The Years Between (1939-44)

by Cecil Beaton

  The Emir is interested in politics: he is seldom away from the radio and its news bulletins. He said: ‘If you win, we are saved. If you are not saved, we are lost.’ His Royal Highness asked, ‘What do you consider the greatest feats you have accomplished in this war?’ I gulped: ‘The achievements of the pilots in the Battle of Britain, and General Wavell’s campaign with improvised forces and inferior numbers against the Italian Army in the desert.’ There I stuck; but the Emir had a copious list at his fingertips of the great events of the war, both those that ‘were good for us, and those that had been bad’. This was politics told in fairy-story epigrams. ‘When the Germans took Athens, they did not beat the Greeks; they succeeded only in capturing Rome.’ The Emir, nodding, said the English courage in waiting and fighting alone was the most remarkable feat of bravery, and that the English spirit was exemplified in Mr Churchill. He was disappointed that, instead of using the Free French Forces, we could not make an Arab army from Transjordan, Syria and Iraq to fight in the Western Desert.

  In search of interesting backgrounds for my snapshots the Emir unlocked with a Yale key various doors of his palace. Some of the rooms of gigantic size were almost empty and smelled of disuse, but whenever we ventured out of doors, even so far as a loggia, we were almost felled by the heat. The Emir, sweating through his maquillage, lasted out pretty well the course of a strenuous photographic sitting.

  ARAB LEGION

  Wednesday, June 17th

  The evening sun was sinking slowly and casting long blue shadows when, after two and a half hours’ drive through the desert, we arrived at the Arab Legion at Azraq. On our way we had passed Glubb, in a khaki tajrifa (headdress) with two highly coloured henchmen in the back of his car, returning to Amman. He looked baffled and miserable to see me, which I later realized was his normal expression. But, thanks to his introductions and instructions, we had an adventurous evening. In an oasis of emerald grass and rushes, of palm-trees, of birds and mules drinking water, is the Casa el Azraq, where Lawrence had his headquarters. It is a ruined battlemented castle, made of lava rock of an ugly leaden colour. Here, stranded miles from his big home and family, lives one of the great English eccentrics, Colonel Sir Philip Brocklehurst, who lost two toes from frostbite when on an expedition with Shackleton. Now he is the Commanding Officer of the Second Company of the Legionaries. He lives in a circular mud hut, does his own washing and cooking, eats practically nothing, but is obviously content with such adventurous simplicity. He sent us to visit his Legionaries who, in scarlet, pink and khaki uniforms, with resplendent headdresses, were being taught to use a Vickers gun, others running about in armoured cars or, at a range, doing shooting practice.

  They thoroughly enjoy this life which transforms them from desert pirates into lawful soldiers. They did well in the Syrian campaign and are disappointed that they have had no opportunity to fight the Germans in this part of the world.

  GLUBB PASHA

  Whereas Lawrence now is a name only to a handful of Arabs, Glubb is known throughout the Arab world. He is quiet and self-effacing. Nothing riles him more than to be called ‘the second Lawrence’. He is childlike in many ways, without much grace or facility of manner; in fact, facility is something he does not possess, with the result that greater effect is given to his every action and word. In the last war part of his jaw was shot away; his teeth have grown together and look like a beak. The Arabs now call him ‘The Father of the Little Chin’.

  All day long dozens of Arabs hang around Glubb’s headquarters to be able to talk to him on some personal matter. The sheiks come in, just to remain in his room without talking. They do not mind the silence, but rather are honoured if allowed to be for twenty minutes in the presence of the Pasha. Glubb is like a squire with his tenants, listening to their troubles, answering with just the right amount of sympathy, not too warm so that he could never again be left in peace, nor frigid so as to appear proud. He is obviously devoted to the Arabs and himself lives almost like a Moslem. He speaks Arabic fluently, has given up smoking and plays with beads behind his desk.

  Glubb said, ‘You want to go to the 9th Army. No good taking it from its perimeter. Go to its source. Don’t go to Damascus, go to Beirut.’ And forthwith wrote letters of introduction.

