The Poet Laurie Ate

June 1917, Cairo.

He just fell into it.

Thomas Laurie was already much needed; a village policeman and an honourable man, he kept the peace at home, even in war.

Yet driven by conscience and filleted by the stares of strangers, he`d entered an army enlisting office in Worcester and jumped.

Now, owned by King and country he was thousands of miles from his wife`s love, holed up in a rat-infested carpet shop in a darkened Cairo backstreet, intent upon a plan. Somewhere opposite within the gloom of a tired hostel was the spy. He and Corporal Nooney had become a great team. They would sort it, they always did.

But still the doubts nagged: Mildred Lowthian, his senior officer at the Arab Bureau, was unlike any other woman he`d known, but she too seemed burdened by the duplicity of superiors. And the ignorance and disdain of those with power had shocked.

Who was he really helping?

At the same hour in her farmhouse on the island of Menorca, the formidable self-made landowner Llucia Quintana sat fearing for the safety of Oriol, her only son and heir. His routine trading trip to Cairo was to be his last; Mediterranean passage had become increasingly hostile and British control of the city increasingly unpredictable. He`d not made contact; but how could she rely upon the support of others, given her past?

In these colliding worlds a moving, tragicomic tale unfolds of adventure, conflict, trust, and fairness. Surely we would learn? There could be a better world.

Copyright © 2024 Ash James

The moral right of Ash James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The Poem ‘I Met A Man Today’ Ch 17 is ©Ash James 2024

Troubador Publishing Ltd

Unit E2 Airfield Business Park,

Harrison Road, Market Harborough,

Leicestershire. LE16 7UL

Tel: 0116 2792299

Email: [email protected]

Web: www.troubador.co.uk

ISBN 978 1805143 826 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1805148 678 (E-book)

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Contents

About The Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Index Of Characters

Llucia Quintana Family Tree

Index Of Historical References

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

About The Author

Ash James has always written, though other works had to come first. He has been Deputy Head of a Secondary School for which he was paid, and variously a Music Promoter, Conference Organiser, Adviser, President, Musician, Charity Fund Raiser, mini-Vicar, centre-page spread and Chair of Governors: for which he was thanked. He is now free to graze his imagination and The Poet Laurie Ate is his first published novel.

www.ashjamesarts.co.uk

Chapter 1

There is a time in every life when the simple certainties of the self overpower and sing their triumph. Faced by our folly we stumble, desperate for space, any space, for peace.

Three hours a day for the next four weeks will be spent on parade duties, barked the voice.

So much for the peace.

Men who are disciplined are men who can follow orders. You will drill, fight, and if necessary, die together. Our enemies are a complex beast. They are many-headed and devious. But the last thing they want, indeed the thing they dread the most, is to be faced with an adversary who knows how to march.

Honour is a noble virtue. It respects the giver and brings joy to the tribe. But it stamps hard upon those closest and the left-behind.

Thomas Laurie was indeed an honourable man. That he was driven was beyond question. Rarely could a duty be nobler than to King and country. But at this moment, all he felt was the sickening paralysis of fear and self-pity. What had he done?

Together with a hundred or so other men, he was sat bolt upright on hard wooden benching, incarcerated within a dimly-lit briefing hall. His eyes scanned ahead. The words shoved his way barely registered though the source was clearly visible.

Two hours every day will be spent in stripping each item of equipment. That means not only cleaning your weaponry but also your boots, your belts, your trouser pockets and linings, your caps and straps, and especially your bedding. You will ensure fastidiousness in every element of your being. The reason should by now by patently clear.

There was a pause.

Sand.

He sank further into blackness. The smell of sweat drifted about the room like a nauseous river fog. Move a haunch and his heavy woollen trousers oozed moisture. Edge an arm and pearls of water trickled below his shirt. His neck was stiff, razor-washed by wetness upon the grazes from an ill-fitting collar. The discomfort was intense.

