D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

precious writing paper by the time he realized that who he wanted to write to was not his wife, but his son or daughter. The thought of his child had kept him from going out of his mind all during his time at Sandhurst and while he was suffering from the food poisoning. And it was only now, faced with disembarkation the next day, that he wanted to put all his thoughts on paper, thoughts he never confided to anyone, even Lillian. It was three in the morning Egyptian time when he began, and he stopped writing only when the announcement came for everyone to head up on deck. Packing the precious, unfinished missive away in his footlocker, he joined the throng on deck and watched while the ship made its way into the harbor in Alexandria.

Once off the ship, Thorley joined Brady and the two of them took one of the river barges for the trip to Cairo, eschewing the regular transport. Aside from being cooler than the back of a truck, it allowed them to soak up some of the “local color,” as Brady put it. They arrived in the city just after noon.

The streets of Cairo presented an interesting mix of both the ancient and the modern. Military transports, sleek Daimlers and Rolls-Royces competed with oxcarts and bicycles of every description; peddlers shouted from makeshift stalls hung with everything from dead chickens to pre-war Paris fashions. And the smell. The air was redolent with all manner of spices, cooking odors, and fresh dung. Flies abounded everywhere, and Thorley found it both amazing and repellent that the average Egyptian ignored them as they crawled over their flesh.

Grabbing an ancient Austin taxi with a wheezing engine, they told the driver to take them to Shepheard’s Hotel, not knowing that it lay less than a quarter mile from where they stood. The journey took over an hour, however, caused by the snarl of midday traffic, and the driver’s good-natured attempt at showing them “the sights.”

Thorley was more than grateful when they finally reached Shepheard’s. Hot and gritty from the ubiquitous dust, he wanted nothing more than to climb into a tub of tepid water, the last he would probably see once he reported to Abbassia. Alighting from the taxi, Thorley and Brady headed into the hotel.

The lobby, cool, dark, and quiet, was a delightful mixture of high Victorian elegance and Middle Eastern pragmatism. Overstuffed chairs and chaise lounges lay scattered about amongst priceless antique paintings and statues, while belt-driven ceiling fans turned lazily overhead stirring air that reeked of Turkish tobacco and oiled leather. Taking all this in, Thorley realized that the war never felt farther away, and that made him feel guilty.

Brady had already gone over to the registration desk and was talking to the dark mustachioed manager. It didn’t strike Thorley as strange until he was closer and noticed the familiar way they were conversing—as if they were old friends. When he reached the desk, Brady turned and clapped Thorley on the shoulders. “...Now, Abdul, I want the best you’ve got for me and my comrade in arms, here.”

Abdul bowed lightly from the waist. “Very good, Mr. Brady. So glad to see you again.” The little man darted off behind the key slots.

“I thought you told me you’d never been out of Dublin until you joined up.”

Brady laughed. “You must have been listening with half an ear, old sod. My father was an inveterate traveler, used to take all of us along. Cairo was a favorite port of call.”

“Yes, but Abdul, there, knew you.”

Before, Brady could answer, Abdul returned with two keys. “As I suspected, Mr. Brady, the keys to the suite had not been placed back in the slot. Enjoy your stay.”

“That’s a good lad,” he said, heading for the lifts.

Thorley followed, deciding to let the matter drop. After all, Brady had told him a lot of things about his life, most of it after they had consumed more than the usual amount of alcohol. It would be surprising if he hadn’t gotten something mixed up.

After that much-looked-forward-to bath, Thorley dressed in the lightest weight uniform he possessed and joined Brady downstairs in the bar for one of its famous gin martinis. He found his friend sitting with another officer at a dimly lit corner table, two empty drinks apiece already before them.

“Come on, boyo,” Brady said, waving him over, “you’ve got some catching up to do.”

Thorley managed a smile, then sat in the one empty seat left at the tiny circular table, thinking that if he managed to survive the war, he’d end up a raging alcoholic.

“Mikey, may I present Lieutenant Reginald Herter of the 22nd Guards.”

“Call me, Reggie,” he said, extending his hand.

Thorley took it, trying not to wince under the other man’s nutcracker grip. “Michael Thorley,” he said.

“Reggie, me boy, tell Mikey what you just told me.”

Reggie leaned forward and it was then that Thorley caught the heavy scent of gin and noticed the other man’s eyes drooping at half-mast. “Auchinleck’s got us all hopping, old boy. New offensive, probably in mid-November or thereabouts. Very hush-hush.” The man burped, his hand rising to his mouth too late to cover it. Thorley felt a wave of embarrassment for the man and annoyance at his carelessness.

“If that’s true, why are you telling us?”

Reggie waved it off as he snatched up his tumbler of gin. “Not to worry, old boy, Jerry’s too bloody busy trying to take Tobruk to worry about what’s coming up his bum.” Reggie laughed, causing his drink to spill on his tunic. “Bloody hell,” he cursed, trying to sop up the liquor with a wad of cocktail napkins. Thorley used the moment to signal Brady that it was time to go. He nodded his