Arabesque by Geoffrey Household

avoidance of,” said Prayle. “When a collision with a tramcar is inevitable, the experienced motorcyclist will see that he is in the tramcar.”
    “Going to have a quiet chat with Armande,” retorted the sergeant-major, “and calling it civil security.”
    “How is the Armande?” Furney asked.
    “Went to Jerusalem a month ago,” Prayle replied. “Took her little suitcase and got a lift from a major-general.”
    “But seriously, sir, if you could help with the motorcycles—” began the sergeant-major.
    His passion was the section transport. An N.C.O. could be smart as any regular soldier or clever as a book detective, but the sergeant-major never really approved of him until he could lie on
his back in a pool of oil and take down his gearbox.
    “I know a chap at Army Headquarters,” said Furney doubtfully.
    Wyne came to his rescue. It was useless to bother Furney for transport; he was completely unfamiliar with the channels, usual and unusual, by which motorcycles were extracted from a reluctant
staff. What Furney did possess, however, was information—and Wyne’s section were continually complaining that they were not in the picture.
    “But you don’t look after us properly, you know,” said Wyne. “We’ll make you a member of the bar, Guy, if you’ll spill the beans on the Middle
East.”
    “What? All of it?”
    “As seen by an important officer of M.I.5.”
    “And no bull,” added Sergeant Prayle.
    “I’ve had too much gin.”
    “It’s your round, so you’ll have to have another.”
    “Oh, God! Well, half of you will have commissions in a year, and none of you talk.”
    Major Furney hoisted himself on to the bar, a stout and primitive construction of planks laid across packing cases, and covered with gay green linoleum. Prayle, remaining among the bottles and
glasses, found himself, as it were, upon the platform. He felt impelled to say a few words to introduce the lecturer, opened his mouth and shut it again. If Furney were really in a mood to talk,
any interruption might wreck his spontaneity; and, in any case, what Prayle wanted to say couldn’t be said. It was the purest alcoholic sentimentalism.
    He was suddenly full of overwhelming affection for the faces which were turned towards Furney and himself. They varied greatly in age, in refinement, in experience, yet all had a common
denominator of humorous cynicism. If these journalists, schoolmasters, clerks and commercial travellers had been dressed to fit their civilian trades—Prayle’s imagination vividly
clothed them in solemn array of striped ties, umbrellas and bowler hats—he would never have noticed, he thought, any collective quality to be loved; but when faces were framed alike in the
sweat-stained collars of battle dress …
    “The Middle East,” said Furney, “may be divided into two parts. There is the Western Desert where an unpleasant war is being skilfully fought. Most of you have seen it for
yourselves, and know as much as I do. It is an unconventional war which suits British troops but frightens British generals out of their wits. Since we cannot change our troops, but can change our
generals, we shall win.
    “Then there is the Base—the huge base from Turkey to East Africa. We haven’t any troops to keep it quiet by force. Chaps like you and me have to keep it quiet watching every
move and thought of the local inhabitants, and giving warning of trouble in good time.
    “First of all there is Egypt. It is full of officers who issue orders and other ranks who type them (I need not remind you that in the British Army an officer is considered incapable of
using a typewriter). All ranks, when they think of the local inhabitants at all, think of women. This is due to (a) climate and (b) the provocative appearance and diaphanous dresses of the European
colony.
    “Gentlemen,” said Furney, slipping into the normal address of his university lectures, “do not let that bother you. Fortunately the