There were fans on the ceiling, droning out a monotonous belly hum in a limp effort to circulate air around the foul, stifling vacuum. But he didn’t take notice nor much care. All he saw was his wife, pleading with him to stay, and the tear-filled faces of his children as he’d waved goodbye.

Yes, sand. Get’s everywhere, the bloody stuff. There are only three things that will cost us this war: sand, hygiene, and water. Too much of the first will block your weapon, too little of the second will lay you out, and not enough of the third will likely kill you. Can you imagine the Ottoman carping that they defeated the greatest empire the world has ever seen by denying their people the efficiency to fire a gun, wipe their arse and wash their hands? We’d be a laughing stock. You men have a duty to your masters, your nation, and to each other, to remember the mantra, ‘sand, hygiene, water’.

Captain Hillary slammed the table with his stick and the room of men sprung from their seats, releasing a fresh plume of odour. Laurie began to rally.

‘Sand, hygiene, water’, repeated the Captain, ‘sand, hygiene, water’. Come on, together with me. He banged his stick in time like a deranged conductor, as the company of Worcestershire’s joined in as ordered.

Sand, hygiene, water, sand, hygiene, water. The louder he shouted and thumped, the louder the men chorused, and the wider the grin that appeared on his face.

Laurie started mouthing the words too, his eyes now focussed more determinedly forward. There were at least four officers, one of them distinctly top brass with an air of familiarity about him. Behind them was a woman dressed smartly in full uniform, a military administrator or medic, he assumed. In front of them all was the performing Captain Hillary, from whose armpits deltaic fingers of perspiration were beginning to emerge.

He was unmissable in his desert-issue uniform, baggy shorts and lightweight long socks, quite a contrast to the woollen jacket and full-length trousers worn by the men. His legs, at least from Laurie’s vantage point, appeared extremely thin, matching the sculpted moustache that hung below a sharpened nose. He would have made the perfect music hall dandy had he been wearing a toff’s top hat. Instead, his head was adorned by an ill-fitting cap, which he regularly adjusted.

Despite the mildly absurd appearance, there was a certainty and a bearing about him, both in the way he spoke and the manner with which he bore himself. And it was with this that he’d discharged a dismissive mix of indifference and invective towards the men.

Sand, hygiene, water, they all shouted, sand, hygiene, water.

How they would have been delighted to wear the proper desert clothing he displayed. They’d been promised light khaki kit within the month, but six weeks into their posting they remained glued into the heavy-duty gear issued back home. Useful though this was during the cold of the Egyptian night, for the majority of the time it was unbearable. Unlike Hillary, they were already scorching away in the heat of the Egyptian day.

Sand, hygiene, water, they all shouted once more, sand, hygiene, water.

And the proper bloody uniform, thought Laurie.

Captain Hillary raised his hand and the chanting stopped.

You men are probably wondering about the mission to which you will devote yourselves. You might be thinking that your three months’ training in England and the pretty little boat and train trips you took to get here, have earned you the right to call yourselves soldiers. Well, I can tell you with certainty that soldiers you are not. What I see before me is a mob of indiscipline. We need brains and heart to finish this job off, but what we’ve been sent is the backside of the British Empire.

To demonstrate the point, he spent the next few minutes brow beating individuals, their backgrounds, breeding, and general ignorance, whilst simultaneously encouraging mocking laughter from those otherwise safely ignored. But there must have been something about Laurie. There was always something about Laurie.

You, man.

The Captain pointed directly at him, anonymous though he’d thought he’d been until now.

Stand Up.

Laurie looked around momentarily, shocked by the attention and uncertain that this really meant him.

Yes, you man, hurry up with it.

He shot to attention, suddenly upright, exposed and isolated. A bolt of cold sweat shot down his back.

Do you know where you are?

Yes, sir, he replied crisply, whilst silently berating himself to pursue caution.

Well?

Laurie paused nervously, Barracks, sir.

Barracks, did you say, barracks?

The Captain feigned bemusement and a few of the men obliged with laughter.

No, you fool, the place. What’s the name of this place? Where the hell are you?

Be very careful, thought Laurie, be very careful. But as ever, there was an uncontainable ire, and it was rising.

