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WAR IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN
by
KERMIT ROOSEVELT
Captain Motor Machine-Gun Corps, British Expeditionary Forces
Captain Field Artillery, American Expeditionary Forces
Illustrated from Photographs by the Author
New York
1919
[Illustration: Kermit Roosevelt. From the drawing by John S.
Sargent, July 8, 1917]
To
The Memory of My Father
Contents
I. OFF FOR MESOPOTAMIA
II. THE TIGRIS FRONT
III. PATROLLING THE RUINS OF BABYLON
IV. SKIRMISHES AND RECONNAISSANCES ALONG THE KURDISH FRONT
V. THE ADVANCE ON THE EUPHRATES
VI. BAGHDAD SKETCHES
VII. THE ATTACK ON THE PERSIAN FRONT
VIII. BACK THROUGH PALESTINE
IX. WITH THE FIRST DIVISION IN FRANCE AND GERMANY
Illustrations
Kermit Roosevelt
Map of Mesopotamia showing region of the fighting
Ashar Creek at Busra
Golden Dome of Samarra
Rafting down from Tekrit
Captured Turkish camel corps
Towing an armored car across a river
Reconnaissance
The Lion of Babylon
A dragon on the palace wall
Hauling out a badly bogged fighting car
A Mesopotamian garage
A water-wheel on the Euphrates
A "Red Crescent" ambulance
A jeweller's booth in the bazaar
Indian cavalry bringing in prisoners after the charge
The Kurd and his wife
Sheik Muttar and the two Kurds
Kirkuk
A street in Jerusalem
Japanese destroyers passing through the gut at Taranto
I
OFF FOR MESOPOTAMIA
It was at Taranto that we embarked for
Mesopotamia. Reinforcements were sent out
from England in one of two ways--either all
the way round the Cape of Good Hope, or by
train through France and Italy down to the
desolate little seaport of Taranto, and thence
by transport over to Egypt, through the Suez
Canal, and on down the Red Sea to the Indian
Ocean and the Persian Gulf. The latter
method was by far the shorter, but the submarine
situation in the Mediterranean was
such that convoying troops was a matter of
great difficulty. Taranto is an ancient Greek
town, situated at the mouth of a landlocked
harbor, the entrance to which is a narrow
channel, certainly not more than two hundred
yards across. The old part of the town is
built on a hill, and the alleys and runways
winding among the great stone dwellings serve
as streets. As is the case with maritime towns,
it is along the wharfs that the most interest
centres. During one afternoon I wandered
through the old town and listened to the fisherfolk
singing as they overhauled and mended
their nets. Grouped around a stone archway
sat six or seven women and girls. They were
evidently members of one family--a grandmother,
her daughters, and their children.
The old woman, wild, dark, and hawk-featured,
was blind, and as she knitted she chanted
some verses. I could only understand occasional
words and phrases, but it was evidently
a long epic. At intervals her listeners would
break out in comments as they worked, but,
like "Othere, the old sea-captain," she "neither
paused nor stirred."
There are few things more desolate than
even the best situated "rest-camps"--the long
lines of tents set out with military precision,
the trampled grass, and the board walks; but
the one at Taranto where we awaited embarkation
was peculiarly dismal even for a rest-camp.
So it happened that when Admiral Mark
Kerr, the commander of the Mediterranean
fleet, invited me to be his guest aboard H.M.S.
_Queen_ until the transport should sail, it was
in every way an opportunity to be appreciated.
In the British Empire the navy is the "senior
service," and I soon found that the tradition
for the hospitality and cultivation of its officers
was more than justified. The admiral had
travelled, and read, and written, and no more
pleasant evenings could be imagined than
those spent in listening to his stories of the
famous writers, statesmen, and artists who
were numbered among his friends. He had
always been a great enthusiast for the development
of aerial warfare, and he was recently
in Nova Scotia in command of the giant Handley-Page
machine which was awaiting favorable
weather conditions in order to attempt the nonstop
transatlantic flight. Among his poems
stands out the "Prayer of Empire," which,
oddly enough, the former German Emperor
greatly admired, ordering it distributed
throughout the imperial navy! The Kaiser's
feelings toward the admiral have suffered an
abrupt change, but they would have been
even more hostile had England profited by
his warnings:
"There's no menace in preparedness, no threat in being strong,
If the people's brain be healthy and they think no thought of wrong."
After four or five most agreeable days aboard the _Queen_ the word came to
embark, and I was duly transferred to the _Saxon_, an old Union Castle
liner that was to run us straight through to Busra.
