McAuslan in the Rough. George Fraser MacDonald
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the gatehouse, prying and noting, whistling “Blue heaven and you and I”, and feeling a growing pleasure that this place was ours, to keep and garrison and, if necessary, defend. It was all very romantic, and yet practical and worthwhile—you can get slightly power-crazy in that sort of situation, probably out of some atavistic sense inherited from our ancestors, feeling secure and walled-in against the outside. It’s a queer feeling, and I knew just enough from my service farther east to be aware that in a day or two it would change into boredom, and the answer, as the Colonel had said, was to keep busy.
So I was probably something like Captain Bligh in the first couple of days, chasing and exhorting, keeping half the detachment on full parade within the fort itself, while the other half went out on ten-mile patrols of the area, for even with a friendly population in peacetime you can’t know too much about the surrounding territory. To all intents it was just empty desert with a few Bedouin camps, apart from Yarhuna village itself. This was a fair-sized place, with its oasis and palm-grove, its market and some excellent Roman ruins, and about a hundred permanent huts and little houses. It boasted a sheikh, a most dignified old gentleman whose beard was bright red at the bottom and white near his mouth, where the dye had worn off; he visited us on our second day, and we received him formally, both platoons in their tartans and with fixed bayonets, presenting arms. He took it like a grandee, and Keith and I entertained him to tea in the company office, with tinned salmon sandwiches, club cheese biscuits, Naafi cakes, a tin of Players and such other delicacies as one lays before the face of kings. The detachment cook had had fits beforehand, because he wasn’t sure if Moslems ate tinned salmon; as it turned out this one did, in quantity.
He had an interpreter, a smooth young man who translated into halting English the occasional observations of our guest, who sat immovable, smiling gently beneath his embroidered black kafilyeh, his brown burnous wrapped round him, as he gazed over the square at the Jocks playing football. We were staying for a month? And then? Another regiment would arrive? It was to be a permanent garrison, in fact? That would be most satisfactory; the British presence was entirely welcome, be they Tripoli Police or military. Yes, the local inhabitants had the happiest recollections of the Eighth Army—at this point the sheikh beamed and said the only word of English in his vocabulary, which was “Monty!” with a great gleam of teeth. We required nothing from the village? Quite so, we were self-sufficient in the fort, but he would be happy to be of assistance. … And so on, until after more civilities and another massive round of salmon sandwiches, the sheikh took a stately leave. It was at the gate that he paused, and through his interpreter addressed a last question: we were not going to alter or remove any of the fort buildings during our stay? It was a very old place, of course, and he understood the British valued such things … a smile and a wave took in the carved gateway, and the little Crusaders’ shrine (that surprised me, slightly, I confess). We reassured him, he bowed, I saluted, and the palaver was finished.
I’m not unduly fanciful, but it left me wondering just a little. Possibly it’s a legacy of centuries of empire, but the British military are suspicious of practically everyone overseas, especially when they’re polite. I summoned the platoon sergeants, and enjoined strict caution in any dealings we might have with the village. I’d done that at the start, of course, parading the whole detachment and warning them against (1) eating fruit from the market, (2) becoming involved with local women, (3) offending the dignity or religious susceptibilities of the men, and (4) drinking native spirits. The result had been half a dozen cases of mild dysentery; a frantic altercation between me, Private Fletcher (the platoon Casanova), and a hennaed harpy of doubtful repute; a brawl between McAuslan and a camelman who had allegedly stolen McAuslan’s sporran; and a minor riot in Eleven Platoon barrack-room which ended with the confiscation of six bottles of arak that would have corroded a stainless steel sink. All round, just about par for the course, and easily dealt with by confinement to the fort for the offenders.
That in itself was a sobering punishment, for Yarhuna village was an enchanting place apart from its dubious fleshpots. Every day or so a little caravan would come through, straight out of the Middle Ages, with its swathed drivers and jingling bells and veiled outriders each with his Lee Enfield cradled across his knee and his crossed cartridge belts. (What the wild men of the world will do when the last Lee Enfield wears out, I can’t imagine; clumsy and old-fashioned it may be, but it will go on shooting straight when all the repeaters are rusty and forgotten.) The little market was an Arabian Nights delight with its interesting Orientals and hot cooking smells and laden stalls—lovely to look at, but hellish to taste—and I have an affectionate memory of a party of Jocks, bonnets pulled down, standing silently by the oasis tank, watching the camels watering, while the drivers and riders regarded the Jocks in turn, both sides quietly observing and noting, and reflecting on the quaint appearance of the foreigners. And for one day a travelling party of what I believe were Touaregs camped beyond the village, a cluster of red tents and cooking fires, and hooded men in black burnouses, with the famous indigo veils tight across their faces and the long swords at their girdles. They made no attempt to speak to us, but a few of them rode up to watch Twelve Platoon drilling outside the gate; they just sat their camels, immovable, until the parade was over, and then turned and rode off.
“There’s your real Arabis,” said Sergeant Telfer, and without my telling him he posted four extra sentries that night, one to each wall. He reported what he had done, almost apologetically; like me, he felt that we were playing at Foreign Legionnaires, rather, but still. … Everything was quiet, the natives were friendly, the platoons were hard-worked and happy, and it was a good time to take precautions. We were in the second week of our stay, and there was just the tiniest sense of unease creeping into everyone’s mind. Perhaps it was boredom, or the fact of being cooped up every night in a stronghold—for what? Perhaps it was the desert, hot as a furnace floor during the day, a mystery of silver and shadow and silence by night; as you stood on the parapet and looked out across the empty dunes, you felt very small indeed and helpless, for you were in the presence of something that had seen it all, through countless ages, something huge beside which you were no bigger man an ant. It was a relief to come down the steps to my quarters, and hear the raucous Glasgow patter from the cheerful barrack-room across the square.
And still nothing happened—why should it, after all?—until the beginning of the third week, when we started drilling for water. We had lost the first two weeks because of some defective part in the rear-axle drilling mechanism, and a spare had taken time to obtain from Marble Arch. It was a minor inconvenience, for the water-truck came from the coast three times a week, but a well would be a good investment for the future, for the only alternative water-supply was the oasis, and one look at its tank, with camels slurping, infants paddling, horses fertilising, grandmothers washing the family’s smalls, and everyone disposing prodigally of their refuse, suggested that our little blue and yellow purification pills would have had an uphill fight.
With the truck fixed, we looked for a likely spot to drill.
“We need a diviner,” I said. “One of those chaps with a hazel stick who twitches.”
“How about McAuslan?” suggested Keith. “He’s allergic to water; all we have to do is march him up and down till he starts shuddering, and that’s the spot.”
Eventually we decided just to drill at random, in various parts of the parade ground, for none of the buildings contained anything that looked remotely like the remains of a well. I tried to remember what I had ever learned of medieval castle or Roman camp lay-out—for Yarhuna’s foundations were undoubtedly Roman—prayed that we wouldn’t disturb any temples of Mithras or Carthaginian relics, and went to it. We drilled in several parts of the square, and hit nothing but fine dry sand and living rock. Not a trace of water. Some of the locals had loafed up to the gate to watch our operations, but they had no helpful suggestions to offer, so at retreat we closed the gates, put away the drilling-truck, and decided to have another shot next day.
And that night, for the first time, the ghost of Fort Yarhuna walked.
That, at least, was the conclusion reached by Private McAuslan, student of the occult and authority on lonely desert outposts, whose Hollywood-fed imagination could find no other explanation when the facts reached his unwashed ears, as they did next morning. What had happened was this.
On the cold watch,