by Alan Gold
Sir Percy nodded in agreement. “Same can’t be said for your pal Winston, I’m afraid. Are you aware just three weeks ago, he recommended the Air Force drop poison gas on the Arabic tribes. He said something to the effect that he was strongly in favor of using the gas against uncivilized tribes to spread a lively terror in Iraq. For God’s sake, Gertie, the man’s a lunatic.”
“Winston said that?” she hissed, shocked at the news.
“I’m afraid so. Good God, wasn’t there enough gas used in the trenches to put an end to its use forever. There’s talk of another Geneva Convention banning the use of gas as a weapon of war, but I suppose we’ll have to leave that up to the League of Nations.”
He hesitated saying what was in his mind, but knew she revered honesty more than anything else. Softly, he whispered, “I’m afraid the fact is your pal Winston is probably responsible, along with Captain Wilson, for many of the problems we’re suffering here today. The idea that we only needed such a small force of men for such a vast country was ludicrous. And his idea that airplanes could do the work of a battalion was nonsense. His trying to save money was the cause of much of the difficulties.”
“He was instructed by the government,” she said quietly. “You can’t blame Winston for the problems caused by Arnold Wilson. It’s not fair.”
She noticed everybody else had finished their soup course, and the stewards were waiting for them to finish. They quickly emptied their plates and Sir Percy nodded to the waiters, who descended on the diners like a swarm of locust.
“Percy, almost of a third of the country is up in arms against us, and everybody else. How can you call together a provisional government if armed thugs are patrolling the roads?”
“It’s not going to be easy, and I’ll need every ounce of your negotiating skills to be able to do it, but the way I see it working is this—I’ll appoint tribal leaders from each major area, from each major tribe, and from each part of the country to come to Baghdad and to assist in the appointment of some notable to serve as prime minister. Once that’s done, they’ll have one of their own as leader of the country. He’ll appoint Arab ministers and they’ll be advised by us. The function of the Arab ministry will be to prepare the grounds for the first general election in this country’s history. If that doesn’t quiet the buggers, I don’t know what will.”
She looked at him, and forced herself to resist throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him. It was precisely what she’d been suggesting to Wilson for months, but he’d rejected her advice out of spite or hubris; yet what Percy was proposing was so eminently sensible. The Arabs would be in charge, but the British would be showing them the way.
During the main course they discussed who would be a suitable person to act as prime minister. Someone from Basrah, from Baghdad, or from Mosul. Each had advantages and considerable disadvantages.
But it was during the desert that her next door neighbor, on the other side of her to Sir Percy, tapped her on the shoulder. It was Ghyath Tabul, a Shi’ite leader from Basrah with whom she had often held interesting and enlightening conversations.
“I’m an old man,” he began saying, “and many of my powers have failed. I am no longer able to satisfy myself with a woman, though God knows I continue to try.”
She contained her laughter. It was often the way with Arabic men to say things which an English gentleman would never countenance saying.
“One of the powers which have not yet failed me, Khatun,” he continued, “is my power to overhear what is being said behind my back. Forgive me, but I have been listening to what you and Kokus were discussing. You are talking about us having a prime minister and a cabinet. All of this is very good. But tell me, Khatun, in England, how is a house built?”
Now where, she wondered, was he going with this? Playing along, she said “A house, great one, is built from firm foundations. Then walls are built, then a roof is put on.”
He nodded. “And that is how you wish to build a government in Iraq? You begin with the foundations of a cabinet and a prime minister, and on that, you will build consensus and a country.”
She nodded. He was far too wily to have begun this conversation without a purpose.
“I don’t think, Khatun, that in Iraq we should build our new houses like that.”
Surprised, she asked, “And how would you build a house in Iraq, great one?”
“I would begin with the roof, Khatun. With a roof. I would support the roof with a few pillars. You see, foundations aren’t easy to observe, and the householders will wonder what the builder is doing, scurrying under the ground. The house will be built too slowly for people without a home. The householders will be discouraged. They will need the shelter of a roof to protect them from the sun and the wind.”
