Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  Omer Erdogan left the governor’s office and hurried back to his own office to get word to his agents, who were sitting inside the café awaiting his orders. Sitting only a couple of tables away, they had overheard Salah and Lawrence discuss the route they were going to take to Damascus.

  “All of us, especially you, Masri, will be the perfect distraction,” they overheard Lawrence say. “Jemmal won’t know where to look.”

  “We just have to make sure we are not caught,” Salah added. “As soon as Charlie and Rabih come back, we’ll head north toward Tripoli and cut across the Lebanon Mountains, across the Bekaa Valley and into Damascus.”

  The two agents smiled at each other.

  Suddenly, a group of loud, boisterous young men entered the café, making their way toward the table between Salah and Lawrence and the two Turkish agents. They were noisy and demanding and by the time they’d settled down, Salah and Lawrence had disappeared.

  “Do you think they heard?” Salah asked Lawrence as they slipped out the back entrance of the café.

  “I hope so. That was the whole point.”

  “There’s a checkpoint ahead,” Charles remarked, looking down the long, dusty, mostly desert road that ran along the Mediterranean coastline.

  “Why don’t all of you go around that hill toward that monastery?” Charles suggested, pointing. “Judging from where they are, the hill’s incline will hide you. I’ll keep them busy and meet you a few miles up the road where it curves into the bay of Jounieh.”

  “If something happens, shall we meet back in Gaza?” Salah suggested.

  “Very well.” Lawrence gave the thumbs-up sign. “Gaza it is.”

  “I have a better idea,” Rabih suggested. “Why don’t I go through the checkpoint? I can always say I’m on my way home to see my parents and if they want to check it, it is true. They live outside Tripoli. And you never know, we might have to stop there anyway.”

  “Good idea,” Salah agreed.

  “See you on the other side!” Rabih waved.

  “Halt!” the soldier held up his hand.

  Rabih dismounted his horse and walked toward the soldier. As he got closer, he realized the man was wearing a German Army uniform. Another soldier came out of the checkpoint hut just when Rabih approached. He was Turkish. Rabih could hear two other men talking inside the hut, but from where he stood he couldn’t see them or make out whether they were speaking Turkish or German.

  “Identifizierung.” The German soldier held out his hand. “Die passe.”

  “Aa’fwan,” Rabih said politely, and reached into his pockets to look for his papers.

  Rabih stood respectfully as the German soldier unfolded the sheet of paper.

  “Moment,” the German said, “wait here.”

  Rabih’s heart started to beat faster.

  “So …” The Turk lit a cigarette.

  “Want one?” he offered Rabih.

  Rabih shook his head.

  “Where you going?” he asked, continuing to pace slowly around Rabih.

  “Douma.”

  “You’re still a way off.”

  “I know.”

  What is taking so long? Rabih thought. He looked around, wondering where he could go if he had to make a run for it. But there weren’t many choices … a lonely cluster of trees in the distance, but they could easily put a bullet through him before he got there. His heart continued pounding and he had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He put his hands in the pockets of his tunic, squeezing them together to try and calm his nerves.

  “No, no!” the Turk shouted. “Hands where I can see them.”

  Rabih took them out and was forced to stand with his hands at his side. His mouth went dry. He was trembling. He knew that if he lifted his hands, they would be shaking.

  “I’m from Izmir,” the Turk said.

  Rabih closed his eyes. Ya Allah! he prayed, please help me.

  “You ever been to Izmir?” the soldier asked.

  “Actually, yes, I have.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Did you like it?” the Turk asked him.

  “I did.”

  “What were you doing in Izmir?” He stood in front of Rabih, his hands folded across his chest.

  “I … uh … was there with a friend.”

  “Huh,” the Turk grunted. “You know,” he began rubbing his chin, “you look awfully familiar … I don’t know why.”

  “Perhaps we saw each other in Izmir?” Rabih muttered, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  “Yes …” The Turk looked at Rabih through narrowed eyes.

  The German soldier who had taken his documents came out of the hut.

