the quay, an English private blocked my path.
‘Are you Jarvis?’
‘Sah!’ he said, and he snapped to attention, which was quite the right thing for him to do, but he also eyed me curiously, which was not.
‘I’m Captain Stringer,’ I said.
‘Sah!’ he said again. He then became normal, and it was good to hear a Northern accent. He said, ‘The base is this way, sir. We’re in the Hotel Grande Bretagne – Hotel Great Britain that is, sir.’
‘I know,’ I said.
He held out his two arms for my pack, and I gave it him.
The dockers were still chanting the name of their God as Jarvis said something about ‘. . . I hope this place will be a home-from-home for you, sir.’
We joined a flow of soldiers walking up a kind of dirty sluice that rose up from one side of the quay, and this took us into a packed narrow street, the road not much wider than a footpath, where we came up against the doorway of a very compressed mosque with green lanterns burning on either side of the entrance. A loud singing rose up from somewhere, and made me start.
‘Time for prayer, sir, time for prayer,’ said Jarvis, ‘always at it, they are. Five times a day, starting at dawn. If you should go in there‚ sir . . . take your shoes off. Don’t put your hands in your pockets, and don’t put your hands behind your back either, sir.’
We pushed through a crowd of beggars. Jarvis was saying something to them in their own language – sounded friendly enough. Well, he was a friendly-looking chap: small, round-faced, and dead keen. ‘Chirpy’, that was the word. As we pushed on past the beggars, he said, ‘It goes without saying, sir, that you don’t go into a mosque in shorts . One of the officers did that yesterday, sir, and there was a bit of . . . well, there was a bit of a riot really.’ (In khaki drill, which was the cotton version of service dress, short or long trousers might equally be worn.) ‘See any lions on your way up, sir?’ Jarvis enquired.
‘No – dogs. Plenty of dogs.’
‘This place is full of dogs too,’ said Jarvis. ‘Yellow, they are. And starving.’
I said, ‘Is it quite the thing to wear shorts?’
Jarvis did not, and his trouser legs looked even more sweat-soaked than mine.
‘Frowned on in the officers’ mess,’ he said.
‘But a good deal cooler,’ I said.
‘I’ve been thinking much the same myself, sir. Nearly put my pair on this morning. I will if you will, sir, how about that?’
I wasn’t sure that was quite the sort of thing a batman should be saying to his officer. He seemed a smart customer, Jarvis, and that could be good or bad.
‘Is it a long walk to the Hotel?’
‘It’s not a long walk to anywhere, strictly speaking. Town’s about a mile and a half by a mile, sir. Three-quarters of it on this side of the river, one-quarter on the other.’ He paused, before adding, ‘It’s a walled city, sir, so you know when you’ve come to the end of it.’
I’d read something about that: Baghdad was the first fortified city of the Turks against the Persians.
‘What’s beyond the walls?’
‘To be quite honest with you, sir,’ said Jarvis, ‘. . . graves. Then the desert.’
‘How far away is Johnny Turk?’
‘Beaten back to about a hundred miles on all sides, sir. He’s mainly to the north, sir, beyond Samarrah. Their central point is a spot called Aleppo.’
‘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
‘Are you Jarvis?’
‘Sah!’ he said, and he snapped to attention, which was quite the right thing for him to do, but he also eyed me curiously, which was not.
‘I’m Captain Stringer,’ I said.
‘Sah!’ he said again. He then became normal, and it was good to hear a Northern accent. He said, ‘The base is this way, sir. We’re in the Hotel Grande Bretagne – Hotel Great Britain that is, sir.’
‘I know,’ I said.
He held out his two arms for my pack, and I gave it him.
The dockers were still chanting the name of their God as Jarvis said something about ‘. . . I hope this place will be a home-from-home for you, sir.’
We joined a flow of soldiers walking up a kind of dirty sluice that rose up from one side of the quay, and this took us into a packed narrow street, the road not much wider than a footpath, where we came up against the doorway of a very compressed mosque with green lanterns burning on either side of the entrance. A loud singing rose up from somewhere, and made me start.
‘Time for prayer, sir, time for prayer,’ said Jarvis, ‘always at it, they are. Five times a day, starting at dawn. If you should go in there‚ sir . . . take your shoes off. Don’t put your hands in your pockets, and don’t put your hands behind your back either, sir.’
We pushed through a crowd of beggars. Jarvis was saying something to them in their own language – sounded friendly enough. Well, he was a friendly-looking chap: small, round-faced, and dead keen. ‘Chirpy’, that was the word. As we pushed on past the beggars, he said, ‘It goes without saying, sir, that you don’t go into a mosque in shorts . One of the officers did that yesterday, sir, and there was a bit of . . . well, there was a bit of a riot really.’ (In khaki drill, which was the cotton version of service dress, short or long trousers might equally be worn.) ‘See any lions on your way up, sir?’ Jarvis enquired.
‘No – dogs. Plenty of dogs.’
‘This place is full of dogs too,’ said Jarvis. ‘Yellow, they are. And starving.’
I said, ‘Is it quite the thing to wear shorts?’
Jarvis did not, and his trouser legs looked even more sweat-soaked than mine.
‘Frowned on in the officers’ mess,’ he said.
‘But a good deal cooler,’ I said.
‘I’ve been thinking much the same myself, sir. Nearly put my pair on this morning. I will if you will, sir, how about that?’
I wasn’t sure that was quite the sort of thing a batman should be saying to his officer. He seemed a smart customer, Jarvis, and that could be good or bad.
‘Is it a long walk to the Hotel?’
‘It’s not a long walk to anywhere, strictly speaking. Town’s about a mile and a half by a mile, sir. Three-quarters of it on this side of the river, one-quarter on the other.’ He paused, before adding, ‘It’s a walled city, sir, so you know when you’ve come to the end of it.’
I’d read something about that: Baghdad was the first fortified city of the Turks against the Persians.
‘What’s beyond the walls?’
‘To be quite honest with you, sir,’ said Jarvis, ‘. . . graves. Then the desert.’
‘How far away is Johnny Turk?’
‘Beaten back to about a hundred miles on all sides, sir. He’s mainly to the north, sir, beyond Samarrah. Their central point is a spot called Aleppo.’
‘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
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