Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  “What is it, Sir?”

  “Are you blind, soldier?” the officer snapped. “It’s a pistol.”

  “Yes, but I’ve never seen one like it before.”

  “No … because this weapon is standard British military issue.”

  The soldier looked scared.

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” the Turkish officer swore. “It’s Masri and that Englishman, Lawrence. They’re here. This is their doing. Come on! We’d better head back to Baalbek. I have to let Colonel Erdogan know as quickly as possible.”

  When night fell, Salah and Lawrence rode back into Baalbek toward the Turkish military academy, where the officer had ordered Charles to be taken.

  “How on earth are we going to get in there?” Lawrence said, as he looked at the tall, wrought iron gates patrolled by Turkish soldiers.

  “We’re going to have to find disguises.”

  “As what?”

  “Have you ever dressed up as a woman, Lawrence?”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “No … Turkish soldiers never question women. They think it’s beneath them to address a woman,” Salah said.

  “All we have to do is find women’s clothes.”

  “In my case, dear Salah, I think I’ll be fine … I’m only five and a half feet tall. You, on the other hand …”

  “Well then you will have to go in on your own. According to what I’ve been told, the infirmary is on the first floor at the back of the building.”

  Late that evening, Salah, wearing a robe, turban, and scarf covering his face, and Lawrence, dressed as an Arab woman and carrying a pile of clean sheets and towels, walked across the small square in front of the military academy, arriving at the gates. “Are you sure this is going to work?” Lawrence asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Works every time,” Salah assured him. “You’ll see.” He winked.

  “My wife is here with laundry for the infirmary,” Salah said to the sentry.

  “You wait here. She can go in.”

  Lawrence crept across the main courtyard, walking quickly toward the back of the building and entering through a side door. He walked down a long corridor until he reached the end. The sign on the door said “Infirmary.” Softly, he opened the door and peeked in. No one appeared to be on duty.

  He went into the main ward. There were a few patients who were asleep, but none of them looked like they had recently been in a bomb blast. Lawrence went from bed to bed, peering at all the men sleeping in white single beds. Charles wasn’t there.

  As he turned to leave, he saw a nurse rushing in to tend to one of the men, but she was busy and didn’t give him a second look as he hurried back to the entrance.

  Suddenly, Lawrence had an idea. He doubled backed to the nurse’s desk and opened the main drawer. Inside there was a large ledger-style book. He opened it. It was a daily organizer with a list of all the patients and what they needed, what was administered, dosages of medicine given, and all kinds of other details. Turning quickly to the last page, which would reflect what had happened that day, he scanned the entries with his index finger. And there was Charles. He was listed as “unknown.” It said that he had severe burns, a broken leg and arm, and some organ damage. But where was he? There was no bed number listed next to his name like there was next to everyone else’s.

  “Shoo?” the nurse said, coming into the reception area. “May I help you?

  “May I help you?” she said again, a bit more forcefully.

  Slowly, Lawrence looked up.

  “I brought the sheets and towels,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes … I forgot to bring them this afternoon.”

  The nurse looked at him doubtfully.

  “But you’re not the woman who comes in the afternoon.” She came closer to Lawrence.

  “No … that’s my sister,” Lawrence said. “Her husband doesn’t let her out after dark.”

  “And yours does?” The nurse’s tone of disbelief grew. “You’re not my laundry woman,” the nurse said. “Who are you?” She tried to grab at the veil around Lawrence’s face.

  Lawrence turned and ran. “Guard!” the nurse shouted. She went to her desk and quickly wound up the telephone.

  When Lawrence reached the gate, he slowed his pace so as not to arouse the attention of the soldiers. He jumped into the sidecar of the motorcycle Salah had running.

  “Stop her!”

  “Stop who?” the soldier at the gate said, looking around in panic.

  “That woman!” the soldier yelled.

  “You want me to stop a woman?” the sentry asked.

  “She’s not a woman, you idiot!” the soldier clapped the young sentry on the back of his head.

