21st February 2100 hrs

The Major-General had us all on deck, officers and enlisted men, at 0600 hours for 3 hours of morning calisthenics to 'cleanse the body of the effects of the previous night's impurities', he explained.  He was so enthused about the potential benefits he considered we would feel, that he proceeded to tell his adjutant that this would be written down as a standing order for 'all personnel' twice daily for the rest of the voyage, and possibly beyond.  This was voiced to the muted groan from 'all personnel', especially the enlisted men.

Their reaction prompted further blustering from Basilworth as to the requirements of 'all personnel' to accede to every request, by the directors of Her Majesty's forces, for obedience and discipline...etc, etc.  Any further groaning was immediately attended to by an infusion of Sergeant-Major high-decibel commands into the earhole of any offending Corporal or Private. These actions produced a crescendo of laughter from the wharf below as groups of Egyptian dock labourers watched the comedy being played out on board ship.

This illustration was made at the ball by a local French artist whom the French Consul had employed to make a record of the night's celebration for the ball.  Seated at the far end are the British Ambassador and Mrs Charles Worthington.

Evening of the 20th, 1900 hours

Later that evening, the Corps' officers were invited by the French Consul to a ball in honour of Anglo-French relations.  All of French and British Alexandrian society were there , as well as a smattering of Egyptian government officials, judiciary and wealthier merchants.  Among the latter I noted a couple of familiar faces from my little sojourn earlier in the day.

I was introduced by Major-General Basilworth to the niece of the British Ambassador and Mrs Charles Worthington, a Miss Leonara Godaire, who was sailing on another vessel, from the Orient Line, currently docked in Alexandria.  She was on her way to Australia and her uncle and aunt were escorting her there to take up residence in the town of Katoomba, in a region west of Sydney known as the Blue Mountains.

Intrigued by her ravishing beauty, I requested a number of dances on her dance card, even though I had not been prepared to admit that I had scant knowledge of some of the dance styles.  Fortunately for me, Miss Godaire was a very popular partner for the night and, by chance, had saved for me those dances of which I was a master bar none.  Perhaps still dreaming a little of the ghawarzee from Cafe Masmoudi, I proceeded to elegantly twirl the lady around the floor to an arousingly magical Strauss waltz, as I engaged her in light conversation about my plans for camel breeding once I retired from the Royal Camel Corps.  She seemed to be exceedingly amused by my arguments for manually applied insemination of the female.

However, having noticed in her purse a small bottle labelled Ether, I enquired of her as to what might be its purpose.  She whispered in my ear that she had been prescribed its use, to help her 'moods', by her Swiss private physician.  But she said that she sometimes took too large a dose, as was now probably the case.  

In light of this, I pondered this revelation for the rest of the night, having been thrown into confusion as to the true nature of her previous converse.  The ball's gaiety faded into the night and we bid our farewells to new friends and old.  I thanked the Ambassador and his wife for the privilege of escorting their lovely niece around the ballroom floor.  I bowed to a mutedly giggling Miss Godaire, who proceeded to exclaim loudly that she would save all her dance card spots for me should I ever come to Katoomba.  I blushed as the Ambassador glared reprimandingly at me probably thinking of all the possible breaches of etiquette regarding his niece's virtue that may have occurred during the evening.  I quickly realised that his understanding of the true effects of his ward's medicinal prescription was severely limited. Aware thus, I acceded a very reserved "Perhaps!" to the lady as I backed slowly out the door.  

At left is a photograph of my good self taken by Corporal Fleming near to where the SS Indian Queen was docked whilst in Alexandria.

20th February, Alexandria, Egypt 0800 hours

Not much to report. Pleasant voyage so far with no hitches. Docked at Alexandria for some supplies and the Major-General allowed us onshore leave for half a day.  Corporal Fleming said he knew of a local coffee-house where there were local women who perform what is called 'bellydancing', and will do so for foreigners privately for a fee.