As we steamed out of the harbor we were joined by two diminutive Japanese
destroyers which were to convoy us. The menace of the submarine being
particularly felt in the Adriatic, the transports travelled only by night
during the first part of the voyage. To a landsman it was incomprehensible
how it was possible for us to pursue our zigzag course in the inky
blackness and avoid collisions, particularly when it was borne in mind
that our ship was English and our convoyers were Japanese. During the
afternoon we were drilled in the method of abandoning ship, and I was put
in charge of a lifeboat and a certain section of the ropes that were to be
used in our descent over the side into the water. Between twelve and one
o'clock that night we were awakened by three blasts, the preconcerted
danger-signal. Slipping into my life-jacket, I groped my way to my station
on deck. The men were filing up in perfect order and with no show of
excitement. A ship's officer passed and said he had heard that we had
been torpedoed and were taking in water. For fifteen or twenty minutes we
knew nothing further. A Scotch captain who had charge of the next boat to
me came over and whispered: "It looks as if we'd go down. I have just seen
a rat run out along the ropes into my boat!" That particular rat had not
been properly brought up, for shortly afterward we were told that we were
not sinking. We had been rammed amidships by one of the escorting
destroyers, but the breach was above the water-line. We heard later that
the destroyer, though badly smashed up, managed to make land in safety.
We laid up two days in a harbor on the Albanian coast, spending the time
pleasantly enough in swimming and sailing, while we waited for a new
escort. Another night's run put us in Navarino Bay. The grandfather of
Lieutenant Finch Hatton, one of the officers on board, commanded the
Allied forces in the famous battle fought here in 1827, when the Turkish
fleet was vanquished and the independence of Greece assured.
Several days more brought us to Port Said, and after a short delay we
pushed on through the canal and into the Red Sea. It was August, and when
one talks of the Red Sea in August there is no further need for comment.
The _Saxon_ had not been built for the tropics. She had no fans, nor
ventilating system such as we have on the United Fruit boats. Some
unusually intelligent stokers had deserted at Port Said, and as we were in
consequence short-handed, it was suggested that any volunteers would be
given a try. Finch Hatton and I felt that our years in the tropics should
qualify us, and that the exercise would improve our dispositions. We got
the exercise. Never have I felt anything as hot, and I have spent August
in Yuma, Arizona, and been in Italian Somaliland and the Amazon Valley.
The shovels and the handles of the wheelbarrows blistered our hands.
[Illustration: Map of Mesopotamia showing region of the fighting. Inset,
showing relative position of Mesopotamia and other countries.]
We had a number of cases of heat-stroke, and the hospital facilities on a
crowded transport can never be all that might be desired. The first
military burial at sea was deeply impressive. There was a lane of Tommies
drawn up with their rifles reversed and heads bowed; the short, classic
burial service was read, and the body, wrapped in the Union Jack, slid
down over the stern of the ship. Then the bugles rang out in the haunting,
mournful strains of the "Last Post," and the service ended with all
singing "Abide With Me."
We sweltered along down the Red Sea and around into the Indian Ocean. We
wished to call at Aden in order to disembark some of our sick, but were
ordered to continue on without touching. Our duties were light, and we
spent the time playing cards and reading. The Tommies played "house" from
dawn till dark. It is a game of the lotto variety. Each man has a paper
with numbers written on squares; one of them draws from a bag slips of
paper also marked with numbers, calls them out, and those having the
number he calls cover it, until all the numbers on their paper have been
covered. The first one to finish wins, and collects a penny from each of
the losers. The caller drones out the numbers with a monotony only
equalled by the brain-fever bird, and quite as disastrous to the nerves.
There are certain conventional nicknames: number one is always "Kelley's
eye," eleven is "legs eleven," sixty-six is "clickety click," and the
highest number is "top o' the 'ouse." There is another game that would be
much in vogue were it not for the vigilance of the officers. It is known
as "crown and anchor," and the advantage lies so strongly in favor of the
banker that he cannot fail to make a good income, and therefore the game
is forbidden under the severest penalties.
As we passed through the Strait of Ormuz memories of the early days of
European supremacy in the East crowded back, for I had read many a
vellum-covered volume in Portuguese about the early struggles for
supremacy in the gulf. One in particular interested me. The Portuguese
were hemmed in at Ormuz by a greatly superior English force. The expected
reinforcements never arrived, and at length their resources sank so low,
and they suffered in addition, or in consequence, so greatly from disease
that they decided to sail forth and give battle. This they did, but before
they joined in fight the ships of the two admirals sailed up near each
other--the Portuguese commander sent the British a gorgeous scarlet
ceremonial cloak, the British responded by sending him a handsomely
embossed sword. The British admiral donned the cloak, the Portuguese
grasped the sword; a page brought each a cup of wine; they pledged each
other, threw the goblets into the sea, and fell to. The British were
victorious. Times indeed have sadly changed in the last three hundred
years!
I was much struck with the accuracy of the geographical descriptions in
Camoens' letters and odes. He is the greatest of the Portuguese poets and
wrote the larger part of his master-epic, "The Lusiad," while exiled in
India. For seventeen years he led an adventurous life in the East; and it
is easy to recognize many harbors and stretches of coast line from his
inimitable portrayal.
