Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  Anderson found himself frowning, wondering where the old fox was going with his argument.

  “And the Honorable leader of the Labor Party would be right. England has some of the best farmers and the best farming land in the world. But not enough of it. We are hampered by our size. We are a great nation in a small land mass. It is my intention, therefore, Mr. Speaker, to give the House this assurance . . . that completely aside from the dates and figs and other wondrous bounty we can import from our friends in Mesopotamia, I intend to make fourteen thousand acres of land, land which was ravaged and devastated by the war with the Turks, rich and cultivable again, and that land, between the Tigris and the Euphrates, watered by the melting snow of the Taurus Mountains where these magnificent rivers rise in Turkey, nurtured by that golden orb of the sun which shines its munificence on the land, and grow such quantities of wheat it will become the greatest granary in the entire world producing inexpensive grains for bread to feed the families of Great Britain.”

  His remarks were greeted by government back benchers standing and cheering and waving their order papers at the opposition. But the prime minister wasn’t finished.

  “The Honorable leader of the Labour Party has asked whether the oil which will shortly be pumped from the depths of the desert will just benefit the wealthy mill owners and landed gentry. Yes, Mr. Speaker, it will. It will benefit the very rich. And it will also benefit the very poor. It will benefit everybody who buys a newspaper, who rides to work on an omnibus, who buys shoes made in a factory, who buys bread and butter and cheese. It will lower the costs of production and make our growing industries the most efficient in the world. It will clean the atmosphere from the terrible smogs and fogs caused by the burning of coal. It will power the motor cars which today are the province of the rich, but which will, within a handful of years, be cheap enough for everyone to drive. I predict a day, Mr. Speaker, when inexpensive fuel will not only drive our ships and make us masters of the High Seas, but will fuel such miracles of transportation that villages will no longer be remote, so families can leave their homes and drive into the pleasantness of the countryside to rest and relax after an exhausting week’s work. I predict all these things, Mr. Speaker, because of the very real prospect of oil rising from the bowels of the earth beneath Mesopotamia, bubbling to the surface, and finding its way to our shores for the benefit of the British taxpayer.”

  The House erupted into cheers and cries of joy, but Lloyd George continued to stand waiting for silence. When the House had quietened down, he continued, “There is talk, Mr. Speaker, of Great Britain withdrawing its forces from that rich and wonderful desert land, talk that we should abandon the country because some of our soldiers are being killed by the Arab tribesmen. But what would happen if we withdrew? After the enormous expenditure which we have incurred in freeing that benighted nation from the withering despotism of the Turks, to hand it back to anarchy and confusion, and to take no responsibility for its development would be an act of folly and quite indefensible. Yet this is what the opposition wants us to do.”

  Again, the House erupted, except for the glum opposition, who merely sat there. Lloyd George resumed his seat, and was pleased to note the gentleman from The Times was still writing copious notes.

  ~

  Baghdad, A Week Later

  As she approached the headquarters of the British High Commission in Baghdad, she noticed A.T. Wilson’s office lights were ablaze even though it was just after six o’clock in the morning. It was the very early hours of the morning which she most enjoyed, because there were no visitors, no interruptions, no urgent messages, and she could do at least a couple of hours work before everybody else’s day began.

  So as she walked through the gates of the commission, she was surprised to see not only his lights ablaze, but Captain Wilson walking about in his room. She was afraid something might be awry, but if it was, let him come and ask for her assistance. She wouldn’t volunteer her help in the almost certain knowledge it would be rejected in the early stages of whatever the crisis was.

  When she arrived at her desk, she saw a copy of The Times open onto the reports of parliamentary proceedings. And even as she read the first, second and third headlines of the story, she knew that was the reason Wilson had come in so early—to gloat.

  Gertrude sat down and read the report of the parliamentary debate carefully. She glanced at the date on top of the newspaper, and realized the debate had occurred four days previously. Yet not a word had been cabled or transmitted. The cascading headlines in the newspaper told the story . . .

