was not required to do much, if any, walking. At least, that is what
they said, though I should have thought at the time how the unit was to
move itself. Maybe, the authorities, when I left, were contemplating
providing privates with motor-cars. I’ve found out, since I’ve been
here, how the unit moves itself. Don’t do any walking? Well, look here,
if there is a piece of accessible ground in Palestine, and not
forgetting Syria, that I haven’t trampled on trudging behind
heavily-laden G.S. wagons and limbers in the course of many and frequent
camp shiftings, I’d like to find it and have it photographed.”
With a “Cheeryo,” Algy was gone.
“BILLZAC.”
[Illustration]
Palestine
[Illustration: Via Dolorosa]
A league-long line of mountains:
Some fertile plains:
Bright, rippling, purling fountains,
After the rains.
Vast valleys, lorn and lonely;
Smiling and green:
Dead cities, telling only
What might have been.
[Illustration: “Tower of the Forty”]
A weary, stricken people,
So long enslaved;
A spire and broken steeple,
By lanes ill-paved:
A thousand superstitions;
A hundred creeds;
The beggars’ vain petitions
That no one heeds.
[Illustration:
MOSQUE OF OMAR
]
A field of poppies blazing:
Orchids new-born:
A wealth of flowers amazing
Fringing the corn:
A line of camels stringing
Across the brae:
The skylark sweetly singing,
To welcome day.
A home of races, mingled
Gentile and Jew:
Women with veilèd faces:
Rogues, not a few.
A Sacred Land, and Holy:
Beersheba to Dan;
Where once a King so lowly
Lived as a man.
A land of milk and honey,
In Moses’ day:
A place of paper money
Since Abdul’s sway:
A prophets’ land and sages’,
By right divine:
The heir of all the Ages,
Poor Palestine!!
“TROOPER BLUEGUM.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
SOME SOUVENIR
(AN AUSTRALIAN TROOPER WITH GERMAN HELMET)
_By James McBey. British Official Artist_
]
The Camel Brigade
There are, maybe, ten thousand Australians who will never see a map of
Egypt or Palestine, never hear of the Great War, never sing or listen to
a Christmas Carol, and, perhaps, never even boil a billy, without
thinking of camels.
Nor is it altogether surprising; for camels played so prominent a part
in their lives in the days of Armageddon. They lived on camels; they
always slept near, and often on camels; and camels carried their tucker,
their water, their clothes, their blankets. The last thing they saw as
they fell asleep at night was a string of long-necked camels silhouetted
against the bare horizon. The first thing they heard after reveille was
the raucous noise of a camel lifting up its voice in the wilderness.
Nothing but camel, day and night, from the Senussi stunt to the
Jerusalem-Jericho-Jordan scrapping.
None of us really liked our camels. Frankly, most of us loathed them.
They were a necessary evil. In a desert campaign they were
indispensable: so they were tolerated. But for many, many months the
Cameleers cursed them without ceasing for the vilest, stupidest,
craziest beasts that ever cumbered the earth.
Then, suddenly—it was about midsummer, 1918—we began to realize some of
the many virtues of the much-maligned camel. We remembered that even on
the scorching sands of Sinai, we were rarely short of water. We reminded
each other that, while Light Horsemen shivered on the freezing Judean
Hills, we snuggled cosily ’neath a bivvy and four blankets. We thought
of all the little extra canteen delicacies we had carried in our
capacious saddle-bags. And we talked about the good times we had at the
camel sports with Horace, and Mange Dressing and Starlight.
The reason for this _volte-face_, this sudden revulsion of feeling in
favour of the camel, lay in the fact that our camels were to be taken
away from us. We were to be transformed into cavalry for that Big Push
which we hoped would result in the smashing of the Turkish Army. And
remembering the comparative luxury of the Cameleer’s life, we tried to
make the _amende honorable_ and say kind things of and to our old
_hooshtas_.
[Illustration:
THE MIDDAY HALT
]
The Australian Camel Corps was formed early in 1916, when the Senussi
became troublesome. Four companies of infantry just back from Gallipoli
formed the nucleus of the corps. They proved a most valuable asset, so
more were demanded. But it was not certain that a sufficient number of
Australians could be provided, so the 2nd Battalion was composed of
English and Scotch Territorials, and the force became known as the
Imperial Camel Corps. Later, a third Battalion was made up of
Australians and New Zealanders, and, at the end of the year, a fourth
Battalion, of Australians.
[Illustration:
BRIG.-GENERAL G L. SMITH, V.C., M.C.