Not sure, sir.

Not sure, not bloody sure? Well, haven’t you spotted any clues?

Clues, sir? replied Laurie.

You know, camels, the heat, the Arabs, the lingo.

Oh yes, sir, but…

But what man? demanded the Captain.

We were told to keep shtum, sir.

Shtum?

Yes, sir, in case of loose talk.

Loose talk? Who told you that?

We were all told it, sir, before we left England, on a poster, by General Haig.

There was some nervous foot movement amongst the Company. To this point, few men confronted by the Captain had braved anything beyond the briefest response, concluding reasonably their subservience was as de rigueur in a fighting force as it was back home in their place of employment.

Loose talk you say, loose talk, well I’m your fucking Captain, so I think you’re safe to be loose with me.

There was a further ripple of uncomfortable laughter, though not entirely directed towards Laurie whose sacrificial resistance they were beginning to admire. But it was clear to a man that Captain Hillary’s sarcastic wit was merely the prelude, particularly if challenged, to something much worse, and none of them fancied him as an opponent.

Laurie prided himself upon his hard work, determination and honesty. Born with nothing and bereft of advantage, these at least were tools he could use, qualities he admired so much in others. That he imposed them so severely upon himself had been a constant sense of burden. That they were often lacking in the feckless creatures who assumed authority over him frequently led to challenge. And this was limiting, dangerous even, for a boy born into struggle.

He’d led a solitary childhood. As he grew, such isolation drove him to become incautiously independent. A hot head needed a cool heart, but after a year in apprenticeship, he’d fled the town that bore him, threatened by a foreman for answering back. Speaking honestly towards a superior had its consequence.

I’m waiting, man. Captain Hillary banged his stick.

Can you maybe remember the journey you made to get here? Perhaps that would help, he suggested, mockingly.

Laurie fixed the Captain’s gaze with an adjudged degree of facial supplication. Of course he could remember the journey, every aching last inch of it, from the enthusiasm of enlisting, to the appalling reality of his current circumstance. Still more, the journey from those loneliest of times to the man he’d become, respected by those he helped, loved by his wife and six children. Two years into the war, he was still safely at home, protected from conscription by his occupation. But it had provided poor protection from the taunts. No one directly accused him of cowardice but he saw it in their faces and it haunted. So, in the honesty of his guilt, he enlisted and gave himself to his country. He would travel, serve, and return with honour, conscience assuaged.

And in so doing, he laid upon his family a burden that would batter their very existence, and a personal guilt that would never leave.

Yes, sir. Twelve weeks’ basic training in England, sir; boat from Devonport to France, train to the Mediterranean, boat to Alexandria, acclimatisation training at Camp Minia and then the train here to Cairo, sir.

Well, well, so you can speak? replied Hillary, barely hiding a sneer.

Be so good if you would to tell me therefore, and he paused as if to inquire of the most indelicate of matters, did you and the men have a lovely time in France?

There were smiles from the ranks. Unpleasant though the Captain seemed, he certainly had good timing.

Passable, sir.

There was a gentle hiss of amusement.

Passable? What do you mean, passable?

I believe it’s French, sir.

French?

"Yes, sir, French… passable… he intoned with his best comedic accent, the adjective for passing tolerably through the country."

The Worcestershires broke into a belly hoot. Even the officers laughed. The men may have been the armpits of the Empire, but here was an excuse for brotherly fraternity. This bloke knew something, and blimey, he was going to cop it.

Silence!

Captain Hillary banged his stick with such a force that it risked destruction.

So we have a clever arse here do we?

Sir?

Fluent in the francaise, ‘le double entendre’?

No, sir. Laurie affected shock, hurt and complete sincerity, a skill at which he was well practiced. That’s what we were taught by some of the French we met, sir.

So you met a lot of the French did you on your ‘jolly’ through their country?

No, sir, we learnt to keep away.

Keep away?

Yes, sir, they didn’t seem to like us.

Like us? They are our main ally, you bloody idiot. Why on earth would they like us?