When we arrived at Cafe Masmoudi the owner, Abdul, greeted Corporal Fleming like a prodigal son returning to the fold.  We were plied with hookahs and houmous and hot lemon tea, and then came the 'dessert'.  We would be allowed to observe two fine 'ghawazee' dancers who had been brought in from the desert to perform for some local Egyptian bureaucrats.  We were told to wait in a room at the back of the cafe until summoned.  When the time came we were ushered into a small enclave at the back of a larger room that was filled with low divans and cushions laid around the walls.

A small group of musicians were seated on one side, and on the other, fortunately facing away from us, were the men whom we considered to be the Egyptian government officials who were paying for this privilege.  The seated drummer began a slow and hypnotic rhythm.  From behind a curtain hanging near one entrance to the room could be heard the jangling of tiny bells.  Then, all at once, the curtain was drawn aside and two women, one slim and relatively young, the other, older, rounder and quite voluptuous, appeared and moved slowly to the beat stepping first one way, then the other.  Their hips would shake on the deeper notes of the drum and then abruptly jerk to one side perfectly in time to the higher pitch notes.  These movements had an alluring sensuality to them that I had not ever experienced in any form of dance I had viewed or participated in before.  I was mesmerised and it was not until Corporal Fleming whispered that perhaps I should close my mouth to stop flies from entering that I fully realised this.  

Just then the oud and flute players joined in and the dance changed rhythm and began to quicken.  The two ghawazee were now turning and 'shimmying', as Fleming told me later, at a faster pace, occasionally bending backwards and using their veils as articulately as ladies of society use their fans.  Though fully clothed in brightly coloured, shimmering costume that fell to just above their feet, these women projected a strength and sensuousness that broke the bonds of the cloth and had me feeling rather weak in the knees, even though I was fully seated at the time.  The swirls of fine materials and heady scents of smoke and incense, and whatever exotic perfume the women wore that mixed with their inherent tribal odours, took their toll on my senses and sent me into a dream-like state.  I was at the point of feeling impelled to get up and join them in their wild dance as the music became faster and their spinning more pronounced, when the music suddenly ceased and the dance ended.  Corporal Fleming had noticed the effect the dancing had on me and was paused in motion, reaching out to stop my rising to my feet.  He suggested that we should retire to the outer cafe for a breath of fresh air and a hot lemon tea.  At first I demurred, wanting to see more of this exotic world I was experiencing, but then rationality hit me and I followed him back into the cafe.

My only desire had become that of dallying long hours, seduced by the ghawazees' 'beledi' skills, and I felt heartily inclined to desert the Corps there and then and to live with these love-priestesses for eternity.  But the sound of camels complaining to all in sundry as they were dragged by their trader owners through the streets outside, woke me from my daydream.  They rudely reminded me of my 'marriage' to Her Majesty as an honourable defender of the British Empire.

So we bid adieu to Abdul and leaving a token for our 'viewers' privilege, part of which I hoped would go to the dancers.  As we left the cafe, I felt myself descending from paradise back into the purgatory that was the stifling Alexandrian back streets we wended along, on our way back to the ship.  

On the way, Corporal Fleming stopped at a local market to buy some cheap trinkets and jewellery which he claimed would come in handy for 'future bartering'.  But all I could think of was the dazzling 'jewels' I had just seen in the back room of Cafe Masmoudi.

17th February, passing the Bay of Biscay

After breakfast I took a stroll around deck and looked over our vessel.  She was a four-decked, twin-funnelled steamship called the 'Indian Queen' that had been purchased by Her Majesty's Government from the Cunard Line and refurbished as a troop ship.  She had previously worked as a merchant/passenger ship on the Orient route around the coast of Africa to India.  Now she made the same journeys but with a very different class of goods and passenger.

Our directive was to be: first stop, Gibraltar, then on to Alexandria, and then through the recently opened Suez Canal and into the Arabian Gulf.  Our final destination was to be Aden, where we would embark and carry on by road to a town called Yeshbum, about 5,ooo feet up on a plateau of the Arabian peninsula.  Near this town was positioned Fort Yeshbum, the 7th Royal Camel Corp's main base and training facilities.  And this is where I, and my regiment, will be learning the skills of camel, and balloon, reconnaissance.

