The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy
attached to the Intelligence—no, not permanent—don’t know what the future has in store—that probably depends on whether or not the Zionists get full control, and how soon. Meanwhile, I’m my own boss more or less—report direct to the Administrator, and he’s one of those men who allows you lots of scope.”
That was the sort of occasional glimpse he gave of himself, and then switched off into straight statements about the Zionist problem. All his statements were unqualified, and given with the air of knowing all about it right from the beginning.
“There’s nothing here that really matters outside the Zionist-Arab problem. But that’s a big one. People don’t realize it—even on the spot—but it’s a world movement with ramifications everywhere. All the other politics of the Near East hinge on it, even when it doesn’t appear so on the surface. You see, the Jews have international affiliations through banks and commerce. They have blood-relations everywhere. A ripple here may mean there’s a wave in Russia, or London, or New York. I’ve known at least one Arab blood-feud over here that began with a quarrel between a Jew and a Christian in Chicago.”
“Are the Zionists as dangerous as the Arabs seem to think?” I asked.
“Yes and no. Depends what you call danger. They’re like an incoming tide. All you can do is accept the fact and ride on top of it, move away in front of it, or go under. The Arabs want to push it back with sword-blades. Can’t be done!”
“Speaking as a mere onlooker, I feel sorry for the Arabs,” I said. “It has been their country for several hundred years. They didn’t even drive the Jews out of it; the Romans attended to that, after the Assyrians and Babylonians had cleaned up nine-tenths of the population. And at that, the Jews were invaders themselves.”
“Sure,” Grim answered. “But you can’t argue with tides. The Arabs are sore, and nobody has any right to blame them. The English betrayed the Arabs—I don’t mean the fellows out here, but the gang at the Foreign Office.”
I glanced at his uniform. That was a strange statement coming from a man who wore it. He understood, and laughed.
“Oh, the men out here all admit it. They’re as sore as the Arabs are themselves.”
“Then you’re on the wrong side, and you know it?” I suggested.
“The meat,” he said, “is in the middle of the sandwich. In a small way you might say I’m a doctor, staying on after a riot to stitch up cuts. The quarrel was none of my making, although I was in it and did what I could to help against the Turks. Like everybody else who knows them, I admire the Turks and hate what they stand for—hate their cruelty. I was with Lawrence across the Jordan—went all the way to Damascus with him—saw the war through to a finish—in case you choose to call it finished.”
Vainly I tried to pin him down to personal reminiscences. He was not interested in his own story.
“The British promised old King Hussein of Mecca that if he’d raise an Arab army to use against the Turks, there should be a united Arab kingdom afterward under a ruler of their own choosing. The kingdom was to include Syria, Arabia and Palestine. The French agreed. Well, the Arabs raised the army; Emir Feisul, King Hussein’s third son, commanded it; Lawrence did so well that he became a legend. The result was, Allenby could concentrate his army on this side of the Jordan and clean up. He made a good job of it. The Arabs were naturally cock-a-hoop.”
I suggested that the Arabs with that great army could have enforced the contract, but he laughed again.
“They were being paid in gold by the British, and had Lawrence to hold them together. The flow of gold stopped, and Lawrence was sent home. Somebody at the Foreign Office had changed his mind. You see, they were all taken by surprise at the speed of Allenby’s campaign. The Zionists saw their chance, and claimed Palestine. No doubt they had money and influence. Perhaps it was Jewish gold that had paid the wages of the Arab army. Anyhow, the French laid claim to Syria. By the time the war was over the Zionists had a hard-and-fast guarantee, the French claim to Syria had been admitted, and there wasn’t any country left except some Arabian desert to let the Arabs have. That’s the situation. Feisul is in Damascus, going through the farce of being proclaimed king, with the French holding the sea-ports and getting ready to oust him. The Zionists are in Jerusalem, working like beavers, and the British are getting ready to pull out as much as possible and leave the Zionists to do their own worrying. Mesopotamia is in a state of more or less anarchy. Egypt is like a hot-box full of explosive—may go off any minute. The Arabs would like to challenge the world to mortal combat, and then fight one another while the rest of the world pays the bill—”
“And you?”
“The French, for instance. Their army is weak at the moment. They’ve neither men nor money—only a hunger to own Syria. They don’t play what the English call ‘on side.’ They play a mean game. The French General Staff figure that if Feisul should attack them now he might beat them. So they’ve conceived the brilliant idea of spreading sedition and every kind of political discontent into Palestine and across the Jordan, so that if the Arabs make an effort they’ll make it simultaneously in both countries. Then the British, being in the same mess with the French, would have to take the French side and make a joint campaign of it.”
“But don’t the British know this?”
“You bet they know it. What’s the Intelligence for? The French are hiring all the Arab newspapers to preach against the British. A child could see it with his eyes shut.”
“Then why in thunder don’t the British have a showdown?”
“That’s where the joker comes in. The French know there’s a sort of diplomatic credo at the London Foreign Office to the general effect that England and France have got to stand together or Europe will go to pieces. The French are realists. They bank on that. They tread on British corns, out here, all they want to, while they toss bouquets, backed by airplanes, across the English Channel.”
“Then the war didn’t end the old diplomacy?”
“What a question! But I haven’t more than scratched the Near East surface for you yet. There’s Mustapha Kemal in Anatolia, leader of the Turkish Nationalists, no more dead or incapacitated than a possum. He’s playing for his own hand—Kaiser Willy stuff—studying Trotzky and Lenin, and flirting with Feisul’s party on the side. Then there’s a Bolshevist element among the Zionists—got teeth, too. There’s an effort being made from India to intrigue among the Sikh troops employed in Palestine. There’s a very strong party yelling for an American mandate. The Armenians, poor devils, are pulling any string they can get hold of, in the hope that anything at all may happen. The orthodox Jews are against the Zionists; the Arabs are against them both, and furious with one another. There’s a pan-Islam movement on foot, and a pan-Turanian—both different, and opposed. About 75 per cent of the British are as pro-Arab as they dare be, but the rest are strong for the Zionists. And the Administrator’s neutral!—strong for law and order but taking no sides.”
“And you?”
“I’m one of the men who is trying to keep the peace.”
He invited me to stay to dinner. The other members of the mess were trooping in, all his juniors, all obviously fond of him and boisterously irreverent of his rank. Dinner under his chairmanship was a sort of school for repartee. It was utterly unlike the usual British mess dinner. If you shut your eyes for a minute you couldn’t believe that any one present had ever worn a uniform. I learned afterward that there was quite a little competition to get into that mess.
After dinner most of them trooped out again, to dance with Zionist ladies at an institute affair. But he and I stayed, and talked until midnight. Before I left, the key of Palestine and Syria was in my hands.
“You seem interested,” he said, coming with me to the door. “If you don’t mind rough spots now and then, I’ll try to show you a few things at first hand.”
CHAPTER TWO
“No objection; only a stipulation.”
The