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Chapter 4 — on leave
At Christmas we had a really good time. By now our canteen was well organised and we had obtained bags of beer and fags from the NAAFI. Every man in the billet, drinker and non-drinker, clubbed into a common fund, each an equal amount, and we bought from the canteen, beer and cigs and from the town a few large fruit cakes, sweets, nuts, oranges, cigars and a few bottles of Hadba and Irak. One corner of the billet was cleared by the expedient of squeezing all the beds a bit closer and in that corner we built a bar. Above the bar we hung a sign which we had pinched from a hotel in the town reading 'In bounds to H B M officer's only'. There was a competition for the best dressed billet on the station but although we had spent considerable time and money decorating ours we did not enter, for ours was intended as a public bar not a private room and anyone was welcome at any time. For these hectic days and nights we had hardly a quiet moment, the room was always full of visitors singing songs and swapping stories. We had officers, NCO's and men all having a good time together and when anyone passed out we just shoved him in bed to sleep it off. We were the only unfortunate ones for were as the main part of the station had these days, we being classed as "essential duties", had to carry on in our normal routine throughout so we had to be for the main part of the time sober. All good things must have an end and ours being at an end we quickly settled back to normality.

After these hectic days at Christmas I had no intentions of celebrating on Hogmanay but the lads decided otherwise saying that as I had played my part in celebrating Christmas which is their holiday, they must help the Scotsmen celebrate Neerday. So we got some more beer and then went into town to start off events. Town was only in bounds until half past nine so our visit there was only in the nature of a preliminary warmer. Arrived back in camp, a little merry, we settled down to celebrate proper and pretty soon had quite a big crowd in the billet. At that time our billet was an assembly room at times of celebration for the more bright or boozy of the crowd. After a while the place was invaded be Scots men and eventually I was hauled off to their billet to sing Scots songs for Scots blood. These lads had managed to procure from somewhere a couple of bottles of the real stuff - funny how a Scotsman smells it out at Hogmanay - and celebrations continued in growing tempo. When twelve o'clock was intimated the real old was opened and we toasted Scotland and out families and friends there, how we wished we were with them. About two in the morning I managed to get away from the party, just in time for I was then only just able to take myself back to my billet and put myself to bed. That finished celebrations for the year unless of course we decided to celebrate and hold a party on anyone's birthday. It's surprising how often birthdays come up.

I write regularly to my father, often in verse in the hope of escaping the attentions of the censors. I felt prompted to write that night, prompted by nostalgic thoughts of home, and perhaps the "spirit" of Hogmanay.

SOME BEERY THOUGHTS FROM THE DESERT
1942

What a country! What a heat!
What a place for sweaty feet.
What a land of filth and dirt,
With not a blasted sign of 'skirt'.
Not a thing to light the road
Or make a chap forget his load
Save the cup that brings good cheer,
I mean a good old glass of beer
To quench our thirst and wash us free
Of sand where sand ought not to be.

North and South; East and West,
Surely men think beer is best,
Beer from Canada and Australia,
Egyptian beer sent from Ismalia,.
Beer drunk by the American,
Beer we've had from Nova Scotia,
And even beer from dear Auld Scotia,
To make us gay and want to sing,
With laughter make the welkins ring.

Scotsmen drink till they feel frisky,
The they talk of old Scotch whisky,
Think of times they had a double
Think of times it brought them trouble.
Think of days when they'll can laugh
And order up another half
Followed by a pint of beer,
- Drinks then will not be so dear -
And tell of times o'er glasses breaming,
When whisky lived but in their dreaming.

Irishmen, when beer gets weaving,
Think of Guiness, stomach cleaving,
Think of colleens hard to woo,
Think or eating Irish stew.
Think of songs by Thomas moore
Telling of the Irish lure.
Think of the enchanting isle,
Thoughts that inward make them smile
And long for days when war is o'er
And they at home will be once more.

English, when the brain is hot,
Mild and bitter give the 'spot'.
Think of brimming pewter mugs,
Even think of 'two-pint' jugs.
Think then of the times they've had
Times to make the heart glow glads.
Times that they will live once more,
When they're back on Blighty's shore,
And gather in the local Inn
With songs to sing and yarns to spin.

What a drink to make us merry,
We be times forget the Gerry,
Banish thought of cruel strife,
Wander back to civvy strife,
Back to homes we'd ne'er have quit,
Had not war demanded it.
Each man asks that God may bless
Whom he loves above the rest,
His wife, his sweetheart, mum and dad,
Perhaps himself, the selfish lad.

