by Alan Gold
“What happened?” asked Gertrude quietly.
General Lake looked uncomfortable. “Townshend kept sending back dispatches reminding us how dangerous his supply situation was. He demanded extra transportation and trench warfare equipment, the most basic requirements when you’re going to battle against the Turks. But Viceroy Hardinge and the Indian Government thought we were on a winning streak and that the Turks were in full retreat. We told them the truth of the situation, but they didn’t listen. Hardinge told him just to push northwards. They looked on a map, and saw that he was only about 20 miles from Baghdad, and they thought he was being too cautious. They didn’t listen to him or us about the fact that the Turks would throw thousands of fresh men at the front line to defend the city. We went behind Delhi’s back, and appealed to Whitehall. Even London disagreed with Hardinge, but for some reason, the mandarins in the War Office went along with the Indian Government. In the meantime, the Turks had learned from their series of defeats, and especially from their disaster at Kut. They retreated and prepared defensive positions in the ruins of Ctesiphon.”
Gertrude refrained from saying anything out loud, but silently hoped there was no damage to the site.
“The Turks decided to make this the forward defense line for Baghdad. General Nur-Ud-Din had constructed two deep lines of trenches on either side of the Tigris. He brought in eighteen thousand experienced and fresh troops from the North, all of them raring to go and committed to reclaiming the honor of their Army after the ignominy they’d suffered. Townshend had eleven thousand exhausted men. He rallied his men magnificently, and breathed spirit into them. He tried to repeat his successes at Kut and issued orders for night-marching in order to surprise the Turks defenders and out-flank them from the rear.
“But his damned army got lost in the dark. All element of surprise was gone, and the British attack became a rout. We couldn’t provide naval support along the Tigris because the Turks had deployed mines in the water and heavy artillery along the bank.
“The next day, the Turks launched the most ferocious attacks, and Townshend’s men dropped like flies, though they fought like warriors. Four thousand five hundred English men, good and true, were killed in that one day alone. It was as bad as Gallipoli . . .”
Gertrude bit her lip as she thought of all those dead young men, their lifeblood soaked up by the thirsty sands of the desert, their lifeless eyes staring at the eternal stars. She struggled to restrain her emotions.
General Lake continued, “Nur-Ud-Din suffered double our casualties, but he had access to countless reserves in Baghdad, and this was his last-ditch stand.
“Townshend knew it would be a slaughter if he continued, so he ordered a retreat and as our men fought their way south, through the marshes and God knows what other difficulties, they were set upon by Turks and Arab alike. They altered one of the larger boats on the river to create a makeshift hospital craft to ferry the dead and wounded back to Basrah, even knowing that there were submerged mines, and Townshend began to create a defensive position. We’re trying to send up reinforcements, but he’s in a terrible pickle, I’m afraid.”
“Dear God Almighty,” Gertrude whispered. “What’s happening to us? I just don’t understand anything any longer. Two years ago Turkey attacked Odessa and Sevastopol and closed the Dardanelles. People were talking about the war lasting six months. They said the Ottomans were diseased and decaying imperialists and would crumble at the first sight of our fighting men, but now you’re telling me, General, that the Turks are a valiant fighting force . . .”
The generals looked at Sir Percy waiting for the political officer to say something. He finished his glass of wine, and said softly, “We all miscalculated, both here and with the Kaiser’s armies in Europe, and I’m afraid millions—tens of millions—of men on both sides are dying as a result. It’s the greatest slaughter in the whole sorry history of humanity, I’m afraid. It makes all the previous wars in all of history seem like local neighborhood scraps. It even makes the Crusades pale in comparison.
“Since this damnable war began, Russia has mobilized twelve million men, France has mobilized over eight million, Britain nearly nine million, and Germany and Austria-Hungary between them claim to have nineteen million. We’ve got no idea how many the Turks have sent into battle, but in all we’re talking about figures of . . .” He did a quick calculation in his head. “Probably sixty million men if you include Italy and the smaller nations, fighting with and against each other in all the theaters of the war. There’s never been anything like what we’re seeing now. I wouldn’t be surprised if ten million men weren’t killed before this damnable thing in Europe and here in the Middle East is over.”
Gertrude felt her jaw visibly drop at the sheer unimaginable quantity of humanity, fighting a war whose cause she had almost forgotten. “But that’s an entire generation . . .”
“Ten million, Percy? Surely not,” exclaimed General Money. “That’s staggering . . .”
Sir Percy looked at him and shrugged.
“And I wonder how many of those will perish as a result of miscalculations?” Gertrude asked.
Again the room fell silent.
“What’s to be done about our lads in Kut-al-Amara, Percy? We’re talking about the lives of thousands of men. They can’t be wasted. What are we doing to bring them back home again?”
“That’s why I’ve asked these generals to dine with you and me,” Sir Percy said. “You see, trying to get them back to Basrah will result in further unimaginable losses. The Turks smells victory and he’s reinforced himself with thousands of fresh troops from the north. We can’t retreat by river, because he’ll blow us out of the water with his artillery on either bank. We can’t fight our way out of Kut, because we’re surrounded. We’re trying to send up reinforcements, but we haven’t got enough, and what we do send are repelled by the force of arms. Which means we can be certain of two options only, I’m afraid. Surrender . . .” He lapsed into silence, seemingly unable to say the alternative.
