Open Writing

The sound of the howling wind woke me the next morning, the wind and the madly flapping and billowing tent, while the smell and taste of dust gave me my baptism to a sandstorm. It blew with undiminished fury, and the visibility from my tent was only a few yards.

I felt alone in a wilderness until, from the depths of the dust, I heard a slow, Texan drawl, "Well I'll be hawg-tied, Hank, it's jerst like a dust storm from way down in l'll ol’ Texas. Yes siree."

The Construction Gang was completely self-contained, an autonomous unit mostly under canvas, with mess rooms, kitchens, medical unit, vehicle workshops and stores. All personnel were housed in very comfortable tents, with mess boys to look after us, make our beds, do laundry and other chores. When the pipeline construction progressed beyond the halfway point between pumping stations, the whole camp was moved in its entirety to the next station down the line.

Mac MacTavish, being the Camp Boss, organised the administration, while the construction was organised by the American Construction Superintendent, the 'Super' or 'Old Stem’ Steinwinder, as he was also known. He knew what he wanted and he got it.

The Gang was made up of about 750 personnel, and Old Stem was aided by ten American Foremen. They were all Texans and looked the part in their jeans, cowboy boots, perpetual cigars in their mouths, ten-gallon Stetson hats (in which we were sure that they went to bed), and wide leather belts with ferocious-looking buckles depicting a Texas steer glaring at you as though about to charge, or a snarling coyote with fangs bared as though about to eat you for his lunch.

Dating back to Tonbridge days with Pan, Jessie and Twitch, I have always felt an affinity with the likeable 'nut cases', or 'colourful characters' (probably recognising a kindred spirit, maybe?) And so it was with the Texans. They were all rough, tough, hard-drinking, knife-wielding, tobacco-chewing (when not cigar-smoking) 'characters'. Shaking hands with them was like placing your hand in a metallic vice lined with sandpaper.

One or two of them were almost illiterate and would sign their name by holding the pen like a hammer to slowly trace the letters, yet to put a bend in a 90 foot length of steel pipe, using a side-boom tractor, was a display of the highest skill, which left me in admiration to see that the angle desired was made to the very fraction of an inch, purely by judgement of the eye.

There were also about thirty welders, who had passed the most exacting welding tests before being employed. They were mostly from the Clyde shipyards and the industrial towns of northern England, their dialects clashing together like rough diamonds, which they were themselves.

There were several specialist engineers such as Jock, a tough ex-paratrooper, who had survived the slaughter of the ill-fated Arnhem Drop in World War 2, and Busty, an ex-Eighth Army veteran, who had a mischievous smile on his lips and mischievous thoughts to go with it. He was in charge of the vehicles and workshops and, with a piece of bootlace and putty, seemed able to repair any broken down vehicle and get it moving again. One of the busiest of all was Mike, our completely imperturbable, Irish doctor.

About 700 Arabs made up the remainder of the Gang. All trades and occupations were represented — cooks, mess boys, watchmen, fitters, mechanics, welders, drivers, side-boom tractor operators and bulldozer operators. And very skilled and very competent they were. Lastly, there were about 250 labourers, recruited from the Bedouin tribes as we passed through their areas and from towns and villages as we entered their territory.

As the Personnel Officer I supervised the Arab employees, ensuring that there was a plentiful supply of labour, settling arguments, stopping fights, maintaining liaison with local Government officials, arguing with Union officers or Government labour inspectors over the correct application of comprehensive labour laws. This was made easier by the IPC producing a publication which showed each clause with the English translation on the left-hand side of the page and the Arabic script on the right. Nevertheless, it could be trying on one's patience arguing in a foreign language on legal matters, especially if the summer heat was on.

Occasionally my Personnel activities extended to European staff, ranging from arranging the release of a drunken American from the Palmyra gaol, placating angry Arabs because a Britisher swore at them, or trying to prevent the arrest of Europeans because of some small infringement in their passport regulations. Above all, it was up to me to ensure that there was always a plentiful supply of labour, that local officials were kept happy as we passed through their areas, and that the pipeline construction was not held up due to local or labour problems.

I reported to Old Stem, the Superintendent, who welcomed me by asking where the hell I had been, then greeted me with the news that all the drivers had gone on strike. He fumed,
"You'd better git them sons of bitches back to work goddam quick. We can't hold up th' pipeline, goddam it. Th' bastards! D'yer know what them bastards are a-doin? When work finishes fer th' day, all th' goddam sons-of-bitches are a-doin' is ter stop out ther' in th' desert, snooze fer an hour an’ then comin' in and claimin’ overtime. Yes, overtime fer a-doin’ nothin'. Get 'em back to work....and right now! I ain't payin' 'em."

My mind searched back to when I had heard a similar speech of welcome that melted my heart in such a way. Then I remembered — Sergeant Daly, bless him.

I went to see the drivers, who were standing in a large group listening to two speakers enjoying their moment of power and glory, condemning the IPC, the Americans, and the British. I pushed my way through the crowd, went up to the speaker and asked if he had a light for my cigarette, offering him one as I did so. He stopped talking to take it and before he could recommence, I invited him and the other speaker to come to the Personnel Office tent to have a coffee and talk it all over. They were happy to be raised to a position of such importance in the eyes of all the others, and followed me.

I stopped, turned to the drivers and told them that it was all over and to return to work immediately. I took a further chance,
"Come on, brothers, I will see that you are paid this time but remember (quoting an Arab saying), 'If your friend is honey, do not eat him all'. Be fair; no more waiting in the desert to claim overtime."

They went off to work. In the office I phoned Farouk Shaabani. He told me to put the two men on a truck and send them straight back to Homs. He knew them both — and so did the Police, who had been looking for them and arrested them directly they arrived back.

Stem agreed, reluctantly, to pay the others and finish with it. We never had any more trouble from them.