]
[Illustration:
OUR WATER SUPPLY
]
The Camel Corps was handicapped because of the general ignorance
concerning it. The A.I.F. in Sinai knew little of it; Australia knew
less. Often it was confused with and mistaken for the Camel Transport
Corps, a valuable unit, which has done splendid work, but is not a
fighting unit like the I.C.C. The members of the Imperial Camel Corps
had all left their parent Regiments, and so, for a long time, missed
those welcome parcels that the different Comfort Funds so generously
sent to the boys. Later, however, the A.I.F. Comforts took a kindly
interest in the poor Cameleers—and the Cameleers were unfeignedly
grateful.
Coming back to Egypt from the Western Desert, the Cameleers spelled
awhile, then moved over the Canal to Sinai and participated in the
Romani-Bir-el-Abd fighting. Then came the big trek east towards El Arish
with its attendant patrols and skirmishes. When Abdul bolted from El
Arish the Army followed, the Light Horse and the Camel Corps in the van.
[Illustration]
Maghdaba and Rafa followed, two of the most picturesque and decisive
battles of the campaign; and in each the Camel Corps distinguished
itself greatly. Then on to Khan Yunis—where lived Delilah of old—and
then to historic Gaza: the lion in our path. The story of the three
battles of Gaza has already been told. There is no need to recapitulate
here the part played by the Camelry in those engagements, save to
mention that in the second battle the I.C.C. rushed and captured their
objective, suffering about 75 per cent. casualties; while in the third,
and victorious, battle, they held the line at Kouelphi and Ras el Nagb
in face of heavy counter-attacks.
The army had now turned the corner, and, under General Allenby’s
inspiring leadership, the Camel Brigade pushed north with the remainder
of the force until Jerusalem was captured. Then the army settled down in
the stalemate line of trenches stretching from just north of Jaffa to
the Jordan near Jericho; by which time the Cameleers had suffered so
many casualties, and the camels were in such deplorable condition, that
they were sent back to Rafa to recuperate—and hold a sports meeting.
Mention should be made of the Hong Kong-Singapore Indian Mounted
Battery, known to the Camel Corps as “The Bing Boys.” These Indian
soldiers participated in all the fighting in Palestine.
[Illustration:
WATERING TIME, CAMEL BRIGADE
]
[Illustration:
“PREPARE TO MOUNT”
]
In March, 1918, the Camel Corps trekked through Palestine to Richon,
where they sampled the wine of the country. Then, after the rains, they
ploughed their way through mud and slush and wire to Bethlehem. From the
wintry heights of Judea they descended by way of Jericho to the
midsummer of the Jordan Valley and on to Amman. Much has been written
about the adventure, or misadventure, into the hills of Moab. Never will
the Cameleers forget that night journey over slippery goat-tracks to Es
Salt. Never before or since was there ever such a journey. Hour after
hour the cavalcade struggled onward and upward, crawling round ugly
devil’s-elbows on mountain tracks, slipping and floundering in the mud.
Time and again camels would collapse, bogged and helpless, and some
toppled over the precipice. But the Brigade got to Amman and blew up the
Hedjaz Railway.
Back to the Jordan Valley again, the prey of snakes and scorpions and
spiders, mosquitos and flies and Turkish shells—but the mosquitos were
the worst. Scores and scores of men went sick with malaria, which
recurred during subsequent operations. The last big scrap of the I.C.C.
was the defence of Musallabeh, which the Turks attacked with grim
determination. In spite of very heavy casualties, the Cameleers held on
and beat off the enemy. Because of this gallant defence, General Allenby
decreed that henceforth Musallabeh should be called “The Camel’s Hump.”
With Sinai far behind and well-watered country ahead, it was seen that
the Camel Brigade had outlived its usefulness. So, in May, the Cameleers
returned westward towards Jaffa, handed over their camels, and were
mounted on horses and armed with swords for the Big Push.
“TROOPER BLUEGUM.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
PORTION OF CONVOY OF 8,000 CAMELS BEARING SUPPLIES ON THE PHILISTINE
PLAIN
_Australian Official Photograph_
]
RESTING
[Illustration]
There’s a delightful sound about that little word “Rest.” It conjures up
delicious visions of breakfast in bed, scrambled eggs on toast, lying
about in the sun, nice books to read, etc., etc., as the imagination
wills. Now, we didn’t expect all these things, but when we got the word,
“The regiment is going for a rest behind the lines,” everybody’s ears
pricked up, and we were all on the _qui vive_ for the few days
following.
