It was during this period of preparation, in the late summer of 1917, that Allenby met for the first time the one British officer whose fame in the area was to surpass even his own: the twenty-nine-year-old Captain T. E. Lawrence. Lawrence, second of the five illegitimate sons of an Anglo-Irish baronet, had had his first experience of the Arab world in 1908, when he had toured Syria and Lebanon recording their still little-known Crusader castles. Later, as an archaeologist, he had worked on the British Museum’s excavations at Carchemish in Syria until the outbreak of war, when he had found himself in Cairo as a subaltern in the military intelligence department of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force. There he might well have remained, but for the Arab Revolt.
This had begun on 10 June 1916, when Sherif Hussein of Mecca and the Hejaz had led an uprising against the Turks. Three months later, however, the insurgents had run out of steam. They had failed, after repeated efforts, to dislodge the Turks from Medina and their morale was flagging. Lawrence had met the leaders, and had been particularly impressed by Hussein’s second son Feisal, with whom he had evolved a plan to capture Aqaba, the principal Ottoman port at the northern end of the Red Sea. Two British naval expeditions there had failed; Lawrence believed, however, that Aqaba could be taken from the land. At the beginning of July, after nearly a month’s march across some 800 miles of desert and with a scratch force of local Arabs largely recruited en route, he took the surrender of the Turkish garrison. His name was made.
One would like to have been present on the day Lawrence, distinctly undersized and–as always by now–in full Arab fig, strode into the office of the huge and immaculately uniformed Allenby. Many a commanding officer would have dismissed him with orders to come back when he had got out of his fancy dress; Allenby simply glared–but listened, while Lawrence explained how he would spread the revolt northwards via Aqaba against Damascus, making constant attacks on the single-track Hejaz railway which was virtually the only link between there and Medina. His manner–vanity combined with arrogance–may have been insufferable, but his arguments were persuasive. The General promoted him on the spot, making him–and Feisal’s force–responsible directly to himself and promising him all the help he could give.
Certainly, this was the way for Allenby to achieve his primary purpose, the destruction of the Ottoman Empire; it was also, as he well knew, a guarantee of trouble in the future. In the spring of the previous year Britain had entered into an agreement with France and Russia, whereby French pretensions with regard to Syria might be reconciled with British pledges and promises to the Arabs. Russia had earmarked Constantinople, with a few miles of hinterland on both sides of the Bosphorus, together with a good deal of eastern Anatolia running to the Caucasus; France laid claim to most of Syria and the Lebanon, much of southern Anatolia and the Mosul district of Iraq; Britain’s share consisted of the rest of modern Iraq–including both Baghdad and Basra–and a strip of Palestine which included the ports of Haifa and Acre. If Lawrence’s plan for a northward thrust were successful, it was unlikely–to say the least–that the victorious Arab armies would countenance such an arrangement. But there would be time enough to deal with problems such as these.
The main advance against Gaza and Beersheba was launched towards the end of October 1917. Despite heavy fortification of the line by the German commander General Kress von Kressenstein, Beersheba fell on the last day of the month, Gaza a week later. Allenby, determined to maintain the momentum, spared neither himself nor his troops, to whom he allowed no rest; in some regiments the horses were watered only once in seventy-two hours as they pressed on relentlessly to the north, stretching the lines of communication and supply to the utmost limit. Jaffa fell on 16 November, and the exhausted, thirsty army assembled in the Judaean hills for the final attack on Jerusalem. Allenby’s determination that there should be no fighting in the Holy City itself involved a long and complicated encircling manoeuvre. To make matters worse the weather had at last broken, the thermometer plunging; the horses were either sinking to the fetlocks in mud or slithering hopelessly over the slippery rocks. Yet the advance continued, and in the first week of December the Turkish governor informed Damascus of the evacuation of the city before personally smashing his telegraph equipment with a hammer. The city itself surrendered on 9 December, and two days later Allenby made his official entry into Jerusalem. With him was Colonel Wavell and Major Lawrence, in a borrowed army uniform. Nineteen years before, Kaiser Wilhelm had ridden in on his charger; Allenby, it was everywhere noted, entered on foot. After 730 years, Jerusalem had passed once again into Christian hands, but on his orders no official flag was flown. He merely issued a short proclamation. It ended as follows:
Since your city is regarded with affection by the adherents of three of the great religions of mankind, and its soil has been consecrated by the prayers or pilgrimages of multitudes of devout people of these three religions for many centuries, therefore I make it known to you that every sacred building, monument, holy spot, shrine, traditional site, endowment, pious bequest or customary place of prayer of whatsoever form of the three religions will be maintained and protected according to the existing customs and beliefs of those to whose faiths they are sacred.
