‘Any danger of ’em coming back?’
‘Certain to try, sir, but it’s a question of when. Both sides are in their summer quarters, as you might say. Our boys were chasing the old Turkey cock out at Ramadi last month, sir, and it was too hot for campaigning even then.’
We were now into what I first thought of as an alleyway, but which was in reality – I would soon realise – a typical street of Baghdad. The ‘roadway’ was half broken cobbles, half mud dust. There were arches at intervals overhead, and three of these in succession boasted great storks standing one-legged upon them. Some of the walls were blank stone, with faded posters and barred windows, so that it looked like we were passing a succession of small prisons, but some held shops or places of business, and I had glimpses of Arab life in dark, hot, oil-lit rooms – grey stone relieved by colourful carpets and cushions. We came to a building enclosed in scaffolding.
‘Reconstruction,’ said Jarvis. ‘That’s the order of the day out here. Well, that and fatigues and parades and waiting, sir.’
Gas lights, yet unlit and of ancient design, stuck out from the walls. We passed a man in a doorway rolling cigarettes and setting them neatly on a table top; then some sort of shop or store with what looked like beautiful but battered biscuit tins containing pastries. Next came a shop that evidently sold water – in bottles or leather skins. Jarvis turned to me, saying, ‘Excuse me one second‚ sir, if you don’t mind,’ and I watched from the doorway as he stepped into the shop and spoke a few words of Arabic to the blokes inside, who seemed to know him of old, and grinned quite enthusiastically at him.
‘Like a bloody mental ward in there, it is, sir,’ he said, stepping back into the street.
‘What were you saying?’
‘Taze su, you see‚ sir – means fresh water.’
So he’d been telling them what was in their shop.
Jarvis said, ‘Your first camel, sir.’
I looked forwards, and there it was – seemingly bowing to both sides of the street as it walked. It carried a great wooden crate on top of a saddle that looked to be made of a collection of carpets. It was being led, so to speak, from behind, by a fellow constantly flicking its rump with a stick, like a man playing the drums. From this you’d have thought the camel meant nothing to him, and yet he’d decorated the saddle with little silver bells.
Jarvis said, ‘Looks like it’s got two left feet, doesn’t it, sir? But then it’s not at home in the town. Ship of the desert, sir – and it’s said you do feel a little seasick when you’re up on board.’
The camel stalked past.
‘. . . Until you get the rhythm that is. Gemel or jemel, it is, sir,’ Jarvis ran on, ‘so it’s an easy one to remember.’
‘You’ve a pretty good grasp on the language, Jarvis.’
‘Made a bit of an effort, sir, bit of an effort. When we first came here, I was thinking: Right, where’s the blinking pyramids?, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir. Ignorant, I was, but I’ve decided to make a study of the place. Mesopotamia, sir. The land between two rivers – that’s what that means. There’s an Arab saying: “When the devil created hell, he saw it wasn’t bad enough, so he created Mesopotamia, and added flies.”’
‘I should say that’s about right.’
‘But I like it, sir. I have a guide-book: City of the Khalifs. This was quite the place to be, sir – about a thousand years ago.’
‘Were you in the scrap when we took the town?’
‘No‚ sir, but I was in the show at Kut – the first time we went in there; before the siege. September 1915 – worst month of my life, sir. Then I was at Basrah, having a fairly easy time of it. I came up here on the steamer four weeks ago.’
‘What were you up to in Basrah, Corporal?’
‘Motor-car driver. Then I was batman to another gentleman, sir. Then I went back to driving.’
There was a tap on my shoulder, I turned around, and an Arab was there, holding out a bottle of water. It was one of the blokes from the water shop. Behind him, a rather irritated voice called out, ‘Can you smile? He’s giving you a present.’
Beyond the Arab, in the crowd of the street, a man stood next to a cine camera on a tripod stand. I knew immediately what it was, even though I’d never laid eyes on one before. It resembled a thin wooden case stood on its end. The operator – he squinted into a hole at the back of it and wound a handle on the side – wore an officer’s uniform but with no badges of rank. You’d have thought he was a colonel from the way he gave orders, however.