The Argylls Meet The Forty Thieves © Tom Barker
"Life is full of twists and turns.
It follows many courses.
Take the advice of Robert Burns,
and do not scare the horses."
H Marshall
Situated on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea and not far from Haifa in Palestine was Sarafand rest camp. Bugle calls like the 'fire call', 'stand to', 'mail call', 'Orderly Officer', 'Cookhouse', 'Retreat' and 'Lights Out' were still in effect.
It was great to get up in the morning and emerge from our cottage-type tent and run starkers straight into the pounding surf of the Med.
Dropping the towel on the sand dunes, we would frolic in the foaming surf like big kids.
The only draw back to this rest camp was, we still had to read standing orders every morning.
Immediately we had finished our morning ablutions we raced to look at the company orders board.
Sometimes if one was unlucky enough to have been picked for a guard duty it was for the good of all.
Even holiday camps could come under attack from Syrian bandits or indeed the P.L.O.
However, since the camp was situated next to the Mediterranean Sea the sentries behind stone parapets could view the whole length of the beach and since there was one at the entrance gate and one at the exit gate on the track that run parallel to the beach, the whole beach was scanned.
From the track to the water's edge it was just silver sand, but from the track to the back of the camp the sand was studded with tufts of dried moss and grass, with a few little stones scattered about.
It was on one of these pleasant days. I was clad only with a beach towel tucked in round my waist, as were about twenty others, and we were kicking a football on the beach.
Some towels discarded by swimmers, were heaped opposite one of the sentries stone parapets to serve as a goal and at the other end the other parapet was also embellished with towels for the same purpose.
The ball suddenly flew high in the air and assisted by the strong breeze coming in from the sea, it landed near one of the goals.
The armed sentry, who, clad in K.D. shorts and shirt, plus tropical helmet and ankle puttees, along with hobnailed boots, had stopped his pacing up and down, on spotting the ball coming down in the sand near him.
He made a lunge at the ball just as I got there and he gave it a savage kick.
The ball soared toward the other parapet that was acting as a goal.
Unfortunately my bare foot was under his hobnail boot, and as he twisted away to get back to his parapet, his boot removed most of the skin from the top of my foot and took my big toe nail off.
I was issued with a chit to inform any inquirer that the Medical Officer had deemed me unfit for normal service, so it was not a total disaster, as I was now missing some of the guard duties.
I was getting a bit dis-chuffed with only my passport to comfort and wanted to be on the go again.
The only trouble was the M.O. had told me, "Whatever you do Barker don't get it wet, clear?"
"Yes, I mean no, sir."
But one day one of the old Indian wallas said, "How about a dip Tommo? It'll do your foot good."
I said, "The M.O. told me to keep it dry."
"Stuff the M.O. The salt in the sea is the finest cure for cuts and bruises!"
I took the bandage off because the toe, so full of puss and painful since the accident, seemed it was never going to dry up.
I more or less hopped to the waters edge and we both joined some others and had a swim.
The next morning when I awoke the pain in the foot had gone, so too was the puss and the toe was quite dry and there was no more swelling.
I kept up the sea treatment and about a week later I was back to duty.
The M.O. was quite chuffed with his work, but I did not clue him that the sea had done most of the curing.
'Cook house' was sounded and I with others, wandered toward the mess hall. The mess hall was a wooden building with a small adjoining brick cookhouse.
Having pulled open the fly screen door, one walked into a hot stuffy atmosphere that had a smell like dried sour bread everywhere and on observing the oil in the pot saucers in the center of each rickety table one was casually informed that the slab of butter when put on a pot plate melted and over-flowed the plate then meandered across the table.
The plates were then changed for saucers so the butter-cum-oil would sit there for days on end because no one fancied the look of it, especially when flies began to filter through the damaged fly screen on the door which, due to incessant banging, had begun to come apart at the joints.
If a cook was not busy, he wouldn't bother swatting flies, he would just sit and observe as a fly would buzz round for a while then settle on the edge of the butter dish.
After testing the pot saucer and discovering it was not edible, the fly would decide to walk on the butter only to discover it did not have the same resume as Jesus Christ and it would end up sunk up to it's wings in the butter.
There is little wonder then that the N.A.A.F.I. did a roaring trade with choc bars and Smiths Crips plus bottles of fizzy drinks.
"You coming for a drink of Assis?" I inquired of one Chap
"Assis wot?' came the reply.
"It's a drink made up of fruit juices mixed together and the Arabs call it Assis", I offered.
"Aw, I might think about it", he responded.
"Well, I'm not about to twist yer arm, seeing as 'ow I'm payin' for it!" I warbled.
Having spent the afternoon playing footy on the beach, a few of us were relaxing on the sand just outside our tent.
There was a nice cool breeze coming in from the sea and it was idyllic.
"Why coudnie ivery dae be like terdae?" sighed Danny McCormack.
"Aye, et's pleesant enough the noo, so et es." said Ginger Craig.
Geordie broke in with, "Just 'cos ya cannie swim man, divvant knock it. This is berrer than marchin' in the hills in the heat. Harraway man, tek this chance, why don' yer, an' learn ti swim."
Danny grimaced and mumbled, "Am off fer a c-p."
And as he got a few yards away Geordie shouted after him, "Watch ye divvant fa' in. 'Cos yer cannie swim mind!"
Then someone said quietly, " Ayeup, we got company."
All eyes turned to where he was looking, and coming along the beach track were about forty heavily armed Arab horsemen.
Most had on the black cloak favoured by Syrian bandits and the P.L.O.
"Keep still and don't anyone make any quick moves!" said a quiet voice.
The riders gradually got closer and I could make out the criss-crossed leather bandoliers of .303 ammo.
Some had Mauser pistols, while others were sporting swords. Most had Lee Enfield rifles over their shoulders.
"Our bloody rifles are locked up in the tent!" whispered one bloke.
"Stuff the rifles! Just keep still and watch 'em, an' get ready ter move!" growled another voice.
The column drew abreast of us and they stared at us and we stared at them. There were no welcoming smiles, just the muffled plod plod of hooves on the sand breaking the long silence.
If there had been a backfire from a fatty sausage frying in the cook house just at that moment, I think all Hell would have broken loose.
We just eyed each other, a dozen or so British soldiers lazing in the sun on the sand and about forty fully armed mounted Arab horsemen walking their horses past us as if on revue.
I could have stuck out my hand and touched the nearest horse.
Having moved past us, not one of them looked back. It was almost eerie.
We stayed put until they were out of sight, then as if someone had struck a match, everyone was demanding the key to get at their rifle from the wooden block in the middle of the tent.
It is probably just as well no one was armed, because we found out later the horsemen were part of Glubb Pashas entourage, "The Arab Legion".
Later we found out that our C.O. had sent a very strong letter to C in C. Palestine, "Regarding armed mounted Arabs loose in an area controlled by British troops." It could have been a, "Cat's after me." for both sides.
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