She understood what he was saying.
“Give us a roof, Khatun.”
“But what of Prince Abdullah? Great one, we have suggested a roof in Prince Abdullah, son of the Kingdom of the Hejaz.”
The old man shook his head. “Abdullah will not make a good king, Khatun. He is unknown in our country. He is not one of us. And his reputation does not impress. He will not rule wisely. He is a fool and a wastrel. We need a man of substance, who is acceptable to all of us in our country.”
The old man’s watery eyes looked upwards to the ceiling. “A roof, Khatun, a strong and safe roof which can be seen and admired throughout all of Iraq. A roof which will protect the people.”
“And do you think that such a roof will be found in The Iraq?” she asked.
The old man shook his head. “No, Khatun. There is too much jealousy, too many men who want to be king. But thanks to the French, Syria has lost its roof. I’m wondering whether the discarded roof of Syria will fit the new house of Iraq.”
She looked at him in amazement, but all he did was smile, and continue eating his food.
~
Whitehall, London, January 1921
“I have to admit, Lawrence, I’m somewhat surprised, and not unduly gratified, that you accepted my invitation. We only seem to have corresponded with each other of late, and haven’t met since Paris. Frankly, I’d have thought I’m the last person a chap like you would have wanted to see.”
Colonel Lawrence looked at the prematurely balding head of Winston Churchill, standing as though his feet were tree trunks growing out of the carpet, hands on hips as though he was about to address a political rally. His parliamentary opponents were starting to call him bulldog, and Lawrence could easily see why.
The two men were alone in the cavernous meeting room of the Colonial Office in Whitehall. It was only 11:30 in the morning, and already Churchill had a huge cigar stuck in his mouth. Every time he drew on it and exhaled, his upper half seemed to disappear in a cloud of blue smoke.
“I’m here, Winston, because you invited me. If for nothing else, you’ve got a reputation for serving the best single malt in London.”
“Good God, I didn’t think you drank,” Churchill exclaimed. “If you’re still here at lunch time, we’ll break open a bottle and I’ll take you to lunch at The Travellers Club. During our lives, I believe we’ve both traveled more than five hundred miles from London, so we’re eligible.”
Lawrence settled into the chair, and asked, “Why did you send for me?”
“I didn’t send for you, my dear chap. I respectfully asked if you’d be kind enough to visit me. One doesn’t send for Lawrence of Arabia.”
Lawrence scowled. “You know I hate that name.”
“If I were you, I’d wear it with pride. It was one of the high points of Great Britain’s experience in the Middle East.”
“So that’s why you’ve invited me. Iraq!”
“Precisely. I’m getting a bollocking in the press over Iraq. I’ve put Percy Cox back in charge, and he seems to be calming the situation down somewhat, but that buffoon Wilson let things get out of hand, as did General Haldane, but now the criticism’s come home to roost.”
“And what can I
do about it?” asked Lawrence.
“My standing with the British public has slipped a bit as a result. Nothing permanent, of course—the public’s memory is notoriously fickle—but the criticism in the press and in parliament isn’t doing the government much good, and its deflecting us from concentrating on more serious issues.”
“And why should that interest me?” asked Lawrence.
“Because you can help the government. I’d like you to issue a statement to the media that government policy in regard to the Middle East has been right all along, that mistakes were made as a result of misunderstandings, and that the Arabs are notoriously hard to deal with. Further, that this uprising and the deaths which have been caused were the result of them demanding too much, too soon.”
Again, Churchill puffed on his cigar. His eyes searched Lawrence’s face for a reaction.
“Again I ask the question, Winston, why should I? You’ve never liked me. You’ve been caustic about my adventures, you’ve said publicly the work we did in the Hejaz and Yenbo and Aqaba were nothing more than sideshows and had little effect on the war, you’ve made horrible remarks about my demeanor, you’ve excluded me and ridiculed me. In Paris, you were positively beastly towards me, fawning over Gertrude Bell, and treating me like a disease, like a pariah. Why should I concern myself with your fate?”
