Joyce's War (13 page)

Well, Mona and I have mixed feelings about this change. Mona hasn’t actually seen John for ten months and she had reason to believe that he was somewhere within reach if we had continued our usual course. She was itching to get to Suez and then of course all this. I don’t know what I want at all until I know where Ken is. There is just the merest chance of course, even if there is a lot of wishful thinking about it, that being in the Indian army, he may be sent out to the Far East also. The Sudan is finished and it is just possible that they will send out some seasoned campaigners to this new front, where trouble seems undoubtedly to be brewing. I hope so much that we won’t be sitting off Bombay, Madras or Colombo for months on end just waiting for patients. We have done so much of this – it’s just on three months and not one patient so far – it is so absurd. Well anyway it’s not our choice and we can’t help it, although it is poor consolation for the lack of something definite and useful to do.

So now we are ploughing through the Indian Ocean once again – Bombay bound. We have caught the monsoon again this time and last night and today have been every bit as bad as the first trip out. I’m writing this on deck, starboard, my feet on the rails, a woolly frock on because it is inclined to be cold and a scarf tied refugee fashion, according to Mona, around my head. The wireless is pouring forth weird strains supposed to be bagpipes I think (terrible), whilst the ship rolls up and down like a drunkard after a particularly successful ‘beat up’. Now I know what is meant by the mountains and valleys of the sea. Except that it is a bit awkward trying to walk about and that it’s next to impossible trying to eat gracefully at the table. One is awakened many times in the night with the sounds of shattering glass and tumbling furniture, and most often one tries to sleep on one’s head or, alternatively, on one’s feet instead of in the usual horizontal manner. It’s not so bad really, at best it’s cool and there is a fresh wind blowing. It was the heat that laid me low the first trip when I couldn’t even think of the dining room then, but I eat my omelette o’mornings these days, monsoon or no monsoon. This omelette tradition does not go back very far, it is true – only to the last fortnight or so in Bombay. I never remember eating a cooked breakfast heretofore but it occurred to me that I ought to eat an egg a day – as I rarely touch meat – and that the only time one had an opportunity was at breakfast. Thus it began and somehow an omelette doesn’t look quite as wicked as a fried or poached egg, first thing in the morning. I can’t guarantee that this is to be an abiding institution and I don’t know that I feel any more energetic for all my extra protein absorbed thereby.

I have been reading quite a lot. Lady Fortescue’s
There’s Rosemary – There’s Rue
was very delightful and most interesting and
The Humming Bird
by Eleanor Farjeon a most enchanting delicate fantasy. Lady Eleanor Smith’s
Lover’s Meeting
gives an exciting uncanny feeling that perhaps there is something in witchcraft after all. Refreshing in these days. Now I am reading
Take Courage
,
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a chronicle of the Civil War in England which ends rather beautifully. Peninnah remembers:

And this I say: Take courage. I have known trials so bitter that my whole course seems darkened. But I have known joys too: putting one with another I have found life too good to miss; I am glad to have been born. Again, I have lived in times so troubled that I can’t think this nation has ever seen the like, or will ever see the like again. But the land has not perished; the sun shines, the rain falls, the sheep still feed on the Pennine hills; women still conceive and bring forth and give their children suck; and while man lives, the hope of righteousness will not die. The strife is sore while it lasts; yes it is very sharp and bitter and wearying to the spirit, for it seems as if it will never come to an end; but if we keep a good heart and cease not to care for justice and truth someday the storm will pass and the nations rejoice in the sweet air of peace.

That was over 300 years ago and we seem further away than ever from the ‘sweet air of peace’. Does it matter so little to man then – the grief, the bitterness and the loneliness of the ‘years that take the best away’, that he strives so little and so half- heartedly for peace. This is the second ‘great war’ in our short lives and this one involves us all in our generation, how much we do not yet know. My sister Mona is waiting to be called up. Glyn in his last letter tells me he is going to ask the bank to release him. His doctor is not quite satisfied with his throat at the moment but will examine him again in September. He has talked it over with Edna and apparently she agrees with his going if he feels he must. It is sad for her and little Bruce but there it is. And my Ken too. Well it doesn’t bear too much thinking about; in fact it hardly bears any thinking about at all. I shall write some letters.

