by Alan Gold
The rain was still torrential, but they stepped bravely out of the headquarters and tried to find shelter. They ran through the downpour and couldn’t help but laugh at each other as they both slipped and slid in the mud, one assisting the other every couple of steps. Eventually, looking utterly sodden and dejected, they arrived at Gertrude’s house.
For the second time that day, Major Lawrence’s uniform was stripped off him by Gertrude’s servants, and he bathed in jasmine scented water, dressing himself again in one of her silk dressing-gowns. It was far too long for him, and he was in danger of tripping as he walked. He hoisted it up like some vaudeville actress in order to descend the stairs to her living area. When he got there, he poured himself a scotch and water, and stood looking out over the veranda at her garden. Even though it was waterlogged and the plants drooped with the weight of the rain, it was a truly beautiful garden. He knew Gertrude had laid it out when she first arrived. There were beds of palms, roses, hydrangeas, and pathways lined with lime, pomegranate, orange and lemon trees. All were in bloom and pendulous with fruit, though each sagged heavy, over-burdened by the deluge.
He heard her walk into the room, turned and greeted her with a smile. But there was no smile on her face.
“Thomas, I’ve been thinking since we left Percy’s office. You know, a wrong word from him and your prospects of advancement are nil.”
“I don’t want advancement in the army, darling. I want fun. I want this bloody war to be over, and to get back to archaeology or something. And yes, I know I’m here because of what I know, but what the grand Sir Percy Pooh Bah doesn’t know is that everything I know, dearest, has been taught to me by you,” Lawrence said, knowing he was in for a scolding. “From the first time we met, I’ve been your willing student. You’ve taught me so much about the Arab’s history, language, custom, tradition . . . everything.”
She tutted in annoyance and refused to give in to his boyish charms. “Look, now isn’t the time to play games. You’re here to save the lives of thousands of men. Arguing with Percy was silly and reckless and arrogant. You need his support. And mine. Frankly, it’s me who should be going to negotiate with the Turks, not you. I know the Arab sheiks they’re supporting with money from Constantinople, I know the country our lads are trapped in, and I know the pressure points to apply to get the Arabs to turn against the Turks. Yet because I’m a woman, the powers in London and Delhi think I’m incapable of negotiating with men. What they don’t realize is that before this war I was negotiating and advising and spying for the British government, and—”
“You’re jealous,” he interrupted.
“No, I’m not!” she said archly, but then she responded more slowly, “Well, yes, frankly I am. Look, I don’t know what I am. It’s only because the generals here thought they needed a man that I sent for you. They know before this damned war I was the first Western woman to have crossed the Arabian deserts. I negotiated myself out of prison in Hayil. I’ve dealt with the leaders of the Arabic world, one on one, as equals. Yet it didn’t make a blind bit of difference to them, and just because I wear a skirt, I’m disqualified from political and military office, from having any say in what should be done with Arabia, in everything.”
Lawrence went over and put his arm around her. She hugged him, and whispered into his ear, “You know, sometimes I feel cursed by my sex.”
And he whispered back, “Yes, I know the feeling.”
They looked at each other, and burst out laughing.
Settling down with a glass of scotch, she said quietly, “Do you think it’s going to happen? The Arab uprising? Do you think they’ll finally understand they have to come together as one people, and not a disparate group of little tribes?”
“Faisal thinks so. He thinks he and his father will rise up in Hejaz, and because of their control over Mecca and Medina the rest of Arabia will follow.”
“Hah!” she said loudly. “And what about ibn Sa’ud and ibn Rashid? Do you think they’ll meekly sit back and let things happen? I fear for Arabia with men like ibn Sa’ud on the war path, no matter which side of the fence he’s sitting on at the moment.”
Lawrence nodded. “Yes, ibn Sa’ud is a problem, more so than ibn Rashid. There’s no question ibn Sa’ud has his eyes firmly set on capturing the Kingdom of Hejaz, for all sorts of reasons—to put the holy cities under his control, for territorial expansion, to gain access to Suez, to become the guardian of Islam—that’s why his eyes are firmly set on Hejaz. But I’ve given assurances to Faisal we’ll protect him in the eventuality.”