Well, we all rather thought that if these are our friends, sir, we’d hate to see what the enemy were like.

There was more muffled laughter, and by now even Captain Hillary was aware of the dubious merit of further interlocution. In addition, there was awkward movement behind him from the senior officers and their staff. He stared hard at Laurie.

What’s your name, man?

Private Laurie, sir.

Well, ‘Private Laurie sir’, unusual though that name is, and some of the Company smiled at his wit," I shall remember it when I need a pedantic literalist to be sent behind the enemy lines. But in the meantime, stay where you are when the men are dismissed so that I can brief you about your undercover work in la lavatoire for the next week."

Sir?

The shit house, Laurie, something to get stuck into whilst you ‘acclimatise’ in Cairo.

A slow gator smile crept across the Captain’s face as he fixed his prey.

Do you understand me now?

Yes, sir, responded Laurie, sufficiently pliant.

Now sit down, he spat.

Laurie did as instructed. He’d alienated an officer, but in the process felt confirmed by his peers. He’d stood up for himself and for the men. Most of them would have taken the blows subservience required. But he’d felt a sense of duty to some misty personal morality, to engage with Hillary; better ‘to jump than be pushed’.

Captain Hillary touched his cap in a nervy attempt to re-align it, as if trying to remind himself of who he was, and returned to addressing the whole troop.

As you may know if you were still awake when you arrived last night, and he glowered at Laurie, these… he gestured to the walls of the building, are the Bab El Hadid barracks in Cairo.

He waited for the words to sink in. He doubted if any of the men had ever been further than their next street.

Shambles that you were, he continued, you would have had no idea that as you fell out of the stinking waggons that bore you here and shuffled across the square to your billets, that you’d actually arrived in the greatest city in the whole of Africa.

He raised his voice for emphasis.

And not just ‘in it’ but in the very heart of it, the main bloody square indeed, Midan Bab El Hadid, just alongside Shari el Maddbuli, one of the main bloody streets. So, when you are finally trusted to leave this building, remember those names in case you get your silly little selves lost because unlike at home, you won’t be able to ask a policeman.

Laurie blinked. Did he say policeman?

Yes, thank you, Hillary.

The voice from the officer behind him momentarily flustered the Captain, but he quickly composed himself, realising its source.

I think the men can have their geography lesson a little later on, continued the voice.

Sir, replied Hillary, somewhat chastened, and he turned, clicked his heals obediently, and took his place with the other officers.

This was the top brass Laurie had spotted earlier, and he rose slowly and moved awkwardly, dragging a leg.

He was a tall man, towering well above Hillary as they crossed, and upon reaching the dais, stood upright, back stiff as a board. The braids that straddled his uniform, the way he removed his cap to address the men and the confidence in which he surveyed them, announced a man of authority and distinction. He was greying around the temples, though the head was full of dark greased-back hair. Laurie judged him to be a good twenty years older than himself, though there was something oddly familiar about him.

Gentlemen, welcome to Cairo.

Laurie could almost touch the sense of relief around the hall these words brought. He spoke directly, yet with a distinct and unexpected kindness.

I am your Commanding Officer, Brigadier Regis-Templeton, and I’d like to add just a few words to those of Captain Hillary. I know you will all be tired and probably a little confused following the long journey here from Plymouth. And I guess that for many of you, this is your first visit to Cairo.

He smiled, as did the men. Already they liked him.

Quite so, quite so.

He moved his weight forward slightly and then gently back again, as if readjusting for some inner pain, yet remained faced firmly frontward.

During your training at the Raglan Barracks in Plymouth as members of the proud Worcestershire 6th, you doubtless expected to become part of the push to beat the Germans in France. I hear from one of you men… and he motioned towards Laurie, …that there was talk of your enemy. You were probably expecting to face the Hun and certainly that remains the case. So when you were placed on the troop trains through France, you must have been somewhat surprised to learn that you would soon be on another boat from Nice, sailing to Alexandria.