Busra, our destination, lies about sixty miles from the mouth of the Shatt
el Arab, which is the name given to the combined Tigris and Euphrates
after their junction at Kurna, another fifty or sixty miles above. At the
entrance to the river lies a sand-bar, effectively blocking access to
boats of as great draft as the _Saxon_. We therefore transshipped to some
British India vessels, and exceedingly comfortable we found them, designed
as they were for tropic runs. We steamed up past the Island of Abadan,
where stand the refineries of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company. It is hard to
overestimate the important part that company has played in the conduct of
the Mesopotamian campaign. Motor transport was nowhere else a greater
necessity. There was no possibility of living on the country; at first,
at all events. General Dickson, the director of local resources, later set
in to so build up and encourage agriculture that the army should
eventually be supported, in the staples of life, by local produce.
Transportation was ever a hard nut to crack. Railroads were built, but
though the nature of the country called for little grading, obtaining
rails, except in small quantities, was impossible. The ones brought were
chiefly secured by taking up the double track of Indian railways. This
process naturally had a limit, and only lines of prime importance could be
laid down. Thus you could go by rail from Busra to Amara, and from Kut to
Baghdad, but the stretch between Amara and Kut had never been built, up to
the time I left the country. General Maude once told me that pressure was
being continually brought by the high command in England or India to have
that connecting-link built, but that he was convinced that the rails would
be far more essential elsewhere, and had no intention of yielding.
I don't know the total number of motor vehicles, but there were more than
five thousand Fords alone. On several occasions small columns of infantry
were transported in Fords, five men and the driver to a car. Indians of
every caste and religion were turned into drivers, and although it seemed
sufficiently out of place to come across wizened, khaki-clad Indo-Chinese
driving lorries in France, the incongruity was even more marked when one
beheld a great bearded Sikh with his turbaned head bent over the
steering-wheel of a Ford.
Modern Busra stands on the banks of Ashar Creek. The ancient city whence
Sinbad the sailor set forth is now seven or eight miles inland, buried
under the shifting sands of the desert. Busra was a seaport not so many
hundreds of years ago. Before that again, Kurna was a seaport, and the two
rivers probably only joined in the ocean, but they have gradually enlarged
the continent and forced back the sea. The present rate of encroachment
amounts, I was told, to nearly twelve feet a year.
The modern town has increased many fold with the advent of the
Expeditionary Force, and much of the improvement is of a necessarily
permanent nature; in particular the wharfs and roads. Indeed, one of the
most striking features of the Mesopotamian campaign is the permanency of
the improvements made by the British. In order to conquer the country it
was necessary to develop it,--build railways and bridges and roads and
telegraph systems,--and it has all been done in a substantial manner. It
is impossible to contemplate with equanimity the possibility of the
country reverting to a rule where all this progress would soon disappear
and the former stagnancy and injustice again hold sway.
[Illustration: Ashar Creek at Busra]
As soon as we landed I wandered off to the bazaar--"suq" is what the Arab
calls it. In Busra there are a number of excellent ones. By that I don't
mean that there are art treasures of the East to be found in them, for
almost everything could be duplicated at a better price in New York. It is
the grouping of wares, the mode of sale, and, above all, the salesmen and
buyers that make a bazaar--the old bearded Persian sitting cross-legged in
his booth, the motley crowd jostling through the narrow, vaulted
passageway, the veiled women, the hawk-featured, turbaned men, the Jews,
the Chaldeans, the Arabs, the Armenians, the stalwart Kurds, and through
it all a leaven of khaki-clad Indians, purchasing for the regimental mess.
All these and an ever-present exotic, intangible something are what the
bazaar means. Close by the entrance stood a booth festooned with lamps and
lanterns of every sort, with above it scrawled "Aladdin-Ibn-Said." My
Arabic was not at that time sufficient to enable me to discover from the
owner whether he claimed illustrious ancestry or had merely been named
after a patron saint.
A few days after landing at Busra we embarked on a paddle-wheel boat to
pursue our way up-stream the five hundred intervening miles to Baghdad.
Along the banks of the river stretched endless miles of date-palms. We
watched the Arabs at their work of fertilizing them, for in this country
these palms have to depend on human agency to transfer the pollen. At
Kurna we entered the Garden of Eden, and one could quite appreciate the
feelings of the disgusted Tommy who exclaimed: "If this is the Garden, it
wouldn't take no bloody angel with a flaming sword to turn me back." The
direct descendant of the Tree is pointed out; whether its properties are
inherited I never heard, but certainly the native would have little to
learn by eating the fruit.
Above Kurna the river is no longer lined with continuous palm-groves;
desert and swamps take their place--the abode of the amphibious, nomadic,
marsh Arab. An unruly customer he is apt to prove himself, and when he is
"wanted" by the officials, he retires to his watery fastnesses, where he
can remain in complete safety unless betrayed by his comrades. On the
banks of the Tigris stands Ezra's tomb. It is kept in good repair through
every vicissitude of rule, for it is a holy place to Moslem and Jew and
Christian alike.
The third night brought us to Amara. The evening was cool and pleasant
after the scorching heat of the day, and Finch Hatton and I thought that
we would go ashore for a stroll through the town. As we proceeded down the
bank toward the bridge, I caught sight of a sentry walking his post. His
appearance was so very important and efficient that I slipped behind my
companion to give him a chance to explain us. "Halt! Who goes there?"
