Palestine and World War I: Grand Strategy, Military Tactics and Culture in War 9780755607952, 9781780763590

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PREFACE

The First World War of 1914 – 18 was the first total war of the modern epoch. From the Western point of view, which dominates the collective memory in the British Commonwealth, in Europe and in the United States, the war is remembered as a long period of stalemate, entrenchment, massive and devastating firepower and the introduction of new military innovations (such as aircraft, submarines, tanks and chemical weapons). But, above all, it is recalled as four long years of futile fighting, great suffering, enormous casualties and losses, and finally, as the cause of the collapse of entire empires. However, most of these features attributed to the Great War have mainly referred to the European battlefields of the Western and Eastern Fronts and secondarily to the Italian front. These were the most important theatres of war, where the major battles were fought. Other campaigns of the Great War, such as those in the Balkan arena, the Middle East and Africa, which were indeed quite different from those on the European fronts, are perceived as ‘sideshows’ for the main protagonists and have not been part of these collective memories. There were several such ‘sideshows’ for each of the two opposing coalitions. From the Allied perspective, none of ‘their’ sideshows was predicted, anticipated or fought as planned; needless to say, none was glorious. The East African Campaign was not won on the battlefield, and the fate of the area was decided by statesmen after the war was over. In the Dardanelles Campaign of 1915, for nine months Allied troops

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fought a desperate and futile battle, suffering heavy losses, and eventually withdrew from the area without any strategic, operational or tactical achievement. The first phase of the Mesopotamia Campaign culminated in an entire British–Indian division being taken into Turkish captivity after being besieged. During the second phase of the campaign, the British eventually won the battle, but without any military sophistication. The operations in Persia were frustratingly indecisive for four years. On the Macedonian (Salonika) Front, the British and French Expeditionary Force found itself contained, unable to break out and develop an offensive thrust until the last days of the war (due, among other factors, to malaria which overwhelmed the troops). There is a certain irony in the form ‘sideshow’, as it represents only one side of the coin. This is most apparent when considering the campaigns involving the Ottoman Empire. The Caucasus front, for example, which for the Russians was indeed a secondary front and for the British and French a place to station liaison officers, was for the Turks a main battleground where success was considered vital for their national interests and their war aims. Likewise, Gallipoli was nothing less than a battle for Ottoman survival. Alas, history is traditionally written from the victors’ perspective and the popular image is formulated by this view. The last of the Middle Eastern sideshows, but perhaps the one with the longest-lasting consequences, was the Palestine Campaign. This campaign was different from all other non-European campaigns, both militarily and culturally, as well as in the image it has left on the collective memory of Christians, Jews and Muslims alike. From the point of view of the Entente military it was a successful campaign which achieved its goals. It began as a rigid defence of the Suez Canal and became, almost against the will of its participants, a large-scale offensive. It was the last campaign where mounted formations fought in regular battles and won, preserving the traditional Western image of the cavalry as chivalric knights, fighting for justice against evil. The campaign also left the impression that there was a role for individuals – generals and privates alike – in influencing events, contrary to what had occurred on the Western Front. The conquest of

