A JOLLY WAR

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIV, Issue 20966, 19 February 1938, Page 5

A JOLLY WAR

By

CHARLES LAYNQ

The after-diniier session in our hotel developed into a grousing-bee about the late war, as such sessions have the habit of doing, when we grizzled veterans of forty-odd years get together. We agreed, as we had many times before, that it had been a lousy way—nay, an Intensely lousy war. Only Wakefield kept an unwagging tongue, amid the recital of estaminet over-charges and verminridden billets. None of us knew him very well, but we did know him well enough to put him down as a gabby guy, and his silence surprised us. "What about it, Wake?” Durst asked. "Don’t you think that the war was a tragedy that ruined our youth?” "The war a tragedy? Hardly, my boys, hardly! Of course, the first few months were a bit on the ragged side for me, but after that, it was Jolly, positively jolly. But then perhaps I was fortunate.” We pressed him for details, and after another round had been ordered, he spun his yam: I joined up early, with the British (he began) since I happened to be in London, with nothing much to do. A few months of real war, followed by being crocked at Ypres, convinced me that the show could go on just as well without me, and I should have been content to return to the land of the free as a convalescent hero. But no! Captains were scarce, and after a few months in the hospital, I found myself aboard a transport bound for Cairo. A few more misfits joined me there, and we proceeded by rail to Port Said and then away down the coast to Happa, an insignificant little port on the Red Sea. Two companies were there, under the command of a major named Hartlett; and what companies they were! Beginning with the Major himself, who had only one arm, we were the weirdest collection of casualties you ever saw outside of a hospital. But then, Happa was only a fly-speck on the war map, and a most unimportant one, at that, so that combat troops could hardly be spared for its defence. Our orders were simple. We were to keep the Turks out of Happa. and in a desultory fashion we set about doing so. The troops we replaced had been energetic fighters, new to the war and still flushed with its glory. They had .busied themselves, in all that heat, 'tlnind you, in building an extraordinary collection of trenches, first-line And relief, among the sand and stones .outside of Happa. "My word,” cominented the Major, when we had

looked over the positions, “They must have expected the whole Turkish army to lay siege to Happa some fine day.”

We took over without much fuss, and settled down to enjoy ourselves. Considering the out-of-the-way hole in which we were stationed, we did ourselves fairly comfortably. Such as it was, we had plenty of everything, from tobacco on down, and once we had learned how to dress for the heat it wasn’t half bad.

Fighting? Well, we had little enough of that. The Turks, with their German training, had built an excuse for a trench-system opposite ours, but there was very little sniping back and forth. They had no artillery, and neither did we, and they seemed as little in the mood for a brush as we were; so mostly, we let well enough alone. As far as we could tell, they were a ragamuflin outfit, much like our own; and later, we found out—but that’s getting ahead of my story. We’d been there perhaps three or four months, going through the minimum number of motions of warfare, when one blistering day the sergeant on look-out came rushing to me, all of a sweat. “They’ve hoisted a white flag over there,” he panted. I went out to have a look-see, and sure enough .there it was. Moreover, a chap was carrying it across the intervening ground. I hopped up on the parapet, and then went out to meet him. A personable young Turkish officer he was, except that he too walked with a pronounced limp. "What ho!” he said, in amazing English. “I have an important message for your commanding officer.” “Come along, then, and I’ll take you to him.” The Major and three other officers were having a rubber or two of bridge when the enemy and I burst in upon them. They registered as much surprise as the British ever do, and the Major asked: "What can I do for you, sir?” “Oh, I wouldn’t interrupt you for worlds,” the Turk said. “Go right ahead; I’ll wait until you are dummy.” We all stared, as you may well believe, but the Major took him at his word, and played on, with the Turk as a most interested spectator, until he was dummy. Then the Turk mentioned his mission. “The Colonel sent me over to ask a favour. As you may know we approach the time of the Ramadan, when all good Mohammedans desire to devote themselves to religious contemplation. The Colonel and I

