On that Saturday afternoon, April 17, 1915, the Zion Mule Corps sailed from Alexandria for Gallipoli under the escort of British warships. A distance away in the harbor, the band of the U.S.S. Tennessee, which happened to be in port, played a farewell march. And suddenly a song echoed over the sunlit Egyptian harbor, over the masts of fishing boats, over the stacks of ocean liners, over the towers and superstructures of the British men-of-war. It was a song of sorrow, dignity and surpassing hope too, destined to become the anthem of a nation to be reborn some thirty years later—the “Hatikvah.”
The voyage to the Greek island Lemnos in the Aegean Sea, which was a springboard for the invasion of Gallipoli, took two days. The time was uneventful, but as soon as they entered the mouth of the Dardanelles the British let go with a massive burst of cannon fire. Moishe shuddered at the sound, put his hands over his ears, and thought about death. He was … face it … afraid, and began to wonder just what sort of Jewish warrior he was. Maybe if he’d been fighting for Palestine … but here he was on a ship that belonged to strangers, commanded by foreigners, headed for places where he would plod his mules in alien trenches. And even if the British won, there was no guarantee he would get back to his historic homeland … Moishe at that moment badly needed some convincing link between his and Dovid’s dream of a homeland and the reality of his immediate situation. Well, Trumpeldor had said “Every road leads to Zion.” He held tight to that thought … Zion was more than a word … it was a purpose. He looked up and saw the streaks of red fire across the sky, and felt less afraid. It no longer mattered so much that the huge mountain which lay before him was not Mount Carmel. He understood better what Trumpeldor had meant about fighting for a country that annihilated his own people and for a czar who condoned it. The cause he and the others fought for was greater—and he fought not as a Russian, not for its cause, but fought for his own sake as a Jew, for all Jews … Trumpeldor had been right back in Alexandria when he told them to be proud, that they had to prove themselves, even as mule drivers. It was a major first step…
After numerous foul-ups, there was a frenzy to reach Gallipoli on April 25, the date set for the invasion. When they got close to the land, they found the enemy ready and waiting for them directly above the great fortification of Achi Baba. The British armada was choked. The strip was too narrow for all the transport vessels to approach and dig in. Still, the command was given and the men leapt into the water, and suddenly coming up to surface were hundreds of Senegalese, Australians, New Zealanders, Irish and Welsh and English clutching their rifles and struggling to wade to shore. Carnage lay all around them. Those that had reached the beach crawled up out of the water like sea urchins. Bodies floated face down, many with their guns still clutched in their hands, never having had a chance to fire a shot
An order was given to reverse positions and at last a part of the beach had been secured. The men of Zion could have disembarked then, except there were no barges. From the rail, Patterson shouted down as the vessels passed, “You’ve got to get me ashore, you bloody fools, I’ve got your water. If you don’t help me get ashore you’ll not be dying from bullets but from thirst …” Not a craft slowed. Patterson took action … he simply requisitioned barges returning from the battle with the maimed and the wounded the moment they were emptied of the casualties. The dead and wounded no longer needed these barges, his muleteers did.
Finally the men of Zion and their mules were able to disembark. The barges were tied together like a pontoon bridge that extended to the beachhead. Trumpeldor and Patterson formed the men into a straight line across the planks and hurried them on.
When the mules were led off, under constant bombardment, the mooring between the barges broke loose and the animals plunged into the water, taking their handlers with them. Moishe jumped back, grabbed a rope and held onto a frightened animal. Most of them ran helter-skelter, biting, kicking.
The Turks were more predictable than the weather. A sudden storm with the ferocity of a typhoon came from out of nowhere. Crates, tins, ammunition boxes were flying like kites in the air, then came crashing down onto the beach. It persisted for two nights and days. The men huddled under any shelter they could find. When the storm broke, the mule corps was ordered by Trumpeldor to salvage whatever it could. Moishe wondered what he had in mind … how did you make any kind of sense out of this chaos, tents blown away, the beach in total disarray…. The work went on until dawn. When some bit of order had been restored the men slumped on the muddy earth and fell off into exhausted sleep….