“One reason, my dear chap, is you’re a particular friend of Gertrude Bell, and her judgement is sounder than anybody else’s I know. More than that, she was looking at you as some sort of latter-day Saladin. She saw you as a leader of the Arab world. Perhaps she was wrong, or perhaps events in that capricious and benighted land moved in the wrong direction, but she saw in you much that others fail to see, and because I trust her judgement so greatly, I’m inclined to look beyond the obvious when I see you.”
Lawrence squirmed in his chair. “Gertie’s idea that I could lead Arabia was nonsense. It could never have happened.”
“Not so,” said Churchill. “In many ways she was right. Because there are so many little men vying for the role of pan-Arab leader, not one of whom will find a follower in a different tribe, and all of whom will be opposed through jealousy, she saw an opportunity for an outsider to come in and scoop the pool. And she damn near pulled it off, as well. After your victories against the Turks, many Arabs saw you as a leader. But you followed that bloody American newsman’s cart and horse and instead of devoting your life to leadership, you became a circus freak, a show pony. And that’s why you’re becoming more and more obscure. Had you followed Gertie’s advice, I might be calling you Your Royal Highness at this very minute.”
Lawrence burst out laughing. “So you think I’m obscure, do you Winston. Why?”
“Because, Lawrence, now peace has erupted, you and those like you have become an irrelevance. All the generals and colonels are rushing hither and thither to have their memoirs and campaigns published, as though the great British public wants to be reminded about the war! And you can’t bear being irrelevant, can you? Until another war comes along, Lawrence, you’ve missed your chance for greatness. You’re extraneous to the needs of England. You’ll shrivel and dry up, and all you can look forward to is half a dozen lines in a Times obituary.
“But not if I lift my little finger and sign a scrap of paper. I can rescue you from the nightmares that are swirling around in your head. I can do you a great big favor. How long do you think the public’s going to queue up to hear about the marvellous adventures of Lawrence of Arabia? I hear you’re writing your memoirs. If you want them to sell well, you’ve got to be uppermost in peoples’ minds. No publisher will want your work if, in another six months, a year maybe, you’ll be yesterday’s hero, just another soldier from a distant war.”
It was now Lawrence’s turn to search Churchill’s demeanor for signs of meaning.
“And what’s this great favor you can do me?” he asked.
“As colonial Secretary, it’s in my power to elevate you to the very highest place which this country can provide.”
Lawrence laughed. “I’m not interested in medals or ennoblement. I didn’t want to lead the Arabs after the war and become king, and I certainly don’t want to be Sir Thomas or Lord Lawrence of Kings Cross Railway Station. I’m not after that sort of glory.”
“That’s not the sort I’m offering. I’m creating a new office within my department specifically to look after the Middle East. I’m planning a major conference on Iraq and Palestine in Cairo. The entire world’s media will be there. All the important people from this department and experts from the Middle East theater. It’ll be a reprise of the Paris Peace Conference, only without the distraction of that old warhorse Clemenceau. Do this small thing for me, get the monkey off my back, and I’ll include you in the conference. You’ll be the center of attention again. You can guide British policy in Iraq and Palestine and the rest of the theater. Unlike blowing up a few trains on some unheard of railway track, you can have a real influence on the future.”
“You’ll include Gertrude?” he asked.
“Of course. Regardless of what you decide, Gertrude is essential to my planning strategy.”
“And you’ll treat me with respect?” he asked.
Churchill smiled. “As though you were my brother.”
Lawrence sighed. He’d love to be involved in the Middle East again, but being out of the limelight had been so comforting.
“You know, Winston, you’re completely wrong about me. Oh, certainly, most of the generals can’t stand being at home and only having command of the kitchen staff and the gardeners. But not me. I love it. I love being obscure. I crave obscurity.”
“We all crave obscurity when we’re famous, Lawrence. But wait until you really are obscure. You’ll sell your soul to be noticed.”
