Ramblings of an Old Soldier - Camel Sweat
copyright 2005 - murphy
Ah, to be young again! I fondly remember traveling parts of the Dark Continent after the war. Things were still in turmoil back then. Europe might have been interesting, but oh, North Africa! What adventures! Modern technology really started taking hold after the hostilities ended. Radios, telephones and motor cars were being discovered by the people. They were falling in love with anything mechanical.
Do you recall North Africa in 1946? No, I suppose not. Things had not changed much in hundreds of years. Everything was so very ‘Rudyard Kipling’ - that is to say, things were primitive and colonial. But, as I said earlier, their industrial revolution had arrived. The war had prompted change and things were very much in disarray.
The locals would do anything to get their hands on modern inventions. Some would follow you anywhere to earn the money to buy western goods. Others worked long hours in exchange for a pen, a rifle or an old, broken radio.
But despite the way they carried on, it was far worse during the war. Many innocent people died when they got in the way of the fighting. Still, bullets notwithstanding, the locals were very industrious and always there when needed. They put me in mind of a few lines from Kipling’s poem, Gunga Din.
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
Despite the Allied win, there was still much left to do before life could return to normal. I was part of a team conducting army motor patrols, whose purpose was to keep an eye out for any trouble within our assigned area. As a Canadian, I hated being stuck with the British. This was the 1940s, not the ancient past, fighting in some idiotic British expansionist enterprise! The insulting and sometimes cruel way that they treated their allies made me wonder why more colonials didn’t ‘off’ their British commanders. Mind you, the odd wayward, 'friendly' bullet caught up with a few of them during the war.
Regarding our patrols, they were precursors to peacekeeping assignments in the years to come. Canada would soon forge an enviable reputation with the UN. In the early days, we often went with two jeeps – an officer in the first, and in the second, a senior NCO. A few armed soldiers rounded out the compliment.
I was doing a motor patrol with young Lt. Briggen, a boy who managed to catch the last two weeks of the war, and was petrified of being shot. He was also scared witless of Jeeps, afraid of being taken out while riding in one, exposed to whatever lay in wait. You can imagine the relief in his eyes (and his family's as well), when they announced that hostilities were over. But they couldn't send anyone home right away because of the insurgents and resettling difficulties after the shooting stopped...
Where was I? Oh yes. Briggen. As we were driving past one of the water holes just before sunset one afternoon, I could hear music coming from a Bedouin camp nearby. I suggested that we stop for a look. These people weren't particularly offensive, but would trade, fight or kill for whomever offered the most gold. Briggen said no, that it wasn't necessary. Even though he was a commissioned officer, I insisted, saying that HQ would be angry if we did not check. They could be one of the bunches that were shooting up military convoys for food and supplies.
After a few moments, he relented and asked for suggestions on how to get closer without being in danger or taking fire. Luckily, I had my duffle bag, which contained two Bedouin outfits, complete with the proper kufiyya-cloth and 'agal-rope. I had to explain to the young lad that these were articles of clothing - specifically headgear. This would allow us to snoop about the perimeter without causing a disturbance.
As we crept closer, one of the sentries challenged us. It was a good thing that I had studied Arabic as a young boy back in Kapuskasing. After we exchanged greetings, we were invited into their tent and greeted by Ben el'Shari, the local leader. He bade us sit, and we smilingly rested on pillows in the mag'ad (the sitting place).
Nubile young ladies danced. We drank tea and generally enjoyed ourselves. Or at least, I enjoyed myself. Briggen was so nervous - fearful perhaps of being discovered - that he sat frozen on the spot until we bid our farewells. Of course, we left, but not until after I left a traditional gift to the host. I gave him a shabbaba - a traditional wind instrument - that I had kept concealed in my robes. As we walked out of the tent, I waved. Young Briggen dashed in front of me, obviously in a hurry.
Two unusual things concerning camels happened that afternoon.
Firstly, I had met a group of Bedouins that day, who remained my friends for many years. In fact, when I returned in the early 1950s to cull some wild camels, they acted as my guides. These desert wanderers would look out for a Canadian war vet with a 375 H&H, there under contract to dispose of nuisance animals.
Secondly, and more importantly perhaps, I lost my young, jeep fearing lieutenant to a camel.
I found the whole event quite droll. While the desert was witnessing a swell of modern technology, the old-fashioned ways made sure that they weren’t forgotten. We had only been out of the tent for a few seconds, walking toward the dune that concealed our jeep, when Lt Briggen was struck and killed by a runaway camel. It was fitting really. No high-tech gun or explosive did him in. A low-tech camel did.
The irony still makes me smile. Salam.
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