14. I Do Not Suppose Any Englishman Before Ever Had Such a Place
Wadi’Ais and Wadi Hamdh March-April 1917
We sighted Aba an-Na’am station an hour before sunset, when the saltbush and tamarisk were throwing elastic shadows like exclamation marks across the hard grey shingle on the valley floor. From afar, glimpsed through the folios of thorn-trees, the station buildings were a nest of dark geometrical symmetry amid the fractal patterns of nature, tiny against the gleaming granite walls of Jabal Unsayl, which towered behind it. This was the Wadi Hamdh – the frontier of Juhayna and Billi country – but my driver, Mifleh, was Bani Salem and considered it a foreign district. I had tried to find a camel, to make the pilgrimage to the places where Lawrence had first attacked the Hejaz railway in the slow and leisurely manner they deserved, but in Saudi Arabia today there are no riding-camels. Sadly, I had been obliged to hire a Land-Cruiser at Medina. All afternoon we had been following the line of the railway. The rails and sleepers had long ago been removed, and in places it was scarcely identifiable but for its embankment, a low shelf cutting through sand and shale. The stations had been placed roughly at thirteen-mile intervals, and in 1917 it had been the custom of the Turks to patrol the line every day, using a clockwork system, which had made their movements predictable to Lawrence’s demolition parties. A patrol from each station would clear exactly half the distance to the next station, then, having encountered their neighbours, and exchanged talk and cigarettes, would retreat back down the line. There were six stations between Medina and Abu an-Na’am, and almost all of them brought an image from the Lawrence story – Muhit, where in June 1916 ‘Ali and Feisal had been forced back and attacked in the rear by Fakhri Pasha; Hafira and Buwat, which Feisal had planned to attack in force with his Juhayna; al-Buwayr, where a complete locomotive still stood, rusted to its rails and covered in painted
graffiti, in the station yard; Istabl ‘Antar, where ‘Abdallah had crossed the line on his way to Wadi Ais, standing under a mountain with distinct double-fanged peaks, supposed in Bedu folklore to be the place where the hero ‘Antar ibn Shaddad tethered his gigantic horse. It was Abu an-Na’am which claimed my interest most, though, for it was here that Lawrence had fought his first engagement with the Turks, and ‘fingered the thrilling rails’ of the Hejaz railway for the first time. The mouth of Wadi ‘Ais was visible to the west, and the low ridges of the Dhula – before which Sharif Shakir had laid his artillery, to bombard the station from 2,000 yards. Hamdh, ‘The Sour Wadi’, had a wooded feel, almost African – in Lawrence’s day there were leopard, hyena and ibex here, and at some time in the past there must have been ostrich also, for the name Aba an-Na’am means ‘Place of the Ostrich’.1 Mifleh thought there were still hyena and ibex, and perhaps even the odd leopard, though he didn’t know anyone who had seen a leopard in recent years. No one he had spoken to, not even the old men, had ever seen an ostrich in Hamdh. We passed a patch of wild colocynth melons, small yellow-green globes, with a camouflage pattern, joined by succulent runners. Mifleh stopped to collect some, saying that you could make a medicine from them which was good for diabetes. The melons were poisonous to humans, but donkeys would eat them boiled, and the Bedu had once made tar from their seeds which they used for proofing water-skins. Like the Bedu, they were superbly adapted to aridity: when the sun dried them into husks, the wind would bowl them through the desert scattering the seeds as they went.
Aba an-Na’am was built on a similar pattern to the other stations we had seen and consisted of three main buildings – a substantial fort, the station itself, and an oval water tower – not circular as Lawrence had described it. To the west stood a tiny mosque and a well-house. The buildings were made of black basalt blocks, and the upper storey of the fort and part of the water-tower had clearly been rebuilt after the Arabs’ bombardment. Mifleh and I explored the fort, which was solidly constructed – rooms opening off a central yard buried under generations of guano, a steel ladder leading down into an underground water-cistern, a staircase taking you to the upper floors, with walkways and battlements. With binoculars, I swept the wadi towards the line of broken outcrops which guarded the entrance to Wadi ‘Ais. The valley was full of rimth sedge set in low, golden clusters like islands, and there was a knot of camels grazing peacefully on the saltbush. I wondered what the Turkish commander of the fort had seen and felt as he stood here on the morning of 30 March 1917, hearing the first, terrifying report of Sharif Shakir’s guns, just before the building began to fall in on him. There had been no fewer than 400 troops defending the station then, sleeping in tents pitched around it, and the place had been encircled with barbed wire. The Turks had been aware that there were Arab patrols in the area, and had been anticipating an attack, because on the evening of the 28th Lawrence’s men had fired a few rounds at the fort, to make sure the troops stayed inside. Later, opposite the door, Mifleh showed me the twisted iron chassis of a railway-wagon, with its bogeys a little way off, half buried in sand. The metal was hot to the touch. This was probably another relic of Lawrence’s attack – for one of Shakir’s shells had hit the first of six wagons attached to a locomotive standing in the siding, detonating its highly flammable cargo which had erupted in flames. The engine had steamed off south directly towards the place where Lawrence had laid his first mine.
