Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  Faisal nodded. “And as you know, I support the return of the Jewish people. But I am not in the majority. There are already street fights between Arabs and Jews, and they are set to get much worse. The fact is, Mr. Churchill, Great Britain has got itself into a mess, and we are all adversely affected. And now that the French have taken military control over Syria and Lebanon and blended them into one country, the situation is even more complex.”

  “Which is precisely why I’ve asked Colonel Lawrence to join us in the new Middle East Office I’m setting up. Real experts for real solutions. We’ll no longer leave it up to the military men and the politicians. We’ll get proper advice and make decisions in the best interests of all concerned.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Look Winston, before I agree to join this little shindig of yours, I have to know who else is in there. I’ve never exactly been popular with the Whitehall mandarins. They’ve opposed every policy I’ve ever tried to carry out when it comes to the Middle East. Why do you think they’ll suddenly start to listen to me?”

  Churchill smiled. “Because I’m listening to you, Lawrence. And when I listen, everybody else hears what I hear. The first thing I want you to do is plan the agenda for the Cairo Conference in March.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Cairo, March 1921

  She wore a resplendent dress, deep crimson with slender vertical strips of the very finest silver thread. The silver was hardly noticeable, except when her dress caught the light, and then it positively gleamed. Around her neck was a silver fox boa and on her head was her ubiquitous feathered hat.

  It was so thrilling to be in Cairo. More so than being in than Paris, where she’d played a far less important role. In Paris, she’d been the oil on troubled waters, seamlessly moving from delegation to delegation and trying to steer the Great Powers on a particularly British course. She had been a behind-the-scenes diplomat, out of the limelight—essential to British interests, more unnoticed than regarded.

  But here in Cairo, things would be different. Her opinion would be sought by Churchill, Lawrence, Sir Percy Cox, Sir Herbert Samuel who was the new high commissioner in Palestine, Sir Geoffrey Archer from Somalia, General Scott from Aden, and of course all the experts Churchill had brought out from England.

  Gertrude and Sir Percy already knew what Churchill had in mind. He was under phenomenal pressure to save the British taxpayer money by withdrawing troops from Iraq, and as he left England to come to Cairo, he’d made public what was going through his mind. He’d stepped on board the boat train and told the assembled press he was going to Egypt to save the working man millions of pounds, while at the same time protecting British interests in the Middle East and ensuring the legacy of so many dead British soldiers would be remembered and respected.

  But the public image he tried to portray was very different from the private correspondence which Percy had received. Churchill was being crucified in the press and in Parliament because Mesopotamia had so far cost the British government a fortune, and that was just to fight the recent Arab insurrection.

  And now Churchill was intent on only having troops remain in Basrah in order to protect Britain’s Persian oil interests and its route from Egypt to India. He had made the decision to pull them out from the rest of the country in order to return them to England and de-mobilise them. For Gertrude and Percy, this decision was rampant insanity. Percy had written a brilliant diplomatic response to Churchill’s cable, explaining that while Churchill might want to retain troops in Basrah, without the other troops to protect them they’d be massacred by millions of irate anarchic Iraqis. He assured Churchill withdrawal would sound the death knell for the new country.

  And supported by the insistence of Gertrude, he said that in view of the uprising and the demand for accelerated nationalism, Prince Abdullah was the wrong choice to be made King of Iraq. Instead Faisal, who had recently and unexpectedly been forced to vacate his throne in Syria, might be looking for another seat and would be a far better choice. Percy said Faisal had the experience of kingship, the experience of government, and the ability to lead a large Arab army. Abdullah, on the other hand, had no such experience, and the anarchy and resentment which his reign would create would be catastrophic to British and Arab interests.

  Both Percy and Gertrude blamed A.T. Wilson for the problems which they were facing, but now that they were in Cairo, there was a chance, a slim chance, that with all the experts advising Churchill, he might be persuaded to take a longer-term view of the situation, instead of being driven only by money and pressure.

