Redemption - Leon Uris [188]
“The turbaned chaps?”
“Yes, and they all speak English. You will need a veterinarian. A lot of the horse care and mule care is the same but, nonetheless, mules have their special problems. Hummm, see here. We’ve gotten in a group of Palestinian Jews who we will be training for our transport. Some of these chaps ran mules for the Russian Army, I’m told, and used mules for farming in Palestine. There’s bound to be several vets among them or, at least, someone with enough background to do the job…. Let me jot a note here…Punjab packer…Jew vet, English-speaking…”
Rory was once again welcomed to be seated.
Landers, we’ve had to diddle you about for reasons of military security. What I tell you now is still hush-hush for several days. Kindly hold your breath before you scream”
Rory closed his eyes and braced himself.
“Captain Ellsworth here is the chief veterinarian for the British divisions stationed in the south.”
“I figured the Captain to be a vet,” Rory said.
“You’re shipping me to the mules, aren’t you?”
“No, we’re shipping the mules to you. All cavalry units have been disbanded and are being recommissioned as infantry, mostly. The Seventh New Zealand Light Horse is now the mule transportation battalion for the Anzac forces.”
“No cavalry, sir?”
“No cavalry. One does not question command decisions and orders. It is apparent, is it not, that there will be no need for cavalry in the upcoming campaign. I want you on the gaffer squad as a troubleshooter for anything and everything as we make this transformation. Your main assignment now is to write a manual, and after that you will be the battalion’s paddock master in charge of the four to five hundred mules we are expecting. And, to ease any pain and put you in the proper mood, there are first serjeant’s chevrons to go with the job.”
“Congratulations, Landers,” Captain Ellsworth said.
“Captain, let us be off to the mess. I’ll see you gentlemen in two hours. Bring along this, uh, Good…?”
“Goodwood, Chester Goodwood.”
Rory was a knot of intertwining bulging muscles, jaws clamped, fists clenched, neck veins distended. He turned to Johnny Tarbox with “killer” written all over him.
“You dirty no good son of a bitch!” Rory commented. “You knew about this yesterday. You fed me to these fucking mules when you went through my questionnaire. You could have torn up the fucking questionnaire. They’d have never known! You rotten son of a bitch!”
“Oh, I betrayed you, that it?”
“You son of a bitch!”
“All right, so I dispose of your questionnaire, then what? You end up shoveling shit in the paddock as a fucking private. Want a transfer! Fuck yes, I’ll get you a fucking transfer to the fucking infantry and you’ll march in the fucking desert in the fucking sun till you fucking drop! You! You ought to be kissing my feet, you asshole. First Serjeant chevrons! Five fucking years in the Royal Marines and I’m a fucking lance corporal and ten minutes and you’re a first serjeant! You dumb shit! There is no cavalry! And they didn’t consult me on the matter!”
Rory fell into a chair and blinked. As the enormity of Johnny’s recommendation sank in, Rory put his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he sniffled.
“And me, going into the ring with that fucking Butcher monster and letting him rain blows on me.”
“I said I’m sorry. I really mean I’m sorry.”
“And know something?” Tarbox said standing over Rory. “You should kiss my feet for getting you into the gaffers with the only decent pommy officer in Camp Anzac.”
“You going to keep ragging on me, now? I said I’m sorry.”
“Lookit these pommies,” Tarbox went on, “and remember how lucky we are to have Lieutenant Hubble. What’s more, he’s a genuine blue blood, a viscount. Fucking son of a fucking earl, that’s what!”
Rory looked up to Johnny and Johnny became worried. “What’s the matter with you, Rory?”
“They’re Ulstermen. Is he…is he the son of the Earl of Foyle?” Rory rasped.
“Something like that.”