“Or pay the Turks a massive bribe?” asked Gertrude.
“Precisely, my dear.”
“And since I’m an expert on how the Arabs will react, you want to know if there’s a third way. You want me to tell you whether I can get the Arabs to change sides and fight the Turks to drive him off. Am I correct, Percy?”
The generals all looked at her in amazement. They hadn’t before met a woman with such an acute and strategic mind.
“Correct, Gertrude.”
Slowly, she looked at everyone sitting at the table. “Do I have a week?”
General Lake shrugged.
“Can I call for an assistant?” she asked.
“Whom?” asked Sir Percy.
“A certain Mr. Lawrence. Captain Lawrence, to be precise, although he might be Major Lawrence by now, maybe even Colonel Lawrence. Right at this moment, I think you’ll probably find him somewhere in the Kingdom of Hejaz with Prince Faisal, the third son of the Sharif Hussein of Mecca and Medina.”
“Why this Lawrence chappie?” asked Sir Percy.
“Because he has a feel for the Arab; between the two of us, I’m sure we can pull a rabbit out of the hat.”
~
Kingdom of Hejaz
The prince looked at Lawrence choking in the corner of the room. The poor man’s face was puce and Faisal was concerned the Englishman was about to vomit on the rug.
Every time Lawrence straightened and tried to compose himself, he suddenly doubled over and began to cough and retch again, apologizing between the coughing bouts. A servant moved towards him, but the prince waved the man away, knowing Lawrence would have to recover on his own if he was ever to face the shisha again.
Eventually, after sipping some rose water, red and watery eyed and still flushed, Lawrence was sufficiently composed to splutter, “I’m so very sorry, Highness.”
“Not at all, Mr. Lawrence. But I did warn you, didn’t I. Are you feeling better?”
Lawrence no
dded. His throat still burned and his eyes were smarting, but he felt well enough to return to the divan from which he’d just ejected himself.
“Would you care to try again?” asked the Prince.
“No, sir, I most certainly would not.”
“But if you had taken my advice in the first place you wouldn’t have suffered so badly. Take another sip of rose water, and try one of the tobaccos soaked in the juice of an apple. Using a nargile for the first time can be difficult for the non-smoker, but using it with unflavored tobacco is asking for trouble . . . and trouble just found you, Mr. Lawrence.”
“I would prefer to watch Your Majesty. I will indulge myself in other pleasures while I am a guest in your house.”
“But Lawrence, the shisha is such a source of infinite pleasure for us. It originally came from India, you know, but it was a very primitive piece of equipment when it reached us. It took Arab ingenuity to turn it into the ultimate machine of pure pleasure. We received it from India in the form of a coconut shell and some water. But when it came to Persia, and then spread throughout the whole of the Arabic world, we refined the design and today it’s a wonderful part of our customs. But raw tobacco, Mr. Lawrence? Very silly, when we have such exciting and soothing flavors as apple and cinnamon and pomegranate and rose oil.”
The prince nodded to a servant, and another hookah was brought, its lower bowl filled with pure water, and the long stem of the pipe filled with a tobacco which had been subtly flavored with the juice of strawberries. Reluctantly, Lawrence put the smoking tube into his mouth, and tentatively drew on it. The smoke which filled his mouth was delicate, as though he tasted an unusually aromatic fruit salad. The prince smiled when Lawrence turned and nodded to him in gratitude.
They continued talking and smoking until they had finished their wads of tobacco. The servants removed the hookahs and both men settled back onto the divans.
“It’s really very good of Allenby or whoever it was, to have sent you over to me,” said the prince.
“Actually, sir, it was my request to be sent here. As you know, I’m particularly keen to use the authority your family has as guardians of Mecca and Medina to convince the other leaders to join us in overthrowing the Turks.”
“You have quite some experience in our area of the world, don’t you Mr. Lawrence?”
“I do sir. I’ve done mapping of Palestine and Aqaba, and I’ve been on a number of archaeological digs. And I speak your language quite well.”
The prince nodded. “And your fascination with the Arabs, Mr. Lawrence?”
He thought before answering. “You enjoyed one of the world’s most profound and fecund of histories, yet it was within a desert culture where little blooms. You once were a great people ruling half the world, almost conquering the southern half of Europe right up to the borders of Hungary and Vienna, but now you’re nothing but an enslaved people, divided into a hundred minor principalities. Your people are warlike, yet you have written the most sublime love poetry. Your mathematicians and astronomers were as great as the Greeks, yet almost none of your people can read or write. Your people are commanded by sheiks and yet they owe allegiance to mullahs and ayatollahs. You write the most elegiac love poems to your women, yet you treat them as little more than sexual and kitchen slaves. You revere Mohammed as though he were a demi-god, yet unlike Christianity and Judaism, you have never sought to question the teachings of your Prophet, nor have you enjoyed a Renaissance which would have undermined the power of your religious leaders and given power back to the people. You’ve never coalesced into one great nation because you’re tribal, and how can a great man rise to lead you when your people pay such close attention to your religious men. You have no history or experience of democracy, yet you are keen to participate as an equal nation in the affairs of the rest of the world. You’re fanatical about your allegiance to your tribes, yet throughout your history, you have continually played with the idea of pan-Arabism as a way out of your pettiness. You are a fascinating complex of paradoxes which I’m struggling to comprehend.”