Wejh had been taken as a base from which the Arabs could cut the Hejaz railway, and Feisal’s ultimate objective remained the slow strangling and final capture of Medina. In one sense, his march on Wejh had been an overwhelming success – it had mobilized the Bedu tribes of the northern Hejaz and beyond, and brought them flocking to the Hashemite colours. In February alone, Feisal received visitors from the Shararat, the Howaytat, the Bani ‘Atiya and the Rwalla – tribes from Syria or the Syrian marches – and from the Wuld ‘Ali and Billi tribes of the Hejaz. His aim was to mould the tribes into an ‘Arab Nation’, and his first task was to try to end the blood-feuds which had riven them for generations. He listened carefully and patiently to every petitioner, investigating the history of every claimed wrong, balancing the rival claims with diyya or ‘blood-money’ where this was acceptable, or invoking the cause of Arab solidarity in the name of his father Hussain, the King of the Hejaz, where it was not. Adherents to the cause were made to swear to Feisal personally on the Holy Quran that they would ‘wait while he waited, march when he marched, yield obedience to no Turk, deal kindly with all who spoke Arabic … and put independence above life, family and goods …’2 The Bedu swore, but whether they believed themselves to be an ‘Arab nation’ is doubtful. They hated the Turks, wanted them out of their tribal districts, and were willing to go along with the Hashemites towards this end, but they valued their independence more highly than gold, and if their thoughts strayed beyond their own territory, it was generally in terms of gain or plunder: their nation would always be the tribe, the tribe and the tribe.
Already, Lawrence noticed, the Juhayna were drifting back to their homes in the Wadi Yanbu’, feeling themselves foreigners in Billi country. Ironically, it was only the ‘Agayl, who were neither a tribe nor even nomads, who were willing to travel far beyond their own frontiers, and the ‘Agayl had troubles of their own. On 12 February they mutinied against their leader ‘Abdallah ibn Dakhil, ransacked his tent, and thrashed his guards, then rushed the camp of the ‘Utayba, with whom they had a blood-feud. They were dissuaded only by Feisal himself, who strode among them barefoot, laying about with the flat of his sword, but by the time peace had been restored two men had been killed and thirty wounded. As for Lawrence, his temporary assignment with Feisal was now officially completed, for Newcombe was in the field to replace him. However, Feisal and Lawrence had grown attached to each other, and neither wished to part from the other in medias res. Lawrence saw that his place was to be official adviser and unofficial spur of the Arab Revolt. On the day they had ridden into Wejh, a cable had reached Clayton from Jeddah containing Feisal’s personal request that Lawrence should stay with him, since h
e had been ‘of very great assistance’.3 Clayton had no choice but to accept. On 1 March he wrote to Major Hugh Pearson – who had temporarily replaced Wilson in Jeddah – that ‘Lawrence with Feisal is of inestimable value and an Englishman to take a corresponding place with ‘Ali could immensely increase the probability of cooperation among the armies’.4 It was inevitable, given Lawrence’s faculty for empathy, that he should identify with the Arabs and the Arab Revolt, and he now felt his hand on the reins of power. His earlier reservations about being in the field were forgotten, and he became engrossed in his work to the exclusion of almost everything else. Now, dressing habitually in Arab robes, speaking Arabic constantly, he had stepped into his Arab persona and had half forgotten that he was a captain in the British army, regarding himself of being ‘of Sharif Feisal’s household’. He had ‘chosen’ Feisal as the revolt’s figurehead, and he alone would guide him to victory. He knew that Feisal was easily influenced, and since this was so, he intended to be the Sharif’s adviser for as long as he could: ‘The position I have is a queer one,’ he wrote