  She was so looking forward to seeing Colonel Lawrence again. Since Lowell Thomas’ lectures had become so popular in America and England, and since the American’s book, With Lawrence in Arabia, had become such a phenomenal sensation, Lawrence was today a world-famous character. He was everything about which the new American film industry created fantasies—a genuine hero in an utterly romantic and unknowable location, dashing about on a camel and killing the enemy of Western Civilization. He was a man who took the quixotic nomads of the desert by hand and unilaterally made them into a nation. It was cinema and penny dreadfuls at their very best. It was far more fiction than truth, but truth and fiction in war were blood brothers, and so long as Gertrude had expression in her painstakingly honest articles in The Times and in her books, she didn’t really care if Lawrence played the role of an Othello or an Iago, just so long as she wasn’t cast by history as a female Caliban, or worse, as A.T. Wilson had tried to invent her, Lady Macbeth.

  She and Percy took a carriage along the edge of the Nile towards their hotel, the Semiramis, in a particularly fashionable part of Cairo. And as they passed a Mosque, they could clearly hear the prayers inside, interspersed with the chanting of anti-British shouting and yelling. It was frightening how much hatred there was towards Britain in Egypt. She was alarmed at the prospect of serious unrest during their conference.

  The hotel was archetypal British colonialism—tall ceilings, vast interiors, lazily wafting straw fans to circulate the air, pulled by indolent natives sitting cross-legged on the floor, obsequious porters, fawning servants, and submissive waiters, all of them outfitted in gaudy uniforms of red and gold, with black fez hats, making them look like performing monkeys, and the ubiquitous all-knowing reception and management staff bowing and scraping to ensure the English ladies and gentlemen were totally comfortable and had every wish satisfied.

  Gertrude found it nauseating, perhaps because she had been brought up with such privilege, or perhaps because in all her years in Arabia, she had come to dislike so intensely this attitude of the British towards themselves, and how they expected to be treated as Englishmen and women while abroad.

  As she and Sir Percy entered the lobby, she spied the diminutive figure of Colonel Lawrence standing there, reading a newspaper.

  “Dear boy,” she called out, striding across the thick carpet to the pillar which was supporting him. He folded the newspaper, and beamed a smile. She hugged him, and said, “I have to know all the gossip. Who’s here, who wasn’t invited, who’s got what agenda . . .”

  “More importantly, Mother darling, is who’s got who’s ear, if that’s the correct grammatical syntax,” Lawrence said mischievously, linking his arm through hers and beginning to walk her into the bar.

  “Just a minute,” she said, “I can’t leave Sir Percy . . .”

  She asked Percy if he’d like to join them, but he smiled and said he’d leave them alone and go to his room.

  They entered the bar area, and like an over-excited schoolboy, Lawrence said breathlessly, “I’ve got Churchill’s ear. It’s all so different from Paris. Now that I’m suddenly so famous, the British Bulldog considers me worthy of being listened to. It’s quite odd, really. I can’t get used to all this fame and I certainly can’t get used to politicians taking me seriously. But it’s all so exciting. I remember when generals like Allenby and Haig were making decisions above my head and decisions I made in Palestine and the Hejaz wer
e suddenly reversed by invisible forces beyond my control, but now I’m one of those forces, and it’s terribly thrilling.”

  They sat at a table holding hands, and a waiter immediately appeared. “I feel badly about excluding Sir Percy. I really should include him in our conversation. I’m concerned he’ll be miffed if I don’t,” she warned.

  “Invite him tomorrow. I’ve got so much to tell you, so much personal stuff he wouldn’t be interested in. Let’s just be alone for a bit.”

  She looked into the main hall, but Sir Percy was already disappearing behind porters who were carrying their bags to the central staircase. She so greatly appreciated his understanding of her need to be alone with Lawrence.

  They ordered drinks, and Gertrude asked, “What’s the real agenda for this conference? Does Churchill really want advice, or just a rubber stamp on withdrawal of British troops and handing over much of the country to the Arabs?”