Moishe woke up dazed and disoriented. The pounding headache he had was ignored as he heard the urgent command that rations and ammunitions were needed on V Beach. In the craziness he’d all but forgotten that the mules had been led into a safe cove by Trumpeldor, between the rising and falling terrain under a cross fire that made him wonder how any of them were missed. Actually the casualties had been surprisingly few. In the days to come they were not so lucky. With the increasing action many of the men in Moishe’s squad were wounded. The bright sunlight helped make them targets. A shell would strike and the mules would scatter, dragging their handlers with them over rocks and falling debris.
As the Irishman Lieutenant Colonel Patterson had privately anticipated, due to their pitiful lack of training, which was hardly their fault, and lack of communication, the Jewish muleteers and their British officers, full of old and well-tended prejudices, came more and more into conflict. Finally the third and fourth troops of the mule corps were actually sent back to Alexandria, which was of course a disgrace for them. Patterson’s Irish dander was not only up, it was over the top. During a confrontation in his tent with the commanding British officer he listened to the charge that the Jews had become insubordinate, refused to take orders, and so there was nothing for it but to return some of them to Alexandria and arrest and demobilize some others. Their mules were turned over to the Australians, “who were admittedly bloody barbarians but at least they spoke the language.” Patterson informed the officer that he was a damned fool, that one month’s training hardly added to seasoned troops. And, true, they didn’t speak the king’s English, but they didn’t unload ammunition boxes or control a bunch of crazy, frightened mules with their tongues. Even the mother tongue might have a bit of trouble with a goddamn mule under fire…
When Patterson and Trumpeldor returned to Alexandria to try to get new volunteers, they got the full story of the British mistreatment of the mule corps. The men were never allowed to do anything but tote ammunition and supplies and live with mules, whether on a boat or on land. Clearly someone didn’t approve of the Zion Mule Corps. When they got back to Alexandria they weren’t even allowed to go ashore to see their families and relatives. Yes, some of them did rebel then, and were promptly arrested. Their wives had never received support, their widows denied pensions. The men were demanding they be soldiers, not just laborers, and be treated as soldiers. Patterson tried to get their status upgraded and was turned down by British headquarters. A group then went on a hunger strike. British soldiers proceeded to whip those considered the troublemakers, men accused of inciting the others to refuse to go back to Gallipoli. After their whipping they were tied to a wagon wheel for five hours and put on bread-and-water rations for three days.
Trumpeldor could become angry over such treatment but could do little about it He also was a soldier, and wasn’t entirely in sympathy with defying orders, knowing that any army had to have discipline. But these men weren’t criminals. Things had gone too far. He tried to communicate his feelings to Patterson, and in the translation his words were so garbled as to provoke Patterson … “Damn it, Trumpeldor,” he said when they finally met, “I’m no monster. I have as much feeling for those men as you do. But this is an army and we’re in a war. If anybody gets away with refusing to go back to Gallipoli it undermines the morale and discipline of the whole unit…” Again the translation was the worst enemy between the two. As he got it, Trumpeldor thought Patterson was holding him
personally responsible for being soft on the men and encouraging them to be undisciplined. In the exchange that followed, Trumpeldor, through the interpreter, told Patterson he wasn’t going to be intimidated by threats, that if Patterson wanted him out of the unit, then discharge him. And Patterson did just that.
In the end Patterson sent for Trumpeldor, apologized and said he’d had the same kind of trouble as an Irishman with the British. He still thought that sometimes Trumpeldor was a little too soft on his men, but he understood the reasons and respected his work. “I’m asking you to stay and forget what’s happened…”
Trumpeldor had been waiting for these words and quickly agreed to come back. And when his troops heard he’d been apologized to, they went back with him to Gallipoli. By now the fighting was even fiercer. The casualties increased among the mule corps. The Turks were surprisingly stubborn. Moishe, who had stuck it out this whole time, was a battle-hardened veteran compared to the returnees and new recruits from Alexandria. But this did him little good when, as he was unloading supplies, a shell exploded a few yards from him and he was promptly knocked unconscious in the mud.