The men nodded, though in reality they had been told little about anything, let alone their destination. At times, it was if the army was unsure what to do with them.

Well, whilst my officers behind, including Captain Hillary, have fought alongside me during the last two years both in Gallipoli and on the Western Front, we, and now you, find ourselves together in the British Protectorate of Egypt, a key arena in this war, fighting as part of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force.

The respect from the men was growing with his every word. Back home, both town and country were coming to terms with the maiming and appalling loss of life these places evoked. The horrors of the front were on show everywhere, and the dreadful stories of the suffering at Gallipoli were just emerging.

But the Egyptian Expeditionary Force? To many, those stationed in Egypt were thought of as being on leave. All the real stories were about France.

Gentlemen, in time and depending upon our tactical requirements, many of you will transfer from your duties here to the Western Front. You will quickly become aware that there are also Australians and New Zealanders stationed in barracks across Cairo, plus troops from India and the extended Empire. They will also be on the same boats back to France, once the final push develops. But a good many of you will also stay here to defend the British Protectorate from the Ottoman, whom you may also recognise as Turks.

Laurie felt for the first time since enlisting that here was an officer deserving of attention, and he wasn’t alone. Having been assaulted and cowed by Hillary, the men were suddenly alert, their discomfort in the heat allayed for the moment by the straight talking they were hearing.

Make no mistake gentlemen, you may never get used to the sun, the dryness, the hordes of flies, but you will need very quickly to acclimatise to the fight. The Ottoman soldier is a fearsome opponent. They believe they have rights to the whole of North Africa, and are also threatening our allies in Europe. He paused.

I believe, as I’m sure do you, in the fundamental goodness of mankind. In the trenches on the front line, the fighting was tough, but the Germans, as did we, approached an opponent as a fellow human. The Ottoman though, seems to fight by different rules; their own men are frequently starved of rations and we have reports of appalling degradations by them towards the Armenians, Greeks and Assyrians. So, you can gather that defeat and capture by such a foe is not an option.

There was an intense seriousness on the Brigadier’s face as he delivered this news, and none doubted its credibility.

Added to that, strategically, we are almost fifty years on from the opening of the Suez Canal. God help the British Empire if that were to fall into Ottoman hands. Our Arab hosts need our military strength and organisational resolve to help them protect and build their country. Were we to fail, they would be overrun in a matter of weeks. So, gentlemen, your work here will be pivotal to winning the war.

He moved a hand towards his cap and winced, momentarily.

We shall meet for briefings as events dictate, but for now, just a few important instructions.

He seemed to slow a little, as if to ensure that what followed had time to be properly received.

Remember well Captain Hillary’s directives to you, and act upon them at all times. As we speak, Army Engineers are at work in Cairo and beyond, digging wells, laying pipelines, searching for water. They have already constructed over one hundred miles of diversionary channels. Water in Egypt is more precious than gold. Abuse this notion and you will be severely disciplined.

There was visible surprise at this change in emphasis.

You may think this stricture somewhat grave, but it is for your own good. Far too many of our young men have died for lack of water, and it’s as big a danger to us as the enemy.

He stood in silence for a moment as his words flew across the room.

With luck, one gallon of water a day will be available to you.

That was clearly a shock.

Five pints of that will be taken for cooking and making tea. That will leave you with three for drinking and washing.

There was a collective though contained intake of breath across the room and a discernible movement amongst the men. The Brigadier could see what they were thinking: three pints a day, how would they cope? Laurie though wasn’t so confronted; he’d been used to deprivation.

See to it that these orders are followed to the letter.

Brigadier Regis-Templeton raised his cap with his left hand and placed it skillfully upon his head, holding the lectern on the dais with the other, for balance. He scanned across the room, observing the draining away of innocence. How many more times? he thought. He saluted the men who responded in kind, and then beckoned towards the officers behind.

Over to you, Captain Hillary.

The officer party stood, and Hillary, caught somewhat unawares, rushed forward.

Attention, he barked, and the men stood as one.