“Come on Thomas. Don’t be naïve. If ibn Sa’ud agrees to join us and give us a million men against the Turks, in exchange for us not interfering when he attacks the Hejaz, do you think Allenby or Haig or anyone else will turn him down just for what they consider to be a slither of useless land? Right now our lads are dying by the truckload, and we’ll do anything, agree to anything, to restore our pride and dignity after Gallipoli.”
He remained silent for some time. Gertrude knew there was something he wanted to tell her, but like a rabbit caught in lamplight, one false move and she’d lose the initiative.
Barely audibly, he said, “Can you keep a very dark secret?”
She said nothing.
“Gertie, what I’m going to tell you is top secret. You mustn’t breathe a word. Some months ago, Faisal went on a secret mission to Damascus to negotiate with other Arabic leaders. Only a handful of top brass from Cairo knew anything about it. I was the liaison. He went there to negotiate terms with nationalist groups and sheiks and . . .”
“I know. He went to drum up support for the Arabic revolt. He got agreement from almost everybody, except those who are being paid a fortune by the Turks. Sheik Ibrahim ad-Dawlah and Sheik Mohammed ibn Farhan of the Shammar people turned him down flat, and so did a number of others, but he’s got a consensus of the nationalists. Is that the great secret?”
He looked at her in astonishment. “How . . . ?”
“Don’t be silly, dear. I’m a spy for Britain. Nothing happens in Mesopotamia without me knowing about it. You didn’t think you’d keep that secret for long, did you?”
“Do the Turks know?” he asked.
“Probably. But the issue for the Turks isn’t their knowing that there’s some sort of revolt in the wind. What they need to know desperately is who’s got the deepest pockets. The Arabs will trade their mothers for a gold coin. If we top what the Turk is giving them, they’ll fight with undying loyalty for us. But of course, all the Turk has to do is to up the ante and then they’ll change sides with the wind. Which is why I asked whether you think there’s going to be an uprising.”
He looked at her closely. There was anger in her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She shook her head, and sipped her drink
“Gertie . . . ?”
Putting the drink on the table, she breathed deeply, pondering whether to say anything. Then, as if unburdening herself, “Thomas dear, ever since I was a girl, I’ve been passionately pursuing a dream that somehow, despite my being female, I could help make Arabia into a great nation. Alright, so it’s a silly conceit, and I know the odds are stacked against me as a woman, but Arabia has to become one if it’s to achieve the greatness which is its destiny. This war, hideous and wasteful as it is, provides the catalyst for such a movement. This is the time for Arabia; don’t you see that?”
For once, Lawrence knew he had to remain silent.
“Since the Young Turks led Constantinople into such a potentially disastrous situation, the opportunity for Arabic unification has never been greater . . . not in the past thousand years. Yet . . .”
She lapsed into silence, staring into her drink.
“Yet . . . ?” asked Lawrence.
Gertrude looked up at him. He knew that look well enough. It was when she had to deliver him bad news.
“Yet the generals who are running this war decided they should send you, a sweet but naïve l
ad, and Faisal, the third, and hence the inconsequential, son of the Grand Sharif of Mecca. How do you think the other Arab leaders felt when two somewhat naïve young men walked into a conference and presented plans for Arab unification?”
“So what should have been done?” asked Lawrence.
“The Sharif himself should have gone. He was the only one who could have pulled this off, the only person in the whole of Arabia who, as a descendant of the Prophet and the Guardian of Mecca and Medina, had the gravitas, authority, and prestige to stand in front of such an assembly, and command respect. And . . .”
She lapsed into silence.
“And . . . ?” said Lawrence
“Never mind.”
“And I shouldn’t have been chosen to go, but instead you should have stood by the Sharif’s side. Right?”
Gertrude just shrugged.