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the Holy Land of Palestine and the capture of the sacred city of Jerusalem have imprinted the image of a modern Crusade, this time and at last a successful one, on many hearts. Nothing reflects this traditional image better than the titles of books written in English and dedicated to the Palestine Campaign, such as Khaki Crusaders, Armageddon, The Last Crusade and The Deliverance of Jerusalem, to name a few. It was of course an incorrect impression, as the Palestine Campaign was not fought between Christians and Muslims. Many non-Christian units were to be found in the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’s order-of-battle, especially in the last year of the war, when entire divisions were mainly composed of non-Europeans. The Arab Revolt, ‘a sideshow within a sideshow’, was certainly not a Christian affair. Compared to the dreadful battlefields of Flanders, the Carpathians and Isonzo, as well as to the other Middle Eastern battlegrounds, the Palestine Campaign has long been portrayed in shining colours and favourable terms, leaving the impression of an old-time colonial punitive expedition cum other-than-war journey to the Holy Land. Several factors have contributed to this view, some of them cultural, such as ‘Crusadomania’, ‘Biblephilia’ and the magical flavour of the Orient and the desert. Other factors are military, such as images of dashing cavalry, cunning stratagems, worthy generalship and the relatively low cost in human life, and even the impression of ‘humane war’ – all that was seemingly missing in Europe. While some of these representations contain more than a grain of truth, other assumptions are totally wrong. This is the case, for example, when considering the number of casualties. Although the figures never reached the proportions of the Western Front, during the war the Egyptian Expeditionary Force suffered more than 550,000 casualties; about 10 per cent of them lost their lives on the various battlefields. The campaign was no less brutal than the fighting on the Western Front, as recent research reveals. Hell in the Holy Land (by David Woodward) and All Flies and Dust and Tears (by Edward Woodfin) are not merely sexed-up titles for books and dissertations, but persuasive demonstrations of a cruel confrontation. There was almost no trick in the military arsenal used in the European battlefields that was not

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tried in Palestine, including tanks, airpower, flamethrowers and chemical weapons. As for generalship, there is no World War I campaign so closely identified with a specific name, in popular culture as well as in scholarly works, as the Palestine Campaign with that of General Sir Edmund Allenby, despite his having served in the area for only 17 out of the 48 months of war. From anonymity, certain underappreciation and an undistinguished career as a field army commander on the Western Front, Allenby was transformed into an inspiring and sparkling combat leader once he arrived in Palestine, first in the eyes of his troops and then in the general public view. Whether this shining image was indeed justified or whether the glorification has been magnified to emphasize the negative reputation of Western Front generals is a matter for as yet unsettled debate, but the fact remains: the Palestine Campaign and General Allenby represent commendable generalship and military accomplishment to this very day. Other extraordinary personalities have assisted in keeping this image alive. Among them was the eccentric intelligence officer Richard Meinertzhagen, who later became an ardent advocate for the Zionist cause. Another example was the bright British staff officer Archibald Wavell, who became a field marshal and great commander during World War II and, being a talented writer and historian, was among those responsible for promoting the Palestine Campaign. Above all, there was the exceptional T.E. Lawrence, an important figure in the shaping of the Arab Revolt and a gifted writer and storyteller; he became a British national hero. But the Palestine Campaign was much more than the story of Allenby’s generalship. It was a campaign in which troops from 15 nationalities and countries served, fought and died on both sides; it was a campaign that accelerated the collapse of the Ottoman Empire; it also inspired and hastened the advance of two colliding national movements, Jewish and Arab. British promises made to the Arab national movement as well as to the Zionist movement created some of the origins of future conflicts that have marked the history of the region ever since.

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The bookshelf containing the literature in English on the Palestine Campaign is quite long. However, until recently it mainly contained first- and second-generation pure military historiography: personal memoirs of those who participated and had the urge to tell their stories; regimental histories, official histories; popular monographs and biographies. Studies of non-military aspects of the war, social, economic or cultural, were notably absent. One exception has been works concerned with those issues that have to do with the Arab/Palestinian –Jewish/Israeli conflict. These have been covered extensively by volumes of academic research aimed at examining and understanding the origins of the dispute. Only recently, during roughly the past 20 years, has serious scholarship stepped in to fill the gap in our knowledge of strategic, military and non-military sides of the campaign. Since then, the library on the Palestine Campaign has been enriched by the published results of modern research, dealing with topics like strategy, operational art, military medicine, military intelligence, airpower, chemical warfare, soldiering and more. The local civil society, as well as cultural aspects, have also been examined. Regrettably, as far as the military aspects of the campaign are concerned, the above-mentioned bookshelf is one-sided, representing mainly the British point of view. There is a notable absence of works written originally in non-English languages, as these have never been translated. A vast Turkish and German primary and secondary literature on the campaign exists, describing the other side of the hill, and this could undoubtedly contribute to the better understanding of the campaign, but as long as this literature remains solely in its original language it will serve only the few. The Tel-Hai International Conference, which took place at the Tel-Hai College in September 2007, attempted to bring together scholars from all over the world who are interested in various aspects of the Palestine Campaign. The meeting was intended to be eclectic: not to concentrate on specific subjects but rather to create a framework in which any investigator would find his/her space. The outcome has been beyond our expectations, as unfamiliar military and non-military aspects have been revealed: British strategy and