  Outside in the corridors and hallways, which are always crowded, a greater excitement prevails when Glubb is due to leave. When he appeared at lunchtime, his two henchmen enjoyed a tug-of-war, pulled each other’s arms and skirts, and tussled their way down to the waiting car, roaring with laughter, in which Glubb joined.

  SYRIA AND LEBANON: BAD NEWS FROM THE DESERT

  Beirut

  Joan Aly Khan is a subtle and kind creature. To find myself sheltering under her roof is one of the greatest strokes of good fortune I have ever enjoyed. We talked of the Syrian campaign, of the Free French difficulties, of Spears’s mission which, starting as a liaison organization, is now almost a local government, while Spears is invested as minister. He has a brigadier as his military attaché and a staff of really first-rate, hand-picked men. In certain circles Spears is unpopular, and the plea has been heard that Syria should be ‘French without Spears’.

  Ali, who works as secretary for General Catroux, came in depressed at the news: ‘The Libyan battle has been lost by us — we have announced as much on the radio.’ There had been no indication that things were not going well; the campaign started so successfully, but now it is likely that we shall lose Tobruk in less than a month, for the Navy can’t afford to supply it. What then is there to prevent Rommel from making a nice straight run to Cairo?

  June 22nd, Fouglass

  It was cold in the night. By degrees the brilliant sun warmed my cold feet. I started with reluctance upon a day I did not look forward to: we were to watch an army demonstration — a giant tank battle to be fought from 9.30 until 3.30 in the afternoon, before driving all the way back to the patch of desert, another five hours away, that was considered ‘home’.

  Altogether, today I was more miserable than I have been for years. A long line of cars drove out in sandstorms of our own making, to a certain mound far away in an airless stretch of desert where, assembled to watch the demonstration, were about 3,000 soldiers, airmen and sailors. The heat was pitiless. Of course there was no shade.

  Jumbo Wilson arrived, and then another general spoke into a microphone, fixed up from a van, telling us what we were about to witness. To me the technicalities were incomprehensible; a rat-a-tat was heard in the distance and some small specks of dust flew up from where the guns had aimed. That was that.

  The next demonstration, also first explained at full length, took place in a large plain many leagues away to which we again drove in a cloud of dust. This incident was indeed impressive. A ‘make believe’ attack by a Panzer division was staged. The Panzer division was represented in half strength; but, even so, one was given a graphic impression of the size on which these operations are fought. The tanks, moving like lice, were specks in the distance, hardly visible but for the clouds of dust they and the motor-bicycles churned up. The sun beat down with such force that it reduced the world to the palest colours; yet, in the middle of this haze of misty blue, the flashes from the tanks blazed like fireworks; explosions rent the air with a thunder of rolling reverberations.

  The sight was impressive, though I could not interpret the various units represented by each group of vehicles. I did grasp that a motor-bicycle was an armoured car, a lorry a tank; but the tactics and strategy were far beyond my comprehension. Most of those present seemed to be only mildly interested, and only a small percentage were listening to the loudspeaker’s endless monologue.

  General Wilson, however, was enjoying the whole proceeding with relish, as well he might; for this demonstration was Jumbo’s particular toy, a toy costing thousands of pounds with 2,000 men taking part.

  Suddenly I heard one of the officers saying, ‘Hell take it, I’ll tear a strip off him for that! He shouldn’t say such things in front of the dr
iver!’ ‘What did he say?’ I asked. ‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ lowering his voice to a murmur, ‘he said that Tobruk has fallen, 25,000 prisoners have been captured, and that the Germans will be in Cairo in a week.’ As Jumbo’s toy battle continued the crushing disappointment of the news was whispered from man to man. The campaign had turned into a major disaster. The prospect was now alarming; for if Suez goes, linking the Germans with the Japs, where then can we stop them?