"Friend," replied Finch Hatton. "Advance, friend, and give the
countersign." F.H. started to advance, followed by a still suspicious me,
and rightly so, for the Tommy, evidently member of a recent draft, came
forward to meet us with lowered bayonet, remarking in a businesslike
manner: "There isn't any countersign."
Except for the gunboats and monitors, all river traffic is controlled by
the Inland Water Transport Service. The officers are recruited from all
the world over. I firmly believe that no river of any importance could be
mentioned but what an officer of the I.W.T. could be found who had
navigated it. The great requisite for transports on the Tigris was a very
light draft, and to fill the requirements boats were requisitioned ranging
from penny steamers of the Thames to river-craft of the Irrawaddy. Now in
bringing a penny steamer from London to Busra the submarine is one of the
lesser perils, and in supplying the wants of the Expeditionary Force more
than eighty vessels were lost at sea, frequently with all aboard.
As was the custom, we had a barge lashed to either side. These barges are
laden with troops, or horses, or supplies. In our case we had the first
Bengal regiment--a new experiment, undertaken for political reasons. The
Bengali is the Indian who most readily takes to European learning.
Rabindranath Tagore is probably the most widely known member of the race.
They go to Calcutta University and learn a smattering of English and
absorb a certain amount of undigested general knowledge and theory. These
partially educated Bengalis form the Babu class, and many are employed in
the railways. They delight in complicated phraseology, and this coupled
with their accent and seesaw manner of speaking supply the English a
constant source of caricature. As a race they are inclined to be vain and
boastful, and are ever ready to nurse a grievance against the British
Government, feeling that they have been provided with an education but no
means of support. The government felt that it might help to calm them if a
regiment were recruited and sent to Mesopotamia. How they would do in
actual fighting had never been demonstrated up to the time I left the
country, but they take readily to drill, and it was amusing to hear them
ordering each other about in their clipped English. They were used for
garrisoning Baghdad.
After we left Amara we continued our winding course up-stream. A boat
several hours ahead may be seen only a few hundred yards distant across
the desert. The banks are so flat and level that it looks as if the other
vessels were steaming along on land. The Arab river-craft was most
picturesque. At sunset a mahela, bearing down with filled sail, might
have been the model for Maxfield Parrish's _Pirate Ship_. The Arab women
ran along the bank beside us, carrying baskets of eggs and chickens, and
occasionally melons. They were possessed of surprising endurance, and
would accompany us indefinitely, heavily laden as they were. Their robes
trailed in the wind as they jumped ditches, screaming out their wares
without a moment's pause. An Indian of the boat's crew was haggling with a
woman about a chicken. He threw her an eight-anna piece. She picked up the
money but would not hand him the chicken, holding out for her original
price. He jumped ashore, intending to take the chicken. She had a few
yards' start and made the most of it. In and out they chased, over hedge
and ditch, down the bank and up again. Several times he almost had her.
She never for a moment ceased screeching--an operation which seemed to
affect her wind not a particle. At the end of fifteen minutes the Indian
gave up amid the delighted jeers of his comrades, and returned shamefaced
and breathless to jump aboard the boat as we bumped against the bank on
rounding a curve.
One evening we halted where, not many months before, the last of the
battles of Sunnaiyat had been fought. There for months the British had
been held back, while their beleaguered comrades in Kut could hear the
roar of the artillery and hope against hope for the relief that never
reached them. It was one phase of the campaign that closely approximated
the gruelling trench warfare in France. The last unsuccessful attack was
launched a week before the capitulation of the garrison, and it was almost
a year later before the position was eventually taken. The front-line
trenches were but a short distance apart, and each side had developed a
strong and elaborate system of defense. One flank was protected by an
impassable marsh and the other by the river. When we passed, the field
presented an unusually gruesome appearance even for a battle-field, for
the wandering desert Arabs had been at work, and they do not clean up as
thoroughly as the African hyena. A number had paid the penalty through
tampering with unexploded grenades and "dud" shells, and left their own
bones to be scattered around among the dead they had been looting. The
trenches were a veritable Golgotha with skulls everywhere and dismembered
legs still clad with puttees and boots.
At Kut we disembarked to do the remaining hundred miles to Baghdad by rail
instead of winding along for double the distance by river, with a good
chance of being hung up for hours, or even days, on some shifting
sand-bar. At first sight Kut is as unpromising a spot as can well be
imagined, with its scorching heat and its sand and the desolate
mud-houses, but in spite of appearances it is an important and thriving
little town, and daily becoming of more consequence.
The railroad runs across the desert, following approximately the old
caravan route to Baghdad. A little over half-way the line passes the
remaining arch of the great hall of Ctesiphon. This hall is one hundred
and forty-eight feet long by seventy-six broad. The arch stands
eighty-five feet high. Around it, beneath the mounds of desert sand, lies
all that remains of the ancient city. As a matter of fact the city is by
no means ancient as such things go in Mesopotamia, dating as it does from
the third century B.C., when it was founded by the successors of Alexander
the Great.