  “I think he genuinely wants advice. He certainly wants to canvass as many opinions as possible. That’s why he’s invited Arnold Wilson—”

  “WHAT!!!” she yelled.

  People stopped what they were doing and looked around at them. She smiled politely, and nodded.

  “Wilson?” she hissed. “Here? But that’s insane. Wilson’s the one who created all the problems for Britain in the first place. That’s why we have to clean up his mess. He was the one who—”

  “I’m well aware of what Captain Wilson did. So is Winston. He’s got Wilson here because he’s currently representing British interests in the Anglo-Persian Oil Company. And I think Churchill’s hoping Wilson will play his cards in front of the gathering of experts, saying we should send more troops to Mesopotamia to keep control and ownership, and teach the Arab’s a lesson they’ll never forget. If and when he does, Churchill will descend on him like the proverbial ton of bricks, and distance himself. In that way, it’ll show the problems in Iraq were not created by you and Percy Cox and Churchill and Lloyd George, but by Wilson and all the other buggers opposed to Arabic nationalism. Very clever.”

  “Very devious,” said Gertrude.

  “Oh, Winston is nothing if not devious.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks.

  As he deposited them and left their table, Gertrude said softly, trying to sound as casual as possible, “You know what we’re going to have to do, don’t you, dear boy?”

  He sipped his lemon water, and scrutinized her. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “I’m trying to discuss the future,” she quipped.

  “And are you including me in your monologue as your acolyte, or the beneficiary of your knowledge and experience, or the callow youth you found digging in Carchemish, or the soldier of fortune to whom you gave such welcome advice when he was leading the Arab revolt, or the middle-aged gentleman advisor to Winston Churchill, Colonial Secretary?”

  She looked at him, but he hadn’t finished. “Or the man you wanted to become your Saladin and the ruler of a Greater Arabia? Well, Gertie, which is it?”

  “I’m talking to you as friend . . . and hopefully still as your mentor. You’ve always taken my advice, and I don’t think you’ve suffered as a result.”

  “What is it, Gertie? What do you think we are going to have to do?”

  “Convince Winston to swap horses mid-stream.”

  “Faisal rather than Abdullah?”

  She nodded. “Sir Percy’s already written to him, but he seems reluctant.”

  “I know,” said Lawrence. “He wants to know why the younger son would make a better king than his older brother. And if so, what do we offer the older brother?”

  “You, more than anybody, should know why Faisal rather than Abdullah. He’s a natural leader, and is much more inclined to Britain than Abdullah would be. But even if he’d make a good king, he’ll never become the leader of the Arabs. He’s just not up to fighting some bullying bastard like ibn Sa’ud. Still, as to what to offer Abdullah, we’ll create another Arab nation to the west of Iraq. One which will run to the east bank of the Jordan River. And perhaps a little bit across it to border on the west bank of the Jordan so he’ll have a good water course running through his land.”

  “A country spanning the Jordan? But isn’t that supposed to be Palestine?”

  “Doesn’t have to be,” she said. “We could call it TransJordan. Make Abdullah the first king.”

  “But it’s just desert. There’s nothing there except a few biblical towns, and I’m sure the Jews will want those.”

  “Don’t forget Amman.”

  “Amman? But it’s a hovel. And full of Circassian refugees from Russia. There’s nothing there. You’ll be offering the poor man a handful of houses surrounded by an ocean of sand.”

  “You forget its history,” said Gertrude. “It was the Royal City captured by King David’s general Joab. We’re in control of the whole area under the League of Nation’s mandate. We can split off that part from the Palestine mandated area, and create a whole new country. Wouldn’t it be exciting?”

  Lawrence shook his head. “But what’s there for Abdullah to rule? There’s nobody there but Bedouin and bugger all in the place except desert.”

  “And the wonderful ruins at Petra. And the Dead Sea. And with proper agriculture, within a few years it could become another Iraq. All that’s needed is good management and irrigation from the Jordan.”