  “Moment, bitte.” He shook his finger at Rabih.

  Both soldiers went to the side of the hut. They were speaking softly, whispering among themselves, and as much as Rabih tried straining his ears, he couldn’t figure out what they were saying.

  If you’re going to make a run for it, now is the time, Rabih thought. He took a couple of steps forward.

  “Hey!” The Turk motioned. “No moving allowed.”

  Rabih stopped dead in his tracks.

  “What’s taking so long?” he asked.

  “Patience … all good things come to those who wait,” the Turkish soldier replied.

  This was not a good sign. He’d been standing at the checkpoint for at least half an hour. Maybe there was something wrong with the document? But what? It was an Egyptian passport. When he arrived in Cairo, he didn’t have anything on him, so Salah had arranged for his papers. Even though Egypt was a British protectorate, it was still technically part of the Ottoman Empire and Egyptian professionals and merchants could still travel in Ottoman-controlled territories.

  A man emerged from the hut. This one was not a simple soldier like the other fellow. He was dressed in an officer’s uniform. As soon as he appeared, the German and Turkish soldiers stubbed out their cigarettes and rushed to stand on either side of Rabih.

  Rabih’s stomach sank.

  “So,” the Turkish officer looked at Rabih, “you are Rabih Farhat …”

  “Yes,” Rabih didn’t look at him.

  “The same Rabih Farhat who started work at the Chemin de Fer Imperiale in Izmir in July 1914?”

  Rabih did not immediately answer. He was trying to search his brain for something plausible to say, but he couldn’t. There was no way to explain without lying.

  “The same Rabih Farhat whose immediate superior was Salah Masri?” the officer continued.

  Rabih didn’t look at the officer.

  “The same Rabih Farhat who worked on the Hejaz Railway with Masri?” the Turkish officer approached Rabih, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes glinting in anger. He came so close to Rabih that the tips of their noses touched.

  “The same Rabih Farhat who betrayed the Sublime Porte by purposely removing bolts and weakening the tracks?” he shouted, his spittle flying onto Rabih’s face and wetting his cheeks.

  “The same Rabih Farhat who leaked secret information that led to the deaths of hundreds … thousands of Ottoman soldiers?

  “The same Rabih Farhat who fled like a coward to Cairo?

  “Rabih Farhat … you are under arrest. You are a disgrace and a traitor to the Ottoman Empire and now it’s time to pay for it.”

  There was nothing Rabih could do. He was completely cornered. He knew he would never make it if he ran. But he also knew he wouldn’t make it if he stayed … he would only be prolonging the inevitable.

  “Take this piece of shit away.” The officer spat in Rabih’s face. “It’s his fault I spent time in that filthy British prison in Cairo … now let him rot.”

  Rabih looked up at him. He was one of the Turks who had followed him into Rania’s that first day.

  “Yes … I am that man,” the officer confirmed Rabih’s thoughts. “Sergeant Mehmet Celik of the Imperial Ottoman Army.”

  Rabih stood defeated, his ar
ms hanging limply by his side.

  The Turkish soldier took Rabih’s left arm and, in the split second the German soldier took to hoist his rifle on his shoulder and take his right arm, Rabih elbowed the Turk in the ribs with all the strength he could muster. The man doubled over and Rabih lifted his knee into the man’s chin. The Turk’s head went flying backwards and blood spurted from his mouth. Rabih grabbed his rifle and stabbed the German soldier through the heart with the bayonet, killing him immediately. He lunged toward Sergeant Mehmet, who immediately moved aside. The bayonet got him first in the arm and then in his thigh. Rabih twisted it in, ripping his thigh muscle. The Sergeant screamed in pain and fell to the ground, clutching his leg. Blood was spurting everywhere.