“Do you think I didn’t know that? C’mon, Gertie, this wasn’t a decision I took on my own, y’know. I was following General Command’s orders. Do you think I didn’t feel your absence? The moment we got there, and I saw the look on the other Arab’s faces, I knew we were doomed. Don’t blame me, or Faisal. Sure, it was his initiative, and he asked that you accompany him to the meeting, but the top brass decided a woman couldn’t possibly stand in a council of Arab men and win the day. I’m truly sorry.”
She lit a cigarette, and hissed, “Those damned idiots. Have they no idea what I’ve been doing over the past God-knows how many years?”
Surprised by her vehemence, Lawrence said softly, “The old morons who are running this show on England’s behalf, darling, can only stare at a glorious candle, and see dripping wax. I look at you and I see a brilliant light. The Arabs might be a medieval and patronising bunch of chauvinistic jingoists, but the Brass who lead us are a lot worse. But don’t despair, darling. If we join forces, you and I, surely with your brains and my beauty we can prevail. Is it fair a woman of your extraordinary genius should have to play second fiddle to a silly boy like me? Of course not, but if we want to achieve our dream of unifying the Arabs and with the new and strong unified nation being England’s best friend, then surely it’s best we work together, you and I.”
She smiled at him, and kissed him on the cheek. “I have to be a realist, my love, and admit the powers that be in England will never allow me that sort of elevation. They won’t see my brains or my skills or my knowledge, they’ll just see my skirts and corsets and they’ll shy away. There are only a handful of men in England, men of consequence, who see me for my abilities, and not my sex. Which means . . .”
Lawrence looked at her closely, “Which means . . . ?”
“That I’ll be right behind you. I’ll be whispering in your ear. I’ll be your Eminence Grise. But it’s you who will have to take the lead. You who’ll have to bring all the forces at our disposal together and force these medieval and patristic buggers into one huge and almighty army. I can’t do it, because of my bloody sex. But you, Thomas, you have to become Lawrence of Arabia.”
He giggled. “Darling, they’ll never follow me. I’m too queer.”
“They’ll follow you, once you’ve got a significant military victory under your skin. A devastating raid, perhaps, or some dramatic skirmish leading Faisal’s men against the Turks. Then I’ll spread the word among the tribal leaders that another Saladin has arisen, and they’ll flock to you.”
“You’re more Saladin than me. Couldn’t you do it?” he asked.
“Not a chance, my love. Oh bugger it, Thomas. I’ve spent a lifetime fighting against this ridiculous idea that men have about women and the role they can play. I’d just hoped and prayed that at this stage, in this place and at this time, a person’s sex would be less important than a person’s abilities.”
“Gertie, dearest, if anybody can make it happen, it’s you. So let’s start. Let’s join forces, and show these silly old farts just what it is you’re made of. You asked earlier whether I thought the Arabs would rise up against the Turks. Yes, I think there will be an uprising. I agree most of the chieftains are only after what they can make out of this war, but not Faisal! I know you think he’s only a third son, but let me assure you he’s different. He’s fighting because he truly believes in the Arab destiny and he thinks he’s the one touched by the Prophet to unite the Arabic people. That’s why he’s so concerned about the future fate of Mecca and Medina and the Kingdom of the Hejaz after this war is over.”
“Then use him. Use his men. But believe me when I say the other Arab tribes won’t follow him. But they will follow his Saladin.”
She sipped her scotch and mused. “Anyway, I’ve always had a profound distrust of messianic figures. Is Faisal really that different from all the others? You know him much better than I.”
“Oh yes,” said Lawrence. “He’s a very different kind of Arab. He’s deeply introspective, quite philosophical, very well educated . . . and he has the capacity to be a real statesman. Not a messiah, perhaps, but certainly a leading statesman of the Arab’s cause.”
“Does he have the capacity to be a real king?” she asked. “He could never unite all the Arabs, but could he be king of a new great nation?”
“When his father dies, if his brother Abdullah is made ruler of some other Hashemite kingdom, then I suppose he’ll become the King of the Hejaz.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the Hejaz. I was thinking of a kingdom somewhat closer to home,” she said.