The Brigadier, now noticeably less upright, walked with a studied precision towards the open doorway leading to the drill square, followed by the officers. Laurie’s view was, by now, partly obscured, but even so, he could tell by the gait that Brigadier Regis-Templeton was in pain. The officers behind him appeared aware too, allowing him space, curtailing their own pace. The woman in uniform was third in the line as they left, and Laurie was surprised. In his short military experience, officers generally left a formal briefing such as this in the order of their rank, yet she was close by the Brigadier.

Once the stage party had left, Hillary dismissed the men back to their billets to prepare for their first parade of the day. Laurie, however, remained behind, standing alone.

Well, Laurie, you’re not so cocky now are you? said Captain Hillary.

He was joined by a Sergeant.

Sir? replied Laurie.

"All that ‘passable’ shit just now, hey?"

Some spittle affixed itself to Hillary’s moustache, balancing along the rim and gently elongating southward like a mucous icicle.

You wouldn’t know a French adjective if it stood up and slapped you in the face would you?

I think that’s unlikely, sir.

What? shouted the Captain.

Be careful, Laurie told himself, for pity’s sakes, be careful. That I would be slapped in the face by an adject—

Shut it, man, bellowed the Captain, now a few inches from Laurie. The fact that he was shorter and therefore looking upward meant that further spray landed on Laurie’s chin, and this together with the Captain’s breath caused him to make an involuntary move backward.

Stand still, man.

Yes, sir.

Captain Hillary paused and turned towards the Sergeant. You see what we are up against here?

The Sergeant nodded. He’s a wiser man than I to keep his mouth shut, thought Laurie. Hillary closed even more, his eyes peering from below Laurie’s nose.

Adjective my arse. Why, a man like you wouldn’t know a bare infinitive from a past-participle, would you?

No, sir.

Quite right, he bawled.

Why, I’d be amazed if you could barely write your name.

Yes, sir.

That’s better, thought Laurie, show deference, stay calm.

Yes, sir, indeed, lisped Captain Hillary sarcastically, parodying Laurie’s reply.

We need men here with intelligence Laurie, do you understand?

Yes, sir.

Men with the intelligence to keep their scummy little mouths shut.

He paused and walked slowly around Laurie, looking him up and down as if inspecting an unpleasant obstruction. Then he signalled to his Sergeant to do the same. Odd though this felt to Laurie it was so obviously a well-worn routine.

Do you see what I see, Sergeant Wirrall?

I do see it sir, yes, I do see it.

And what is that you see, Sergeant?

A man who is full of shite, sir.

And how can you tell that Sergeant, if I may ask?

Because he both looks and very much smells like shite, sir. And in my extensive military experience in the service of His Majesty, sir, something that looks and smells of shite is quite specifically shite, sir.

Correct, Sergeant. And therefore where do you think him best deployed?

Most definitely as you have previously indicated, sir… latrines.

"Thank you, Sergeant Wirrall. So one week’s lavatories shift alongside the Arab orderlies. Let’s hope that does the trick. A sufficiently ‘passable’ place for a clever arse like you Laurie, don’t you think?"

Yes, sir.

A clever arse, Laurie. What are you?

An arse, sir.

Hillary erupted again, I said a clever arse, damn you. What are you?

Yes, sir; clever, sir.

Hillary was finished, and besides, he had important work to attend.

Keep me informed of progress, Sergeant.

Yes, sir.

But given the smell he will carry, please keep him away from my office. If I need to speak to him, arrange for it to be in the open. Is that clear?

Sir.

And with that, Captain Hillary turned sharply and headed off through the door used by the departing officers. Laurie, stinging from the unfairness, yet relieved that he’d endured and gained approbation from the men, turned to follow the Sergeant. As he did so, he caught sight of the woman who’d been sitting with the stage party. She was standing in a shaded corner of the room, but he’d studied her face sufficiently earlier to recognise that it was definitely her. She must have heard what had gone on. Hillary hadn’t spotted her upon his exit, and she’d remained sheltered by the dark, making no effort to either move away or communicate.