  Salah revved up the accelerator and they sped off in the dark of night.

  A few miles later when they were quite sure they were not being followed, Salah stopped the bike.

  “Well, anything?” he asked.

  “He was there.” Lawrence took off his goggles. “There’s a record of a seriously injured man having been brought in this afternoon. But he wasn’t there tonight.”

  Salah lit a cigarette. “They’ve probably moved him to Damascus. We’re going to split up, Lawrence. I’ll go look for Charlie. You continue the mission.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  While Salah headed to Damascus to find out where the Turks had taken Charlie and what had happened to Rabih, Lawrence headed south to Deraa.

  According to Salah, Deraa was a major junction in the Hejaz Railway for both troops and supplies and therefore a major target in the guerilla effort. Lawrence spent two days disguised as a Bedouin, exploring the railway lines on all sides of the junction, and made extensive notes and drawings of the lines north, south, and west and where he was going to put the boxes of dynamite.

  He then headed to the market to see Bani, a friend of Salah’s, who happened to be the brother of Magdi in Cairo and, like him, also a fruitseller. Bani was to be Lawrence’s assistant in the venture.

  “Hello, Bani,” Lawrence said softly, “I’m Lawrence.”

  “Ahlan! Ahlan wa sahlan, habibi!” Bani jumped up and warmly hugged Lawrence. He held him at arm’s length and looked him up and down. “I am so pleased to see you!” he said and hugged him again. “I was wondering when you would appear.” He hugged him for a third time. “How are you?” he asked with yet another hug.

  “I’m fine, Bani.” Lawrence laughed at Bani’s effusive welcome, given that they didn’t know each other.

  “Please, please, come in,” Bani said, quickly pulling out a stool for him. “How is my brother, Salah?”

  “He is very well, on his way to Damascus.”

  “Ah! Then he will definitely visit my cousin. Salah loves his wife’s cooking!”

  Lawrence grinned.

  “Now, what can I get you?” Bani rubbed his hands together with glee.

  “Well for a start, I need a few boxes of dynamite.”

  “Oh!” Bani looked perplexed. “How about some coffee to start?”

  “That would also be nice,” Lawrence replied.

  “Right away,” Bani said, calling over a young boy and giving him some money to go and get coffee. “And bring some mammoul,” he shouted after him.

  “How long are you here? We would love to have you for dinner.”

  “Bani, we really need to get down to business. I need to light up the skies tonight.”

  “That’s too bad. I know all my wives will be most upset. They’re all driving me nuts because this war is ruining their social life.”

  “How many wives do you have now?”

  “Just the four … you know.” Bani shrugged. “It’s what’s allowed. And I like to stick to the law.”

  “Now, Bani, here is my list.” Lawrence pulled out a piece of paper.

  As they were talking, a couple of Turkish soldiers strolled by. They stopped a few feet from the fruit stand. One of them i
ndicated Lawrence with his chin. He turned to his partner and said something. The partner nodded and they began talking among each other, all the while looking over at him.

  “I don’t think you’re going to have time for coffee,” Bani said.

  “I don’t think so either,” Lawrence agreed, casually covering his face with the scarf.

  “Fruitseller!”

  “Yes, Sir!” Bani replied.

  “What’s fresh today?” The two soldiers casually sauntered over to the fruit stand.

  “Everything! Everything!” Bani proudly ran his hand over the display of fresh fruits. “Now over here,” he walked over to the far end, trying to distract them. “Look at these beautiful melons. Very ripe, very juicy, just arrived from the Bekaa.”

  Lawrence sat quietly on his stool. Without making eye contact with them, he could tell the soldiers were looking at him.

  “And these grapes?”

  The soldiers wouldn’t move. One of them took out a piece of paper from his pocket. He looked at it and looked over at Lawrence.

  “What about these oranges? From Jaffa?

  “Gentlemen? What can I interest you in?” Bani rushed down to the side of the stall where the soldiers were standing and where Lawrence was sitting.