When he woke up, his head felt as though it had been put in a vise, and he could not move his left leg; which had taken a chunk of shrapnel. Well, at least he was alive, and his wound earned him a trip back to Alexandria with the other wounded.
Meanwhile there were few rewards for the Jewish blood that had been and was being shed. The mismanaged Gallipoli campaign was coming to a close. In November Colonel Patterson became very ill, turned over his command to Trumpeldor and went back to Alexandria and then England. At the end of the month the blizzard came with blinding snow and bitter cold. The Jews carried on, delivered their loads and returned to base with their animals, often without coats or boots. As a reward, a month later an order came down to disband the corps. The peninsula was being evacuated. Before they embarked, as many as could went to say farewell to their brothers that they would leave behind on this foreign soil, their graves marked by wooden Stars of David. They chanted the Kaddish, the memorial prayer for their dead, then, like good soldiers, marched to the boat that would take them back to Alexandria just after the beginning of the new year of 1916.
It had been a military defeat, but still a victory of sorts for the Jews. They were, after all, accustomed to not winning. But at least they had made a major contribution to a fight that for them was only beginning … the revival of a homeland. Yes, all roads still led to Zion, including the road of temporary defeat….
Chavala’s hand trembled as she held the envelope in her hand, then looked at the stamp. It had arrived by way of Switzerland. She hesitated before opening it, terrified about what the contents might be, then quickly tore it open. This was the first time she had heard directly from Moishe and now as she read, her tears were out of gratitude that he was at least alive.
My dearest family:
As you know, there was no way until now that I could have gotten a letter to you, and that was a matter of great concern to me. In fact, I pray that you will receive this. I want you to know that not a day has passed when you have not been in my thoughts. Even in battle it was your presence that kept me going.
Please don’t laugh, dear Chavala, but it was not my determination to try to defeat the Turks but the wonderful smells of cooking that come from your kitchen that I fought for. I can scarcely wait to taste your cakes and cookies. Even now your Strudel and mandelbrot make my tastebuds water, and the carrot tzimmes draws me closer to home.
As you know, the battle of Gallipoli is over. The British could have won there, but they really are such pompous fools. If we had had fifteen thousand men we could have conquered it. The trouble is, they don’t know about mountains as well as we do. Well, at least that’s over with.
There is so much I want to say, but letters are not like sitting together and talking, the way we used to do, but that time will come soon. I must believe that. I only pray everything is all right with you, and that all of you are safe.
Trumpeldor advised us all to stay together, even though the muleteers have been disbanded. He is on his way to England because it seems that Jabotinsky is making headway with the British. Chaim Weizmann is helping, because now he too believes that we should have an all-Jewish military force. The bravery of the mule corps was evidently more impressive than we thought. The rumors are that any day we will be sent to London. If that happens I will have to forego your baked brisket and those crispy potato latkes that could melt in my mouth.
By the way, I was slightly wounded in my left leg. Now please don’t start worrying, Chavala, it was just a little shrapnel so they sent me back to Alexandria. It was very minor and in fact I’ve had a good rest. The nurses have made this more than a vacation. They’re not only sweet but very pretty. There’s nothing like a pretty woman to help what ails you, especially one that seems to like me. But don’t worry, Chavala, I won’t come home with a shiksa bride.
Again, please take care of Yourselves, and know how much I love you. Kiss little Reuven for me, and hold him so close that I will be able to feel his warmth.
