by Alan Gold
He smiled at her modesty. Since leaving Europe, landing at Basrah and traveling the hundreds of miles through the marshlands and deserts to Allied headquarters in Baghdad, he’d heard of little else but the brilliance and importance of the legendary Gertrude Bell. Arabs as well as British army men spoke of her in the most glowing terms. Yet nobody spoke of her on the battlefields and the headquarters in Europe, and her name was unknown in America.
“You’re quite something, from what everybody says about you. As you know, Gertrude, I’m here to cover stories on the war for back home. Europe’s all written out and it’s crawling with reporters, and so I wanted to be the first to bring what’s happening in Arabia to the world’s attention.”
“Really? And why do you think our little war out here would be of the slightest interest to anyone in Europe or in America? Hundreds of thousands of young men are dying every month on the battlefields of Belgium and France. This is hardly more than a side-show.”
“On the contrary, if Turkey wins and defeats the Brits, and Germany wins over Europe, this land will be the first they make for. Everybody’s talking about the vast quantities of oil here, which is the future of industry and automobiles. Whoever controls Arabia controls the future of the world. That’s what they’re saying, and I guess that’s what it’s all about. That’s why Great Britain wants a stake in the ground, and so does everybody else. No, Gertrude, this place has it all for a reporter. The magic of the desert, the mystery of the tribes, the romance of the sheiks and the harems and everything else. And of course, there’s this Englishman who rides a camel and wears Arabic clothing and is leading the Arab armies. Now that’s a story!”
She smiled. “Mr. Lawrence?”
“Yes, that’s the guy—Major Lawrence. They say he’s the one out of the box. I mean, a white man riding across the desert on a camel. Is that unique, or what?”
“It’s far from unique, Mr. Thomas. Hundreds of Australian troops ride camels in the Middle East. Being the ship of the desert, it’s the preferred choice of transportation.”
Undaunted, he continued. “Okay, so maybe others have done it before, but nobody knows about this guy Lawrence in the States. I want to capture the essence of the man . . . the romantic . . . the adventurer . . . a white man who throws off the mantle of civilization and respectability and goes native. Major Lawrence of Arabia.”
Gertrude looked at him in amusement. “I’m sure he’d love that,” she said.
“And I want to do a feature on you, too. A story and pictures for the magazine. I want to tell the world all about Gertrude Bell, and what you’ve been up to. A woman who’s succeeded in a man’s world—that sort of thing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t dream of it. I have no intention of becoming like a circus curio.”
Offended, Lowell said, “It isn’t like that. I’ll do a really nice story about you, with pictures taken beside some of the old ruins south of here. They say you’re a famous archaeologist and an explorer. I’ll make you even more famous in the States, so after the war, you can—”
“Absolutely not, Mr. Lowell. It’s completely out of the question. You will not take my photograph, nor will you write about me for your magazine. I’m a very private person, and you’ll respect my privacy. Anyway, the work I’m doing is top secret. Under no circumstances will you report any of it. Is that clear?”
He shrugged his shoulders. He’d met people like Gertrude a dozen times before, and eventually they all changed their mind, incapable of missing the opportunity for fame which his magazine features would bring. “Fine. So tell me all about this guy, Lawrence. I need to find him. Any idea where he is now?” he asked ingenuously.
She scrutinized him thoughtfully. She was concerned a blaze of publicity might compromise Lawrence’s ability to maintain the respect of the tribal leaders. “Is it so important you meet with Mr. Lawrence? Surely the Arabic leaders such as Prince Faisal and Sharif Hussein ibn Ali or even Abd al-‘Aziz ibn Sa’ud himself are more important than some middle-ranking British officer who’s little more than a military advisor. If you want, I’ll try to arrange interviews with you. I’ll even act as your translator.
“You seem, if I might say so, to be somewhat askew in your understanding of this offensive,” she told him. “While Mr. Lawrence has been of great value to the cause of fighting the Turks, you must remember he is under instructions from Britain, and that—”
“He’s under instructions from you, if everything I’ve been told about you is true, Gertrude.”