Sure enough, we moved out all right, and camped one moonlight night on a
gently-sloping plateau to the west of the hills, taking up our abode
comfortably in bell tents, six of us to a tent. We’d had a long day, so
soon turned in and slept the sleep of the conscienceless. Behold us next
morning, at that cold, cheerless grey hour which just precedes the dawn,
lying in various picturesque attitudes, with the cold wind playing on
us, as yet untouched by the sun’s compensating warmth. A bugle gave out
its brass-mouthed message, and one of those necessary evils known as
corporals invited us to “turn out and fall in.” Now, it was the witching
hour of 4 a.m., and we didn’t like “turning out” or “falling in,” or any
kindred mysterious movement; but necessity knows no law, so, to the
accompaniment of many an ungracious “Blarst the war,” “What sort of a
rest is this?” we crawled out of bed, dressed, and wended our weary way
to the stables.
[Illustration:
BEDOUINS CAPTURED AT HASSANIYA
]
[Illustration:
STREET MARKET, JERUSALEM
]
[Illustration:
BEDOUIN VILLAGE
]
[Illustration:
TURKISH PRISONERS, NABLUS
]
The next hour or two saw us busy among the horses—removing the
superfluous dirt from their coats, cleaning up the stable lines, and
watering and feeding our jaded mounts. We were then marched to the
Q.M.’s to be issued with an extra blanket. In the usual way of Q.M.’s,
this just allowed us back in time for six o’clock breakfast. During the
meal they broke the news gently to us that there was a mounted parade at
seven, to go through a “little training.” More grumbles, of course, but
the time was too short to allow of any delay for grousing, so we got out
for our “little training.” This delightful exercise consisted of a
gruelling couple of hours in the sun, after which we had to groom and
stable our horses, had a quarter of an hour’s “smoke-o,” and then the
pleasure of lecture for half an hour or so.
Dismissed to our tents, we distributed ourselves behind the covers of
various journals—ranging, according to taste, from “War Cry” to the
“Bulletin.” Hardly was our interest fixed, when there was borne in on
our ears a stentorian cry which resolved itself into the voice of our
two-bar artist yelling “Fall in for water!” and away we went again like
lambs. A struggle with four horses, two on each side of you, and each
couple desiring to go in a different direction, is not calculated to
improve one’s temper; but we got the job done and returned for dinner.
This meal was not the one of our dreams, but we settled down after it as
though we’d lunched at “Shepheards,” and began to think that the “rest”
part of the stunt was at hand. Then the orderly sergeant announced that
there would be a grazing parade at two o’clock. So out we all had to
turn again and spend a couple of hours on the grassy slope a mile or so
away, thinking sad thoughts and uttering strong utterances.
[Illustration]
Back again, stable the horses, we finished just in time for tea, to
which we did ample justice, and allowed ourselves to drift into a better
frame of mind. After tea we at last settled down in our tents, and had
just dealt the cards for a quiet game of poker, when, lo and behold! the
orderly corporal looked in and said, quite pleasantly and off-hand, too,
“There will be an inspection at 9 a.m. to-morrow; all saddlery and gear
to be cleaned and placed outside tents at 8 a.m.” Well, we looked at one
another—we were past words. Slowly the hands were thrown in; more in
sorrow than in anger we cleared the card-blanket away, and the last
scene saw six queerly silent figures listlessly polishing up bits and
stirrup irons and greasing leather gear, with the mutely suffering look
in each face akin to the look of the dog which has just received a kick
in the ribs as the grand finale to a series of ill-usages. So ended a
day of rest. In that tent, that night, men went to bunk murmuring, “If
this is rest, send us back to work.”
“TRALAS.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE MUKHTAR’S GOATS
Said Breezy Bob to Baldy Bill, “I’m giving you the oil;
There’s whips of blinking eatables on this ’ere virgin soil.
So what abart a forage hunt, me bold and noble chief?
It’s time we had some mutton now instead of bully-beef.”
Now, Baldy Bill was leader of an enterprising mess;
His cobbers all would back him up in deeds of wickedness.
So when Old Bob suggested that the gang should have a hunt
For tasty chops and cutlets, they agreed upon the stunt.
It happened that the n’th Light Horse were camping in a grove
Of olives, figs and oranges, the hedges interwove
With prickly pear grown very thick, and on the other side
The grazing land by cattle, sheep and goats was occupied.
An Arab Chief, or Mukhtar, was the owner of the flock,
Named “Abdul el Mahomed,” a monopolist in stock.
Now Baldy Bill and Breezy Bob were socialistic coves
Who spouted on equality amongst the olive groves.
And so in tones of ecstasy the plot was duly laid,
And in the hedge of prickly pear a hole was quickly made.
Then Bob and Baldy sallied forth—a ration bag of oats
Was carried by the doughty pair to snare the Mukhtar’s goats.