My first night in Baghdad I spent in General Maude's house, on the
river-bank. The general was a striking soldierly figure of a man, standing
well over six feet. His military career was long and brilliant. His first
service was in the Coldstream Guards. He distinguished himself in South
Africa. Early in the present war he was severely wounded in France. Upon
recovering he took over the Thirteenth Division, which he commanded in the
disastrous Gallipoli campaign, and later brought out to Mesopotamia. When
he reached the East the situation was by no means a happy one for the
British. General Townshend was surrounded in Kut, and the morale of the
Turk was excellent after the successes he had met with in Gallipoli. In
the end of August, 1916, four months after the fall of Kut, General Maude
took over the command of the Mesopotamian forces. On the 11th of March of
the following year he occupied Baghdad, thereby re-establishing completely
the British prestige in the Orient. One of Germany's most serious
miscalculations was with regard to the Indian situation. She felt
confident that, working through Persia and Afghanistan, she could stir up
sufficient trouble, possibly to completely overthrow British rule, but
certainly to keep the English so occupied with uprisings as to force them
to send troops to India rather than withdraw them thence for use
elsewhere. The utter miscarriage of Germany's plans is, indeed, a fine
tribute to Great Britain. The Emir of Afghanistan did probably more than
any single native to thwart German treachery and intrigue, and every
friend of the Allied cause must have read of his recent assassination with
a very real regret.
When General Maude took over the command, the effect of the Holy War that,
at the Kaiser's instigation, was being preached in the mosques had not as
yet been determined. This jehad, as it was called, proposed to unite all
"True Believers" against the invading Christians, and give the war a
strongly religious aspect. The Germans hoped by this means to spread
mutiny among the Mohammedan troops, which formed such an appreciable
element of the British forces, as well as to fire the fury of the Turks
and win as many of the Arabs to their side as possible. The Arab
thoroughly disliked both sides. The Turk oppressed him, but did so in an
Oriental, and hence more or less comprehensible, manner. The English gave
him justice, but it was an Occidental justice that he couldn't at first
understand or appreciate, and he was distinctly inclined to mistrust it.
In course of time he would come to realize its advantages. Under Turkish
rule the Arab was oppressed by the Turk, but then he in turn could oppress
the Jew, the Chaldean, and Nestorian Christians, and the wretched
Armenian. Under British rule he suddenly found these latter on an equal
footing with him, and he felt that this did not compensate the lifting
from his shoulders of the Turkish burden. Then, too, when a race has been
long oppressed and downtrodden, and suddenly finds itself on an equality
with its oppressor, it is apt to become arrogant and overbearing. This is
exactly what happened, and there was bad feeling on all sides in
consequence. However, real fundamental justice is appreciated the world
over, once the native has been educated up to it, and can trust in its
continuity.
The complex nature of the problems facing the army commander can be
readily seen. He was an indefatigable worker and an unsurpassed organizer.
The only criticism I ever heard was that he attended too much to the
details himself and did not take his subordinates sufficiently into his
confidence. A brilliant leader, beloved by his troops, his loss was a
severe blow to the Allied cause.
Baghdad is often referred to as the great example of the shattered
illusion. We most of us have read the _Arabian Nights_ at an early age,
and think of the abode of the caliphs as a dream city, steeped in what we
have been brought up to think of as the luxury, romance, and glamour of
the East. Now glamour is a delicate substance. In the all-searching glare
of the Mesopotamian sun it is apt to appear merely tawdry. Still, a goodly
number of years spent in wandering about in foreign lands had prepared me
for a depreciation of the "stuff that dreams are made of," and I was not
disappointed. It is unfortunate that the normal way to approach is from
the south, and that that view of the city is flat and uninteresting.
Coming, as I several times had occasion to, from the north, one first
catches sight of great groves of date-palms, with the tall minarets of the
Mosque of Kazimain towering above them; then a forest of minarets and blue
domes, with here and there some graceful palm rising above the flat roofs
of Baghdad. In the evening when the setting sun strikes the towers and the
tiled roofs, and the harsh lights are softened, one is again in the land
of Haroun-el-Raschid.
The great covered bazaars are at all times capable of "eating the hours,"
as the natives say. One could sit indefinitely in a coffee-house and watch
the throngs go by--the stalwart Kurdish porter with his impossible loads,
the veiled women, the unveiled Christian or lower-class Arab women, the
native police, the British Tommy, the kilted Scot, the desert Arab, all
these and many more types wandered past. Then there was the gold and
silver market, where the Jewish and Armenian artificers squatted beside
their charcoal fires and haggled endlessly with their customers. These
latter were almost entirely women, and they came both to buy and sell,
bringing old bracelets and anklets, and probably spending the proceeds on
something newer that had taken their fancy. The workmanship was almost
invariably poor and rough. Most of the women had their babies with them,
little mites decked out in cheap finery and with their eyelids thickly
painted. The red dye from their caps streaked their faces, the flies
settled on them at will, and they had never been washed. When one thought
of the way one's own children were cared for, it seemed impossible that a
sufficient number of these little ones could survive to carry on the
race. The infant mortality must be great, though the children one sees
look fat and thriving.