Each man thinks of folks he knew,
Present comrades tried and true,
Thinks of happy days gone past,
Thinks of time that's slipping fast,
Thinks of lasses he has kissed,
(Thinks of chances he has missed)
Thinks of how he'll tell the tale,
When next he's jugging up on ale,
Of thoughts that came with blessed cheer,
While in the desert drinking beer.

REPLY from William Ritchie Browning

Dear son
Your airmail letter just received,
On reading which a sigh I heaved.
I hope you realise, dear youth,
The follies of abnormal drouth.
Just take a tip from me my lad,
And save the drinks up for your dad!

During the past few months we had been making efforts to get a concert party cracking but all our work was in vain. No sooner would we get going nicely than some of the lads would be posted and we would have to start all over again. We did however manage to form a small band, very small but quite sufficient. There was Roy Heath on the piano, Johnnie Stewart drums and violin, Kasey Judges on the guitar, Jack Lovely sax and clarinet and myself for vocals. We had a good run, playing at smokers in the sergeant's messes and at dances in the various officer's messes round about. On alternate Sunday evenings we put on an hours show in the cinema which was loudly appreciated by everyone. We did our own orchestration and arranging, taking some of the latest tunes from the radio, writing them down and arranging them so suit ourselves. It was pretty hard work and practically all our spare time was given over to rehearsals in order that we might not have to repeat ourselves in any programme. It was work that that I enjoyed for besides passing my own time in a pleasurable way, I felt that I was doing something towards brightening up a pretty dull life. Note. Johnnie's "drums" were of course the inevitable petrol tins.

In April I took a week's leave and with five other lads went to Mar Matti monastery which had been placed at the disposal of the British troops for that purpose by the bishop. We set off with our kit and rations in one of our trunks which took us as far as the little village of Merghi, which nestles at the foot of the cliff half way up which stands the monastery. Built of grey stone merging into the cliff face, the monastery for all the world like an ancient fortress which indeed it was standing as it does in the midst of a land which hates and massacres Christians. Putting our packs on little asses loaned to us by the villagers, we began the long climb up the steep winding path to the monastery. About sixteen hundred years ago the monastery had been built by Mar Matti (Saint Mathew) and his followers who had later been massacred by the neighbouring Kurds. Just outside the main building is a little crypt where he and succeeding bishops have been laid to rest. The monks continued to inhabit the building and about five hundred years ago the present inhabited part was built on the old foundations. The monks are of the Syrian Orthodox faith, catholic but anti-Rome, and they were disappointed that they had no churches in Britain although they have them in almost every other country. The actual head of the church was in Ceylon None of the monks could speak English and as we could only speak a few words of Iraqui, we had to rely on the young interpreter we had brought with us for conversation and information. This lad, of sixteen or so years, could speak quite good English as well as Iraqui Assyrian, Kurdish and a little Turkish and Arabic. A bright lad with whom I became great friends.

The monastery is as far from our conception of one as it is possible to imagine. At the time we were there, there were several families from the towns using the building as a rest centre at the same time taking advantage of the ancient church and reverend fathers to make their worship. These families all made a donation to the Bishop, whom they went to see before they left, which went directly to the upkeep of the monastery. We too made our donation before leaving. We spent our days roaming about the cliffs exploring old caves and subterranean waterways. Some of the caves had queer old legends attached to them, some pretty gory and there were two or three tunnels which we were shown which went right through the mountain emerging by a river on the other side. These were supposed to be escape tunnels for the monks when attacked by the Kurds. One of them had its entrance right in the centre of the monastery. When we were out on these explorations or looking for something to shoot we used to meet the young goat-herd taking his charge from one grazing point to another, leaping as nimbly from point to point as any of his herd and keeping them together with his queer resounding calls. This youngster would be out all day with nothing to eat but a few dates and a piece of coarse dry bread, slaking his thirst at one of the numerous streams. His name was Hassan, a lad of about fourteen years, and his main immediate ambition was to go to town (only about thirty or forty miles away and which he had never seen) with just as much money as buy himself a fancy knife. We satisfied one part of his ambition - all he needs now is to get to town. The youngsters out here in the villages are not like those in the town, they are more independent and not so ready to ask for backsheesh. We did in fact meet one lad who even refused a tip for doing us an anasked for favour and when we had tea in the village our hosts were at first quite indignant when we offered to pay for it. Even in the village though we were struck by the fact that though the inside of the house were spotless, just outside the door was a veritable dung heap. Probably this explains why it has always been considered humbling to wash a guest's feet when he entered the house.

