ‘Troop Train 42?’
‘That’s me,’ I said, and thought, here it comes. Pouchy had probably done his stuff already, and I would be requested to report to the nearest transit camp and wait under open arrest until they were ready to nail me for – let’s see – insubordination, permitting a prisoner to escape, countenancing illegal trafficking in currency, threatening a superior, conduct unbecoming an officer in that I had upbraided a clergyman, and no doubt a few other assorted offences that I had overlooked. One way and another I seemed to have worked my way through a good deal of the prohibitions of the Army Act: about the only one I could think of that I hadn’t committed was ‘unnatural conduct of a cruel kind, in that he threw a cat against a wall’. Not that that was much consolation.
‘MacNeill,’ muttered the R.T.O., heaving his papers about. ‘Yerss, here it is. Got your train documents?’ I gave them to him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get hold of this lot.’ And he shoved another pile at me. ‘Troop Train 51, leaves oh-eight-thirty for Cairo. You’ll just have time to get some breakfast.’
‘You’re kidding,’ I said.
‘Don’t you believe it, boy,’ he said. ‘Corporal Clark! Put these on the wire, will you? And see if there’s any word on 44, from Damascus. Dear God,’ he rubbed his face. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
‘You can’t put me on another train,’ I said. ‘I mean, they’ll be wanting me for court-martial or something.’ And I gave him a very brief break-down.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘You were cheeky to a half-colonel! Well, you insubordinate thing, you. It’ll have to keep, that’s all. You weren’t the only one who was getting uppish last night, you know. Some people gunned up a convoy near Nazareth, and apart from killing half a dozen of us they did for a United Nations bigwig as well. So there’s activity today, d’you see? Among other things, there aren’t enough perishing subalterns to put in charge of troop trains. Now, get the hell out of here, and get on that train!’
I got, and made my way to the buffet, slightly elated at the idea of making good my escape on the 8.30. Not that it would do any good in the long run; the Army always catches up, and the half-colonel was the vindictive sort who would have me hung up if it took him six months. In the meantime I wasn’t going to see much of the famous old city of Jerusalem; eating my scrambled eggs I wondered idly if some Roman centurion had once arrived here after a long trek by camel train, only to be told that he was taking the next caravan out because everyone was all steamed up and busy over the arrest of a preaching carpenter who had been causing trouble. It seemed very likely. If you ever get on the fringe of great events, which have a place in history, you can be sure history will soon lose it as far as you are concerned.
I got the 8.30, and there was hardly a civilian on it; just troops who behaved themselves admirably except at Gaza, where there was the usual race in the direction of Ahmed’s back street banking and trust corporation; I just pretended it wasn’t happening; you can’t fight international liquidity. And then it was Cairo again, just sixteen hours since I had left it, and I dropped my papers with the R.T.O., touched my revolver butt for the hundred and seventeenth time to make sure I still had it, and went back to the transit camp, tired and dirty. I went to sleep wondering where the escaping Jew had got to by this time, and why Sergeant Black had let him go. It occurred to me that the Jew might have had a pretty rough time in Jerusalem, what with everyone’s nerves even more on edge with the Nazareth business. Anyway, I wasn’t sorry he had got away; all’s well that ends well; I slept like a log.
All hadn’t ended well, of course; two mornings later a court of inquiry was convened in an empty barrack-room at the transit camp, to examine the backsliding and evil behaviour of Lieutenant MacNeill, D., and report thereon. It consisted of a ravaged-looking wing-commander as president, an artillery major, a clerk, about a dozen witnesses, and me, walking between with the gyves (metaphorically) upon my wrists. The redcap at the door tried to keep me out because I didn’t have some pass or other, but on finding that I was the star attraction he ushered me to a lonely chair out front, and everyone glared at me.
They strip a man’s soul bare, those courts of inquiry. With deft, merciless questioning they had found out in the first half hour not only who I was, but my rank and number; an officer from the transit camp deponed that I had been resident there for several days; yet another certified that I had been due out on such-and-such a flight; an airport official confirmed that this was true, and then they played their mastercard. The pilot of the aircraft (this is sober truth) produced an affidavit from his co-pilot (who was unable to attend because of prickly heat) that I had not, to anyone’s knowledge, boarded the plane, and that my seat had been given to Captain Abraham Phillipowski of the Polish Engineers, attached to No. 117 Field Battery, Ismailia.
They were briefly sidetracked because the president plainly didn’t believe there was such a person as Captain Abraham Phillipowski, but once this had been established to their satisfaction the mills of military justice ground on, and another officer from the transit camp described graphically my return after missing the plane, and my despatch to Jerusalem.
The president wanted to know why I had been sent to Jerusalem; witness replied that they had wanted to keep me emp
loyed pending a court of inquiry into why I had missed my plane; the president said, pending this court, you mean; witness said yes, and the president said it seemed bloody silly to him sending a man to Jerusalem in between. Witness said huffily it was no concern of his, the president said not to panic, old boy, he had only been making a comment, and witness said all very well, but he didn’t want it appearing in the record that he had been responsible for sending people to Jerusalem when he hadn’t.
The president suggested to the clerk that any such exchange be deleted from the record (which was assuming the proportions of the Greater London telephone directory, the way the clerk was performing with his shorthand), and I unfortunately coughed at that moment, which was taken as a protest. A judicial huddle ensued, and the president emerged, casting doubtful glances at me, to ask if I had anything to say.
‘I forgot my gun,’ I said.
He seemed disappointed. ‘He forgot his gun,’ he repeated to the clerk.
‘I heard,’ said the clerk.
‘All right, all right!’ cried the president. ‘Keep your hair on.’ He looked at me. ‘Anything else?’
‘Should there be?’ I asked. It seemed to me that they hadn’t really started yet, but I wasn’t volunteering information about events on the train, which seemed to me to dwarf such trivia as my missing my plane in the first place.
‘Dunno,’ said the president. He turned to the clerk. ‘How do we stand, old boy?’
‘He forgot his gun, he missed the plane,’ said the clerk bitterly. ‘That’s what we’re here to establish. What more do you want?’
‘Search me,’ said the president. ‘You did miss the plane, didn’t you?’ he asked me.
‘That’s irregular,’ bawled the clerk. ‘At least, I think it is. You’re asking him to convict himself.’
‘Rot,’ said the president. ‘He hasn’t been charged, has he? Anyway, old boy, you’re mixing it up with wives not being able to testify against their husbands.’
‘I need a drink,’ said the clerk.