Baghdad is not an old city. Although there was probably a village on the
site time out of mind, it does not come into any prominence until the
eighth century of our era. As the residence of the Abasside caliphs it
rapidly assumed an important position. The culmination of its magnificence
was reached in the end of the eighth century, under the rule of the
world-famous Haroun-el-Raschid. It long continued to be a centre of
commerce and industry, though suffering fearfully from the various sieges
and conquests which it underwent. In 1258 the Mongols, under a grandson of
the great Genghis Khan, captured the city and held it for a hundred years,
until ousted by the Tartars under Tamberlane. It was plundered in turn by
one Mongol horde after another until the Turks, under Murad the Fourth,
eventually secured it. Naturally, after being the scene of so much looting
and such massacres, there is little left of the original city of the
caliphs. Then, too, in Mesopotamia there is practically no stone, and
everything was built of brick, which readily lapses back to its original
state. For this reason the invaders easily razed a conquered town, and
Mesopotamia, so often called the "cradle of the world," retains but little
trace of the races and civilizations that have succeeded each other in
ruling the land. When the Tigris was low at the end of the summer season,
we used to dig out from its bank great bricks eighteen inches square, on
which was still distinctly traced the seal of Nebuchadnezzar. These,
possibly the remnants of a quay, were all that remained of the times
before the advent of the caliphs.
II
THE TIGRIS FRONT
A few days after reaching Baghdad I left for Samarra, which was at that
time the Tigris front. I was attached to the Royal Engineers, and my
immediate commander was Major Morin, D.S.O., an able officer with an
enviable record in France and Mesopotamia. The advance army of the Tigris
was the Third Indian Army Corps, under the command of General Cobbe, a
possessor of the coveted, and invariably merited, Victoria Cross. The
Engineers were efficiently commanded by General Swiney. The seventy miles
of railroad from Baghdad to Samarra were built by the Germans, being the
only Mesopotamian portion of the much-talked-of Berlin-to-Baghdad Railway,
completed before the war. It was admirably constructed, with an excellent
road-bed, heavy rails and steel cross-ties made by Krupp. In their retreat
the Turks had been too hurried to accomplish much in the way of
destruction other than burning down a few stations and blowing up the
water-towers. The rolling-stock had been left largely intact. There were
no passenger-coaches, and you travelled either by flat or box car. Every
one followed the Indian custom of carrying with them their bedding-rolls,
and leather-covered wash-basin containing their washing-kit, as well as
one of the comfortable rhoorkhee chairs. In consequence, although for
travel by boat or train nothing was provided, there was no discomfort
entailed. The trains were fitted out with anti-aircraft guns, for the
Turkish aeroplanes occasionally tried to "lay eggs," a by no means easy
affair with a moving train as a target. Whatever the reason was, and I
never succeeded in discovering it, the trains invariably left Baghdad in
the wee small hours, and as the station was on the right bank across the
river from the main town, and the boat bridges were cut during the night,
we used generally, when returning to the front, to spend the first part of
the night sleeping on the station platform. Generals or exalted staff
officers could usually succeed in having a car assigned to them, and
hauled up from the yard in time for them to go straight to bed in it.
Frequently their trip was postponed, and an omniscient sergeant-major
would indicate the car to the judiciously friendly, who could then enjoy a
solid night's sleep. The run took anywhere from eight to twelve hours; but
when sitting among the grain-bags on an open car, or comfortably ensconced
in a chair in a "covered goods," with _Vingt Ans Après_, the time passed
pleasantly enough in spite of the withering heat.
While still a good number of miles away from Samarra we would catch sight
of the sun glinting on the golden dome of the mosque, built over the cleft
where the twelfth Imam, the Imam Mahdi, is supposed to have disappeared,
and from which he is one day to reappear to establish the true faith upon
earth. Many Arabs have appeared claiming to be the Mahdi, and caused
trouble in a greater or less degree according to the extent of their
following. The most troublous one in our day was the man who besieged
Kharthoum and captured General "Chinese" Gordon and his men. Twenty-five
years later, when I passed through the Sudan, there were scarcely any men
of middle age left, for they had been wiped out almost to a man under the
fearful rule of the Mahdi, a rule which might have served as prototype to
the Germans in Belgium.
[Illustration: Golden Dome of Samarra]
[Illustration: Rafting down from Tekrit]
Samarra is very ancient, and has passed through periods of great
depression and equally great expansion. It was here in A.D. 363 that the
Roman Emperor Julian died from wounds received in the defeat of his forces
at Ctesiphon. The golden age lasted about forty years, beginning in 836,
when the Caliph Hutasim transferred his capital thither from Baghdad.
During that time the city extended for twenty-one miles along the
river-bank, with glorious palaces, the ruins of some of which still stand.