The bishop of the monastery was a venerable white haired and bearded almost bed-ridden man whom we were taken to see once or twice not without due ceremony and warning that he was a very holy man, so holy that we might consider ourselves in divine presence. Once inside his room we seated ourselves and were immediately served with coffee and cigarettes after which act of hospitality we were at liberty to attempt conversation. Can you imagine the difficulties of our young interpreter attempting to keep conversation going for six of us in about as many languages. This conversation was almost confined to our asking after the Bishop's health and assuring him that we were enjoying ourselves and his replying that he was glad to have his British friends with him. Then we might talk a little of his church and ours after which he would compose himself after sleep and we prepared to leave. After signing the visitor's book, we asked permission to comply with the custom of kissing the old man's hand and filed out. Andrew George was always glad when these visits were over as I am sure that he was on the edge in case we did something indiscreet in the presence of the Holy Men. Afterwards he told me in confidence that he suppressed some questions that he considered quite indelicate, or else made up his own answer.

The greatest personality of them all was Rab Dasud (Father David) a tall spare man with black bearded, handsome face, sparkling eyes and teeth and a positively magnetic personality. Although he could not speak a word of English he could make us understand quite well which passage he was reading from his new testament. He was a fine shot with a rifle too, on one occasion challenging us to a shooting contest in which he did well. There were only two other old Fathers one of whom, a Turk, was, and looked it, addicted to snuff, and two young novitates. In addition there were six young boys who did most of the chores about the place and acted as incense bearers in the church. There was little Dasud, Ibrahim, Issac, Moses, Jacob and Esau, and they and I were great buddies. I used to visit them in their tower at nights and show them a few Jimmy tricks. I used to sing to them too but needless to say our singing sounds as weird to them as theirs to us, so I was confined to a few action songs which they enjoyed immensely. We had great fun and they like Father David wanted me to stay for good.

With the youngsters I had my first taste of native food, for at their request I took one meal a day from them. This was an extremely simple diet consisting mainly of chobis wa lebin. Chobis (the ch as in lock) is a coarse unlevered bread, baked like a scone, and is quite nice when hot off the griddle but quickly becoming state and unpalatable. Lebin in nothing more or less than soured milk beaten o a cream and not unlike curds in appearance but when made from goat's milk as ours was it tastes rather burnt and bitter. Needless to say it is good for the blood. The Chobis is broken into lumps and shoved into the mouth quickly followed by a spoonful of leben. All the time the dis-engaged hand is used to brush away some of the flies which swarm around in millions. I caused some laughter by giving an impersonation of Rashid Ali 'the perfect Iraqi gentlemen' supplying his leben with great noise and flourish. As an extra we had, matchorcha or baurrure. Matchorcha is simply wheat boiled and beaten and strained again and again until it becomes soft and fairly palatable. Bourrure is a slight variation of the same dish being wheat and corn boiled and beaten as before after which a few shreds of mutton are added. This is rather a delicacy so it is not often served. All very plain dishes yet the boys seemed to thrive on it.

In the evenings I used to like to watch the young goatherd bring the goats in to the courtyard below. The old - lame goat master was waiting for them with the young kids in a pen. He would pick up a kid and with scarcely a glance at it would call out the name of the appropriate nanny which would come running to receive her kid for suckling. He never once made a mistake but occasionally the nanny would refuse the kid and make for the furthest corner of the yard on hearing her name. I saw the old boy kill a kid one day and it was not a pleasant sight. He took it just outside the gate and laid it on the ground then he simply cut it's throat and while it was slowly bleeding to death he proceeded to skin it. He was just finishing and the flies were already thick on the flowing blood as the little thing gave its last gasp. Mohammedan religion demands that anything killed for eating must bleed well before actual death and it is a common sight in a town to see a youngster bring a chicken out on to the street and hack it's neck open with a knife holding it up to let the blood run freely. I did not expect to see such a thing here but I suppose that ancient custom dies hard. The old boy, with whom I was very friendly, offered to kill me a kid, but as we had no means of cooking it, I had to refuse it.
I shan't say much about the church itself. It was part of the main building and was simply a large domed hall with two or three tapestries as it only furnishings. It wasn't very clean or well looked after. On going into the church, the worshipers kissed the right door post. The first service started at the first sign of dawn and lasted for three or four hours. The service consisted of chanting and response. Everything was chanted, including prayers. So far, as we could gather the service consisted of repeating the miracles wrought by Christ, the deeds of the disciples and of great Bishop's of the church, and numerous prayers.

I shall always remember my stay at Mar Matti 3,000 feet above sea level but the things which made the firmest imprint on my mind were the tolling of the church bells which woke us, and kept us awake at dawn, the chanting that followed, and the personality of Rab Dasud who offered to build me a palace in the hills if I would stay.

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