  Rabih dropped the rifle and turned and ran as fast as he could. He didn’t dare look back. If I can make it to that monastery, I’ll be all right. I can claim sanctuary. Hope rose for a moment, buoying his heart, urging him on. When he was a third of a mile away, a shot rang out in the distance. Suddenly, Rabih felt a shooting pain just below his shoulder. Don’t look, he told himself. Another shot sounded. This time Rabih felt it below his ribcage. Dear God! His pace slowed. He put his hand to his waist and felt something wet. He brought his hand up to his face. It was red. He looked down and saw his tunic soaked with his own blood. He staggered through some long grass and finally collapsed at the base of some trees, his breathing shallow, his heart slowing dramatically. He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers. A cold sweat enveloped him. He tried to focus his eyes but they were dimming. In his mind he saw his parents, his sisters, himself as a young boy running in the orchards around his parents’ home in Douma. And finally he saw Rania … he saw her smile, twirl around—her silky dresses flowing, the ruffles dancing around her. She held her arms open to him. “Rabih!” he heard her say, smiling invitingly, just before his eyes closed.

  Salah paced up and down on the beach, below the spot where they had agreed to wait for Rabih. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

  “Salah, we have to keep moving,” Charlie said. “We’re like sitting ducks here.”

  “Let’s give him another hour,” Salah said. “He’ll be here. He’s never let me down.”

  “If they have him, they won’t be far behind,” Charlie said. “We have to go.”

  “No!” Salah said forcefully. “He’s one of my boys. I’m not going to leave him behind.”

  “Salah, he knows to meet us in Gaza,” Lawrence said.

  Salah took a long drag of his cigarette.

  The sun began to sink. Salah looked out at the sea and the gentle waves playfully lapping the shoreline, leaving a fluffy, creamy foam on the dark brown sand. Come on, Rabih.

  “There’s a car coming, Sir.” Charlie was on the top of the small cliff, looking through binoculars. “We really have to go. They’ll be on top of us in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Salah?” Lawrence said.

  Wordlessly, Salah mounted his horse and reined it around, spurring it into a gallop toward the thickly forested hills above Jounieh.

  As night fell, they rode into a tiny village on the borders of the Bekaa Valley. Salah dismounted in front of a small stone hut with a black roof.

  “We can stay here tonight,” Salah said, as they tethered their horses to a wooden fence in front of the house.

  Salah knocked on the door.

  “Meen?” a grumpy, gruff voice said from inside.

  “Ana Masri.”

  A small wooden panel in the door slid open and a pair of eyes appeared. They went from frowning to breaking out into a big, beaming smile. The door was flung open and a very tall, large man hugged Salah.

  “Brother Salah!”

  “Dahmi,” Salah said.

  “How good it is to see you! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “We’re on our way to Damascus.”

  “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “Yes, we know. These are my friends … Charles Hackett and Lawrence …”

  “Yes … the one with Faisal. I have heard of you,” Dahmi said. “Tell Faisal that the Al-Dahmi tribe will support him. But I will need money and supplies for the men I bring to him.”

  “Dahmi, we need a circuitous route into Syria. Preferably one that will let us do a little damage to the Ottoman railway lines.”

  “Yes. I’ll take you to Baalbek tomorrow. You can start there.”

  They set out the next morning and the fifty-mile journey doubled because of the roundabout paths Dahmi took them on. The scenery was spectacular as the plain gave way to the Lebanon Mountains. They walked through mountain passes, crossed streams, galloped across fields, and couldn’t help but marvel at the rows of elegant and statuesque cedars that grew on the mountains.

  “There’s a very big railway bridge just outside Baalbek that could be of interest to you,” Dahmi said as they neared the Bekaa Valley.

  “The bridge is on the main line of the Turkish railway that runs from Constantinople through Baalbek and Beirut to Aleppo.”

  The ancient city of Baalbek in the northern part of the Bekaa Valley stood midway between Beirut and Damascus. Approaching it from the Lebanon Mountains, the town sat east of the Litani River in a plain that gave the land its lush green fertility. On a hill bordering the town was a massive, sprawling ancient Roman temple devoted to Bacchus, Jupiter, and Venus.