The present-day town has sadly shrunk from its former grandeur, but still
has an impressive look with its great walls and massive gateways. The
houses nearest the walls are in ruins or uninhabited; but in peacetime the
great reputation that the climate of Samarra possesses for salubrity draws
to it many Baghdad families who come to pass the summer months. A good
percentage of the inhabitants are Persians, for the eleventh and twelfth
Shiah Imams are buried on the site of the largest mosque. The two main
sects of Moslems are the Sunnis and the Shiahs; the former regard the
three caliphs who followed Mohammed as his legitimate successors,
whereas the latter hold them to be usurpers, and believe that his
cousin and son-in-law, Ali, husband of Fatimah, together with their sons
Husein and Hasan, are the prophet's true inheritors. Ali was assassinated
near Nejef, which city is sacred to his memory, and his son Husein was
killed at Kerbela; so these two cities are the greatest of the Shiah
shrines. The Turks belong almost without exception to the Sunni sect,
whereas the Persians and a large percentage of the Arabs inhabiting
Mesopotamia are Shiahs.
The country around Samarra is not unlike in character the southern part of
Arizona and northern Sonora. There are the same barren hills and the same
glaring heat. The soil is not sand, but a fine dust which permeates
everything, even the steel uniform-cases which I had always regarded as
proof against all conditions. The parching effect was so great that it was
not only necessary to keep all leather objects thoroughly oiled but the
covers of my books cracked and curled up until I hit upon the plan of
greasing them well also. In the alluvial lowlands trench-digging was a
simple affair, but along the hills we found a pebbly conglomerate that
gave much trouble.
Opinion was divided as to whether the Turk would attempt to advance down
the Tigris. Things had gone badly with our forces in Palestine at the
first battle of Gaza; but here we had an exceedingly strong position, and
the consensus of opinion seemed to be that the enemy would think twice
before he stormed it. Their base was at Tekrit, almost thirty miles away.
However, about ten miles distant stood a small village called Daur, which
the Turks held in considerable force. Between Daur and Samarra there was
nothing but desert, with gazelles and jackals the only permanent
inhabitants. Into this no man's land both sides sent patrols, who met in
occasional skirmishes. For reconnaissance work we used light-armored
motor-cars, known throughout the army as Lam cars, a name formed by the
initial letters of their titles. These cars were Rolls-Royces, and with
their armor-plate weighed between three and three-quarters and four tons.
They were proof against the ordinary bullet but not against the
armor-piercing. When I came out to Mesopotamia I intended to lay my plans
for a transfer to the cavalry, but after I had seen the cars at work I
changed about and asked to be seconded to that branch of the service.
A short while after my arrival our aeroplanes brought in word that the
Turks were massing at Daur, and General Cobbe decided that when they
launched forth he would go and meet them. Accordingly, we all moved out
one night, expecting to give "Abdul," as the Tommies called him, a
surprise. Whether it was that we started too early and their aeroplanes
saw us, or whether they were only making a feint, we never found out; but
at all events the enemy fell back, and save for some advance-guard
skirmishing and a few prisoners, we drew a blank. We were not prepared to
attack the Daur position, and so returned to Samarra to await
developments.
Meanwhile I busied myself searching for an Arab servant. Seven or eight
years previous, when with my father in Africa, I had learned Swahili, and
although I had forgotten a great deal of it, still I found it a help in
taking up Arabic. Most of the officers had either British or Indian
servants; in the former case they were known as batmen, and in the latter
as bearers; but I decided to follow suit with the minority and get an
Arab, and therefore learn Arabic instead of Hindustanee, for the former
would be of vastly more general use. The town commandant, Captain Grieve
of the Black Watch, after many attempts at length produced a native who
seemed, at any rate, more promising than the others that offered
themselves. Yusuf was a sturdy, rather surly-looking youth of about
eighteen. Evidently not a pure Arab, he claimed various admixtures as the
fancy took him, the general preference being Kurd. I always felt that
there was almost certainly a good percentage of Turk. His father had been
a non-commissioned officer in the Turkish army, and at first I was loath
to take him along on advances and attacks, for he would have been shown
little mercy had he fallen into enemy hands. He was, however, insistent on
asking to go with me, and I never saw him show any concern under fire. He
spoke, in varying degrees of fluency, Kurdish, Persian, and Turkish, and
was of great use to me for that reason. He became by degrees a very
faithful and trustworthy follower, his great weakness being that he was a
one-man's man, and although he would do anything for me, he was of little
general use in an officers' mess.
I had two horses, one a black mare that I called Soda, which means black
in Arabic, and the other a hard-headed bay gelding that was game to go
all day, totally unaffected by shell-fire, but exceedingly stubborn about
choosing the direction in which he went. After numerous changes I came
across an excellent syce to look after them. He was a wild, unkempt
figure, with a long black beard--a dervish by profession, and certainly
gave no one any reason to believe that he was more than half-witted.