  “Officers?” Bani kept trying to get their attention.

  “You! Bedouin!”

  Lawrence looked up at them.

  “Are you deaf?” one of them said.

  “Officers!” Bani came over trying to interrupt. “Figs? Peaches?”

  “You’re under arrest,” the officer said to Lawrence.

  “On what grounds?” Bani jumped in.

  “He’s a deserter from the Turkish Army,” one of the soldiers said.

  “We’ve been looking for him,” the other said.

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Lawrence said calmly.

  “I don’t think we are.”

  “All right, let’s go.” The soldiers stood on either side of Lawrence.

  Lawrence got up. He glanced at Bani, who looked terrified.

  “Officers … this man is a merchant … he’s not in the army.”

  “If you don’t shut up, we’ll arrest you too!” they threatened.

  Bani wrung his hands as he watched them lead Lawrence away. He had to get word to Salah.

  “Come here, boy!” he gestured to the little boy who had gone to get them coffee. “Watch my fruit stand and mind you don’t give away the fruit for free.”

  Bani handed him a couple of coins and ran to the post office.

  “Now isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” The Turkish officer smiled. “And here I was thinking I was getting a deserter, but who do I get instead? The great T.E. Lawrence, disguised as a Bedouin in enemy territory. My superiors are going to love this. Finally … caught red handed.”

  Lawrence sat in silence.

  “You realize you are very lucky, don’t you?”

  “If they’d known who you really were, my men could have shot you as they would any ordinary spy,” the officer continued. “But I’m glad they didn’t. Now I can take all the credit for capturing the Englishman who is … what do they call you … ah yes! The Prince of Mecca.”

  He guffawed as he paced around a basic wooden table, the only piece of furniture, apart from two wooden chairs, in an otherwise bare room in the Turkish military barracks at the edge of the city.

  “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

  Silence.

  “Well then consider yourself under arrest in the name of the sultan. As a spy for the allies, your very presence in the Ottoman Empire is punishable immediately and by death. You will be executed at dawn.”

  Lawrence didn’t move a muscle.

  “Good. Well, then, I shall see you in the morning at the firing squad, Sir,” the Turkish officer said.

  “Oh and by the way, we have met before,” he added, “which is why I know for sure that it is, indeed, you. It wouldn’t do to execute someone we thought was you and then have you pop up somewhere in Syria, blowing up our railway lines, cutting our supplies … you know … the sort of thing that you’re so very good at.

  “My name is Omer Erdogan … Colonel Omer Erdogan. You arrested me and one of my men last year …”

  The Old Bazaar in Damascus was teeming with Ottoman and German soldiers. Salah pulled his scarf across his face. He’d stopped off to see Bani’s cousin first, where Bani’s telegram had been waiting for him. As soon as he’d read it, he headed into the heart of the old city, arriving in time for dinner at the palace of another old university friend, Ali Riza Al Rikabi, who happened to be the current Ottoman military governor of Syria.

  “I’d heard you were in the area.” Ali Riza hugged Salah warmly. “Except my men can never seem to catch you. Why is that?”

  “Because I’m bloody good at what I do.”

  “Or because I’m bloody good to you,” Ali Riza said, cocking one eyebrow.

  “I’ve got a problem, Ali Riza … a good friend of mine, an English Special Forces guy, was taken in Baalbek by Erdogan … and my old architect, Rabih Farhat … he was stopped at a checkpoint north of Beirut,” Salah paused, holding Ali Riza’s gaze, trying to gauge his reaction. “And … Erdogan has Lawrence in Deraa.”

  A long, heavy pause hung in the air.

  Finally, Ali Riza sighed deeply. “All right, Salah. But you only get one chance because we’re old friends. Which one will it be?”

  Lawrence sat in a corner in a darkened cell listening to the rats scampering around in the straw on the floor. There was one small window with iron bars from which he could see the sky. The silvery beams from the full moon were trying their best to reach in through the bars.