She burst out laughing. “What an extraordinary thing to say.”
“Extraordinary or not, I’m a reporter. I ask questions. My job is to get to know information. And from Cairo to Jerusalem, Basrah to Baghdad, everybody keeps whispering your name into my ear. They say you’re the brains behind the Arabic uprising. They say you write notes to Lawrence telling him what to do next. If that’s the case, then you’re the real story. And they say you’re conspiring to bring all the Arab tribes under one flag when this war is over. If that’s true, then that’s a big story. But as you won’t let me do it, I guess I’ll have to settle for Lawrence.”
“Nonsense! Piffle! I don’t know what you’ve heard, or who you’ve been talking to, but I’m just a diplomat promoting British interests in this war. I’m a minor cog in the wheels. The Arab Bureau in Egypt and we here in Mesopotamia are working in conjunction with the leadership of the Arabic people in fighting centuries of Ottoman oppression. This isn’t a one-man show, Mr. Thomas. Or a one-woman show, either. It’s a co-ordinated, sophisticated program to overthrow the Turks, to right the wrongs of history, to give the Arabic people back their country, and to—”
This time, it was Lowell Thomas’ turn to burst out laughing. “Come on, Gertie, pull the other one. It’s got bells on it. You’re here for one reason, and one reason only, and we all know it. You’re here to carve up Arabia when Turkey is pushed back north out of Asia. The Brits, the French, and the Italians all want their slice of the action. Even the Russians are keen, from what I’ve heard. The new Russian government is all over the place right now, and doesn’t know whether it’s coming or going. They say they’ll soon be more trouble for the Russkie government trying to hold the country together, and these guys Lenin and Trotsky are raising support for another revolution. You think they’ll sit on their backsides when the Black Sea is up for grabs. Come on!”
She remained silent.
“Well, do you deny you’re the brains behind this Arab revolt?” he asked.
“I most certainly do. And I find your tone and your manner impertinent, offensive, and completely inaccurate. I think it’s time you left my office. You can expect no further help from me.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. It wasn’t my intention at all. I’m a reporter and I get results by asking questions people often don’t want asked. So I’m sorry if you’re upset. But ever since I left Europe, I’ve heard nothing other than the way in which all the allies are fighting for the Arabic cause, and quite frankly, after the way the Brits have treated the Egyptians since they took over the country thirty years ago, it seems as if you Europeans look on the Arabs as little more than extensions of your Empire, slaves to your cause, yours to do with as you want.”
“Mr. Thomas,” Gertrude said in anger. “You came into my office in good standing, requesting information. You have no right to make these remarks. Have you forgotten who I am? I’m a senior political officer of His Majesty’s government. How dare you make these assertions? I’ve nothing but the highest respect and regard for Arabic history and culture. These implications are monstrous.”
“Look, Gertrude. I didn’t come in here for a quarrel, but from everything I’ve heard about you, you’re the full dollar and you cut straight to the chase, which is why I didn’t beat around the bush. I thought you’d give me a straight bat, not some English doubletalk. I guess I was wrong about things, and I’m sorry. But you should listen to what people are saying on the streets. In
Jerusalem, in Suez, all over Arabia, people are talking about Britain and France replacing the Ottomans and being little better for the Arabic people. The Arabs support the uprising because they hate the Turks, but are very dubious about their future. Sure, everyone wants the Turks to go home to Constantinople, but everybody’s wondering what happens after that. Is Britain just going to pack its bags, and quit the area? I don’t think so.”
“Great Britain has strategic interests in this area, and will protect them. But Great Britain is also committed to the Arab revolt and to Arabic nationalism, and it’s a policy which has been stated over and over again in public.”
Again, Lowell Thomas burst out laughing. She thought she needed to remove him from the building in case there were any Arabic leaders who might overhear what he was saying in his stentorian voice.