Prince Faisal nodded, and reflected for some time on what Lawrence had just said.
“While you were just speaking, Lawrence, had I closed my eyes, I would have sworn that Miss Gertrude Bell was in the room, speaking to me.”
Lawrence grinned. “I have been a good pupil.”
“But will the student outdo the master? Or in this case, the mistress?”
Sheepishly the Englishman continued, “Miss Bell is currently working with the generals in Basrah. And in a way, I’m pleased she wasn’t here, for if she, or any of my English colleagues had been listening, I’d probably be thrown into military prison for treason. I’ve just insulted you and your people, whereas I should have been a sycophant, paying you nothing but compliments. If I have insulted you, sir, I apologize.”
“Are you saying that Miss Bell would have been a sycophant?” asked Faisal, a grin appearing on his face.
“Hardly, but she’s a lot more diplomatic than I am. And I think I should have considered my words much more carefully. I often say what I think without considering the consequences.”
“On the contrary, Lawrence; one of the reasons I readily accepted your attachment to me was because in you, I can always rely on the truth. I appreciated that the very first time we met in Egypt when you burst into my surreptitious meeting with Miss Gertrude Bell. You could have been a sycophant, but instead you risked Miss Bell’s ire and that led to her telling me the truth about my father’s situation. I have no time for those who tell me what I want to hear, rather than what I need to know.
“In that, I’m reminded of a story told of the court of Queen Elizabeth, daughter of your Henry VIII. When she had just become queen, she appointed Sir William Cecil to be the keeper of her nation under her. She appointed him because she trusted his advice absolutely, and she knew he would never tell her anything which might harm England, even at the risk of his own life when his advice might not please her. You, Mr. Lawrence, are my Cecil.”
Lawrence smiled. “Cecil became Lord Burleigh, and made a fortune. I, unfortunately, will always remain on the meager salary of a minor office in the British Army.”
The prince smiled at the Englishman, and snapped his fingers. “But perhaps I can provide you with some extracurricular benefits of our association, then, Mr. Lawrence.”
At the cue, two lithe young women entered the room bowing low. They were dressed in the richest and most gossamer-like fabrics, their bodies clearly visible through the voile.
They sauntered towards the divans, their faces barely visible through their veils, their eyes cast to the ground. One sat at the feet of the prince, the other at the feet of Lawrence.
“My gift to you, Mr. Lawrence. True Arabic beauty. Strong limbed, willing, and lusty. I have had both of them recently, and can highly recommend either, or both if that is your wish. They are very experienced in making a man content.”
“I—I”
“They aren’t to your pleasing?”
“Yes . . . but I don’t think that . . .”
“You don’t like them?”
“Yes. But I’m a serving British officer, and I don’t think I should be involved in this sort of thing.”
“Don’t be so stuffy, Lawrence. You’re not on duty now.”
“It’s not right, sir. We English don’t do this sort of thing.”
“You’re in Arabia now, Mr. Lawrence. When in Rome . . .”
“I’m sorry, Highness, but I fear I must leave and go to bed on my own.” He stood, and bowed to the astounded prince.
As he was walking out of the door, the woman who had been at his feet looked up at the prince, and shook her head in bemusement.
“Is there something you haven’t told me, Mr. Lawrence,” Faisal called after him. “Perhaps women aren’t to your liking? I can present you with some lovely boys, if you’d prefer? I want to accommodate your pleasures.”
Lawrence silently walked out of the room. As he
paced towards his apartments, he bit his lip in anger. If his earlier arrogance and impertinence hadn’t ruined his relationship with the prince, then walking out on his gift of women would certainly have done so.
He might as well pack his bags and return to Cairo in the morning. At least he had an excuse for the failure of his mission.
~
The sun burned the landscape with such violence that the yellow of the desert fused with the white of the sky, making the distant horizon invisible. There was neither distance nor closeness, length nor breadth, height nor depth. Measurement became meaningless when the sky and the ground were one, and only the ebb and flow of shadows gave both significance and perspective to the passing of a day. Not in Aqaba nor Palestine nor Egypt had he known a landscape where the sun had leached color and forms and distances so completely.
The sun! How could an Englishman possibly begin to comprehend the supremacy of the sun which bleached the very rocks themselves, draining the sky and the ground and the animals which walked upon it of any recognizable feature. It was already halfway above the endless vista of the desert, and all around him seemed to be blended seamlessly into unity. There was no ground, but a continuous hemisphere of yellow which seamlessly transformed into a powdery white-blue sky. Nowhere ahead of him, nor behind, could he look and say, “now I’m arriving at my destination.” It was all a blur, a heat wave, an illusion.