Back in Blighty, I had been told stories of highly classified, but controversial, experiments with balloon observers being sent aloft with accompanying onboard camel transport included for long-range desert reconnaissance on landing.  However, I had also had reports of several gruesome and gory balloon accidents, the details of which are not for the faint-hearted, so I will not dwell on them.  Suffice it to say, there is known to be a number of unmarked desert graves in the mountains near the fort which contain the bodies of several enlisted men with unintentionally-conjoined camel parts, and vice-versa.  Consequently, I am hoping that my regiment will escape the experimental side of our service duties whilst we are there.  I must admit that, although I am looking forward to learning both forms of reconnaissance, I don't wish to end my days splattered across sand dunes, nor do I wish it upon my men. 

A half hour's walk later

On arrival at the docks, I found a few of my fellow officers waiting near the enlisted men's gangway.  Our regimental commander, Major-General Basilworth, was with them and indicated to me a group of corporals standing nearby.  He called out a Corporal Fleming from this group as he was to be my batman.

Fleming marched briskly over and saluted our commander, and then turned and saluted me wearing a wry grin.  I immediately sensed our relationship was not going to be a standard, hierarchical one.  Brusquely, I ordered him to take my bags and kit straight to my allotted cabin which prompted a somewhat deflated "Sah!" from Fleming.  Round one to me, I thought.

As I turned away from the struggling figure of my batman, Major-General Basilworth also dismissed me with the statement that I should follow my batman immediately, as all personnel were to be on deck within the half-hour for a farewell salute as we departed.  Military tradition, so I thought, but I was to discover that the real reason was that Mrs Basilworth had arranged for The Times' society pages journalist and a seeming multitude of photographers to be on hand for her 'fond farewell to her husband and the troops'.

Heading up the officer's gangway, I was hoping that I had been allocated a cabin close to the water closets, as I still had a fear of contracting a case of voracious mal-de-mer once we left harbour.  The ship's purser directed me to my berth.  When I entered, I found Corporal Fleming already ensconced and holding a silver teapot containing a steaming brew of Mr Twining's best Indian leaf.

"Tea, sah?  Milk and sugar??"  I indicated black tea, at which the corporal produced a small decanter of whisky.  "Perhaps something to warm the cockles, then, sah???!!"  I think it was at this point that I began to warm to this chap and to believe that we may be able to have less fraught lines of communication between us than I had expected.

I grinned and acceded to his wordless query as to a small toddy for himself.  He also proceeded to explain that he had obtained just the sort of berth I had hoped for, as he had put in a request, prior to boarding, for a cabin close to the water closets due to potential seasickness on his own part.  As an officer's batman must be allocated a berth adjacent to that of his officer, it thus fell that mine would be the next cabin but one from the aforesaid water closets.

We consumed several cups of 'tea' in celebration, though all the while Fleming was fulfilling his duties as a batman by laying out my dress gloves, peaked cap and sword.  At 1300 hours precisely, we were on the bridge deck where the Major-General and the other officers and assorted batmen and Sergeant-Majors had gathered at the railings for the salute.  On the main deck below, facing the wharf, could be seen a continuous line of enlisted men and other non-commissioned officers in their dress uniform standing to attention.  The ship's massive horns were blasting away, and family and friends of the regiment's personnel were gathered, cheering and waving to us as we stood to attention and saluted as one.

Onshore, up on a separate higher dais, could be seen the forthright figure of Mrs Basilworth waving a small Union Jack limply but 'regally' to her beloved and his troops.  The photographers, who had been positioned at several judicious angles to their subject, were seen to being taking profuse amounts of photographs.  However, as Fate would have it, this was the very moment that a very strong gust of wind blew down the 'valley' created between the departing ship and the wharf buildings.