thought that possibly, since there isn't much fighting to do around here anyway, we might induce you to grant us the favour of a truce for the Ramadan season. In return we shall be glad to accommodate with a similar truce during the Christmas and Easter seasons—or,” he added with a grin, “during bank holidays, for matter of that.” The Major was floored for a moment, but he was a sportsman, and not to be outdone by a heathen Turk. “Certainly,” he agreed; "it shall be arranged. But how does it happen that you speak such perfect English?" “I was at Oxford," said the Turk simply. “You were?" the Major gasped. “Then you must have known my son, Ronald Hartlett, since you’re about of an age.” “You’re not really the father of Ronnie Hartlett, the blue?” asked the Turk delightedly. “Why, I knew Ronnie well. We were at Magdalen' together. I wasn’t much of an athlete, but Ronnie and I were runners-up in the bridge championship.” “Why, then you are—” “I am Captain—er, shall we say Smith,” the Turk interrupted. “Yes, Captain Smith should suffice for all purposes.” “I say, Your—er, I mean, Captain Smith," the Major said, “now that you’re here, won’t you join us in a rubber or two, and perhaps a spot of something?” “With pleasure.” “Captain Smith” certainly played a keen hand at bridge, positively masterly, I would call it, and I’m no novice myself. He stayed for a couple of hours, and at length regretfully got up to go. “The Colonel will be worried. I must go. It has certainly been a pleasure to play bridge again. That’s one thing the Colonel and I both miss in this outlandish place. He’s as keen about bridge as I am, but we have neither the cards nor the players on our side." “Are you one of the devoutly religious jonnies, too?” the Major asked. “Hardly.” “Well, then, while this truce is going on, why don’t you bring the Colonel, over for a rubber or two?” “Delighted.” “I’ve seldom seen such magnificent bridge played anywhere, as in the abandoned mosque at Happa, during the season of Ramadan. The shaggy old one-eyed Turkish colonel was even better, possibly, than Captain Smith, and he and I gavi the Major and the Captain a run for their money. It was remarkably even. At a shilling a hundred, I doh’t suppose as much as a pound chariged hands during the entire week’s play. We were all rather sorry when the truce came to an end.

"I say,” said Captain Smith on the last evening, “let’s be frank. Our orders are to keep you from leaving Happa by land, although why you should want to get out in those dry waddis beyond here, I don’t understand. Now, I rather imagine that your orders are to keep us out of Happa, and thus we are at a beautiful stalemate. Why don’t the Colonel and I, then, come over every evening for a rubber or two, under a white flag, even after the truce is off?” “Why not?" the Major replied—and so it was.

In the weeks that followed, the rivalry between Major Hartlett and Captain Smith on the one side, and the Colonel and I on the other, became exceedingly keen, so well were we matched. Promptly at six each evening the two Turkish officers came over, and promptly at midnight they went back again. We might have been at it yet, had not a British admiral steamed into the harbour, if such it might be called, outside Happa. Of course, we went aboard to pay our respects.

“Major,” the navy man said heartily, “I’m going to help you. I understand you have no artillery to aid you in blasting loose the Turks. Now, I have the big guns of my fleet all ready to fire. I’ve had the enemy’s trenches bracketed, and to-morrow, promptly at ten, we shall show the Turks something. “But sir,” the Major protested, “I shouldn't do that, if I were you.” “Why not?” the Admiral growled in high surprise. That was a facer. On the surface, there wasn’t any valid reason why the Turks shouldn’t be bombarded, any more than there was any reason for bombarding them. Besides, the Admiral was a superior officer, oh, most superior. There was nothing for it, but to let the bombardment go on as per schedule. We did, however, pay our friends the small courtesy of sending a messenger over to warn them to evacuate to the hills until the bombardment was over. The Admiral was as good as his word. Promptly at ten the next morning the heavy guns boomed forth, and sent their cargo of destruction. It landed about a hundred yards behind our own trenches! The Major was boiling, as we put out to the Admiral’s flagship. “What’s the meaning of this, sir?” he roared, with what, under other circumstances, might have been taken as a most insubordinate manner. “Tut, tut,” said the Admiral, “just a slight miscalculation, Major. We’ll have that rectified in no time, and score a direct hit with the next volley.” “May I suggest that you do no such thing?” “Nonsense, Major, nonsense. You place too much importance upon a trifling error.” The Major argued and stormed, but to no avail. The Admiral, it appeared, had been spending the war cruising tamely about in Pacific waters and now that a chance for some real action was available, he was not going to overlook it- No, indeed, not he!

All day the sailors laboured, shifting the coal in the bunkers, so that the guns might be raised by the listing of the ship. By morning all was again set for ten o’clock. At nine o’clock, the Major, with quiet dignity, ordered every man out of the trenches, and marched us all into the safety of Happa. The Admiral was a stickler for promptitude, if nothing else, and on the stroke of ten, his guns roared forth again. This time his aim was better. As per promise, he scored a direct hit—smack on our trenches! The Major flung down his telescope.

“Admiral or no admiral," he yelled. “I’m going to tell that congenital idiot a thing or two!” But he didn’t have the chance. Before we could get out to where the fleet was moored, it had weighed anchor, and was steaming majestically north, toward the Suez Canal. The Major cursed the Admiral over the horizon, and then we went out and ruefully surveyed the wreckage of our lovely trench system. The Major shook his head sadly. It would take days to fix it, and the weather was beastly hot. “Hello,” I said suddenly, “here come the Turks.”

Under a white flag, practically the entire Turkish force was marching over toward us led by Captain Smith. The latter approached the Major, and saluting smartly, British style. “What’s the meaning of this, Smithy?” the Major asked. “A work party, sir, with the Colonel’s compliments. To aid in repairing your trenches, if you please, sir." Those Turks knew how to work in that hot weather; and with their captain spurring them on, it was no time at all until our trenches were as good as new. The interrupted bridge games began again, and we might have been quietly enjoying ourselves in Happa yet, except that, unfortunately, the armistice was signed. (Copyright)