  So this is how it ends. I suppose it was inevitable, really. At some point, everyone’s luck runs out. Perhaps the only regret is not seeing the campaign through to the end. And all this information I’ve gathered. What a waste. There’s no way to get any of it to Faisal.

  He felt unusually calm. Somehow it didn’t feel like the end, even though he knew it was. How funny life is, he thought. If someone had told me, when I was younger, that I would die a spy at a firing squad in Deraa, I would have laughed.

  “Lawrence?” a voice whispered.

  Lawrence’s ears perked up.

  “Lawrence? Are you in there?”

  Someone was at the door. Softly, he padded to the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Where are you?” the voice whispered. “Scratch the door you’re behind.”

  Lawrence did as he was told. He put his ear to the door and heard footsteps outside and two people whispering. Suddenly, Lawrence heard keys clinking. He stood back. A key was inserted in the door and turned. The door opened. It was Bani and Salah.

  “Yallah, Yallah!” Bani said.

  Lawrence was shocked.

  “I’ll explain later,” Salah said, reading his mind. “For now, we have to move quickly and silently.”

  Together they went through a long corridor and stopped at the end, where Bani pulled open a secret trap door. Silently Bani lowered himself, followed by Lawrence and Salah, who shut the door firmly above him. They went through a maze of underground corridors, finally arriving at brick wall that swung open when Bani pushed on a certain brick. It wasn’t a large opening and they all had to bend to step out. Lawrence looked around. They were on the stage of the Roman theatre of Deraa.

  Salah put his finger to his lips. He hugged Bani warmly and kissed him three times. Bani acknowledged him with a hand to his heart. He turned to Lawrence and hugged him.

  Salah took Lawrence by the arm and indicated he follow him. From behind a column, he pulled out a satchel and swung it across his body. They stole across the stage and slipped out of a side entrance, continuing in silence until they reached the desert at the edge of Deraa. There, two camels were patiently waiting for them. Salah paid the man who was waiting with the camels and they set off with only the light of the moon to guide them.
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br />   “Are you all right?” Salah asked when they stopped at an oasis in the middle of the night. “That was a close one, Lawrence.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I called in a favor from an old university friend.”

  “What about Charlie? Any news? Rabih?”

  “I only had one favor, Lawrence.”

  Lawrence nodded.

  “What’s next?”

  “I’ve heard from Auda. The tribes are ready,” Salah said. “They are waiting for us in Bair.”

  “Good … let’s create a little havoc along the way to help him out.”

  Salah and Lawrence spent a little time bombing two miles of track around Minifir. As expected, Ottoman troops quickly swarmed the scene and a repair train was immediately dispatched from Deraa. Salah also placed a mine a little further up the track that wrecked the train that arrived the next day.

  The explosion did its job well. Amid the confusion, Salah and Lawrence slipped through the Ottoman net, riding past Amman and continuing southwest, skirting the Dead Sea until they reached Auda’s camp.

  Just before dawn in early July 1917, over five hundred camels stole across the desert toward the Turkish garrison at an outpost on the outskirts of Aqaba. Salah, Auda, and Lawrence rode at the head of the army, which was made up mostly of desert tribesmen whose loyalty had been bought with British gold.

  As the sky lightened, the tribesmen positioned themselves in the hills around the Turks. When the sun broke through, Auda gave the signal and they began firing on the Turks. Dust and sand flew, the noise of the gunfire was deafening, and, when the sun rose, the heat was unbearable. Yet, despite the almost constant bullets that were being fired on the Turks, nothing seemed to be happening to the garrison.

  Salah ran over to Lawrence, who was reloading his gun behind a rock. “What the hell is going on down there?” he screamed over the noise. “Why haven’t we taken the fort?”

  “I don’t know,” Lawrence admitted, sitting back against the rock. “It may be the heat.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Salah turned back and aimed down at the Turks.

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know.” Lawrence sat up against a rock and pulled his drinking bottle from his holster. “Damn! No water.”