Setting Jhamjarhistan Ablaze - Part the Second

 ...continued.

Just then, a commotion arose outside the pleasant surroundings of the Officer’s Mess. “What the devil?” muttered Snapcase as he rushed outside to find the source of the unwanted interruption. In a huge cloud of dust, a battered 1912 Rolls Royce, festooned with canisters of water, petrol and assorted spare tyres pulled up with a screech of tortured brakes. From the driving seat arose a tall, thin racing snake of a man. Pushing his grime-smeared goggles up onto a dusty forehead, he advanced on Snappers, hand thrust forward in greeting. “My dear old thing, how d’ye do, D’Emfore’s the name, D. M. D’Emfore, lately of Wiltshire. Just popped over from blighty in the Roller. Only took two months to drive here. Any cricket on?” Snappers, not to be outdone by this sudden unexpected arrival uttered in a welcoming tone, “Dear boy, you must be parched after that drive? Allow me to sign you into the mess as my guest. A stiffening libation or two would be in order, would it not?”. “Throat like an Arabian desert, my dear old thing” replied the intrepid traveller, “everything now oojah-cum-spiff, push on, push on”.

D'Emfore's Rolls Royce

Over the aforementioned liquid refreshment, various facts about D. M. D’Emfore came to light. Whilst D’Emfore was making use of the Mess facilities, Snapcase hurriedly consulted the Mess copy of Wisden, concealed under a pile of ancient copies of Country Life and Punch. It transpired that D. M. D'Emfore was quite a hand in his day. A tricky left-arm leg spinner and a more than handy number five, he played for the Old Flatulents against Combined Services at Lords and emerged with a creditable 3 for 45 in the second innings and a bravura knock of 37 on a sticky dog to see the Flatulents home.

Summoning the Mess waiter for more of the alcoholic elixir Snapcase engaged D’Emfore in more conversation, revealing more of his journey. Apparently, his motor trip to India originally had two objects in view. He was planning to meet up with fellow Flatulent, the Nawab of Patuadi (no mean twirler himself) for the Nawab's annual round of rather excessive social gatherings, described by a decidedly sniffy lady missionary as "orgies to shame a Roman". Asked what he thought of the lady's comments, the Nawab replied that "he’d never been an adherent of the missionary position".

The second reason for the trip was as cricket correspondent of The Times with a brief to report on the state of the game in the Raj. “You’re in luck old stick, as regards the cricket and the Nawab. I myself am on a jolly to Djelibad via Kashgar. We pass through Patuadi en route. The Emir of Jhamjarhistan, Faqir Al Djelibeybi fields his own XI, the Djeli Gentlemen, having learnt to love the game when he attended Eton College. You must come along with us, we could field quite a creditable team from our motorised column. My adjutant, Bovvers is the devil with his full toss. Have you brought your pads?” and with that, the deal was sealed. D. M. D’Emfore slightly the worse for wear after a long drive and a bottle of gin was on his way to Djelibad.

D. M. D'Emfore

Meanwhile, at Madame Kharrsi’s Home for Distressed Gentlewomen, Captain Agnew was buttering up Captain Tufnell of the Royal Engineers. Aggers was paying for the drinks and Tuffers was quaffing as much champagne as he could, whilst the going was good. “Now look here, old man”, began Aggers “we are right in the how's your father here. Snappers has been ordered to proceed to Kashgar tout de suite using whatever bally motorised transport he can lay his hands on, with me so far, Tuffers?”. “Top hole, all received and logged in the old napper, Snappers is on a beano right up the Ranygazoo using the old bangers”. “That’s it in a nutshell, Tuffers”, replied Agnew, “and the thing is, engines are tricky blighters on the best of days. We need a performing troop of your oily-rag mechanics led by your good self to see us in clover, as it were”. “Ah, I see old horse, you may be in luck there, it just so happens that I have some drivers and mechanical types on loan from the crabs, just arrived off the old banana boat and raring to go, just need some more of the old throat oil to seal the deal, as it were”, offered Tufnell. “Take them with you and everything in the garden will be oojah-cum-spiff”.

Tuffers

Well, the Engineers Captain wasn’t wrong. He did indeed have some highly qualified bods in mind. The bods in question had arrived in Peshawar, somewhat bemused after their long journey. They were all members of the Women’s Royal Air Force and had not been expecting to be posted abroad, let alone to the dangerous environs of the North West Frontier. Upon their arrival, Tuffers had telegraphed back to blighty to see what the devil was going on. It transpired that some loathsome oik in the clerk’s office had made a typing error after a night on the tiles. The WRAF types were required at RAF Peshawar, an aerodrome in the vicinity of Walthamstow. The dozy oik had typed in Peshawar as the destination and here they were in British India. Tuffers had no idea what to do with them until Aggers had turned up out of the blue, looking for oily rags. Serendipity or what, he had thought.

The WRAF contingent arrive in Peshawar

To be continued...