Redemption - Leon Uris [194]
Major Hubble forbade the use of Terriers by his men Major Hubble’s punishments were double that of the rest of the corps. Major Hubble’s battalion area was impeccable.
Even the stoutest Aussie desert rat buckled under the Egyptian sun, and what the sun didn’t get, the sand did. Sand, sand, sand, sand. Clean the tent and it was filled with sand again in minutes. Sand in the mess kits. Sand in their teeth and hair. Sand in their clothing, up their rectums.
Yes, they would become good troops, given enough time. But as tough as they were, the Anzacs had a flaw. Almost all of them had come from rural settings free from exposure to the bacterias of urban “civilization.” For the first time in their lives they were in total close quarters with crowds of humanity: crammed aboard troop ships, packed in the narrow streets of Cairo, at Camp Anzac. Their immune systems had not been built to handle the onslaught of typhoid and dysentery, stomach parasites, and killer influenza A third of them were down at all times from illness.
Respite meant leave in Cairo, and soon venereal disease added to the infirmities.
Cairo had centuries of experience in swaying to the whims of the conqueror, occupier, and tourist. They all wanted the same thing—bargains, booze, and women…preferably the illusion of a virgin. The soldier boys at the bottom of the ranks were young men. Nearly all of them were short on experience and felt they had to have a notch or two of girl-o in their belts to make memories before battle and to know they had joined the ranks of real men.
Cairo was having a reverse effect. The situation went from bad to rotten. Tempers grew shorter. The men, particularly of the Seventh Light Horse, returned lo camp in a state of agitation, after which Major Hubble drilled it out of them.
As for Rory lad, his dream of that oasis—that Champs Elysée apartment—was blown away with the desert sands.
In a compound close to battalion headquarters, there was a large stable with indoor riding rings that was in decent condition and mostly unused, except to house polo ponies for the ranking officers. Jeremy talked Chris into allowing him to have the building and supplying him with laborers to convert it into housing and office space for his gaffers. Each man had a private sleeping cubicle and a small office. Most activity centered around a conference room, which was a feet-on-the-desk, nonmilitary, friendly spot.
Christopher did not like the gaffers’ privileged setup or their independence. He considered himself a top-notch officer and justified special treatment to the squad. A fine officer knew when to yield slightly…particularly when the gains would more than offset his “largesse.” If Major Hubble learned one thing, it was that Jeremy’s squad was the make-or-break of the battalion’s unique commission. So long as they were out of sight and Chris did not have to buck heads with his brother, he yielded here and there.
One of the indoor riding rings had a grandstand that could hold two hundred men, or about a fourth of the battalion, at one time. In planning ahead, this would become a rotating classroom.
In Pig Island, a conference room walled with charts, the lieutenant and his three gaffers went as far as they could go on writing a workable mule manual, but the battalion desperately needed the expertise of the key men, a chief packer and a veterinarian.
Rory reckoned these missing chapters should be written substituting horses for mules. After all, the skeletons were the same and there were a whole range of similarities between the two animals. It stood to shorten the finishing time of the manual simply by replacing mules for horses and making whatever corrections were required.
The three gaffers awaited the arrival of the veterinarian in pig Island with more than usual anticipation.
Rory had met only one Jew in his life, a nondescript general merchant in Christchurch who was generally well liked for his generosity in extending credit to prospectors and folks who had had a bad season.
Chester