He turned to look at her. She had a wistful expression, her face almost inscrutable. “Gertie? What’s going on in that Machiavellian mind of yours?”
“Oh nothing. Now, let’s have some supper, and we can get down to working on the maps. You’ve got some negotiating to do, and some lives to rescue.”
~
As the night wore on they sat beneath the awning of her veranda holding hands. The simple act of friendship seemed quite natural and ordinary, as though they were blood relations rather than friends.
They should have been talking about the siege of Kut and how to negotiate with the Turks in order to relieve the town, but instead, every time Gertrude would get out the map and begin her instructions, Lawrence would somehow manage to steer the conversation around to day-to-day topics of life in Basrah—who was romantic with whom, which lady was forced to return unexpectedly to Britain because she was looking too longingly at some local chieftain in the marketplace, and who had made a fool of whom at some general’s tea party.
At first, she’d told him tersely that she neither knew, nor did she indulge in the trivia of the private lives of army officer’s wives; but his persistence, and her enjoyment of his mischievous love of scandal, broke down her resistance, and she became a gossip, eagerly describing embarrassing incidents which she’d witnessed and recounting conversations she’d inadvertently overheard. And when he was satisfied with that aspect of life in Basrah, he somehow managed swing the conversation around to them.
“You know, Gertie, when I say I love you, I really mean it. I was only saying to Prince Faisal how special you were. He thinks so too. Since he met you in Egypt, he’s been a bit awestruck by you.”
“Don’t be foolish. Stop saying such tosh,” she said, and smacked him on the leg.
“It isn’t tosh. It’s true. He said it to me when we were at an oasis in Hejaz. He was almost asleep, and he was musing on the war and how he and his father could get ibn Rashid and ibn Sa’ud to go against the Turks, and he said we really should consult with you, because you were the only person . . . he didn’t say woman, he said person . . . who might know how to do it. From him, that was an almighty compliment. And then he said how amazing you were, and that he was in awe of you when he first met you.”
“Thomas? He said this when he was almost asleep? Were you and he . . . ?” she asked.
He put his finger to his lips, and said, “I only have to give you my name, rank, and serial number.”
“You devil,” she shouted. “You haven’t . . .”
“That’s for me to kn
ow, dearest, and for you to find out.”
~
The unrelenting rain clattered against the roof, the windows, the ground, and the broad leaves of the trees in the garden. It was as though an orchestra of snare drums and cymbals was playing just outside her window. It had recently become louder as the menacing black cloud moved from the gulf onto the land. Lawrence had to strain to hear what she was saying.
The map of lower Mesopotamia and Persia was spread out on her dining room table. In the southern end was the Persian Gulf and Basrah, joined to Qurna by the Shatt al Arab waterway. Gertrude had marked the last known location of the marsh Arabs’ that season, as well as the directions of the nomadic tribes which criss-crossed the area.
“This place,” she said pointing to the town at the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates, “is the last part of Mesopotamia where there’s any sort of fertility until you get north of Baghdad, except between the two rivers of course. It’s like a green dividing line between the desert and the sown,” she said.
Lawrence smiled, appreciating her use of the title of one of her most famous books.
“Now, Thomas, the problems started after the Battle of Ctesiphon. Townshend was forced to retreat because he’d been ordered further north and his supply lines were stretched to breaking point, and that was when the initiative passed to the Turks. Until then, we’d had it all our own way, but once the Turks smelled victory all hell broke loose. The success of our drive north of Basrah made up for our disaster at Gallipoli, but then we got bogged down because our supply lines were overstretched, and suddenly it looked to the Turks and their Arab supporters as though our fighting men weren’t made of much.
“The 6th Poona Division retreated to Kut al Amara in December last year. Whitehall ordered Townshend to retreat further, but the orders came too late and he was stuck in that filthy and overcrowded hellhole. Unfortunately, the damn town is situated in a loop in the Tigris, and because of its geography, he became trapped and he’s still there, losing men every day to snipers and artillery and disease. He can’t get out by land, and the waterway is blocked.
