Soldiering with the Egyptian Expeditionary Force

GAZA 1917

The soldier above was just one of a vast army that brought about victory for the British Commonwealth against the Turkish Ottoman Empire  in WW1.  The soldier's name was Arthur Llewelyn Jones of the Royal Army Medical Corps; the army’s name the Egyptian Expeditionary Force. 

  

By the time of the third battle of Gaza, the Egyptian Expeditionary Force was over 35 000, strong encompassing  divisions from all over the commonwealth. This large  army's  name, however, carried little significance for the British public.  Even after they lost 7000 men in their second attempt to capture Gaza   the British press reported the battle as a minor skirmish.  

After that failed second attempt both sides dug in for the long, hot Palestinian summer, while they waited for reinforcements

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 Most people seem to know about trench warfare in France and Belgium but few have heard of the  Egyptian Expedition's trenches and dugouts. Their dugouts were cave-like holes in the sandstone side of the wadi Ghazzeh.  Their enemies, the Turks had dug themselves into  similar dugouts on the other side of the wadi.  

While over in in France British and German trenches were so close the occupants could throw stones at each other, in Palestine, even at the narrowest point of the wadi, at least 800 yards separated British from Turks.  As the wadi widened while meandering  inland the British cavalry on the eastern  flank were no less than ten miles from the enemy.  

The wadi Ghazzeh  not only marked the boundary between British and Turks  but also separated cultivated land from wilderness.  When Arthur stood on the cliff top above his dugout his eyes rested on  fertile fields and orchards surrounding the then beautiful city of Gaza but, on his side of the wadi there was only uncultivated wilderness.   This wilderness was not the sandy desert of the Sahara but undulating stony ground dotted with plants that could live through summer drought. True, there were sand dunes where land approached sea, but they were more an extension of the beach than desert. Camels plodded through this wilderness from the railhead now 14 miles to their rear, to bring food and ammunition.  Arthur Llewelyn Jones, along with the other foot soldiers, had also marched all the way from the Suez Canal across that wilderness on the wire road laid down for infantry use by the Royal Engineers. While marching he had  helped guard the native labourers working on the Sinai Military Railway that brought  rations from Egypt.

 Lack of water became the British  army's main problem that summer. When the soldiers had first dug in, a winter river  had flowed through the wadi.  It, however, rapidly dried up and the infantry  had to spend their days drilling wells in the wadi bed.  The water they found proved insufficient for the cavalry sections  so squads were given the task of guarding, against aerial attacks,  25 000 camels padding along  the wire road from the railhead each carrying two 15 gallon containers,  When the camels arrived at the wad, the cavalry emptied the water into natural indentations lined with tarpaulin.  

So the army sat out the summer, entertaining  themselves with night forays on the enemy until, at the beginning of November, they fought and won the decisive battle that opened the way to Jerusalem,  Damascus  Alleppo and the Armistice of Mudros.

Arthur Llewelyn Jones, however was not there to witness the victory.  He was killed on 7^th May 1917. A Turkish shell landed directly on his dugout.

D-Day elsewhere

British  troops examine a knocked-out German StuG III assault gun near Cassino, Italy, 18 May 1944.

June 6^th 1944 has been well and truly commemmorated as D-Day in Normandy this year but  now media attention has faded it is appropriate to remember that other events vital to the ending of the war in Europe were taking place in Italy..

Eleven months prior to D-Day a successful invasion of Sicily had forced the Axis to undertake their own Dunkirk-type operation from Sicily to mainland Italy. By Autumn the Allies had landed three armies on the mainland. 

By November Special Ops(M), which employed the main character in my novel, Patsy, were up and running in Bari, a sea-side town on the East coast facing Yugoslavia..

 Soon after Patsy arrived in Bari the Italians surrendered although the Germans continue to occupy northern Italy. .  By D-Day the allies had taken Rome and were  pushing their way north towards the Germans' last defensive line.

Mediterranean Spring

Turkish Poppies

In  April  I was fortunate enough to enjoye a week’s coach tour of Turkey’s Lycian coast and rugged mountains. The area is renowned for its ancient monuments so we spent  much of our time tramping round ancient ruins in various stages of restoration. Although fascinated by these classical and Christian sites I was even more enthralled by the botanical features of a Mediterranean spring. Of all the many  wild flowers in bloom that month the blood-red poppy was the most conspicuous.