  Mr. Lloyd George Commits to British Control Over Iraq

  Labour Claims Unwarranted Expense in Keeping Troops in Middle East

  Iraq Will Be World’s Greatest Granary

  Oil to Drive British Machinery

  The report clearly inferred Mr. Lloyd George had decided to ignore Gertrude’s report, and instead follow Wilson’s, and the Baghdad High Commission’s, and presumably the Foreign Office’s advice.

  She was devastated. She had assumed her carefully reasoned arguments would win over the calmer and more mature heads in London, and over-ride the jingoism of voices which put British interests as paramount over common sense. Why did they all think she was advocating a complete withdrawal of British interests from the Middle East, when she wasn’t! All she was hoping was that Britain could avoid terrible conflicts in the future if it supported a supra-national leader and entered into a mutual partnership with Arabia. The results for England in the short-run wouldn’t be as rich, but longer term, they would be secure, and England would prosper far more.

  She re-read Lloyd George’s words, and felt like crying. All her work, all her efforts had been in vain. What was the use? Why didn’t she just give up, return to England, write her memoirs like everybody else, and live the life of a wealthy, spoiled woman, spending her declining years eating rich food in Claridge’s and going to the theater. She would write for The Times or some magazine, and become the darling of the London set.

  Footsteps approached her office over the polished wooden floor. She knew it was Wilson. She put down the newspaper, and determined now was the right time to announce her retirement from being a political officer. She would tell him, then write to dear Sir Percy Cox in Persia, and then she would sell her house, pack up her things and be back in London within three months. She felt like crying, like throwing things at the nasty little man who would soon be gloating in her office, but she would leave Iraq on her own terms, as a lady and as one of the most powerful women the British Empire had ever produced.

  Captain A.T. Wilson appeared in the doorway. He was immaculately dressed in a three-piece gray woollen suit, a crisp white shirt and a brown school tie.

  “Might I have a word, Miss Bell,” he asked.

  Without being given leave, he entered her office, and sat down in the chair before her desk. She was stunned by his appearance. He seemed to have aged ten years overnight.

  “It appears we’ve both been somewhat ignored by our political lords and masters.”

  She looked at him in surprise. He nodded at the newspaper.

  “The prime minister has decided not to accept the advice you gave the foreign minister in your report, but by a similar token, I have been informed the recommendations of myself and my political staff are also to be ignored. I seem to have been passed over.”

  She felt herself frowning and shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

  He sighed. “I might not be making much sense. I’ve been up all night with half the political officers, and I’m very tired. We all are. You see, London has just informed us the prime minister is going to a conference in San Remo—it’s on the Italian Riviera—with George Clemenceau to finalize their arrangements for the lands which were formerly under Ottoman occupation.”

  Gertrude looked at him in consternation. The Paris Peace Conference had not ended with any conclusions for the Middle East, Faisal had w
alked out in disgust, and she knew another conference would have to be held to sort things out, but she had no idea it would be so soon.

  “And what is likely to happen in San Remo?” she asked Wilson.

  He cleared his throat. “We have advised, and the Foreign Office concurs, that Mesopotamia—Iraq—should remain British. The prime minister even said so himself in Parliament just a few days ago,” he said, nodding to The Times.

  Before she could speak, he continued, “But it seems his statement was little more than a negotiating ploy for the French. It appears Lloyd George and Clemenceau have already agreed of the division of these lands. Arabia will remain as it is, an independent peninsula under the control of ibn Sa’ud, although we will be there to guide him and hopefully influence him not to be belligerent towards his neighbours. The French have won their right to Syria, which will include Lebanon and will be mandated through the League of Nations to France. Mesopotamia and Palestine will be mandated to Great Britain.”

  “Then you’ve won!” said Gertrude.

  “No, on the contrary. I and my office here have lost out badly. Indeed, Miss Bell, it appears you’ve won more than the rest of us. But it really isn’t a question of win or lose, is it? It’s a question of what’s best for Britain. It appears Britain and France will accept mandates from this new League of Nations body in Geneva until the Arabs are capable of governing themselves and standing on their own two feet. And Great Britain will hasten that process as expeditiously as possible.”