They crawled along in silence, seeking shade from tree to tree,
Until they came upon the flock all feeding peacefully.
The Mukhtar, squatting in the shade, engaged in silent thought,
Was dreaming of the prosperous times the “awful war” had brought.
Now, Baldy in the ration bag had made a little spout,
And as they crawled along the grass the oats were trickling out;
But as they neared the Mukhtar’s flock they rose upon their feet,
Salaamed in true Australian style, the pastoralist to greet.
In friendly pidgin-Arabic they talked a little while,
Then bade farewell to Abdul in the dinkum Aussie style;
And as they sauntered back to camp they noticed with a grin,
That Abdul’s goats had found the oats, and all were “wiring in.”
The feeding flock came slowly towards the hedge of prickly pear.
A fine big “billy” led the lot, quite eager for his share,
And as he wandered close enough the prickly pear to feel,
He “got it” quickly in the neck—a blade of polished steel.
Then Bill and Breezy dragged their prize into the Squadron’s lines,
Cut up the mass of quivering flesh in various designs.
With plenty swords available they soon got off the hide;
In less time than it takes to tell the billy-goat was fried.
That night the stew was “counted out” and mutton reigned instead,
And when old Abdul “counted in” his flock he hit his head
In anger, for he came upon the remnants of the oats
That Breezy Bob distributed to snare the Mukhtar’s goats.
Since then the Military Police are looking for a clue;
They never made enquiries about discarded stew,
Or else they might have found the truth; and Bill and Breezy gloat,
To tell the yarn in secrecy about the Mukhtar’s goat.
“2469”
[Illustration:
BUYING ORANGES, JAFFA
_By W. O. David Barker_
]
[Illustration]
The Batman
by W. M. W.
With “stand to Arms” at half past three,
in cold and wet and misery,
Who brings a nice, warm cup of tea?
“My Batman.”
Who knows the movement of all troops
and brings the dinkum with my boots?
Who finds but never, never, loots.
“My Batman.”
The last to sleep, the first to rise,
who sorts the rumor as it flies,
and in a whisper puts me wise.
“My Batman.”
Fount of all wisdom without doubt
who knows just what we are about
but very seldom lets it out.
The General’s Batman.
Damascus
The first charm of Damascus as a whole city lies in the contrast which
those brown sandhills behind it make with the green strip of the Barada
Valley. Journeying from Ludd through the monotony of lank, brown growth
that straggles to the horizon from the road, you give up hope of ever
seeing foliage again, until you pass El Kunneitra. Then you see the
green of Barada; and it is the richer for the hills behind it—browner,
more desolate by far, than any landscape skirting Galilee or the Jordan.
Far up the clay feet of those rocky hills straggles the brown-and-white
suburb of Salahiye, all square-built and flat-topped—from the distance
like bricks inserted in the clay soil. The line of hills is cleft
cleanly by the Pass, the scene of that hideous slaughter by our machine
guns. If you climb into the fringe of Salahiye you see the curious shape
of Damascus—a jagged comet-form, all the angles and serrations of the
brown tail defined with unnatural clearness by the depth of the green
about it. In the amorphous head are a few minarets—like jewels. In Cairo
there are too many minarets as you look from the Bey’s Leap: they
protrude like a porcupine’s quills. In Damascus the city’s flat
brownness is just relieved by them. When we came to Damascus it was
drought-stricken. Soon afterward, it rained torrentially for a day. Then
the sun shone and drew from the city such colour as we never dreamed was
there. Nor had we dreamed that the trees were dusty—so green they seemed
after the southern country. But, washed, they helped to throw up the
wonderful colour of “that great city,” as it is called in Scripture.
It is a relief to be delivered from the sight of the everlasting
cactus-hedge of the southern towns. The cactus does flourish in
Damascus; but so thick is the foliage that it is lost in the mass. You
cannot look down on Nazareth without being obsessed by the ubiquitous
pest. You can look down on Damascus and be unconscious of it. It
straggles about the leafy roads in patches beside the mud walls. That
you can bear, because it does not rise above the all-enclosing foliage.
The smells of Damascus you will remember for ever. Cairo is clean by
comparison: the alleys of Cairo are not foul. The stinks of Damascus are
literally overpowering. There is offal, refuse, foul puddles in every
street of the Bazaars. The Abana is a foul river. “Are not Abana and
Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel”? The
answer is: Certainly not. There is an ill-kemptness about the place that
carries Oriental slackness a bit too far. In the streets that thread the
heart of the city are ruts and holes that break the springs of M.T.
every day. The tramline protrudes eight inches. This gives rise to
deadlocks in traffic that hold up movement for an hour. Incredibly
narrow and tortuous are the highways of the city. The only decent road
is that which skirts the fountained promenade near the Hedjaz Station. I
am sure the Damascans look on this bit of orderliness as a Western
intrusion; just as I am sure that if they found themselves in an English
town guileless of smells they would call it insipid....