Predictably, hats, photographer's black cloths, and other light, loose items were blown willy-nilly.  This included Mrs Basilworth's light cotton formal dress which blew up from around her legs, exposing her leggings and pantaloons to all personnel on board.  With lightning speed to appease a now spluttering and beetroot-coloured Major-General, not to mention the state of Mrs Basilworth, we heard Sergeant-Major Merton barking an "Eyes right" at about 20 decibels to all enlisted men.  Recovering himself, our regimental commander promptly ordered all personnel off the decks with no further shoreward vision.

Thence we retired to our respective berths until we had breached the harbour entrance.  At 6 bells we gathered in the officers' dining room for dinner, but we were directed that any talk during our meal would only be on strictly military matters.  A very disgruntled-looking Major-General joined us but spoke chiefly only when food was served.  After dinner, I chose to retire early as I still feared the dreaded mal-de-mer and wanted to get as much rest as possible.  As it was, I found that, though there was some mild rolling of the ship once we had left the Channel and entered the Atlantic proper, I felt no queasiness at all.

The same could not be said of Lieutenants Farnsby-Smythe and Waterson who seemed to be taking it in turns running between the water closets and the railings.  As this toing and froing occurred close to my cabin during the night, I was awoken several times.  I banged on the wall and asked Corporal Fleming if he had any earmuffs or other appropriate means of stifling their retching.  This he did, and so I gained a sound sleep for the rest of the night.

This is a fine print of an illustration given to me by Mr Gwarne, depicting Miss Millicent Gwarne cooking some of the daily meals.  It was drawn by an artist who often frequented The Boiled Frog Inn.

16th February, midday

I had awoken relieved that the 'snortleywiggans' that had been chasing me naked through the streets of Southampton, and who all looked like Mrs Gwarne, were no longer a worry.  I ventured that I should steer clear of Mr Gwarne's ale, and of Mrs Gwarne herself, as much as possible before the morrow.

My thoughts returned to the fact that, never having been on a sea voyage before, I don't know if I'll be seasick or not.  Consequently, I requested an extra generous serving for breakfast, as I considered that it may well be the last good meal I could have, should it be an exceptionally rough trip.  To her credit, Mrs Gwarne obliged me threefold!  

I was served 2 poached eggs and FOUR sizeable rashes of bacon, potatoes, a slice of shepherd's pie, FOUR apples (2 of which I put in my satchel for later) and copious rounds of ale to wash it all down with.  I must say that I felt as though I had eaten enough provisions for at least 3 weeks after that feast.

I rose to pay the bill for my stay, and felt somewhat at sea already.  I turned to thank Miss Millicent first for her graciousness the night before and to farewell her, but instead I found Mrs Gwarne standing so close to me that I could smell her last 3 meals wafting from her open mouth as she leaned toward me, leering and winking.  

"We naht seed ee fur a braave spur then, lahd?!!  But e'en tho' our daighter's a skinamalink, she be waitin' fur ye when ee return.  Ahl try t'feed 'er up on turmots'n'taters an' all, so she be plump an' pluffy on yer homin'."

I reeled back, catching a glimpse of a flushed Miss Millicent running out of the dining room, and bent to pick up my satchel.  As I picked up my kit, I was brought upright by a slap on my posterior and was about  to address the perpetrator.  But I was left mouth agape by Mrs Gwarne chortling: "Ah, you'm a proper 'aythen, me lad.  Turnin' thay bottocks tae me!  But I can tell that ye be cold hands, warm 'arrt.  You'll make a good husband weth she." 

"Would there'n be a little token t'give 'ern whilst yer in those far-off lands?  A gold piece she can keep near'n 'er bosom p'haps?"

Awash with ale and staggered by her presumptiousness, I proffered her a gold sovereign before I knew what I was doing.  I smiled weakly saying, "Er, yes...certainly,...for Miss Millicent's bosom."  At the sound of my voice speaking these words, I blushed profusely, spun on my heels and trotted quickly toward the inn door.  As I strode off down the street, I glanced back to see Mrs Gwarne waving madly and shouting, "Fare thee well, my son-to-be!" and an abashed Miss Millicent raising a limp hand from her bedroom window.  The  latter gesture made me falter in my step and the former to hasten my stride.