After the taking of Jerusalem, there was a pause of almost a year before the continuation of the campaign. Allenby knew that if he was to advance on Aleppo he would need a substantially larger force than he had commanded up to now, and he refused to move until that force had been provided. In fact, his army was completely reorganised; some units returned to Europe, others were brought in from India and elsewhere until he had at his disposal troops from a dozen or more countries and colonies, including Singapore and Hong Kong, South Africa, Egypt and the West Indies. There was even a detachment from Rarotonga in the South Pacific. The three battalions of Jews sent as a result of the Balfour Declaration282 included David Ben-Gurion, later to be the first Prime Minister of the state of Israel.
Thus it was not until 19 September 1918 that Allenby launched his large but heterogeneous force of 12,000 cavalry, 57,000 infantry and 540 guns against eleven Turkish divisions–numbering respectively 4,000, 40,000 and 430–holding a front from Jaffa east to the river Jordan and down its eastern bank to the Dead Sea. Only twelve days later, after one of the war’s most spectacular campaigns, his advance units entered Damascus. Beirut fell on 8 October, Tripoli on the 18th and Aleppo on the 25th. In just six weeks he had pushed forward some 350 miles, utterly destroyed the Turkish army in Syria, taken 75,000 prisoners, all 430 guns and huge quantities of arms, ammunition and supplies. British casualties numbered 5,666. ‘Making all allowances for the British superiority in strength,’ wrote the military historian Liddell Hart, ‘[the campaign] must rank as one of the masterpieces of military history, as perfect in execution as in design.’
The Ottoman Empire, which was to have been Germany’s path to the Persian Gulf and central Asia, was now in ruins. Its Arab territories were lost, not only in Palestine and Syria but in Mesopotamia too, along with the Arabian peninsula. The collapse of Bulgaria in September had opened up the western approaches to Constantinople, while British and Indian forces were advancing from the south and east. Beyond the Black Sea towards the Caucasus, former subjects of the Sultan–Georgians and Armenians, Azerbaijanis and Kurds–were struggling to form their own new nation-states. On 30 October, on board HMS Agamemnon–a not inappropriate name in the circumstances–off the Aegean island of Mudros, the empire’s representatives sued for peace.
CHAPTER XXXIII
The Peace
On 18 January 1919–two months and one week after the armistice–the Paris Peace Conference held its opening session. It was, rather surprisingly, a Saturday, but that was the date insisted upon, with a fine sense of irony, by the French Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau, as being the forty-eighth anniversary of the coronation of Wilhelm I as Kaiser of Germany. The primary task facing the delegates was to forge a new Europe; and so, after a fashion, they did. Their success can be mea
sured by the fact that exactly twenty years later their new Europe began–just like the old one–to tear itself to shreds.