home, ‘I do not suppose any Englishman before ever had such a place.’5 Feisal had come to rely on Lawrence because he recognized that the Englishman had a quality indispensable to a true leader – he inspired confidence. Lawrence could not only generate great charm, but was one of those individuals who always seemed to be able to supply the right answer, who always appeared to know the right course, and was always capable of reassuring others that things would turn out for the best. As Sir Herbert Baker later said, ‘he appeared to radiate a magnetic influence’.6 Although Lawrence’s self-assured demeanour actually disguised an inner lack of confidence, and a turmoil of doubt, like his mother Sarah he showed a different face to the world. His influence was subtle, however. He did not try to dictate strategy to Feisal, neither did he harangue Arab councils with his opinions. He did not command, but suggested a course: ‘… he would make brilliant suggestions,’ Leonard Woolley commented, ‘but would seldom argue in support of them: they were based on sound enough arguments, but he would expect you to see these for yourself, and if you did not agree he would relapse into silence and smile.’7 In his Twenty-Seven Articles, intended as advice for other officers dealing with the Hashemites, Lawrence revealed his modus operandi with Feisal: he would try to ensure that the Sharif first put his plans before him privately, and would always accept them and praise them, and then modify them imperceptibly by drawing suggestions from Feisal himself, until they accorded with Lawrence’s own opinion. Once they were in agreement, he would hold him to it firmly and push him, so subtly that the Sharif was hardly aware of it, towards its execution. In front of others, though, he would always appear to defer to the Sharif, and would strengthen Feisal’s prestige at the expense of his own. While in the Sharif’s camp, he would not visit him formally, but would remain in his company constantly, eating with him and being present at all audiences, continually dropping ideas into the casual talk. When tribal Sheikhs came to declare for the Hashemites, though, Lawrence would vanish, realizing that a first impression of foreigners in Feisal’s confidence would do harm to the cause. Lawrence brought his immense powers of concentration to bear on the Sharif’s affairs and immersed himself totally in Arab culture: he watched and listened and chewed over every detail, delved into motives and machinations beneath the surface, analysed the characters he had to deal with. He was always on his guard, tried never to speak unnecessarily, constantly watched himself and his actions. Pierce Joyce, who saw him at dozens of conferences with the Arabs, recalled that he rarely spoke: ‘He merely studied the men around him, ‘Joyce said; ‘he knew beforehand that his plan would be accepted, while the task of kindling enthusiasm among the tribesmen was best left to the Arab leaders.’ ‘It was not as is often supposed by his individual leadership of hordes of Bedu that he achieved success … but by the wise selection of leaders and providing the essential grist to the mill in the shape of golden rewards for work well done.’8
Lawrence was aware that the march on Wejh had been a great moral triumph for the Hashemite cause, but to professional British officers, who were less aware of the nature of a propaganda war, the Arabs had been found wanting – their major successes had been made possible only by the Royal Navy. Lawrence realized that a more independent victory was needed to vindicate the movement in the eyes of his British commanders, and to vindicate himself personally, for he was well aware of what officers such as Bray and Vickery thought of Feisal’s failure to make the rendezvous at Wejh, and of his part in that failure. A startling coup by the Arabs was needed to make the British stand up. That chance seemed to be offering itself when, on 10 March, the patrol ship Nural-Bahr put into Wejh with the electrifying news that Fakhri Pasha had been ordered to evacuate Medina with all his force.