  Gertrude felt her jaw drop. To have stared into the jaws of her own political and professional annihilation one minute, and then suddenly to have become the architect of good and sensible foreign policy the next, was almost more than she could stand.

  “But Captain Wilson,” she said, pointing to the newspaper on her desk. “In The Times, it says that—”

  “All for public consumption, I’m afraid. To keep the opposition quiet. The reality is we’re going to form a partnership with whoever we nominate to rule Mesopotamia, and get out sooner rather than later.”

  Wilson cleared his throat, and continued, “In exchange for the territory of Mosul, which he gives to us, Clemenceau has agreed to share in the exploration and production of the oil in Iraq.”

  Unable to look her in the eyes, he looked down at her desk. “Because my advice has been ignored, I have tended my resignation from my present position to the British government, and suggested Percy Cox returns from Persia. He’s better at this sort of thing than I am. I’m afraid all I can see is British humiliation and ruin if we follow the path which Lloyd George is set upon.”

  She looked at him in anticipation and judging what was going through her mind, he hastened to add, “But they’ve refused the request for my resignation or my transfer. They want me here, running things. It appears I’m to become the Whitehall puppet of Iraq.”

  For once, Gertrude wanted to extend the hand of friendship to him in his humiliation. He was beginning to look like a broken man. But instead, she said, “You’re making it sound as if it’s the beginning of the end. But it’s not, it’s just the end of the beginning. We’re not going to pull out of Iraq. If we did just pull out, it would be the end of our empire and the land will devolve into chaos. If Iraq goes, then Persia will soon follow, and then inevitably India. That’s not what’s going to happen. What Lloyd George is obviously doing is setting us up in a relationship so we develop the Arab’s ability to rule themselves, and if and when we manage that transition to everybody’s benefit, then the Iraqis will continue to trade with us, because our relationships will be so strong.”

  He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Which is precisely what you suggested in your report, Miss Bell. The charade in the House of Commons was for the British people, and for the Arabs. Perhaps sharing is what will happen, but I doubt it. Knowing the Arabs as well as I do, I’m afraid they’ll spit in our faces. The only way to treat them isn’t with some form of partnership between equals, but to show them our strength and determination, so they’d be too afraid to rise up. A strong force of men and material is what’s needed, and a strong policy regarding any move towards self-determination.

  “But that’s a battle I’ve lost, and I pray to God you’re correct in your assessment, because if you’re not, then only the Almighty will help us all. In the meantime, I shall put out a statement when the San Remo Conference is over. The communiqué will read something along the lines of the move bringing about a healthy body politic and that Britain will act as a wise and far-seeing guardian. I’ll say steps will be taken to prepare the way for the creation of an independent Arab State of The Iraq.”

  He stood. “I suppose I should offer you my congratulations, Miss Bell. Your will has prevailed.”

  He turned, and walked from her office. She could have said something in repayment for her months of humiliation at his hands, but chose instead to refrain. It was the lady-like thing to do.

  SIXTEEN

  Baghdad, May 1920

  Recovering from a nasty bout of bronchitis, Gertrude found it difficult to breathe in the high commissioner’s residency, and sat by one of the windows, the only woman in the room. For the occasion she had dressed in a somber jacket and long skirt, a ruffed shirt and a large hat with her very favorite mixture of ostrich and peacock feathers. Gertrude did her best to muffle her coughs so as not to disturb the unofficial ceremony which was taking place.

  The new commander of British forces, the man replacing General George MacMunn, stood resplendent in his dress uniform, a white jacket replete with epaulettes, medals, and the ribbons of campaigns. For the occasion he had chosen to wear black leggings which were so shiny his Indian servant must have spent the entire previous night just polishing them.

  General Sir Aylmer Haldane looked very much the part of the commander of the Raj—pompous, overbearing, florid from being overfed and drinking too much mess claret, and . . . well, she disliked herself for thinking it, but . . . stupid. He would have made an ideal character study for the impertinent but wonderfully perceptive Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan.