Odd, thought Laurie, as he followed the Sergeant at the double, quite odd.

After a week adhering to the strictures of Captain Hillary, the Worcestershires were indeed dulled beyond numbness.

Their daily routine began at 4.30 am sharp with roll call and inspection. Dressed in full uniform and stood to attention, their bedding and kit were forensically examined for any linear misalignment. Once this was completed, they made their way in an orderly manner to the canteen and queued for tea. Breakfast was a routinely cheerless affair involving bread, bacon, cheese and the occasional egg. This was consumed sitting regularly in rows, either side of the communal tables. Talking was allowed, but at this time in the morning and with the growing realisation of their lot, the whole affair was increasingly undertaken in a stuporous silence.

The three-storey barrack block that housed them had once been a magnificent ornate municipal building, brim-full with the business of life. But now it was dark, musty and overbearing, with the smell and pallor of a dying man. There were no formal windows in the sense the men understood, merely arched openings arranged uniformly along the outside of each floor. They looked elegant enough from the street, but merely served to vacuum the dry air and attendant hordes of insect flotsam deep into their sleeping quarters.

Some arranged towels and shirts on the guard rail that ran across each arch, in the slim hope of protection. Others fashioned makeshift mosquito covers from spare clothing. But these efforts were largely futile and few slept well, not least as in one of the hottest places on earth, the nights were cruelly cold. Their heavy woollen uniforms therefore served some useful purpose under the Cairo stars.

As they sat in collective post-breakfast glumness, the heat of the day began steepening, bringing with it more of the insect life that had swamped them since Alexandria. And from outside, the noise of an awakening Cairo began to intrude, rising in intensity like a distressed steam engine pulling out of Worcester Station. Amongst it were the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer, the hordes of traders with their impenetrable language and the bellowing protests of thousands of awkward, angry donkeys. The only recognisable sound to the ears of these newest servants of blighty was the intermittent metallic screeching of the street trams as the daily timetable of the Cairo Electric Railway and Heliopolis Company commenced.

Added to this growing sense of alienation was an unforgettable smell that would crescendo with the rising heat: a mixture of fragrances beyond the experiences of the ranks, including cinnamon and herb, sweet apple smoke, citron, date and fragrant coffee. Suffused within this was the more familiar thumping of manure, so invasive some suggested it could be sliced and served with the rations. Therefore, even in these, the earliest of days, it became essential routine outside barracks for patrols to watch their feet as well as the locals.

At 5.30 am precisely, the first drill of the day began. Each Sergeant took it in turn to pull the strings, inflicting some modification or other upon the practiced accomplishments of their predecessor, lest the sloppiness so derided by Captain Hillary appear. Exhausted by an hour of routine, the men returned to the canteen to pick up their first water ration of the day. Needy though they were, bitter experience already determined they limit their intake to just a small portion of the pint issued into their water bottle.

By 7.15 am, the sun was high enough to match the hottest summer day back home, and within moments of their return for the second drill, a wetland ecosystem of sweat and insect life festooned their uniforms. By the end of this, at least one soldier had usually collapsed and been ferried to the medical ward by Arab orderlies.

Following this second hour of drilling, it became customary for Captain Hillary to address them on what he was observing.

Complete shambles you are, complete shambles.

Routinely, he would point to a deemed defect and insist upon further refinement.

Makes perfect does practice, he would frequently say, accompanied by a little chuckle to himself at his quirky cleverness with words. Sometimes he would develop the theme.

Remember, a hundred years ago the Duke of Wellington… he paused to give suitable emphasis to his authority… "triumphed at Waterloo, thanks largely to the discipline of his southern front. Bonaparte might have lived by the maxim that ‘in war morale is everything’ but the silly bugger forgot just how effective fit men in drilled lines can be. Outflanked him they did, outflanked him."

Following further marching under Hillary’s occasional gaze, the men would then be dismissed to stumble exhausted, but praising Bonaparte, back to their billet. Most collapsed into sleep until their 11.30 am mug of tea.

The ceaseless monotony of