In the bazaars there is a baffling complexity of colour, of race, of
wares. The Mousky is less heterogeneous. In the Square, in the street
which is called Strait, in the gold bazaar, grain bazaar, sweets bazaar,
silk bazaar, you have all the various colour of tarbooshed Cairo, and
more. Here the soldiers of the King of the Hedjaz throng; there is
endless variety in their clothes and their flowing head-dress. The
Moslem women, who veil their faces, affect far more variety than the
Mohamedan women of Cairo, with their yashmaks. The French are here. The
Australian hat and plume is everywhere. I never saw so great a number of
Australian soldiers moving at random in any city. There is great
jostling in these narrow streets, more than the normal jostling you get
in any crowd.
The dusty bazaars are in semi-darkness; their streets bear a covered
roof of iron; they must get protection from rain. In Cairo all is open;
for there it rains but rarely. Not only are the bazaar streets in Cairo
without roofs that would stop a shower, but the shops, themselves, full
of treasures. Here the rain comes in a deluge. From some of the street
roofs the enemy had taken the iron for military use. What the state of
these roofless streets will be when the rains come is sad to think. They
will be flooded all winter.
Except that there is greater diversity of peoples—both buyers and
sellers—the bazaars of Damascus are much like those of the Mousky. There
are the same well-defined areas for specific commodities; the same
little cubicles for shops, where vendors squat and “reach for things”;
there is the same voluble haggling—the same conversations carried on in
tones that you would first mistake for quarrelsome; there are the same
crying, peripatetic vendors of _limonade_, quoit-shaped cakes and
toffee; the shoe-blacks are here, but they are ahead of Cairo, with
their gongs to attract the uncleanly-shod. There is a more incessant
stream of laden donkeys through the bazaars here. In Cairo the donkeys
are chiefly for pleasure riding; here they are mercantile, over-laden
with the striped sacks of grain and fabric. There are additions to the
bazaars of Cairo in the goldsmiths’ bazaar, the sweets bazaar. The
goldsmiths work with their blowpipes and tiny forges and tiny tools,
moulding and fashioning. It is curious to see the workshop as part of
the sale-shop. The belts, brooches, rings and trays exposed for sale in
a showcase were made two yards away by that cunning Oriental fashioner
squatting on his haunches. The sweets bazaar tempts you hideously.
Eastern nutted sweets and Turkish-delight and toffees look as well as
they taste. Mere assorted chocolates—such as you get at Groppi’s—are
crude by comparison. There are great serpentine coils of Turkish-delight
lurking in icing-sugar—nut toffee that is all nuts—none of your
miserable paucity of nuts such as one gets in English almond-rock: nuts
form the matrix here.... But enough of that; here, if ever, you are
tempted to generate a liver the size of your hat.
Public baths abound in the heart of the bazaars. Fronting the street is
the final, open, divaned, cooling-off room—an amphitheatre of couches
upholstered with a kind of gay-coloured towelling. A fountain plays in
the midst. The bathed sit swaying in the ecstasy of reaction from the
steam, with closed eyes. No Roman ever bathed more voluptuously. No one
minds your going in nor your penetrating to the bowels of the
establishment. Room after room you pass, with swinging doors; each is
hotter than the last. In the last, and hottest room, the smell of man is
overpowering; you hastily retrace your steps through the series of
chambers and regain the comparative sweetness of the bazaars.
Foul as this city may be, there is beauty in every foot of it. The
beauty of Cairo lies rather in the view you get of “chunks” of it—the
vista of the street, the space of a market-place, the mass of a mosque.
Here the beauty lies in little pieces of wall, looked at minutely, in a
tiny piece of domestic architecture. It is a beauty in colour rather
than in form. Form in Cairo counts for much—in Damascus for almost
nothing. Here there is dilapidation in a degree undreamt of in Cairo.
But dilapidation does not necessarily make for beauty, though some
people think it does. I believe the beauty of colour in Damascus lies in
extreme age—in the mellowing of age. After Cairo, the intense antiquity
of the older city—of every fragment of it—comes to you impressively. You
feel the age of it as you pace every yard of its alleys. Cairo is
comparatively modern, and comparatively garish. There is a fine, if
filthy, harmony in Damascus.