Open Writing

One evening when I was talking to Marie, her father came out of the house and invited me inside. It was rather bare and not too comfortable, but we sat and talked the whole evening. They seemed to like my company, and we became quite friendly.

The man who I liked best, though, was the saddler. His name was Bachir. I had never been keen on the Arabs, but I really took to Bachir and in time we became very good friends. He was forty-two, a corpulent little man with a fat round face, and lived with his wife in a tiny house in a corner of the yard at the opposite end of the stables to us.

I would go into his workroom in the evenings and we'd talk for hours. He was completely ignorant of anything that was happening outside his own little world. 'M'sieur Jackie' he called me, and questioned me constantly about England, the outside world and particularly about the war. He couldn't read and could only write his name, and even this he did tongue between his teeth and with great difficulty.

We did, however, have a language in common - French, and talking to Bachir my French improved daily. He also started to teach me Arabic, so that after a while I was able to pass the time of day with the men working on the farm, which delighted them.

One evening, talking about the war, I told him the Russians were advancing. At this he showed some alarm, so I asked him why.

'But, M'sieur Jackie, surely this is bad news?'

'Bachir,' I said patiently, 'it's good news.'

'But why?' he asked, 'Are they on our side?'

He brightened up considerably when I explained that the Russians were fighting with us, and not against.

One evening he had to go home for something, and hesitantly invited me to go with him. We walked across the yard, through the little door into the house. His wife was there, heavily veiled. He told her this was M'sieur Jackie. She didn't speak and we only stayed a few minutes. That was the only time I saw Bachir's wife in all the weeks we were at the farm, and I had the feeling that he thought perhaps he shouldn't have taken me there.

Sometimes Bachir would saddle horses and teach me how to ride. In the stables was a big fiery stallion called Bijou. He was a stud horse and we used to try to ride him — without a saddle. Once when I got on his back he suddenly made a bolt for the stable door. I slid off just in time, or I would have lost my head on the low doorway.

There were some promotions. Ron Grist got his first stripe, Ted Wanless his second, and Dave Beauchamp was made our troop sergeant. Dave didn't understand why 'these thick Arabs' couldn't get into their heads what he was talking about, so he would get hold of one, put his face very close to the Arab's and talk very slowly - in English. Somehow the man still wouldn't understand!

In a hall in Algiers they put up a boxing ring and we'd pile into trucks to go and watch the fights. We had some good boxers — Dave of course, Harold Balson, and another popular sergeant, 'Boxer' Blythe, among them. They fought against men from other regiments, and naturally we were there to cheer them on. After one particular fight I noted in my diary: 'Dave lost, but it was a magnificent fight (and a doubtful verdict). We're proud of him.'

The village of Chebli also had its own football ground and team, and matches were arranged between them and the squadron. The Chebli team were a very excitable lot. One wore a beret, and if things weren't going his way, if he missed a goal for example, he would throw his beret to the ground and jump on it.

Ted Wanless, who played for our team and was always ready for a bit of fun, would egg the Chebli players on, making them more excitable than ever - and the matches even more entertaining.

October was orange-picking time. The Arab workmen were up ladders collecting the fruit, and nobody objected when they passed some on to us. Quite a lot of them I boxed up and sent home.