It has always puzzled me why so many Israelis confuse their sturdy , flamboyant Judaean anemones with poppies. The poppies, I remember seeing  in Palestine  were more like the fragile vermillion poppies  we have in Britain. On the Lycian coast , however, we saw poppies which, unless viewed at close range, could easily be mistaken for the anemones  that turned the hillsides round Jerusalem crimson each spring.

Anemones in \israel photographed bt Etan J Tal

 Another plant, a small tree, covered in purple sweet pea shaped flowers, caught the eye of everyone on the coach. It is known as the Judas tree from the legend that this was the tree from which the traitor apostle Judas hanged himself.

Although the crimson anemones play a starring role in my emotional recollections childhood, strangely the Judas tree  in all its springtime glory does not feature in any childhood memory.  All I recall  is my father , in the height of arid summer, pointing at an insignificant tree growing on a rocky hillside, and telling me the associated legend.   This has reinforced my realization of how very selective my memories are.

Incidentally, on my return to England I saw a Judas tree in lower a few houses down the road from my daughter's house in Market Harborough. Now I know it will grow in England I am adding it to my wish list. If I get to plant it though it will  be in my garden not for the deeply sentimental reasons I grow my my fig and apricot trees and  my anemones and miniature cyclamen but purely as a souvenir of my holiday in Turkey.  

WW1 in Palestine and further afield

Ottoman Troops defending Gaza-  Picture by American Colony restored by  Durova

Over the last fortnight I've been reading memoirs set on either side of the the time frame for the 'Land of Broken Promises' trilogy.  On the left hand side of the frame, as I visualize it, are memoirs describing events in Palestine during WW1 (and yes, despite all the arguments one hears to the contrary, the area  that became the British Mandate of Palestine, post WW1, was referred to as Palestine in Victorian, Edwardian and WW1 literature.)  On the right hand side are books describing events in that area since the 1948 partition. Today I want to talk about a book from the left hand pile. There is another on the right hand pile I want to discuss in a later post.

THE FIFTH BATTALION HIGHLAND LIGHT INFANTRY IN THE War 1914-1918 by COLONEL F.L. MORRISON, C.B., D.S.O., V.D. is an invaluable book for anyone who wants to to take a wider view of WW1 .  The good news is that it is free for download in several formats from Gutenberg.

In this detailed account of daily life with the battalion we travel with  it from Scotland to Egypt and on to trench warfare in  Gallipoli in 1915 then back to Egypt and tents in 1916. There the battalion becomes part of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF)for the invasion of Palestine, 

The EEF re-occupies the Sinai desert and marches through the Negev, building a railway behind it and laying down a chicken wire road in front for the convenience of marching infantry.A convoy of thousands of camels carry water and rations to the troops from wherever the railway has reached,   The EEF's progress is halted outside Gaza  where  it digs into hillsides on the fringes of the wilderness and the troops gaze in frustration at the fertile land in front of them.  For  Gaza at that time is very different from the town that exists today. It is an important depot for cereals with a German steam mill.  Barley, wheat, olives, vineyards, orange groves, and wood for fuel are grown as well as many goats grazed.   Maize, millet, beans, and water melon, all harvested in early autumn, are cultivated nearby.  The produce isn't just for local use and trade isn't all one way. Before WW1. barley was exported to England for brewing into English beer. In 1912 the 40,000 inhabitants of Gaza imported £10,000 of yarn from Manchester.

After two defeats the EEF captures Gaza and the battalion moves on to help defeat the Ottoman army throughout Palestine.  

From a conquered Palestine the Battalion sails, in the spring of 1918, on to Southern France and from there travels by train to take  part in the final stages of trench warfare in the North.  This is the point at which I would usually close the book and take up the next in my ever-increasing list of book-to-read. However, curiosity overcame my self-inflicted timetable and I carried on reading.

It was in the French portion of the story that  I received my biggest shock. For some reason  I have always assumed that only Germans used poison gas as a weapon during WW1  so on reading the following paragraph:

“When at La Lacque we received our gas training. It took the form of a route march to a place six miles away, where the whole Division being assembled as at sports, various demonstrations were made, including the firing of projectors—tabloid gas training.”

I assumed the training was designed so the battalion could set up defences against gas attacks.

It was only when I read the following paragraph later in the chapter that my illusions were shattered.

About this time a number of gas beam attacks were made from our line. These were from the infantry point of view a great advance on the old system, which meant man-handling innumerable heavy gas cylinders up the trench system to the firing-line. By the new system a light railway was run forward to the front line and all the infantry had to do was to push the bogeys forward. When all were in position the gas expert turned a handle and a poisonous mixture hissed off towards the enemy. What casualties, if any, were inflicted we never heard; we certainly had a number as the result of enemy retaliation by shell fire.