  Last night I had a nightmare that the Germans had arrived in Cairo, and had discovered my excessively indiscreet diaries left behind at Shepheard’s Hotel, which were now receiving a very mixed reception among my friends, relayed over the air to England by Lord Haw-haw.

  Whenever I am asked when I am going home, and I reply: ‘Soon, perhaps,’ the eyes that once regarded me in a friendly way are suddenly filled with loathing. The men are resigned to remain out here in one solid block; but to see a man who is returning to England is disquieting. One Major said, ‘I shall be lucky if I get back in five years’ time!’ Another, ‘I would give my right hand if I could get to England now!’

  I was shaving and washing under desert conditions when the AOC’s personal assistant informed me casually that the Germans have captured Fort Capuzzo, and if they get Barrani then there is only Mersa Matruh before Suez!

  I felt quite panicky and most irrepressibly upset. In a beastly, selfish way, unmindful of the hundreds of thousands of other men who are in much worse a plight than mine, I thought only of my own troubles. With tremendous enthusiasm I had come here to do a job for a certain length of time, but I had not faced the prospect of remaining here for the rest of the war. Now I saw this the possibility. Any ideas of home might have to be abandoned: my mind wove all sorts of unprofitable theories, and I felt disgusted at my own alarm. I realized how enviable is a dispassionate courage, a blindness to misfortune.

  I walked over to the ‘ops’ tent. The Group Captain was busy, everyone was busy with their morning’s work; but I had nothing to do but wait for the mail plane to take me to Beirut that afternoon. I wandered towards the mess tent aimlessly; perhaps there was a mug of water to spare. Someone had forgotten to place the mugs in the water cans so that they should remain cool, with the result that standing on a table they had taken on the temperature of the tent and might really have been heated in an oven. A man with a handkerchief tied around his neck hung up the receiver and said to me, ‘I am afraid you’re unlucky today — there’s a three hour delay on the mail plane, it has broken down.’ ‘Isn’t there any car I could horn in on?’ After many delays I succeeded in getting into an RAF van, and we motored in the heat of the day for six hours. Inside, the metal of the car was almost too hot to touch. My razor, wrapped in a leather case in a dressing-gown in a leather bag, was heated as if by electricity. I wondered how the human frame could survive such contrasts of temperature as it does.

  On our way, we came suddenly upon the ruins of Baalbek, the earliest city built in the world. Like Nimrod, the great grandson of Noah, who is the legendary founder of the first city to be built on this site, the early history of Baalbek is lost in mystery. In the centuries which have passed over these rough monoliths and noble pillars Baalbek has withstood two major earthquakes, attacks of Crusaders, a siege by Saladin, and the victory of Tamerlane in the fifteenth century. Long forgotten are the great licentious festivals in honour of the Goddess of Pleasure when negroes were sacrificed and the golden statue of Jupiter was carried in procession to be worshipped by prostrate crowds. A priest was hidden in the hollow body of the god, having entered it by a subterranean passage which can be seen today, and from the image itself issued the mysterious responses to the questions of those who came to consult the oracle.

  With the lasting record of all these fleeting centuries before my eyes, it was an outrage to complain of the heat of the passing day; and yet, as I stood in the presence of so much grandeur and beauty, it seemed to need more energy than I possessed even to click my camera. I loathed myself for my petty thoughts in so vast a setting as I mopped my brow and felt sorry for myself.

  The sun dropped lower but became no less burning. For the first time I hated the pitiless, merciless sun. The mountains provided a respite, and as we neared Beirut the avenues of shady trees were a special balm. Then, at last, we arrived! Oh, the coolness of Joan’s house! The treat of a bath! Someone produced freshly pressed clothes — what luxury!

  The news is terrible, London and Washington in an uproar; in fact, so bad that most of the day, even in the lovely airy spaciousness of Joan’s house, I’ve felt stifled. But Joan has a protecting soothing quality. She seems calm, and thinks that we might be able to make some sort of final stand. We discussed the hunger that English people, in particular, have for home. They crave, when out here or in the desert, to hear thrushes and blackbirds and to feel grass under their feet. They yearn for a softer fight, a sun reflected from grass and not from white stony scrub.