A Turkish retreat from Medina at that moment would have been a great victory for the Arabs, but for the British a disaster. In December 1916 Murray’s Egyptian Expeditionary Force had crossed Sinai, and Murray was now preparing for a massive push against the Turkish defences in Palestine, which ran from Gaza on the coast to Beersheba inland. To have the entire Medina garrison – 12,000 Ottoman troops with full artillery – arrive suddenly on his right flank would have been most unwelcome. In a letter to Lawrence, Clayton stressed that Fakhri Pasha’s force must be attacked and destroyed before it could reach Palestine. Under no circumstances should it be allowed to get through. Newcombe and Garland were still up-country on demolition-raids, and since Lawrence was the senior British officer in Wejh, he had no choice but to take charge of the situation. His first task required all his diplomacy, and called on the relationship of trust he had built up with Feisal. He had to explain to the Sharif that Arab priorities must be sacrificed in this case for British ones. Feisal, to whom Lawrence had recently revealed the terms of the Sykes–Picot agreement, had been anxious to push north into Syria to consolidate the Arab position there before the French could claim it. It was a great tribute to Lawrence’s persuasive power that he brought Feisal round within the space of a few hours to accept the priority of British requirements. Once done, he and Feisal sat down to decide on the distribution of their forces. Messengers were rushed off to ‘Ali and Abdallah to alert them to the new situation. ‘Ali was to move north-east with the Juhayna and Bani Salem, ‘Abdallah was to be sent dynamite and instructed to hit the railway at any point and at any cost. Maulud al-Mukhlis and Rasim Sardast were to go to Faqir with the Mule Mounted Infantry and a mountain-gun, Sharif ‘Ali ibn Hussain of the Harith – the ‘young lord’ Lawrence had encountered on his first ride to Hamra the previous October – was to go to Jayala to harass the line. Sections of the Billi and Wuld Mohammad were to take machine-guns and menace the station at al -‘Ula. The plan, made on the spur of the moment, was to contain the Turks south of that line. If they managed to pass al-‘Ula then they would be in the protection of the large Ottoman garrison at Tebuk. A key point in their retreat would be the station at Hediyya, the only permanent water supply for 200 miles, and Lawrence earmarked this as his own target. Even before arriving in Wejh he had talked about the possibility of visiting ‘Abdallah in Wadi Ais. Now, he decided, he would travel to ‘Abdallah’s camp, explain the new strategy, have a look at the railway, mine a train, and if possible capture a station. He set off for Wadi Ais with an escort the same night.
This was Lawrence’s first major operation in the field. He was not a trained field-officer, as he had always insisted, but a political officer, and his proper place was by Feisal’s side. Garland and Newcombe, both Sappers, had preceded him in action against the railway. However, this was an emergency, and Lawrence felt that ‘Abdallah’s force, sitting in Wadi ‘Ais, had done little to justify its existence over the previous months. He would now act as a spur to Abdallah, as he had done so effectively with Feisal, and in the process would strike at the key point on the railway himself. As he rode out of Wejh with his escort, it must almost have seemed to Lawrence that the entire future of the Near East campaign rested on hi
s shoulders. As soon as he was on the road, however, the old terror of being injured reasserted itself with a vengeance. Almost every moment of profound stress in Lawrence’s life is marked with illness: his journeys in Syria had ended in malaria and dysentery: at the crucial point on his mission to Kut in 1916 an attack of fever had laid him out. The malaria was genuine, but it returned at intervals when his fear brought his psychological defences down. His ride to Wadi Ais, the terrible responsibility of his position, the necessity of doing right both by the Arabs and by his British masters, and the prospect of standing between the Turkish wolf and its home ground, took their psychical toll. By the second evening, when his party camped at the pool of Abu Zeraybat, where Feisal had lingered on his march to Wejh, Lawrence was suffering from fever, boils and dysentery. The following day – 12 March – the party set out early. Lawrence’s companions – a Moroccan named Hamed, a Syrian cook, some ‘Agayl, Rifa’a, a Merawi and an ‘Utaybi – spent the day arguing continuously. The going was difficult, and for Lawrence agonizing. After a short break at mid-morning they rode up a narrow water-course towards the Sukhur – vast striated masses of cracked and faulted volcanic rock – where they were obliged to dismount and drag their camels up over rocky shelves and a knife-blade ridge. They descended into a valley, which opened into another, and another, until they strayed into an area of black basalt boulders known as a harra, where the camels tripped and stumbled. The sun came out with a vengeance, and twice during the day Lawrence fainted. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle. In the afternoon they were obliged to make two difficult and steep descents which only added to his fatigue. Finally, at 4.15 they halted for the night in a stony water-course called Wadi Khitan, where Lawrence unhitched his saddle-bags and threw himself into the shade of some rocks, exhausted, with a headache and raging fever. What happened next forms one of those mysterious hiatuses which feature so commonly in Lawrence’s life, when we seem to be passing from the realms of solid fact – times, distances, numbers and dates, with which he crammed his diaries and letters – into a subterranean world of nightmares and shadows.
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