I am glad I  continued reading that memoir after  the battalion had moved from Palestine,  even if it does leave me wondering how many more comforting assumptions I make  about the actions of my own country.

An exciting Week

We launched 'Patsy on Saturday in Leicester, UK, at the Independent Book Publishers Fair 'States of Independence' held annually at the De Montfort University. When I say 'we' I am referring to the British  half of the Bluewood publishing team, David Bowman and myself.

I can't begin to say how grateful I am to all the people who came to support me.
After David had interviewed me, I  read out a portion from the book, the scene where the main male character is wounded when the Irgun blow up the King David  in 1946. When writing that piece, memories flooded back of the awful time when my aunt and I waited for a telegram to let us know if my father had survived the incident.

That was not the only exciting thing that happened that week. I have mentioned before in this blog how several  of my childhood memories  have proved to be  accurate, (or as accurate as they can be by someone who has  difficulty in telling left from right and who mentally mirror-images locations emotionally  important to her).  I have now discovered that one of the locations I describe in  both Patsy and Maftur,  inspired by vague memories of conversations overheard in childhood, and rumours passed on in later life,  is very likely non-fiction.  I am eagerly awaiting further developments .

The Bombing of the King David Hotel

The King David Hotel shortly after the cloud of dust had dissipated

By modern standards the bombing of the King David Hotel on July 22^nd 1946 was no big shakes.  There were only 91 people killed and 46 injured. 

The initial reason it made such a big impact in the international news was that the targeted South wing of the hotel  housed the British Civil administration but the main  reason it became a pivotal point in the history of the  Middle East was  the outburst by General Sir Evelyn Hugh Barker, commander of British forces in Palestine from 1946 to 1947.  He had been working  in the unscathed middle section of the hotel on a floor housing the army HQ when the bombs went off.  He sat down at his desk only two hours later to write an order to his troops forbidding them to fraternise with Jews or buy goods from Jewish shops adding the notorious sentence We will be punishing the Jews in a way the race dislikes as much as any, by striking at their pockets and showing our contempt of them.

The order was rescinded a fortnight later but by then the damage had been done. A copy of the document had been circulated and printed in newspapers throughout the world and made it impossible for the civil government to work with the Jews to deliver a peaceful solution to the problem of Palestinian independence.

There  were many witnesses to the event, mostly from people across the road at the YMCA. They were left with two striking images.

One was a swarm of what looked like coloured parachutes rising high into the air above the South Wing. Only when the ‘parachutes’ plummeted down into the rubble did the viewers realise that they were the billowing summer skirts of the women who had been at their desks in the Secretariat’s typing pool.

The other image was that of a gargoyle  that  appeared on the wall of the Sports Wing of the YMCA. In reality the gargoyle  was the head, with all facial features intact, of the Post Master General who had been walking up the path to the South wing when the bombs went off.

The incident remains vivid to me because my father was in his office in the South Wing at the time.  My Aunt and I heard the news when a BBC announcer  interrupted our weekly after-school session of ‘Larry the Lamb’ to give the breaking news. I remember my mental agony as we waited for a telegram to let us know whether my father was one of the many casualties. It was several hours before we learnt that he had survived with only minor injuries.

I incorporated much of what my father told me about the incident into ‘Patsy’.  All main characters in the novels, apart from Jim and Addy Shepard, are completely fictitious, and the legal disclaimer applies to them, but it wouldn't take a genius to work out that Jim Shepard’s actions and experiences are  based on those of my father.  Ive just removed a few warts and added some others.

So that is why I chose the photograph above as the background to all three novels in the series.

Not all Exiles are the same

An Exile's Nostalgia reflected in an English Garden

I grew up in the British  Mandate of Palestine.  My mother was very anxious that we children should grow up British.  She forbade Dewya, our maid-of-all work, to speak to us in Arabic, but Dewya used her English to pass on hints on how to avoid the evil eye or to teach us the village games she had played when young.

My mother cooked as if she still lived in England,  using recipes from her English cook book and ingredients she would have found easily in English shops.   Unfortunately, she was not the best of cooks.  All the time I lived in Palestine, I assumed egg custard had to curdle, meat had to be roasted until it was dry and tough and that it was normal to scrape charcoal from the bottom of cakes.