Where the Mediterranean was concerned, the countries lining its southern shore were still under foreign control: Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia looked to France, Libya to Italy, Egypt to Britain (which had proclaimed a protectorate in December 1914). All those along the northern–with the single exception of Spain, which had somehow succeeded in preserving its neutrality–had been to some degree involved in the hostilities; all had seen fighting on their soil; and all those that had ended on the winning side hoped that the Conference would provide them with substantial benefits of one kind or another in or on the Middle Sea. These hopes all centred on a single fact: the break-up of the Ottoman Empire. France–which had lost a quarter of her male population between the ages of eighteen and thirty, with twice as many again wounded–was naturally concerned above all else with Germany, but she was also keeping a covetous eye on Syria and Lebanon, on which she had long had political designs. Italy, delighted as she was by the demise of her old enemy Austria–Hungary, was always anxious about what went on across the Adriatic, and was distinctly worried by the prospect of a unified state of the southern Slavs–comprising Croatia, Slovenia, Serbia, Montenegro, Bosnia– Herzegovina and northeastern Macedonia–which seemed likely to replace the Sultan’s Balkan dominions. How much better it would be if she could emerge from the Conference with the land ‘from Trento to Trieste’, the Dalmatian coast as far as Albania and finally the islands of the Dodecanese, with–just possibly–a little of the Anatolian mainland thrown in.
Greece, as we saw in the last chapter, was already in a state of extreme exuberance when the war ended, but Venizelos’s ambitions were perhaps higher than those of any other statesman present in Paris. His mind was set, as it had been throughout his life, on the Great Idea: Byzantium revived, with a Greek Asia Minor, St Sophia returned to the Orthodox faith and a Greek basileus once more on the throne in Constantinople. Of course he could not voice such demands in so many words at the Conference; all he asked for was northern Epirus, Thrace, a few islands and a vast tract of Asia Minor from the Sea of Marmara to Smyrna (Izmir). He did not include Constantinople (although, as he laughingly suggested to his friends, once the Turks were dispossessed of it the city would inevitably fall into Greek hands sooner or later). Inside and outside the plenary sessions, Venizelos impressed everyone he met. The sheer impact of his personality made him one of the most dazzling stars of the Conference, and his conversation did the rest. Western Europe had never seen–or heard–anything like him. The young diplomat Harold Nicolson described him in wonderment as ‘a strange medley of charm, brigandage, weltpolitik, patriotism, courage, literature…above all this large muscular smiling man, with his eyes glinting through spectacles, and on his head a square skull-cap of black silk’.
Great Britain for her part could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as a Mediterranean country. She possessed, however, the three still vitally important bases of Gibraltar, Malta and Cyprus, and her part ownership of the Suez Canal had, as we have seen, long given her an intense interest in Egypt and the Levant. Thus, since she had already got a good deal of what she wanted–the German navy and merchant marine now safely in her hands, the German colonies in Africa surrendered, the collapse of Russia spelling the end of that threat to northern India and what was known as the Great Game–she could now afford to concentrate her energies on the eastern Mediterranean. At its northeast corner, she was anxious to prevent hostile warships passing through the straits to and from the Black Sea. She was also increasingly concerned about her allies, the French. The two countries had stuck together throughout the war, but the peace would bring new stresses and strains–not the least of which would be caused by the need to safeguard the increasingly important oil supplies from Mosul in northern Iraq and from Persia. As early as 1916 Sir Mark Sykes and M. Georges Picot had secretly agreed that when the time came to slice up the Sultan’s Levantine dominions France would take Syria, the Lebanon and a good deal of southern Anatolia while Britain would acquire, along with most of modern Iraq, the Mediterranean ports of Acre and Haifa. Outside these two ports an area corresponding roughly to the present state of Israel would–thanks to its special, delicate status as the Holy Land–be reserved for a special international regime of its own. Already, however, it was clear that the partitioning was not going to be so easy, and Allenby’s recent entry into Jerusalem had done little to reassure Catholic France. In short, the two major European powers in the Middle East did not trust each other an inch–and both were perfectly right not to do so.
