An intelligent camel is one of God’s greatest gifts. She is everything a man needs in the desert. And if she is beautiful, as my Uncle Tom, she is a perpetual reminder to us that we are no more nor less important in the sight of God than any of His creatures. As God’s creatures we always have some kind of kinship to the beasts—and they to us. The symbiosis, the deep friendship, between Man and animal is as beautiful as any human relationship, and as mutually useful. This is another thing one learns on one’s own in the desert. God does not forbid these things. The Bible abounds with examples of this love between Man and his cousins. Noah would have understood.
In the desert nothing stands between Man and God save Man’s own self-deceit. Unless you acknowledge God’s dominion, you are destroyed. There are simple parables to be learned in the desert. One loses Self, but one gains the Universe. I pray for all souls, all innocent souls who are slaughtered in War. I pray they find sweet happiness in the presence of Jesus, our Saviour and God, our Father. Let them be released from the terrors and humiliations of this world and all its unjust torments. Let the forces of evil wage war amongst themselves while the Godly remain powerless to affect the cause of peace. What was Munich but the last hope of a good man in an evil world? In the end the British betrayed him.
Kolya said religion was the last resort of rogues. Of course that can also be true. But what I would sacrifice to live in an age when God was our first resort and the Lord of Peace ruled our hearts and minds!
I have almost given up hope of the New Jerusalem, as the English call it. Eventually, no doubt, Karl Marx will conquer the world, Sigmund Freud will re-interpret it, Albert Einstein will provide it with suitable physics, Stefan Zweig will give us its history, Israel Zangwill will furnish its literature and we shall no longer remember a time when Christian chivalry might have recreated Eden. Carthago delenda est. I think not!
A wind brought up burning sand against which I veiled my mouth and eyes, finding it even more difficult to keep to my chosen direction. Her beautiful long lashes and elegant nostrils closed against the razoring wind, Uncle Tom was led up and down the dunes now furious with activity, as if a thousand wakened devils plagued our way. Every so often, through the sighing air, I thought I heard a ghostly Meistersinger or Kundry. I would pause and call, but I was never answered. My exposed skin was flayed. My camels, refusing to move further, folded themselves down into the sand. They would have perished, half-buried, if I had not wrapped their heads in cloth and yelled at them to rise, slashing at them with my whip, pleading with them to think of their own safety as well as mine. Then, unveiled, supremely self-contained, Uncle Tom rose at last to set an example. Soon the camels were placidly following Uncle Tom through the whirling fury of the storm. I think they now accepted that their fate was in God’s hands. There is a Berber saying: The great follow the ways of God. The would-be great follow the ways of Satan. There is considerable truth in this. I came to understand it on the beach at Margate in 1956 when I was, of course, 56 years old. I had just heard the news that the Allied Defence Force had struck to defend a Suez Canal seized by the warlord Nasser. Nasser now has no great support in the Arab world because the Arab wants a just king, not a democracy. Chief of all he wants a successful king he can worship as a manifestation of God on Earth, just as his Sumerian ancestors worshipped their leaders. Unsuccessful leaders, like Abd el-Krim or Raisauli are simply forgotten.
Krim was first defeated the year I entered the Western Desert. As a result, all the scum who had flocked to his standard were scattered some fifteen hundred miles across the sarira and dunes, surviving by any means they knew. And most of what they knew involved murder and rapine, especially those Kurdish mercenaries who had been the first to flee. Like Trotsky, Krim had found it expedient to murder or betray some of his own lieutenants, to prove his loyalty to the French who sent him to Paris with his loot. But this is Arab politics. It is their culture. Some might say it is our culture, too. But our own half-conscious tribal customs are never entirely clear to us, I suppose.
The English and Americans always amuse me with their denial that they display such unconscious tribalism. Only true citizens of the world like myself are relatively free of unexamined prejudices. Margate, I sometimes think, was my psychic Waterloo, just as Suez was Dunkirk for the British and the French. It was then I was stunned to realise that the English, after letting Persia seize their oil in 1951, had given up their responsibilities in the Middle East while America had failed to take up the burden. It was the fall of Constantinople all over again.