I love you all more than my words can say,
Your brother, Moishe
It was good for Chavala that she would never know how Moishe felt as he sealed the letter she’d just read, then moving clumsily off the bed, maneuvered himself into his wheelchair and rolled himself down the hall.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SPRING, 1916. A PLAGUE of locusts. An opportunity for the Yishuv, but especially for the scientist—and secret Zionist—Aaron Aaronson. He traveled to the south to teach the Arab farm-owners and peasants how to combat the plague. And he appointed one of his top associates, Dovid Landau, as supervisor of the Galilee.
The plague under control, Jamal Pasha, in his style, decided that the time was right to execute the elimination of the Yishuv. All nonresident Ottoman subjects, all Jews, were to depart Jaffa and settlements in its vicinity. The order to evacuate Jaffa and Tel Aviv remained in force even though the considerations of strategy that had prompted it had lapsed with the defeat of the British near Gaza.
The evacuation of the Jews of Jaffa was merely the prelude to a new wave of persecution.
Each day was beset with a new crisis. A blockade now surrounded the Mediterranean, stopping the Atlantic crossing of relief funds, gold and foodstuffs. Now they had to be sent by the American Zionist organization, JNF and other Zionist bodies in the form of bank drafts by way of Switzerland.
But the Turkish authorities confiscated all the gold they could lay their hands on. In the absence of gold the market was flooded with Turkish paper money, which was circulated in such quantities that its worth became only a fifth of its normal value. The financial situation grew so threatening that the Yishuv was on the edge of ruin.
The activists took over. Not enough to protect their settlements from Arab marauders and Bedouin murderers. Now they formed a political action committee. Buy arms and train young boys too young for army duty. The “Jaffa Group” began storing weapons in secret places and the training of youths was done out of sight of the Turkish eye on the kibbutzim.
The Turks sensed the climate of insurrection. Yishuv members were taken into custody and viciously interrogated. Among those arrested were Dovid and Absalom. Absalom, still in a kind of mourning for the failure of his marriage with Rivka, but also, to be frank, relieved that she’d gone off to America, took the challenge as a welcome focus for his energies and passions. Dovid, though also a man of scientific talent, as he’d proved in his association with Aaron Aaronson in his work reviving the land and helping keep it free of the terrible locusts whose wake was famine and disease, had never given up or backed off from his determination that the Jews should have their homeland, that danger … and even death were concomitants of his dream—and that a dream was measurable after a while by how close it came to reality. He had personally smuggled weapons and kept them on the kibbutz. He had even been shot once and had to be secretly
cared for and at the same time tried to calm Chavala and her fears at his actions and what they would mean to her and the family, to their little son Reuven and to Chia … “My God, Dovid, our family has already drifted away. One is no longer a Jew. Moishe has been wounded and we pray will fully recover from his service as a soldier. I know how much you have worked and risked for what you believe in. I respect it, even though I have other dreams, as you know. But, Dovid, you owe us, yourself, me, something too. Please …”
Dovid had understood Chavala’s fears, but he was also driven by needs that went beyond them. When he and Absalom were arrested, driven like criminals by the gun muzzles of the pasha’s soldiers, they had no idea whether they would survive for a minute or an hour. If they would soon be hanging from the end of a rope. Their worries weren’t empty or melodramatic ones. It was Aaron’s intercession with the pasha that kept them from the end of the rope, if not from the ugly indignities his soldiers in their sniggering fashion visited on them. At one point Dovid had ignored the threat of gun and rope, and swung around and smashed the face of the guard who had been obscenely taunting him. He was hardly surprised to receive the butt of a gun in his stomach, knocking him to the floor, followed by a knee to the groin—the guards were long experienced in the methods of inflicting punishment which didn’t show on the outside, could kill a man on the inside. Absalom, in an adjoining cell, was about to call out, but realized that could only make it worse for Dovid and himself, and accomplish nothing.
When Aaron went to Beirut to see the governor of the territory he was reasonably confident that bribery would at least insure that his friends would be decently fed and not abused. But as he handed over the gold coins to the governor he realized by the smug look on his face that this was only the beginning of the extortion. There was nothing for it but to go directly to Jamal Pasha.
No Time for Tears Page 15