Indeed, almost all dervishes are in a greater or less degree insane; it is
probably due to that that they have become dervishes, for the native
regards the insane as under the protection of God. Dervishes go around
practically naked, usually wearing only a few skins flung over the
shoulder, and carrying a large begging-bowl. In addition they carry a
long, sharp, iron bodkin, with a wooden ball at the end, having very much
the appearance of a fool's bauble. They lead an easy life. When they take
a fancy to a house, they settle down near the gate, and the owner has to
support them as long as the whim takes them to stay there. To use force
against a dervish would be looked upon as an exceedingly unpropitious
affair to the true believer. Then, too, I have little doubt but that they
are capable of making good use of their steel bodkins. Why my dervish
wished to give up his easy-going profession and take over the charge of my
horses I never fully determined, but it must have been because he really
loved horses and found that as a dervish pure and simple he had very
little to do with them. When he arrived he was dressed in a very ancient
gunny-sack, and it was not without much regret at the desecration that I
provided him with an outfit of the regulation khaki.
My duties took me on long rides about the country. Here, and throughout
Mesopotamia, the great antiquity of this "cradle of the world" kept ever
impressing itself upon one, consciously or subconsciously. Everywhere were
ruins; occasionally a wall still reared itself clear of the all-enveloping
dust, but generally all that remained were great mounds, where the desert
had crept in and claimed its own, covering palace, house, and market,
temple, synagogue, mosque, or church with its everlasting mantle. Often
the streets could still be traced, but oftener not. The weight of ages was
ever present as one rode among the ruins of these once busy, prosperous
cities, now long dead and buried, how long no one knew, for frequently
their very names were forgotten. Babylon, Ur of the Chaldees, Istabulat,
Nineveh, and many more great cities of history are now nothing but names
given to desert mounds.
Close by Samarra stands a strange corkscrew tower, known by the natives as
the Malwiyah. It is about a hundred and sixty feet high, built of brick,
with a path of varying width winding up around the outside. No one knew
its purpose, and estimates of its antiquity varied by several thousand
years. One fairly well-substantiated story told that it had been the
custom to kill prisoners by hurling them off its top. We found it
exceedingly useful as an observation-post. In the same manner we used
Julian's tomb, a great mound rising up in the desert some five or six
miles up-stream of the town. The legend is that when the Roman Emperor
died of his wounds his soldiers, impressing the natives, built this as a
mausoleum; but there is no ground whatever for this belief, for it would
have been physically impossible for a harassed or retreating army to have
performed a task of such magnitude. The natives call it "The Granary," and
claim that that was its original use. Before the war the Germans had
started in excavating, and discovered shafts leading deep down, and on top
the foundations of a palace. Around its foot may be traced roadways and
circular plots, and especially when seen from an aeroplane it looks as if
there had at one time been an elaborate system of gardens.
We were continually getting false rumors about the movements of the Turks.
We had believed that it would be impossible for them to execute a flank
movement, at any rate in sufficient strength to be a serious menace, for
from all the reports we could get, the wells were few and far between.
Nevertheless, there was a great deal of excitement and some concern when
one afternoon our aeroplanes came in with the report that they had seen a
body of Turks that they estimated at from six to eight thousand marching
round our right flank. The plane was sent straight back with instructions
to verify most carefully the statement, and be sure that it was really men
they had seen. They returned at dark with no alteration of their original
report. As can well be imagined, that night was a crowded one for us, and
the feeling ran high when next morning the enemy turned out to be several
enormous herds of sheep.
As part consequence of this we were ordered to make a thorough water
reconnaissance, with a view of ascertaining how large a force could be
watered on a march around our flank. I went off in an armored car with
Captain Marshall of the Intelligence Service. Marshall had spent many
years in Mesopotamia shipping liquorice to the American Tobacco Company,
and he was known and trusted by the Arabs all along the Tigris from Kurna
to Mosul. He spoke the language most fluently, but with an accent that
left no doubt of his Caledonian home. We had with us a couple of old
sheiks, and it was their first ride in an automobile. It was easy to see
that one of them was having difficulty in maintaining his dignity, but I
was not quite sure of the reason until we stopped a moment and he fairly
flew out of the car. It didn't seem possible that a man able to ride
ninety miles at a stretch on a camel, could be made ill by the motion of
an automobile. However, such was the case, and we had great difficulty in
getting him back into the car. We discovered far more wells than we had
been led to believe existed, but not enough to make a flank attack a very
serious menace.
The mirage played all sorts of tricks, and the balloon observers grew to
be very cautious in their assertions. In the early days of the campaign,
at the battle of Shaiba Bund, a friendly mirage saved the British forces
from what would have proved a very serious defeat. Suleiman Askari was
commanding the Turkish forces, and things were faring badly with the
British, when of a sudden to their amazement they found that the Turks
were in full retreat. Their commanders had caught sight of the mirage of
what was merely an ambulance and supply train, but it was so magnified
that they believed it to be a very large body of reinforcements. The
report ran that when Suleiman was told of his mistake, his chagrin was so
great that he committed suicide.