She stood from her desk, hoping her movements didn’t indicate to the American that this was becoming an increasingly dangerous conversation. She was used to dealing with British journalists, but she’d never experienced an American reporter before, and the differences were startling. Unlike the British reporters, especially for the quality newspapers, this American was direct, aggressive, and intrusive.
“Perhaps if we were to go out for a walk in the gardens, it might cheer us up and cool down our tempers,” she said, leading him through the double glass doors of her office.
Somewhat humbled, he said softly, “I guess I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t I?”
“You certainly have.”
“Can I get back onto the right footing?”
“That depends on where you tread,” she said.
They remained silent, walking through the perfumery which was the gardens. He appeared not to notice the glory of the trees or the spice bushes, but was deep in thought.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider, and let me do a feature story on you. If you don’t like the idea of a magazine story, I could do you on wireless. You’re such a remarkable woman. I’ve heard all about you—mountaineer, linguist, explorer, archaeologist, diplomat—you’ve done more in your life than ten other people put together. I’m sure millions of readers would be thrilled to read of your example.”
“Ah, Mr. Thomas, but would I be thrilled to know they’re reading about me. That’s the point, isn’t it? Before the war, I regularly wrote for The Times, and published books. But now, as a diplomat, I require anonymity and complete freedom from the public gaze to do my job here. How on Earth could I gain trust and respect from the Arabic chieftains if my name and the nature of our discussions were trumpeted all over the front page of your magazine?”
“Then why haven’t you objected more strongly to the idea of me going to see this Lawrence guy? I mean, what’s sauce for the goose surely is sauce for the gander?”
“I did at first, but right now, I think it could be a good idea. He’s not a diplomat, after all, he’s leading an army, and a bit of notoriety wouldn’t do any harm. It suits my purposes to be like Richelieu and Mazarin, a secretive eminence rouge between the Arabs and the British, whereas it probably would suit Mr. Lawrence’s needs very well for you to portray him across the world as Lawrence of Arabia. Yes, I’m sure he’d be tickled pink at the thought.”
“Okay,” he said, full of enthusiasm. “Okay, then tell me how I can find him. It’s a big desert out there.”
She looked at him with a bemused smile. “My dear Mr. Thomas, what on Earth gives you the impression that I have the faintest idea where he is.”
“Oh, come on, Gertrude. Everybody knows you’re in touch with him and supply him with all his information. Everyone says so. You tell him where to go, who to talk to, what the Arabs are doing and thinking . . . everything.”
She shook her head. “My, but you do have an unusual picture of my importance.”
~
Towards Damascus in Syria, 1918
He was a boy again, doing the dare-devil things which boys did, the heart-thumping, throat-drying, knife-edged manic thrills of an adult-free adventure. He was the leader of the biggest gang any schoolboy had ever commanded. Now he had his own army to order at will. Now his physical disabilities meant nothing compared to his successes at derailing a train or massacring a squad of petrified Turkish conscripts, spilling blood into the desert sand. And the real beauty was that the desert soaked up the blood and within days it had returned to its purity and absolved him of his crimes.
For a year, he had been slowing the Turkish advance by crippling the Hejaz Railway, stopping the trains in their tracks which ran from Damascus to Medina, killing Turkish soldiers and preventing reinforcements and supplies from reaching the beleaguered remnants of their army.
And now his glory and his shame were being trumpeted around the world on the front pages of newspapers and magazines, thanks to this American journalist. At first, he’d been thrilled to see himself on the front of a magazine cover, staring enigmatically into the infinite distance, dressed in the flowing white robes of an Arabic chieftain, his keffiyeh wafting in the gentle desert breeze. And he’d laughed out loud at how such a picture would be received in the mess halls of Cairo and Whitehall and by his classmates who were today bankers or stockbrokers or selling insurance or motor cars or permanently socializing and doing nothing adventurous with their lives.
