ROAD-MAKING AND DISCHARGE
The news of the actual declaration of war by Turkey caused a tremendous
stir in our regiment. The prevailing feeling was one of great
restlessness and discontent. The Arabs made many bitter remarks against
Germany. "Why didn't she help us against the Italians during the war for
Tripoli?" they said. "Now that she is in trouble she is drawing us into
the fight." Their opinions, however, soon underwent a change. In the
first place, they came to realize that Turkey had taken up arms against
Russia; and Russia is considered first and foremost the arch-enemy.
German reports of German successes also had a powerful effect on them.
They began to grow boastful, arrogant; and the sight of the plundering
of Europeans, Jews, and Christians convinced them that a very desirable
régime was setting in. Saffêd has a large Jewish colony, and it was
torment for me to have to witness the outrages that my people suffered
in the name of "requisitioning."
The final blow came one morning when all the Jewish and Christian
soldiers of our regiment were called out and told that henceforth they
were to serve in the _taboor amlieh_, or working corps. The object of
this action, plainly enough, was to conciliate and flatter the
Mohammedan population, and at the same time to put the Jews and
Christians, who for the most part favored the cause of the Allies, in a
position where they would be least dangerous. We were disarmed; our
uniforms were taken away, and we became hard-driven "gangsters." I shall
never forget the humiliation of that day when we, who, after all, were
the best-disciplined troops of the lot, were first herded to our work of
pushing wheelbarrows and handling spades, by grinning Arabs, rifle on
shoulder. We were set to building the road between Saffêd and Tiberias,
on the Sea of Galilee--a link in the military highway from Damascus to
the coast, which would be used for the movement of troops in case the
railroad should be cut off. It had no immediate strategic bearing on the
attack against Suez, however.
From six in the morning till seven at night we were hard at it, except
for one hour's rest at noon. While we had money, it was possible to get
some slight relief by bribing our taskmasters; but this soon came to an
end, and we had to endure their brutality as best we could. The
wheelbarrows we used were the property of a French company which,
before the war, was undertaking a highway to Beirut. No grease was
provided for the wheels, so that there was a maddening squeaking and
squealing in addition to the difficulty of pushing the barrows. One day
I suggested to an inspection officer that if the wheels were not greased
the axles would be burned out. He agreed with me and issued an order
that the men were to provide their own oil to lubricate the wheels!
I shall not dwell on the physical sufferings we underwent while working
on this road, for the reason that the conditions I have described were
prevalent over the whole country; and later, when I had the opportunity
to visit some construction camps in Samaria and Judaea found that in
comparison our lot had been a happy one. While we were breaking stones
and trundling squeaking wheelbarrows, however, the most disquieting
rumors began to drift in to us from our home villages. Plundering had
been going on in the name of "requisitioning"; the country was full of
soldiery whose capacity for mischief-making was well known to us, and it
was torture to think of what might be happening in our peaceful homes
where so few men had been left for protection. All the barbed-wire
fences, we heard, had been torn up and sent north for the construction
of barricades. In a wild land like Palestine, where the native has no
respect for property, where fields and crops are always at the mercy of
marauders, the barbed-wire fence has been a tremendous factor for
civilization, and with these gone the Arabs were once more free to sweep
across the country unhindered, stealing and destroying.
The situation grew more and more unbearable. One day a little Christian
soldier--a Nazarene--disappeared from the ranks. We never saw him again,
but we learned that his sister, a very young girl, had been forcibly
taken by a Turkish officer of the Nazareth garrison. In Palestine, the
dishonor of a girl can be redeemed by blood alone. The young soldier had
hunted for his sister, found her in the barracks, and shot her; he then
surrendered himself to the military authorities, who undoubtedly put him
to death. He had not dared to kill the real criminal,--the officer,--for
he knew that this would not only bring death to his family, but would
call down terrible suffering on all the Christians of Nazareth.
[ILLUSTRATION: NAZARETH, FROM THE NORTHEAST]
When I learned of this tragedy, I determined to get out of the army and
return to my village at all costs. Nine Turkish officers out of ten can
be bought, and I had reason to know that the officer in command at
Saffêd was not that tenth man. Now, according to the law of the country,
a man has the right to purchase exemption from military service for a
sum equivalent to two hundred dollars. My case was different, for I was
already enrolled; but everything is possible in Turkey. I set to work,
and in less than two weeks I had bought half a dozen officers, ranging
from corporal to captain, and had obtained consent of the higher
authorities to my departure, provided I could get a physician's
certificate declaring me unfit for service.
This was arranged in short order, although I am healthy-looking and the
doctor found some difficulty in hitting on an appropriate ailment.
Finally he decided that I had "too much blood"--whatever that might
mean. With his certificate in hand, I paid the regular price of two
hundred dollars from funds which had been sent me by my family, and
walked out of the barracks a free man. My happiness was mingled with
sadness at the thought of leaving the comrades with whom I had suffered
and hoped. The four boys from my village were splendid. They felt that I
was right in going home to do what I could for the people, but when they
kissed me good-bye, in the Eastern fashion, the tears were running down
their cheeks; and they were all strong, brave fellows.
On my way back to Zicron-Jacob, I passed through the town of Sheff'amr,
where I got a foretaste of the conditions I was to find at home. A
Turkish soldier, sauntering along the street, helped himself to fruit
from the basket of an old vender, and went on without offering to pay a
farthing. When the old man ventured to protest, the soldier turned like
a flash and began beating him mercilessly, knocking him down and
battering him until he was bruised, bleeding, and covered with the mud
of the street. There was a hubbub; a crowd formed, through which a
Turkish officer forced his way, demanding explanations. The soldier
sketched the situation in a few words, whereupon the officer, turning to
the old man, said impressively,--"If a soldier of the Sultan should
choose to heap filth on your head, it is for you to kiss his hand in
gratitude."