  Salah and Charles went on a brief reconnaissance mission of the city, making notes on the fortifications and the strength of Ottoman troops in the area before meeting up with Lawrence, who had gone to buy a few things he needed for the explosives.

  They left their horses tethered a couple of miles outside of town, and walked through the fields and orchards that surrounded Baalbek until they reached the train tracks.

  “There’s the bridge.” Charles pointed to the large steel and concrete structure about a mile away.

  “Package the dynamite in sticks of twenty,” Salah said to Lawrence and Charlie, while he busied himself with the cable and fuse.

  Working quickly and silently, they carefully placed a package under each end of the bridge and under every bastion, and added a few more packages for an extra special bang. Once done, Lawrence pointed to a small cave at the summit of a nearby hill. The others nodded and Charles led the way while Salah came behind him rolling out the cable.

  “Ready?” Lawrence lit a match. All three were lying on their stomachs inside the cave.

  The ensuing explosions several minutes later from the first package of dynamite were deafening, blowing the bridge into the sky in a mass of flames and smoke. One after the other, the dynamite packages blasted through, shattering the rails, destroying the infrastructure, and raising dust and stones and pebbles, which showered down on the countryside. The noise ripped downstream, echoing against the mountainside as it made its way downriver.

  And then there was silence … only a brief dull roar in the distance as the sound traveled.

  “Was that the last one?” Charles asked, getting to his knees and dusting the front of his tunic.

  “I believe so,” Salah said.

  “Shall I go and check?” Charles suggested.

  “We’ll head over and get the horses,” Salah said.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Charles headed down to the bridge. Even though the air was filled with the dust and grime of the explosion, the scenery was still beautiful. High up on the opposite mountain, the cedars had stood witness to the blast. Charles carefully made his way along the burned fuse. He reached the now non-existent bridge, searching around the specific areas where they had placed the bundles of dynamite to make sure there were no unexploded sticks of dynamite that were still smoldering. His keen eyes picked up the shards of the sticks that had exploded. Good. I think we’ve accomplished the mission. He turned and began to walk back. Suddenly, he heard a high-pitched hissing sound. He looked around to see where it was coming from and there, less than a hundred feet away, was a package of dynamite, half hidden in
the tall grass. Oh Lord! Charles turned and ran. The force of the blast seconds later propelled him into the air, across the field and slammed his body into the earth.

  Salah and Lawrence, who were making their way back to the horses, heard the blast. They looked at each other, left the horses where they were, and ran back as fast as they could to the railway bridge. As they came over the hill where they had hidden during the blast, they stopped dead in their tracks. A group of Ottoman soldiers was running toward the explosion. Both men quickly fell to the ground, hiding behind a clump of short bushes that were close enough for them to see and hear.

  “Our informant was correct about the explosion,” said a man who looked like the officer in charge. “Who did this though?” he said looking around the rubble.

  “You!” he shouted to one of the soldiers. “Run back to the barracks and tell Colonel Erdogan about this. He will want to come and see this for himself. “Damn it! I wish we could have caught whoever it was in the act.”

  “Over here!” a soldier cried out. He dropped to his knees behind a rock and quickly got back up. “Sir! Sergeant! Over here!” He waved to some of the others. “You’re going to want to see this!”

  The officer and a couple other soldiers came running over. “Good God!” one of them exclaimed. “Is he alive?” another asked. “I don’t know.” The officer knelt down. “There is a pulse. It’s very, very faint. I don’t know if he’ll make it or not,” he pronounced.

  “Maybe he’s the man who set the charges?” one of the men suggested.

  “Get him out of here,” the officer ordered. “Take him to the infirmary at the military school. We’ll see if he makes it,” he said.

  “The rest of you … fan out and start looking for clues.”

  Salah looked at Lawrence, gesturing with his hands that they needed to get out of the area immediately.

  “Sir!” one of the soldiers shouted. “I found something.”

  Lawrence froze in his tracks.

  “What is this?” the soldier said as he picked up a mangled pistol.

  The officer came over and took it from him, twirling it round and around.