I was craning my neck to make out further details of the town when from behind me came a massive gasp. Signorina von Bek had pulled the ripcord! With a great blossoming of silk our bag was losing its emblazoned outer skin. We fell towards the baked, rusty earth. On our left were mountains and on my right desert. But below us was a huge oasis, with rivers connecting pool to pool, small settlements, even, perhaps, I dared hope, some outpost of white imperialism! As we descended I remarked on the picturesque nature of the scenery. This far better resembled my imagination’s Arabia than the mixture of hovels, religious monuments and ugly European façades which, with the addition of a few miserable palms on dusty boulevards, the Arab so frequently calls ‘civilisation’. Here was the landscape which had inspired E. Mayne Hull and G. H. Teed, which gave us Beau Geste and The Desert Song! And, riding towards us across this romantic tundra, as we came down easily in a shelf of soft red sand, was a party of uniformed horsemen on prancing Arabs who could easily have called themselves the Red Shadow’s men. With their red and gold tunics, blue trousers, dark red cloaks and brilliantly decorated saddles and bridles, they might have been the chorus of some fashionable operetta. I began to wonder again whether nature imitated art or if I were not still somewhere in the Western Desert, dreaming this dream to avoid the truth of death. Yet I had never seen such handsome native riders.
Signorina von Bek was scrambling to her feet and cocking the mitrailleuse. She at least had not forgotten that the Red Shadow’s men were Riffians.
As I climbed up over the basket’s rim I raised my Lee-Enfield high into the air, using the universal peace sign of the Sahara. Lowering myself to the sand I knelt and placed my rifle carefully on the ground before me. Then, with my hand over my heart, I stood up.
The dark-skinned riders reined in a few yards from us, controlling their half-wild stallions with economic flicks of wrists and ankles, arguing loudly amongst themselves. Each man had a scabbarded carbine on his saddle and the scabbard bore some sort of arms stamped in gold. These were no ordinary tribesmen. In careful Arabic I told them we came in peace.
We had been abducted by Italian soldiers but with Allah’s blessing had managed to escape from the brutal Nazarin. Turning to Rosie von Bek I translated what I had said into Italian. She took my cue. ‘Those foul swine!’ She gestured melodramatically. ‘They took away my clothes!’ She picked up a jerd and wrapped her pyjama’d body in it. A chiffon scarf improved her modesty. Her sun-darkened skin would not attract their attention, now that her face was veiled.
The dandified riders made no response but continued to grin and talk amongst themselves, frequently pointing at us and either laughing heartily at some speculative joke or making a fierce declaration, probably concerning our origin. If I knew the desert, I guessed that at least half the party was arguing passionately for our supernatural nativity.
‘Brothers,’ I began. ‘By the grace of Allah we have fallen among co-religionists! We are safe at last, my wife!’ And I sent a rather theatrical prayer to Heaven.
But I was ignored. They looked back in the direction from which they had ridden. Another group of horsemen approached, sending pale pink dust into the chalky blue evening. They came over an horizon on which stood a single palm, a ruined kasbah, hooded riders controlling their steeds with that absolute unconscious authority characterising the true desert aristocrat. These were no passing nomads! What if we had strayed into some Berber province forbidden to all strangers? I knew the punishment received by those Europeans who had attempted to invade Timbuktu or Mecca. Our fate remained uncertain. Our lives depended, I decided, on whether or not they accepted us as Bedouin. There was often little love between the two peoples, but we here could expect at least three days’ daifa before they decided to murder us. In that time, no doubt, we should be able to improve our position. With this in mind I drew myself up to display all my Arab dignity.
As the horsemen cantered nearer I realised that some wore only a light riding ras over what appeared to be European dress. There were five of these followed by outriders in the same costume as our first group. They rode superb Arabs. The foremost, in khaki jodhpurs and jacket, wore a green turban. The big man just behind him wore a similar outfit save for the distinctive French képi; on his left rode a man whose cloak flowed back to reveal bright British scarlet; he was protected from the sun by a white solar topee. Behind them came a taller, very lean European in military khaki whose wide-brimmed hat shaded his face; the remaining heavier figure also hid his face within a hood. By the look of the party we must surely have landed in Spanish or French territory, some military or diplomatic concordance. It was in my interest to discover immediately if I was in relatively friendly territory - perhaps Spanish Morocco.
The horsemen now slowed to a trot and eventually came to a spectacular stop only a short distance from us. The leader, in the hooded cloak, was a plump, dapper individual whose antecedents clearly included most of the major African races. He had large, intelligent eyes, a poor skin and a scrawny but well-tended beard. His clothing, a mixture of Oriental and Western, was of perfect cut and evident quality. It had been fashioned, I was sure, not far from the Tour Eiffel. The European officer was equally elegant.
Behind him the two others were obscured in the horses and dust, but doubtless they were as well groomed. ‘Hola muy amigos!’ I had remembered rather too late that my only available passport identified me a Spanish citizen. ‘Habla el Español, señors.’ And prayed profoundly that they did not, after all, have any more Spanish than did I. The native turned and spoke in French to his nearest companion, who replied in cultured Parisian.
Pretending not to understand what was being said, I bared my head. Happily my hair had grown long enough to give me the general appearance of a Bedouin. For their part they were merely determining what language to use to me. Since Turkish seemed to be the Frenchman’s choice and Spanish the natives’, I decided to be audacious and try English, having always preferred to keep a language or two in reserve. ‘I hope we are not inconveniencing you gentlemen,’ I began. ‘We are somewhat off our course, I fear.’ I was about to introduce myself when the huge Frenchman threw back his hood, removed his képi and, grinning widely, wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. It was Lieutenant Fromental, my acquaintance from Casablanca.