Parched, down to a few sips of water and all that remained of a kilo of cocaine, together with a little morphine and hashish, I refused to crack. I would not let madness overtake me as it had my poor friend.
A day later, as the storm subsided to a few streamers and dust-devils, I thought I heard distant thunder, rolling as it does, through echoing hills. The camels grew alert and joyful. Here was a promise of rain, or at least water. Sayed the Sudanese had told me that thunderstorms often followed sandstorms. Sometimes they coincided. Sometimes rain came. It was unlikely, I reasoned, that it would rain here, in the dunes, but in shaded limestone hills pools sometimes formed. I summoned my energy, sipped the last of my water, touched some cocaine to my raw gums and led my little caravan towards the sound of thunder.
And there at last, just before sunset, I saw the pale blue horizon broken suddenly by a line of low, rocky hills over which a few wisps of cloud hung, as if glad of any company. I began to shake with joy. I even wept a little, yet was so conscious of losing water that I spread my tears over my face and neck before urging my camels down another dune. The hills were lost from sight, but I had taken their position from the setting sun and would know which way to go as the stars came out.
So, with sun, stars and God as my infallible guides, I came at last to the Lost Oasis of Zazara. She was neither mirage nor legend. But I was not to drink her waters for many more hours.
For a second time I heard rattling thunder from the hills but I paused, suddenly suspicious. From the distance I realised I had heard not a storm but a rapid exchange of rifle fire. My heart sank. Ahead of me some tribal conflict was in session. My arrival might, in time-honoured fashion, make both sides decide to satisfy their honour by burying their differences, killing the stranger and dividing up his goods.
For this reason I approached the hills as the Bedouin had taught me, making a wide arc until I could be sure that I could reach the hills without myself being easily seen. Frequently I paused to rest and listen, a bullet in my Lee-Enfield’s breech instantly ready to be fired as a warning to anyone who tried to attack. But obviously the warring parties were busy with their immediate dispute and had not noticed me. Every so often the gunfire would rattle again and then there would be silence, doubtless as the combatants licked their wounds and reconsidered their strategy.
In other circumstances, I would have risked going on, but Zazara was on the Darb al-Haramiya which, all knew, led for thousands of miles back into the Sudan, down into French West Africa, to Chad, to Abyssinia, to Fezzan, Tripolitania, Algeria, Morocco and Rio de Oro. I was at another terminus and could go almost anywhere I wished. My only problem now was how to avoid being robbed and murdered. Once I had taken stock of the terrain I might be able to sneak into the oasis, water my camels, fill my fantasses and get out again while the factions were still occupied with their battle.
By now half-crazy with thirst, my body having no patience with my mind’s disciplines, I yearned to run into those mumbling hills and seek the water the camels were already trying to sniff.
I would not be able to hold my beasts back for long. Only an experienced camelman can do that. Soon they would begin to trot forward. I would lose control. I decided therefore that it was best to lead them, rather than follow. Uncle Tom, dignified as always, was proceeding at her usual unhurried walk. When she glanced back over her shoulder to make sure her herd was following, her lovely eyes were full of concern, her lips drawn away from
her great prehistoric teeth in an encouraging smile. How proud I was when I remounted her with all the casual grace of a true Bedouin and, my rifle across my knee, began the jog up the slow-rising foothills until I was forced again to dismount and lead my patient animals foot by painful foot over the hard rock of limestone pavements scattered with pebbles. The gulleys between the pavements were full of recent drifts of soft sand and looked dangerous. The pebbles caught in my camels’ toes, threatening to lame them, and I was forever stopping to check their feet, to make sure they were still unharmed. Concentrating on our slow, careful progress into the hills beneath a pulsing blue-grey sky, I did not notice when the loose sand no longer ran between rocky hillocks. Instead, there were man-made divisions—old walls worn to the same gentle golden brown of surrounding rock and sand. I realised I was leading my camels through the ruins of a good-sized city stretching as far as I could see along the eroded terraces of forgotten Zazara. A city of unguessable age, destroyed by the same forces which no doubt claimed Nineveh and Tyre. As with so many North African ruins, they might have been twenty or two thousand years old. Only an archaeologist could tell. They had been thoroughly abandoned for years. There was no vegetation, which could also mean that there was no water at the Zazara Oasis! Or was it hidden and guarded, as the powerful Senussi Bedouin protected some of their wells?
