William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

One day someone had passed him an old copy of Nash ’s magazine, folded open to a page covered with photographs of a French dancer — one Mademoiselle Sadrine Storri. She was very pretty, Gabriel saw, in a plump coquettish way. Her dark hair was tousled. She wore her dancing costume, a scant toga strewn with garlands. She had heavy thighs, and in one photo leant forward to exposé the swells of nicely rounded bosom. Because she danced with bare legs, the caption said, the censor had determined that on stage she should be lit only by a blue light.

“Nice little filly,” the man had said on passing the magazine over. Gabriel had given a taut smile and glanced at the photographs for form’s sake. “My Grecian dance is absolutely artistic,” Gabriel read. He turned the page. There were more photographs of her posing in velvet shorts and a skimpy top that showed her midriff.

“I say, look at Cobb,” the officer called. “We’ve certainly got the newly-wed interested.”

Gabriel had blushed deeply. He had been interested. But almost simultaneously he hated himself for being so. What kind of husband was he, poring over photos of a French tart?

He looked out now at the convoy. He had been on the ship for twenty-six days, and it was beginning to affect him. The crushing, annihilating boredom. The constant noise from the bickering coolies. The braying mules and the bleating sheep. His fifth-rate resentful men. His uncouth, unfamiliar fellow-officers. Thank God, he thought, for the two men he shared his cabin with. He never really saw the doctor, who was the busiest man on board, constantly tending the coolies and other ranks who were coming down with all manner of ailments — but mainly dysentery and malaria — at the rate of seventy a day. But at least Bilderbeck was a decent sort, if a little strange.

Bilderbeck spent a lot of time drawing up information sheets and maps of German East Africa, compiling official intelligence notes on the climate, population and terrain based on journals and records he’d kept while serving in British East some seven or eight years previously. He was a lean, ascetic-looking man in his mid-thirties with a slightly weak chin. He spoke very quickly with a low voice, delivering his words in short bursts, as if from a Maxim gun. He would sometimes laugh or smile at stages in conversation which didn’t seem to warrant any such response at all, as if he saw jokes and ironies invisible to others all the time. Talking to him was extremely disconcerting, as his wry smiles and cynical looks seemed to imply that these observations were shared. Rather than seek for an explanation Gabriel had decided that the best thing to do was simply to copy Bilderbeck’s expression as it changed: smile when he smiled, roll eyes and sneer when he sneered. The other officers were not so accommodating and clearly thought Bilderbeck a little mad. Consequently, as time moved on, he and Gabriel spent more time in each other’s company.

They talked about the war. Bilderbeck asked Gabriel if he’d ever been in action. Gabriel admitted he hadn’t. Bilderbeck said he’d personally killed upward of thirty people during his service in Africa. “But they were all natives,” he added, as if this somehow wasn’t so remarkable.

Gabriel looked curiously at him. “What…? I mean, what was it like?”

“Just shot ‘em,” Bilderbeck said. “I shot three of my own men once. Native soldiers. A fine lot of men in fact, but these ones had killed a woman and outraged a girl. I shot them there and then. I had to set an example, you see. To the others.” He smiled broadly. Gabriel smiled automatically in return.

“Actually I did kill a Russian once,” Bilderbeck mused. “In Constantinople.” Bilderbeck paused. “What do you think of this lot?” Bilderbeck jerked his thumb in the direction of the officers’ quarters.

“I haven’t really got to know them,” Gabriel said.

“Sportsmen,” Bilderbeck sneered. “If they’re not senile all they think about is ponies and women.” He darted a look at Gabriel, smiling weirdly again.

“I shall find my girl,” he said suddenly. “I know I will.”

“Your girl?” Gabriel repeated, mystified at this turn the conversation had taken.

“One day I shall find her.”

Gabriel wondered what he was talking about. “Yes,” he said safely. “I expect you shall.”

“You’re married aren’t you?” Bilderbeck said. “Love your wife?”

“What…? Yes, I do, yes.”

“My God,” Bilderbeck said, shaking his head in wonder. “Is she your girl, then?”

Gabriel thought it best to agree. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Hah!” Bilderbeck gave a cynical laugh. “Sportsmen! Treat the army like a social club.”

♦

Indian Expeditionary Force ‘B’ sailed on steadily towards Africa. Sheer desperation eventually forced the troops on the Homayun to search for some form of distraction. When they crossed the equator they had a crossing-of-the-line ceremony. The Captain of the ship was Neptune. All the officers under thirty were initiated. Gabriel was copiously lathered, shaved with a three foot long wooden razor and was then thrown into the sailbath.

This effort seemed to stimulate the others and one night shortly after they had a concert — a piano and two mouth organs. A downpour drenched them half-way through but the men played on and the audience remained heedless of the rain.

As they sailed south the weather grew hotter and hotter. The doctor spent his day moving among the crew with pitchers of lime cordial. Every three days they had to drink a glass of quinine dissolved in water.

Lt Col. Coutts fell down a flight of steps, was concussed and broke one of his ribs. The news drew a loud snort of disgust from Bilderbeck. Gabriel felt quite sorry for Coutts who was a kindly and lazy old chap in his late fifties. Gamely enough, he was up and about after a couple of days but was clearly in some pain and discomfort. However they were nearing their destination and a slight air of tension was beginning to percolate through the ship so expressions of sympathy were few and far between. Bilderbeck made a trip over to the Kamala , a P&O liner, to pass on his maps, notes and opinions to General Aitken, the commander-in-chief.

The final distraction of the voyage was less happy. One of the sailors on the Homayun had, it so appeared, been found guilty of plotting mutiny. For this crime he was sentenced to six months imprisonment and twelve lashes from the cat o’ nine tails. All the officers on the Homayun were invited along as witnesses. Gabriel went with some misgivings and stood uneasily beside Bilderbeck. The whipping was to be administered by the boatswain of the Goliath , a large man with a bulging ruddy face. In his hands the cat o’ nine tails looked very small and curiously inoffensive. The culprit was brought out, bare-chested, and tied to a wooden triangle, hastily constructed by the ship’s carpenters, his hands at the peak and his feet spread to the other two points. The sentence was read out and the boatswain whipped the man very quickly. The prisoner’s back turned bright pink before their eyes and the skin broke by the seventh or eighth lash. At the end the boatswain was panting heavily from his exertions. Gabriel felt more shocked than sickened.

“This is 1914, not the Crimea,” he protested to Bilderbeck as they walked back to the officers’ quarters. “It’s barbaric.”

“No,” Bilderbeck said firmly. “Mutiny in time of war.” He flashed a quick smile. “I’d have had him shot.”

♦

On the thirtieth of October the convoy halted about a hundred miles off Mombasa. Gabriel felt a pressure steadily build up in his lungs, a sense of nervous anticipation that he couldn’t shake off and that left him feeling permanently slightly breathless. He paced about the decks all day experimenting with impromptu breathing exercises: holding his breath, breathing shallowly, inhaling deeply and letting the air out of his lungs as slowly as possible. But none of this worked.