August 28th 1941

Ken’s birthday!

On the move again – this is the third day. We left on Tuesday at 4pm, sealed orders coming aboard the previous afternoon. It isn’t Madras and the Far East – yet anyway. Things have begun to flare up in Iran. She was rather too kindly disposed towards Hitler’s minions, so our government after at first being polite, then firm, took things into their own hands and walked in. Russia obligingly walked in from the north. They are meeting with some resistance and have even encountered German and Italian soldiers, although it seems rather vague, just at the moment.
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So we are bound for the Persian Gulf, for a change, Basrah, as far as we know.

The monsoon hasn’t entirely spent itself and the new IMS sister is still prostrate and some of the others look rather green, but I’ve been grand and mean to keep so. I think I can say with some truth that I’m a fairly good sailor now. Soon we are told the seas will grow calm and the heat will begin. It is the height of the summer in Iran and Iraq just now so it promises to be jolly. As long as we have nothing to do we may just survive. It’s beautifully cool now, a fresh breeze blowing. I am writing this on deck, starboard, the sea pleasantly ruffled with white horses and bottle green between. Some sailors in their navy suits and colourful scarlet sashes and caps are doing something with ropes for’ard. Major Ramchandani, Mr McDonald and Mr Singh (the Sikh with glasses, such a nice fellow) and Mona are playing darts with as much interest and concentration as I hope our statesmen may manage in winning this war. Mary is knitting assiduously, behind me, a jumper in pink wool.

I think we are always glad to be on the move, although on the homeward trip we can never move quickly enough because of the letters that may await us. I did very well last time. Twelve came abroad from the Ballarat estate from various people including the padre, Tad and the colonel. The padre is still in Tobruk and dismal food and inferior water are, he says, taking their toll, although he is fairly fit himself. I am quite sure he is a great help to his men and he does love them with all their frailties. Tad is still, as he says, ‘in the process of becoming a gentleman!’ How he does love the irony of all this snobbishness. The colonel seems well, if a trifle bored. He is in charge of the occasional clearance of wounded from a ‘certain important centre’ – Tobruk, no doubt – and in-between-time they live a modified caveman existence.

We were sent ashore next morning and to the Taj for two nights because of some readjustments to the ship. It is so much pleasanter there than the Majestic but I believe I have got a soft spot for it, even so. Well, I ought to because it was more than kind to me although it’s probably unaware of that! Of course we would strike a Bank Holiday that first day, which meant no money or letters. We all had about two rupees each but somehow or other we managed to get to see
Gone with the Wind
that first night. The colouring I thought was superb but I don’t like Clark Gable, although I suppose his acting was good. I thoroughly approve of Vivienne Leigh but I thought the whole film was rather long and certainly too intense in these war-riddled days, anyway. And normally, tragedy appeals to me so much more, so I suppose I am too near the real thing nowadays. Next morning, up betimes and straight away to Lloyds for letters of course. I kept saying to myself, ‘There probably won’t be any from Ken,’ so I wouldn’t be too disappointed if there were not. But to my intense delight there were five letters and two long ones from Mother. Great excitement. I read and re-read Ken’s all afternoon and wrote to him care of the Kemprenal Camp in Cairo, his temporary address. He was so sad about our ship being so near in Aden and that he could attract no one’s attention. Alas, so was I.

I’ve had two letters since, one just before we left Bombay this time and one the previous day. The last one gives me his permanent address, 5th Indian Troop Transport Corps MEF. And it sounds as if he may be at Amerya near Alexandria for he asks me if I want him to get in touch with any of my friends. He also mentions that he will be contacting John in the next few days as he has had none of my letters, which is rather disappointing. I particularly want him to get the first one I wrote or else it will be difficult for him to pick up the threads, as it were. Perhaps it may arrive eventually. I have sent him a small present for his birthday – nothing much – it is difficult to think of things which are useful and not too bulky to carry around. Moreover, on my not very magnificent salary I can’t afford to buy the things I would really like to give him. But he won’t mind that. I managed to get a cable away to him for his birthday, the morning we left. Bruce took it ashore with him – he has now left and has been transferred to the
Sudara
and may be going to Australia so I do hope he gets it today. It may cheer him up a little, particularly if my letters haven’t yet arrived. And I would like him to know that I am thinking of him today. He little thinks or knows that I am heading for the Persian Gulf at this very moment.