  Joan is interested in everything from music to medicine. She is an artist in the way a great surgeon is. She told me of a German doctor who had instruments designed by himself, so beautiful that they should be preserved as objets d’art. She herself was a great friend of Martell, the French brain doctor who shot himself when the Germans arrived in Versailles. Joan’s life has been varied and thrilling. She has lived in the four corners of the world, yet remains Cornish at heart.

  Toby Milbanke, a friend staying in the same house, is extremely grim about the position in the desert and envisages my personal troubles as being quite serious; for now, he calculates, I may have difficulty in getting on to an aeroplane — surely a great number of people in Cairo at the moment must be wishing to do the same thing. Cairo is the terminus for England and, in order to return, I have to go to Cairo. He hopes that my arrival there does not synchronize with that of the Germans.

  I went to the RAF headquarters and took some pictures half-heartedly, for my enthusiasm had left me and these photographs were redundant. A chap said he thought I could be got on to a mail plane to Lydda tomorrow; but could not promise what would happen from there onwards.

  Thursday, June 25th

  While I was in my bath, the angelic Joan shouted, ‘You can go on Misery tomorrow, if you want.’ Action, splendid! Determined Joan had managed to get me on the Egyptian transport MISR passenger aeroplane to Cairo.

  CAIRO FLAP

  Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo

  Cairo is full of rumours. Stories of reinforcements are encouraging: a convoy is said to have arrived at Suez just at the right time; de Gaulle is reported to be flying in, and Wavell, too, is on his way. Shepheard’s Hotel is already lousy with generals; General Messervy in the telephone booth, General le Gentilhomme standing by the revolving doors with General Catroux, General Ritchie coming out of the wash-room. There is a great deal of talk as to who must be punished for the fiasco in the desert. The Egyptians have behaved surprisingly well and have not panicked in the face of unpleasant news. In fact Cairo, outwardly, seems quite calm.

  Lilia Ralli has appeared from Alexandria where tearfully she bade good-bye to her parents: ‘They are too old to be chased about by Rommel,’ she cried. She described Alexandria as a dead city: all Wrens and sailors evacuated; roads without traffic; windows open on to empty rooms; telephone bells ringing unanswered.

  Derek Atkins turned up with stories of the retreat. Yes, it was sad leaving the ‘Ritz’ at Bagush, the camp which we had considered our desert home, and awful to have to blow up the recently built cookhouse of which they were so proud.

  Randolph Churchill, who was smashed up in a motor accident in the desert, is out of the hospital for the first time today. I had dinner off a tray by his bed. He was at his most enthusiastic for four hours on end, shouting with relish, ‘The situation’s splendid!’ He’d like to see the Germans come to within fifty miles of Cairo, then, with their long transport lines, be cut off. He said he was glad I was going home soon so that I could tell ‘them’ what had happened at Tobruk; b
ut when I asked him what did happen at Tobruk he was unable to answer. Randolph’s stout heart makes me feel ashamed of my anxieties. Just to hear such exuberance is encouraging.

  June 28th

  The German radio announced that their armies would be in Alexandria on the 6th and in Cairo by the 9th. Someone at the office said that, if that was so, the end of the ‘shooting match’ was in sight. Dudley Barker gallantly remonstrated, ‘Oh no, we should have to stop them somewhere else.’ The front lines are so near that the journalists go up to the battle for the day.

  June 29th

  The Germans have announced the fall of Mersa Matruh. All army and air force personnel must remain indoors after 8 o’clock. Cairo, at last, seems in a state of alarm with queues outside the banks and crowds milling in front of the shops that sell luggage. Rumour is rife: forty tommy guns were found in a priest’s house. In offices everyone is busily burning documents: black charred pieces of paper drift down from the chimneys — a storm of black cinders, a hail of funeral confetti; the air thick with a pungent, peppery smell of burning. Out of doors there are more braziers heaped with piles of smouldering paper.