 Fortunately for us Dewya was responsible for children’s meals.  She taught us to wrap vine leaves from our vineyard round rice flavoured with wild herbs  and her stews were were thick and full flavoured, so to this day I prefer Middle East cookery to traditional British.

My mother disliked living in Palestine,but my father loved it.  On Saturday afternoons he would take me, the eldest child,  for long walks over hills and down wadis. In late winter we hunted for cyclamen growing beneath rock and took bunches back for my mother.  We watched  the seasons change the hillsides, from the  brown of bare soil in  summer  to winter’s shimmering green grass. Spring wasn't satisfied with one change but moved quickly from the  bright red of anemones, to the orange of ranunculus, then on to the  pink of  frail flax and finished with a flourish of tall, yellow daisies.

 We explored caves with skeletons and jumped over crevasses that split narrow paths hugging the sides of rocky cliffs while  he regaled me with stories about the ruins we came across and the battles that had been fought here between Crusaders and Saracens.

Then in 1946, after the war had ended and shipping returned to normal, I  was exiled  to England to receive a stable grammar school education.  (Prior to that, I had been shuffled about between 12 educational establishments varying wildly in aims and competences.)

I tried my best to regard England as my proper home, and  am proud to be British but even now, as an octogenarian, I am constantly aware that I don’t quite fit in to what should be my native community and regard myself as an exile from the land of my childhood.

I hadn’t realised how much I had allowed the theme of exile to permeate each book of my trilogy until someone put up a link to a lecture by James Wood on the different forms of exile.  I realised then that I had made exile an important element in each novel although my characters' experience  reactions to it vary greatly.

In commenting on the character’s experiences of exile in the paragraphs  below I have tried to give away as little of the main plot lines as I can but  with so much of importance  ignored, the stories that emerge here appear very different from the ones I have written.

I’ll start with Dalia because, at first sight,  she experiences the worst form of exile, being disowned by her fellow citizens. In 1933 she and her parents leave their comfortable home and middle class existence in  Germany for  ‘back to the soil’ slog and basic accommodation on a smallholding.  Dalia’s parents, loyal Germans,  regard their exile  as temporary  and intend to return ‘home’ when ’Germany has come to its senses'.  Dalia’s mother in particular, has difficulty in adjusting to her new life.   Dalia, however, is much quicker to accept Palestine as her real home. After the way her German school friends turned on her,and Brownshirt louts had vandalised her father's workplace,  she has no wish to be considered German or even to speak the language, and is only sorry that she wasn’t born a Palestinian Jew with all the kudos that would have given her amongst her new friends.

Dalia, however, becomes far more emotionally confused when, as an adult, she faces a second exile, this time self-afflicted.  Engaged to a British Palestine Policeman, she realises she will eventually have to move to England and fears people there may treat her with the disdain most British ex-pats have displayed towards her in Palestine. 

 In the second novel, Maftur, is brought up in a culture where marriage to a man she has never met, usually exiles a woman, often as young as 14, from her nuclear family   The main thread  of the first half of ’Maftur’ is the fight she puts up  to avoid this domestic form of exile.

 As an adolescent, in 1937, however, she is threatened by another form of exile that makes the domestic one look paltry in comparison. The British government  approves a partition plan for Palestine that includes a forced transfer of populations and land ownership. The population transfer would affect up to 225,000 Arabs but only 1,250 Jews.

The plan is eventually dropped in 1938 when the British realise the impossibility of dividing Palestine into two economically viable states.  Nine years later, however, the United Nations vote for partition against the advice of the British, and then fail to organise a smooth transition.  The exile Maftur faces in 1948 seems all the worse for the happy life she won for herself.

So now to the first novel  -  Patsy’s exile may initially attract less sympathy.   She is a British woman brought up in Palestine. In 1942, at the age of 21, she is in self-afflicted exile in Egypt.   The problems that caused her exile are resolved at the start of the novel and she is free to continue her war work inside Palestine.  The previous period of exile, however, has made her realise how much Palestine means to her so she is pleased when her recently widowed mother returns to work as a qualified nurse which entitles her to stay on in Palestine.

All might have been well if Patsy had stayed working in Palestine after Rommel’s defeat. However, her war work takes her out of Palestine to Italy where she marries an English officer.  Pregnant, Patsy discovers the army intend to repatriate her England since, she has no legal right of return to Palestine. Although  she manages to smuggle her way back into Palestine and live there for a while, eventually she has to leave the land that belongs to others.  For the rest of her life she finds it difficult to call any location home.