I’ve had letters from Mother, Father, Glyn and Edna, full of good wishes on my engagement. I must have told them all that was required for Mother seemed quite stumped for questions, which is rare enough. No doubt she’ll think up some for next time. They all seem genuinely delighted and thrilled and I felt pleased that they felt so happy about the whole affair. Roll on the day when Ken and I will arrive home
après la guerre
. What a day that will be!

September 6th 1941

Basrah in mid-stream – Shatt-al-Arab

We arrived at the mouth of the river at dawn on September 1st. Gradually as we went slowly up stream, the scenery became more interesting, the river banks lined, as far as the eye can see with date palms. Odd picturesque craft appeared – balhams with lovely lines, like Flecker’s ‘olden ships’
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and white butterfly sails flitting among the palms along the canals that opened up every hundred yards or so along the river’s bank. Collections of mud flat-roofed huts, two somewhat dilapidated grandiose harems belonging to some late Shah, an odd incongruous-looking modern bungalow, then suddenly tall black chimneys against the sky and we were passing Abadan, a large oil refining town with great oil tanks and a highly industrial air. We actually arrived in Ashar about 1pm and the anchor went down. We are in mid-stream and no distance from shore. It is a fine clean broad stream and one of the pleasantest places possible to be anchored.

Basrah itself is about two miles or so inland. As towns go, Ashar is quite unremarkable – one or two possible buildings: the best, the Port of Authority Office, which has a dome and pillars and is, I suppose, ‘easternly modern’. In Basrah itself there is a mosque with rather a good mosaic dome and muezzin tower – quite modern, I should imagine. The town itself is dreary; a narrow canal runs the whole length of it and the buildings on the one side, sheer with the canal bank, and the graceful curved balhams gliding up and down the canal give the place a faintly Venetian air, at night anyway, with the moonlight lending a certain beauty to what in the glaring light of day must, I fear, look dusty, mean and drear.

The first night we were there Mary went ashore with a naval lieutenant who had come aboard from the naval authorities and who, I imagine, wanted some company for the evening. She came back with an invitation for Mona, me and herself to go for lunch next day with the captain of the
Islami
, a British ship we had seen in Bombay. It was frightfully hot going out at midday and we didn’t exactly relish the thought of it. The naval launch called for us and we started on the long delightful trip up stream to Magil, about four miles away. We met the captain, a nice man by the name of Kerr, Major Cash, Indian Army (how glad I am that Ken does not resemble this type), Danny, the little lieutenant who had taken Mary out the first night, a Lieutenant Commander Hardwicke, who is in charge of the docks here and not long out from Scotland. We had lunch on deck, quite a jolly party, including a lot of nonsense pertaining to the chicken in the curry. Then we retired to the captain’s sitting room and played darts. This occupied us until teatime and when we were about to leave, it was decided that we would all go to dinner that night. So that meant going back to the ship to have a bath and change and then another trip back to the ship. By that time the party had increased by two, a regular QA who ropes us in for such things when the occasion demands, and a certain Mr Hibbard who possessed among other talents the gift of tongues. We went out to the Dir Pal Hotel and had dinner and danced quite a lot on the improvised floor on the lawn. It was pleasant in the garden with the music in the air, the coloured lights, the swing, garden seats and full yellow moon.

Mr Hibbard called for the three of us next morning about 9 o’clock and took us in his car out to Zubair. We passed through Basrah first, along the canal skirted with the eternal date palms, gum trees and hibiscus. Most of the buildings are made of soft yellow brick; some parts of them are very old and dilapidated, but as the old buildings crumble and decay, and new ones replace them each year, so they hope to widen the street and improve things generally. All the women seem to be wearing black. On the outskirts we passed the jail, the hospital and the cemetery, all rather comfortably adjacent. Then the desert – the last dusty barren waste of desert, with miserable tufts of grass and occasional salt bushes. Of course, there was the mirage so tantalising and maddening to be lost in the desert. We passed the tall broken column which is called Sinbad Star from which Sinbad the sailor is supposed to have started out on his travels. Odd groups of horsemen passed us with their curious headgear and their panniered Arab horses.