“I’m thinking of re-enlisting,” said Lawrence. Churchill looked at him in shock. “Not as Colonel Lawrence, but by another name, so I don’t carry any baggage with me. I just want to be ordinary again, and not this Boy’s Own adventurer. I’ll enlist in the engineers or something. Or maybe this new air force you’re so excited about. I have to get away from being Lawrence of Arabia. It’s driving me mad.”
Churchill nodded. “Why not put that decision off until after Cairo. Then you can decide.”
There was a respectful knock on the door. It opened, and a woman’s head poked through. She nodded at Churchill who nodded back. Lawrence wondered what was going on, until a familiar dapper figure, dressed in an immaculate dark blue three-piece suit walked in through the door.
Lawrence stood immediately, and bowed. “My dear chap,” he said, beaming a smile. “What are you doing in London?”
Churchill had a mischievous glint in his eye. Yet another Churchillian coup de grace. “Welcome, Faisal. What a pity I can’t call you king anymore.”
Faisal beamed. “I think the expression is ex-king, Mr. Churchill. My friend, Thomas Lawrence,” he said, walking across the room to hug his friend, “Colonel Lawrence, it’s so very good to see you. How are you?”
The two men held each other’s shoulders, and beamed. “My God, Faisal, but I’ve missed you. How often have I thought of going over to Syria and being with you.”
“Too late, Lawrence. Too late. I’ve been ousted by the French. Driven out of my kingdom.”
Lawrence nodded. He’d heard the news from friends in London and was preparing to write Faisal a letter of regret and sympathy when he’d received the invitation to come to Whitehall to meet with Churchill.
Faisal walked to the other side of the room, and shook hands gravely with the Colonial Secretary. “Is your visit a coincidence, or did you know I was going to be here?” asked Lawrence.
“Nothing I ever organize is a coincidence, Lawrence,” boomed Churchill. “I’ve asked His ex-Majesty here to try to find a solution to his particular problem. And I see the difficulties he’s having with the French as part and parcel of the difficulties we’re going to be having with the tribesmen and Jews and Christians and As
syrians and Druze and Kurds all the other factions in that difficult area.”
Churchill led the way through the inner doors to a private sitting room, where the three men sat in armchairs. On the table was a setting of morning tea, cakes, and biscuits. Lawrence poured for the other two.
As he sipped his tea, Faisal mused, “I suppose the problem we find ourselves in now is the difference between expectation and reality. You Europeans have an expectation that because you defeated the Turks, you have the right to ownership of your conquered territory, regardless of the people who live within it. But for some reason, you don’t feel that same impulse in Europe. You beat the Germans, but I see no move to station troops permanently in Germany and make Berlin or Hamburg into British or French cities. Why, then, should Damascus be French, and Jerusalem and Baghdad British?”
“Sometimes, Faisal, the most complex problems have the simplest of causes. Germany has no oil. It has lots of coal in the Ruhr, but then we in England have lots of coal. The Middle East is a sandpit floating on a sea of oil. We need that oil, but we don’t need coal. Simple,” said Lawrence.
“And Palestine? What oil is there in Palestine?” he asked.
Churchill shifted his bulk in the armchair. “Much of our policy towards Palestine comes from advice drawn up for us by the late Sir Mark Sykes. You see, back in the middle of the war, it was vital for Britain to win support of the Jewish community for the fight against the Hun. Sykes knew we needed vast amounts of money and we were already bleeding the British public dry with increased taxes and austerity. Don’t forget America didn’t enter the war until very late.
“Sykes thought, as the Rothschilds and other wealthy Jewish banking families in the past had bankrolled governments like the French and the Germans in their military aspirations, the time for Great Britain might have come when we would have to go to them and ask them for assistance. So in order to smooth the path to their door, he persuaded Arthur Balfour to make a declaration that Britain should support a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Suddenly we were heroes with the Jewish community and with many English intellectuals. Even that crusty old bugger, H.G. Wells thought it a wonderful idea that Judea should be re-created for the Jews.”