On the other hand, they had both made the same mistake: they had reckoned without the Arabs. The arrival at the Conference of the Emir Feisal, proudly introduced by Lawrence (also in full Arab dress), soon changed all that. Feisal was a Hashemite, a member of the noblest of all Arab families, since it traced its descent in the male line back to the daughter of the Prophet. In 1915 Feisal’s father, the Sherif of Mecca, had been promised by the High Commissioner for Egypt, Sir Henry McMahon, that if the Arabs were to rise up against the Turks they would be given all assistance by the British and, after the war, gain their independence.283 With the help of Lawrence–who had repeated these promises, though on no authority but his own–Feisal had performed his part of the bargain; he had now come to Paris to claim his reward.
He got it, in a way. In that same year Allenby installed him as head of a military administration in Damascus. The French assumed responsibility for the coast, with Beirut as their centre, while the British took over Palestine. But these proved to be only interim measures. In March 1920 a Syrian Congress met in Damascus and proclaimed Feisal king of a united Syria, including Palestine; only a month later, however, the Allied Conference of San Remo decided that both should be put under a new mandate system, with France taking on the mandate for Syria. The French began as they meant to continue. In June they issued an ultimatum demanding Syrian recognition of their new authority, after which they marched in and expelled Feisal; finally, in July 1922, the League of Nations approved the mandate for Syria and Lebanon, which had declared itself a separate state. Feisal had meanwhile been made King of Iraq, while his older brother Abdullah assumed the crown of Transjordan–since 1949 known as the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.
Jordan and Iraq are no concern of ours; Palestine, however, is. The last visitor to the Peace Conference who deserves special mention here is Dr Chaim Weizmann–shortly to be appointed president of the World Zionist Organisation. Weizmann, who had already been largely responsible for the Balfour Declaration, addressed the Supreme Council on 27 February with an energetic appeal for the establishment of a Jewish home in Palestine. As an observer, he was also present at the San Remo conference which confirmed the Declaration and awarded the Palestine mandate to Great Britain. Later, during the 1920s and 1930s, his negotiating skills were to be severely tested as Britain–confronted by increasing civil disorder resulting from nascent Arab nationalism–lost her early enthusiasm for Zionism and tried to retreat from her commitments. But he won through in the end, and lived to become, in 1948, the first President of the state of Israel.
The Paris Peace Conference of 1919, and the Treaty of Versailles which followed it, marked the end of the old world and the beginning of the new. In 1914 five great empires were centred on European capitals. Five years later three–the German, the Austro-Hungarian and the Russian–were gone, and one–the Ottoman–was on its deathbed. Only the last–the British–survived. The world, henceforth, was to be a very different place.
And so our story is told–so far, at least, as this book is concerned. Obviously, the history of the Middle Sea will never be over until that sea itself runs dry; but whereas an account of a specific period can be rounded to an elegant close, one which takes as its subject merely a given region of the world can be brought only to an arbitrary termination, and this particular example of the latter genre is more than long enough alrea
dy. With every day that passes, life becomes more eventful. History not only becomes longer; it moves at a faster pace. In the early chapters of this book, a century could be covered in a page or two; towards the end of it, an entire chapter may barely accommodate a decade. To have continued through the Second World War and its consequences to the end of the second millennium would probably have resulted in a volume at least twice as long as this, and would have constituted a penance for author and reader alike.
Some six or seven thousand years ago the Mediterranean gave birth to Western civilisation as we know it. Its relatively small size, its confined shape, the gentleness of its climate, the blessed fertility and the manifold indentations of its European and Asiatic shores, all combined to provide a uniquely protective environment in which its various peoples could develop and flourish. Even the light played its part, giving those peoples a clarity of outlook unmatched in less favoured regions. In gods they believed, as no less than three great religions attest, but in the sunlit Mediterranean world there was no place for the ghosts and the giants, the goblins and the trolls, that feature so prominently in the folklore of the misty and lugubrious north. For all this, and much else besides, we owe an immense and incalculable debt. One important question, however, remains to be answered: now that the contribution has been made, how important still is the contributor? Does the Middle Sea of today retain the significance that it enjoyed when the world was young?
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