Renegade Zwayas, driven out of their traditional lands by the ever-expanding Senussi, might even now be disputing control of the oasis. I tethered my camels as they swung restless necks back and forth, tongues curling, nostrils expanding and snuffling for the source of the water. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, I moved forward carefully, keeping to the cover of old walls until I realised I was almost at the highest point of the hill which cut off suddenly and seemed to fall sheer to a valley from where I could hear distant shouts and whistling, voices speaking a dialect I did not recognise. Behind me, my camels began to snort and grumble and, lest they give me away, I ran back to where I had left them, unhobbling them and leading them forward again. I was still careful to keep to cover wherever I found it until the sun began to drop beyond zenith. I stopped close to the brow of the hill and began crawling forward to peer carefully over the edge.
The cliff did not as I had thought fall sheer to the bottom, but was broken just below me by a great limestone spur jutting out over a shaded pool around which grew a few date palms and reeds: Zazara was not dry! From where I lay it was difficult to make out details, but obviously a camp had been made. I saw some tents and one or two figures walking rapidly to and fro. They were not Bedouin at all, but Goras, relatives of the Sudanese, whom I had already met on the caravan from al-Khufra. Tall, handsome black men, they had only a few firearms and still preferred the spear, the sword and the bow. I was surprised that the Gora could have fired with such promiscuous precision. Then, as I craned to see more, I observed, directly below, something I first took to be water and then a mirage. It actually seemed to be a vast green, white and red Italian flag draped across a wide expanse of rock, the crowned crux blanca flanked by the fasces of Mussolini’s New Rome emblazoned onto two yards of rippling silk! As if the Italians had decided quite literally to put the Libyan Desert under their flag.
I realised the fabric was attached to ropes and if I risked raising my head and craning my neck a little further I could see that the ropes ran up to a large wicker basket, big enough to hold at least half-a-dozen people, and it was then that I understood that I was staring down upon a huge collapsed balloon. Doubtless some party of aeronauts, perhaps from the Italian garrison at Tripoli, had become stranded. I hoped that it was a military group. With the rifles and ammunition I had, together with my food, we could almost certainly kill off enough primitive Goras until they fled.
At that moment a burst of fire caused me to duck rapidly but when I looked again I saw that the only shots were coming from the balloon. Repositioning myself behind a rock I made out a narrow track leading down to the spur of limestone where the balloon basket was perched, then continuing on until it reached the water below. The Goras could not be native to this region or they would have known that there was another approach to the position. In the deep afternoon light, with arrows and spears they flung themselves up the steep rocks, only to be driven back by rapid but economical fire from the crashed balloon. Again I marvelled at the precision of the shots and, by shifting a third time, saw that in fact there was only one gun, a large old-fashioned French Gatling, a mitrailleuse, mounted on a brass swivel bracketed to the basket’s rail. At the basket’s centre was what seemed to be a small semi-dormant steam-engine. The bullets went over the heads of the determined Goras. I could see from their expressions that their worst fears were realised. Satan’s agents had descended upon them. It said something for their courage and their religious faith, if not their common sense, that they were attacking rather than fleeing. I decided I could, without much difficulty and with my camels, reach the rocky spur and the stranded balloon. If the Goras could be driven away from the water, we should soon all be able to drink. It seemed the more noise and dust I made in my descent, the more I gave the impression of a large force coming to the aid of the balloonists. With luck this would make them reconsider the wisdom of their present policy. It would be no shame to them to withdraw before a superior enemy.