  Lawrence shrugged. “But while you’re inventing countries like Iraq and TransJordan, the real issue is how we’re going to protect what we’ve already got in Mesopotamia. How are we going to withdraw our troops, save the good old British taxpayer some money, and not get our arses kicked? That’s what Churchill wants to know.”

  ~

  The seven days were spent in general sessions for all the experts and in closed sessions where teams worked on particular problems. Winston Churchill wandered the halls and corridors of the hotel, dropping in on meetings and advising, cajoling, and energising the participants. His energy was boundless, his understanding prodigious. When people needed to get out of the smoke-filled rooms and go for a walk in the fresh air of the hotel’s gardens, Churchill would wander with them, talking non-stop about the job they had been set. His memory was remarkable, his understanding of the complexities encyclopaedic, and his perceptions of the political realities more sophisticated than anybody believed possible.

  In the time which she spent with him, Gertrude changed her opinion dramatically. She used to consider him a likeable, devious, and somewhat untrustworthy politician. Now she realized she was in the company of greatness. While she knew more of the details of the Middle East than he did, he had a universal view which encompassed the past, present, and future of the region, and the potential involvement of all the Great Powers, especially America and its growing understanding of the mining of oil. Churchill was more impressive than any other politician she’d ever met, and she’d met most of them.

  During one long and lazy walk on the banks of the Nile, he asked her, “So, m’dear, this interest of yours in wogs and such. How did an upper crust English woman become fascinated by the camel riders?”

  “Many years ago—many, many years ago—when I was little more than a girl down from Oxford, I was staying in Bucharest with my Uncle who was the ambassador. A certain Arab came to his home to seek his advice and from that moment onwards, I’ve been fascinated.”

  Churchill walked on, remaining quiet until he asked, “You’re much more than a civil servant, aren’t you Gertie? Civil servants simply do what political masters like me dictate. But you’re different. When you’re giving advice about your Middle East, your eyes light up and I can see the fire in your belly. More than anybody here, you have a mission in life. Do you want to share it?”

  “If you read my reports, Winston my dear, you’ll have seen my mission. It’s to create a single, united Arabic people, an Arabia for all the Arabs so they are one, and not a hundred different tribes, all with their petty jealousies and quarrels. T
hat would be the making of them, like it was in the days of the Caliphate.”

  “But isn’t there a danger in that? Joining groups of little people together will create one big people, much less easy to control. Unlike a lot of small nations, a big nation could turn around and bite us.”

  “True, Winston, but if Arabia isn’t joined as one nation, then Sunni will continuously fight Shi’ite, both will fight the Kurds, the Jews will be massacred, the Christians will be forced out of Bethlehem, and it’ll be a continuous irritant on the body politic. But with one big people, like the Swiss Federation, or the different States in America joining into a United States, there’s be one voice, one government, one set of principles, and the many will become the one,” she said.

  Churchill smiled and said mischievously “E Pluribus Unum. So which are you, Miss Bell? Adams, Jefferson, or Franklin?”

  Just as mischievously, she said softly, “Whichever rings the Liberty Bell.”

  “And does your friend Lawrence the Saladin still fit into your plans?” he asked.

  “Sadly, no. Lawrence was riding high in my estimation, but unfortunately, that camel has bolted. I’m hoping somebody like Faisal could become the man.”

  “Or ibn Sa’ud?” he asked.

  “God help us if he does,” she replied softly. “God help us all.”

  ~

  It was at the general session of all the experts on the seventh day of the conference that Gertrude’s fondness blossomed into deep-seated admiration for Winston. He had convened the morning meeting of all forty experts—diplomatic, military, ambassadorial and consular, Iraqi, and others—in order to assess the progress of the previous day’s accomplishments by the working parties. As she walked into the room which was guarded by soldiers of the British army in Egypt, she felt there was a different look on Winston’s face. It was nothing she could positively identify, but his open candour of the previous week had been replaced by the face of the wily politician. He smelt blood, and she had no idea what he was about to do.