  As he met more and more people, the general huffed and puffed. It was obvious from his demeanor he didn’t like meeting so many of the political officers, and probably felt more comfortable among military men.

  Captain Wilson, whose resignation had been refused by the British Government, had naturally left Gertrude’s introduction until after the last of the most junior male political officers had shaken hands with the new commander of British forces. When he finally deigned to acknowledge her presence, he said, “And this, General Haldane, is our only lady on staff, Miss Bell.” No rank, no accomplishments, no acknowledgement of her status as a commander of the British Empire . . . just Miss Bell.

  The general hadn’t even bothered to shake hands or acknowledge her. He’d merely grunted acknowledgement, and turned. But she hadn’t minded. She just wanted to finish with this nonsense and get back to her work.

  She was already missing dear George MacMunn. Although one of the most important and impressive generals in the British army, George wasn’t in the least pompous and had always sought her out for advice. She had been able to advise him on an adequate military response to the nationalism of the Arabs, and to use the policy of containment rather than aggressive punishment when nationalistic fervor made some of the hotheads get out of hand in the smaller villages and towns. But one look at General Haldane, and Gertrude knew another avenue in the hierarchy of the high commission was closing off to her.

  Since the British government decided to ask the League of Nations to grant a mandate in order for them to govern Iraq, the prospect of national freedom had turned the Arab mood into a frenzy. Any delay had caused discontent on the streets, and now there was tension everywhere. After hundreds of years of living under the yoke, the Arabs wanted their freedom, and would allow nothing to stand in their way.

  Trouble had erupted amongst the tribes, on the border between Syria and Iraq, and especially in the north aroun
d Mosul. Even the Turks had got back into the act and had the audacity to claim that Kurdish Mosul in the north of the country was their territory, and that they hadn’t retreated from it, but it should rightfully be under their control and not part of the landmass which Gertrude had put together as the new country of Iraq.

  In the regions and provinces, in the towns and the villages, there was fighting in the streets between rival factions, and between Arab and British. Christians and Jews were being assaulted and killed, Sunni fought against Shi’ite who fought against everybody.

  British soldiers were being murdered, political and diplomatic and civilian staff were being held for ransom and their bodies were being thrown out of cars a week after the demand had been refused, and the execrable Captain Arnold T. Wilson blamed her for the growing disaster. He maintained that had the government listened to him and his Baghdad political office, none of this would have happened. But promising freedom had put ideas into the Arabic heads, and now Britain was reaping the rewards of what he was calling Gertrude’s folly. The putative truce between them had lasted all of a couple of days.

  In some ways, she grudgingly had to admit to a degree of sympathy for Wilson. He saw things falling apart as a result of a British policy with which he profoundly disagreed, and now intolerable pressure was on him to sort the situation out. He’d tried to resign a second time, and again have Percy Cox brought back from Persia, all to no avail. In dealing with the uprising, he’d begun by reasoning with the different factions, but when this had patently failed, he’d resorted to force to quell the situation. Now, he was being told to work with this General Haldane, a man who looked like a buffoon and who appeared more comfortable drinking whiskey and soda in a deckchair during a cricket match in the Home Counties, than leading men onto the field of battle.

  Wilson called for order, and people shuffled to their chairs. “Gentlemen. And lady,” he said pointedly nodding to Gertrude, who treated his remark with disdain. “We are here to welcome the new commander of British forces in the high command, General Haldane. The general comes to us in troubled times. Just the other week, an unruly mob of Arabs gathered in one of the mosques here in Baghdad, and the mullah began to foment trouble. Having our man in place in the mosque, he was able to get word to us, and we were rightly worried about a riot. Two armoured cars were sent out to show our presence. A rock fight, and then a gun battle began and a number of Arabs were killed. I have ordered that Mosques are not to be used for political purposes, and I intend to arrest any Islamic cleric who causes dissent among the people, and who acts as a rabble-rouser. There are to be no nationalist speeches from pulpits, no meetings on street corners or in market places. This uprising to try to force the British government’s hand must be put down. If it means closing the shops and cutting them off from their food and their supplies, from their income and wealth, then so be it.