They got across the main square safely, only to find that army pickets were racing down to the harbour area along the main streets. They ducked aside into a narrow warren of unlit streets, running and halting in doorways to catch their breath. Running thus, it was some time before they noticed that Isaac was no longer with them. Yet there was nothing to do but press on, for behind them the patrols had multiplied and everywhere lights and sounds had begun to flower against the tapestry of flame in the western end of the harbour. One of the blonde boys said: “I’ll go back and see what has happened to him. You carry on.”
But it was not merely the pain of the traversing bullets which had halted Isaac in his clumsy run across the square; he felt little pain. Only an enormous sense of weariness came over him, of lassitude. He stood in a doorway shivering, his teeth chattering, to recover his breath. Everything had become vague and incoherent: it felt as if he had been drinking. Almost absently he opened the tunic of his battledress and saw the dark stains on his white sweat-shirt. Something had gone wrong with his breathing. He was overcome by a desire to sleep. He groped for his pipe. It was still alight. He puffed at it once or twice in drunken fashion. Then, still walking like a drunkard, he turned away to the quiet corner of the harbour where “Zion” lay on the slip. Here there was no sign of life at all. All the movement and noise was at the other end of the harbour. He walked softly, imprecisely, but with a sense of purpose. Yes, there she was in the darkness, alone and unguarded. With an effort, he hoisted himself aboard and into the familiar wheelhouse. Here he sat for a moment, getting his breath. Then he reached for his old dirty naval cap. Carefully and patiently he stripped his battledress top and absurd forage cap. In them he carefully wrapped his faked papers, together with a large and heavy spanner. This he tipped overboard and watched it slowly settle and disappear into the murky harbour water. Then he sat down with his head on the wheel of the “Zion”, puffing a pipe and listening to his own heartbeats which now seemed to be coming from a long way off; a very long way indeed.
Once in the dark hut they lit the lamp and divested themselves of their carnival clothes. The silence was oppressive. They felt an enormous sense of fatigue. There was a loaf of bread and some gin left in the bottle. They divided these in silence and ate like wolves. Isaac’s Bible lay on the table. Presently there was a sound of movement outside, and the weary face of the young soldier came into their angle of vision.
“I couldn’t find him,” he said. “There was a trail of blood back toward the harbour.”
It was a day later that they heard of Isaac Jordan’s death. Ironically enough, he had not been connected with the act of sabotage on the “Minerva”. It was deemed an accident by the military authorities, and in default of any other explanation the Navy, always jealous of their own, decreed that he should have a naval funeral.
19. Across the Border
When Donner’s papers finally came home to roost, together with the signal and Movement Order which made him shake the dust of Palestine off his feet, he was vastly relieved; nor did he disguise the fact from his superiors. “It’s a bloody relief, I can tell you,” he said, mopping his brow and staring out unseeingly at the apricot-coloured walls of Jerusalem, shining softly in the afternoon sunlight. “A really bloody relief.” The Superintendent nodded. “The place has changed for the worse,” he said. “We were better off in the old days.” Donner smiled gloatingly. “The old days are gone,” he said prophetically. “This week I’ve been stoned in Beersheba, shot at in Nazareth, and found a microphone in a vase. I tell you, it’s getting hot.” He rubbed his chin and thought too of the casualty list which was steadily mounting. “Well,” he said, “a policeman’s lot is not a happy one, and I’m glad to go for a soldier.”
In fact the old tune stayed in his head and he found himself humming it on the way to the airport, resplendent in his new kit which had been lying ready for this great moment for weeks, wrapped in tissue paper on the chair by his bed. He kept a look-out for senior officers in order to have a chance of trying his “regular” salute on them; he carried this new, this military salute, like a violinist carries his cherished instrument, carefully wrapped, so to speak, and ready at hand. His apotheosis was near. “You will report to Prince Jalal at the Palace immediately on arrival at the capital,” read the order. It sounded good, it sounded romantic. Yet he had seen too much of the Middle East to feel romantic about it. He supposed that Jalal was just another “bloody wog”, some Arab princeling, ruler of a tin-pot state. But his spirits soared with the plane, and the whole journey seemed to pass in a sort of dream. The battered capital was exactly as he had last seen it some years ago on leave; its dusty palms and faded towers drowsed in the exhausted tepid air. A city of dust and disillusion.
But he was a trifle put out to find that Prince Jalal, after letting him cool his heels in an anteroom for an hour, received him without any outward and visible sign of gladness. He was not only a very good-looking man with carefully manicured hands, but he spoke beautifully fastidious English and wore a Rifle Brigade tie. Donner executed his salute and received no response beyond a nod. The Prince was in mufti — the sort of mufti which spelled Camberley. He pulled down the Regency waistcoat and regarded Donner absently. “Yes,” he said in the tone of a man classifying an insect, “you are to take the cars up tomorrow. You know the assignment. You will be attached to the Mission under Towers.”