But then he’d wondered whether Lawrence the Warrior and Lawrence the Hero and Lawrence of Arabia would become Lawrence the Murderer when it was known how many prisoners were murdered in cold blood because there wasn’t enough food or water for the enemy and his army in the desert. This wasn’t the gentlemanly warfare between cricket and rubgy teams performed according to ancient rules on the playing fields of Eton and Harrow; this was maiming and mutilation; this was fear and retribution; this was life and death.
A shadow passed across his face, infiltrating its presence onto his musing. “I believe the expression you English use is a penny for your thoughts.”
Lawrence opened his eyes, and looked up to see Prince Faisal standing between him and the sun.
“Most noble and excellent majesty, man of men, ruler of the world, guide and mentor to the friends of Islam, greetings,” said Lawrence with a mischievous grin on his face. He was pleased to have had his disturbing thoughts interrupted.
“And greetings to an Englishman who is redeeming Arabic pride and making this third-born prince into a king of leaders.”
“Inshallah” quipped Lawrence.
“Do you ever think that day will come?” asked the prince. “I have two brothers older than me, and my father, though old and sick, is energised by this revolt, and has no thoughts of retiring from the guardianship of the Holy Cities.”
“Sir,” Lawrence began to say, standing up and shaking the sand of the desert off his khaki uniform, which he had taken to wearing as he moved closer to civilization. “We are on the outskirts of Damascus. The way this war has gone, I think opportunities will arise for greatness for the Arabic people. Once Turkey is pushed back across the Bosphorus and out of Asia and Arabia, it’ll leave vacuums to be filled, and we all know that nature abhors a vacuum. There will be vast areas left without rule, and men of vision and with charisma will fill those areas with wisdom and leadership. You are the man whom the Arabs will revere as having led the uprising; you are the man they will turn to as their natural leader.”
“Really, Lawrence? Will I even be revered by Abd al-Aziz and the Sa’ud family? I think not.”
“While ever this war is on, Majesty, the Sa’uds are earning a king’s ransom for fighting on our side. When the war is over, we British will protect the eastern flank of the Hejaz from any adventure he might launch against Mecca and Medina.”
“And does Gertrude Bell agree with you?”
“Gertie and I are of one mind on this issue. We recognize the Hussein family and the men of the Kingdom of the Hejaz led the uprising against the Turks, and contributed magnificently to our success in the mighty Arab army we’ve built. We British don’t forget such support. Abd al
-Aziz has certainly contributed many fighting men, but the cost every month is staggering. Again, sir, we won’t forget such avarice. Don’t concern yourself about the safety of yourself and your family, or indeed your kingdom, when this war is over. The Kingdom of the Hejaz will last for a thousand years.”
“From your mouth to the ears of Allah, Lawrence. And hopefully your generals and diplomats will also have been listening.”
The prince smiled. They began to walk together to the top of the hill in order to spy out the horizon and search for that tell-tale smudge of smoke which foretold of a Turkish reinforcements train.
“Your words, Lawrence, are music to the ears of one such as me. But when the music has stopped playing, then all that is left is the aching memory. This vacuum you speak of will appear if Turkey is defeated. And while that looks as if it might be the will of Allah, why do you assume Arabs will fill this vacuum?”
“Sir?”
“France has many interests in this area, Britain needs to ensure its passage to India through the Suez Canal, and when the reserves are proven your country will need the oil which is beneath the sands of Basrah and Abadan. Or Germany might win the war in Europe and spread its influence from Berlin to Baghdad and beyond to the Persian Gulf, push the Turks and Arabs out of the way, and control the oilfields.”
“All these things assume, Prince Faisal, that our interests in this area do not accord with yours. How many times do I have to tell you Britain has no interest in replacing Turkey as an overlord, but—”
“Mr. Sykes and Monsieur Picot do not agree with you,” the prince said quietly.
“I beg your pardon,” Lawrence asked.
“Sykes and Picot, Mr. Lawrence. Sir Mark Sykes from London, and Monsieur François Georges-Picot from Paris have spent these last many months pouring over maps and deciding how the Middle East shall be divided up after Turkey is forced out of Arabia. You didn’t know this?” the prince asked in mock astonishment.
