Immediately alongside the hospital, though officially out of bounds, was the village of Mudros East, a quaint place where there was always some fun to be had. Low stone, tile-roofed houses, with narrow dusty alleys—where congregated squalid children, mangy dogs, poultry and evil smells—clustered round a low hill surmounted by a large maternal Greek church. This latter was tawdry in the extreme, with wonderful symbolic pictures, icons, candle grease and cheap furniture. Over all, presided a dumpy, cheery little priest, who, with a beaming smile, indicated his perpetual readiness to accept small donations. Still, it had its air of sanctity, and it was pleasant to see there Greek women praying with deep fervour. Occasionally, too, Mac noted British and French soldiers upon their knees.
Near the landing-place stood a street of filthy, hastily erected, wooden shanties, where the ever-trading Greek offered garden produce, very, very doubtful eggs and more or less objectionable stuff of other descriptions. The medium of exchange was varied in the extreme, and ranged from British, French and Egyptian coins to tins of bully beef, army jam, badges and the like.
There were some fine men in the hospital and next to Mac lay Mick. He was a Light Horseman, and Mac made a cobber of him.
"Chest's me trouble—touch of t.b. the Doc says. I cough away some of these nights like a sheep with lung-worm. I feel all right myself; but ev'ry time I talks about getting a shift on like, ole Doc gets busy with his water-diviner—'breathe in breathe out'—and then he says, 'Say "Ah-h-h."' Then he thumps away wid his fingers. I reckon I'm about as chuberculer as a young gum-tree, but the ole Doc he just says 'Carry on for a while longer and then we'll see.'"
Mick looked as fit as a two-year-old. After his fine figure, the first feature Mac noticed was a large but unfinished tattoo of the Royal Arms across the aforementioned unsound chest. Tubercular or not, that chest spent most of its hours in the fresh air, along with most of the rest of Mick's body.
"How d'you come by that bit of landscape, Mick?"
"Oh!——!——!——!" murmured Mick feelingly. "Me ruddy chest's crook outside as well as in. That's a ruddy souvenir of a night in Cairo, that is. Got a bit inked I s'pose. Don't remember too much about it meself. All I knows was I wakes up in the mornin' with a head like a sandstorm, no piastres left, and me chest as sore as hell wid this pretty picture on it—me, a bloomin' Aussie born and bred with the 'b—— 'art gorn Care-o chuum' badge on me manly chest—them wee lads whose mummies didn't know they was out. I tell yer I wasn't sweet the rest er that day. Bill, me cobber, 'e comes an' tells me 'e was in Cairo wid me. I tells 'im 'e needn't tell me that. 'Anyhow, if yer was,' I says, 'wy didn't yer stop 'em brandin' me? Nice feller you are to call yerself me cobber?'
"'Oh,' he says, 'I did me best, but you wasn't havin' any. You threatens to hit me over the 'ead if I don't go stop shovin' me opinions in w'ere they wasn't wanted. 'Me skin's me skin,' you says, 'An' I'll do what I b—— well like with it!' Then I tries ter drag you off, an' we had a bloomin' scuffle outside the show, an' you pushes me down some steps. I wasn't none too good neither.'
"'Then we goes in again, an' you starts takin' off yer tunic. You tells the Gyppie to show you some styles; and between tryin' 'em on so ter speak, an' one thing and er nother, you gits all yer b—— clothes off. The Gyppies come to light with some booze—filth it was, I bet—an' we both has some, an' you pays 'em about twenty piastres fer it. Then you hooks this Manchester badge and says "Quiis kitir." An' they was tryin' ter push some rude indecent ones on ter yer, an' wishin' ter save yer from the worst like I tells yer the Manchester one was beautiful. An' I says it was what ev'ry patriotic Aussie should wear. You starts skitin' about Australian loyalty and Australia will be there an' that sorter thing, an' then says "yer 'll 'ave it."
"'They gets to work an' all goes well, and when they was just 'alf finished, the bloomin' picket comes along an' pushes us out. I tries to get yer dressed but you was thinkin' you knew more about it than I did, an' you wasn't far wrong. I dunno meself how we got home. Anyhow, cobber, we both had our pockets gone gently through, for me feloose is gone as well as yours. I didn't have much, but wot I had's now somebody else's.'