I returned to my camels. Using what little Italian I had learned in Otranto, when Esmé and I had come ashore after fleeing from Constantinople, I informed the balloon that help was on its way. When I removed her hobble, Uncle Tom looked at me with grateful loving eyes. I let her lead her little tribe up to the cliff and begin the difficult descent down the twisting sandy path, certain that the Italians’ Gatling would deter any would-be archers. ‘E da servire? ‘ I called, letting my Lee-Enfield off into the air and badly jarring my shoulder. I was not familiar with the rifle’s legendary kick. Someone once told me that the Lee-Enfield .303 was known as the Hun’s Best Friend in the trenches, yet most Tommies swear by them to this day. The smoking gun in my all-but-disabled hand, I waved friendly greeting to the ballooners. The mitrailleuse did not turn in my direction. This was surely a sign that I was accepted as an ally.
It was at this point that Uncle Tom went down with a look of startled disgust, legs sprawling at unlikely angles, neck straining, deeply conscious of her ruined dignity. I lost hold of her halter and, in lunging for it, fell to the ground, rolling towards the basket as my rifle went off a second time, bruising my finger and thumb. In confusion, the other camels began to buck and growl, threatening to shed their own loads. I fought to get Uncle Tom to her feet so that we might both re-order our dignity when from the basket ahead, as I settled at last in its shadow, rose a vision of womanhood so lovely that once again I questioned my own sanity. Was this all part of some complicated hallucination? Was I still out in the desert, raving my last?
She wore a helmet of pale blue silk from which escaped two exquisite red curls on either side of a lovely heart-shaped face. Her gown was fashionably short and matched her cap. Like the cap, it was stitched with scores of pink and blue pearls. I had seen costumes to rival it only in Hollywood. Her fresh complexion, touched lightly by fashion’s demands, her beautiful turquoise eyes, her perfect, boyish figure, were complemented by a self-assured grace as she swung herself over the side crying, in English, ‘How wonderful! Magnificent! My prayers are answered!’ She ran, on low-heeled shoes which matched the rest of her outfit, towards the spot where, with curling mouth, rolling eyes and great melodramatic curses, Uncle Tom was getting to her feet. At last she was steady, to my great relief, but an expression of acute embarrassment now shadowed her sensitive features. ‘Thank you!’ cried the young woman. Then she turned, as if in apology. ‘I’m terribly grateful. I say, would you mind taking over the Gatling and keeping an eye on the natives? They’ve been a nuisance ever since I crashed, but I don’t want to hurt them.’ She began to lug at the bales of fabric on one of our camels. ‘Oh, I say! Silk! I couldn’t ask for more! Silk! Silk!’
> With some difficulty I clambered up the rigging and got into what was now very clearly the gondola of an ambitious scientific expedition! There were chests and instrument boxes all around the edges, while at the centre was a small spirit-fired steam-engine, capable, I was sure, of generating the heat necessary to keep the balloon inflated. The basket was oval and had a small propeller which I would guess was next to useless for powering or steering such a large balloon. Gingerly I took the handles of the Gatling in my fingers and peered over the basket’s rail. Down on the other side of the water the dark-skinned Goras were standing about near their tents talking to a young man in a white turban, who would be the son of their sheikh. He was pointing back at the narrow fissure in the rock, evidently the other path into the oasis. I was glad they had lost interest in us for the moment. It gave me time to recover from my surprise that the only occupant of the balloon appeared to be a beautiful young woman whose chief problem was which material to choose for a new costume! I wondered, if I had found her out in the desert dying of thirst, she would not have called delicately for a glass of ice-cold Bollinger’s ‘06. I was a little admiring of such sang-froid in so young a woman and I was reminded of Mrs Cornelius (whom she did not otherwise resemble). In a few minutes she returned dragging a bale of cloth, part of our bogus trading goods. ‘It’s just right.’ She still used English. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I’m being frightfully rude.’ She began to speak in a slow, childish Arabic which became charming on her lips. ‘I am grateful to you, sidhi, for your generosity in aiding one who is neither of your tribe, nor of your religion. God has blessed me.’
Jerusalem Commands Page 47