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international diplomacy; conditions and behaviour of the local population, Arabs and Jews alike; maintaining military health; and cultural and other aspects of the campaign. We want to thank all participants and to hope that this volume is only the beginning of this multidisciplinary attitude towards research into the Palestine Campaign. Y.S., H.G., E.D.

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Mustafa Abassi is a Senior Lecturer and Head of the Department for Inter-Disciplinary Studies at Tel-Hai College, Upper Galilee, Israel. He is studying the social and political aspects of the Palestinian Arabs during the British Mandate period 1918 – 1948 and the history of the 1948 War, especially regarding the four Galilean cities during the course of that war. Email: [email protected] Glenda Abramson holds the titles of Professor of Hebrew and Jewish Studies at the University of Oxford and Emeritus Fellow of St Cross College and of the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies. Email: [email protected] Nir Arielli is a lecturer in international history at the University of Leeds. He specializes in the foreign and colonial policies of Fascist Italy and, in recent years, in the history of transnational war volunteers in the twentieth century. Email: [email protected] Jean Bou is a lecturer at the Strategic and Defence Studies Centre at the Australian National University. He has particular interest in the operational aspects of the First World War. Email: [email protected]

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Peter Collier lectures in the department of Geography, University of Portsmouth, UK. His research interests include Historical Geography and History of Geography, and Israel studies. Email: [email protected] Eran Dolev is Professor of Medical Sciences, Tel-Aviv University and Tel-Hai College, Israel. His main subjects of interest and research: History of Military Medicine during the Palestine Campaigns 1914– 1918; History of Israeli Military Medicine. Email: [email protected] Jean-Noel Grandhomme lectures at Strasbourg University, France. His main interests are Military history of the nineteenth–twentieth centuries, WWI (East-central Europe, Romania, France, Germany, Alsace-Lorraine), WWII (Alsace-Lorraine), French Canadians, Wars of decolonization. Email: [email protected] Matthew Hughes is Professor of History and Head of the Department of Politics and History at Brunel University, London. His main interest is the imperial and military history of the British Empire in the twentieth century, particularly in the Middle East. Email: [email protected] Benjamin Z. Kedar is Emeritus Professor of History at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and Vice-President of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. His research interests include the history of the Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem, aerial photography as a historical source, expulsion as an issue of world history, and cultural persistence under conditions of total political collapse. Email: [email protected] Anat Kidron is a Lecturer at the University of Haifa, department of Land of Israel Studies, and Academic coordinator of the Gottlieb Schumacher Institute for Research of the Christian Presence in Palestine in Modern Era. Her main research field is mixed cities in Palestine during the British Mandate. Email: [email protected]

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Tilman Ludke is a Senior Researcher on the Near and Middle East at Arnold Bergstraesser Institute for Socio-Political Research at the University of Freiburg, Germany. His academic interests concern the political, diplomatic and social history of the Modern Middle East. His research focuses on the evolution and effects of nationalism in the Middle East, particularly in its relationship with political Islam, and the potential obstacles these two phenomena pose for the evolution of citizenship in Middle Eastern countries. Email: [email protected] Roberto Mazza is an Assistant Professor at Western Illinois University, and Research Associate at SOAS – University of London. He is interested mainly in the transitional period from Ottoman to British rule in Palestine with a special focus on the city of Jerusalem and the development of urban violence. He is currently working on the Balfour Declaration and a larger project on the Italian presence in Palestine from the 1860s to the 1930s. Email: [email protected] Nancy Rosenfeld teaches at the English Studies Unit and in the humanities enrichment program of the Max Stern College of Emek Yizreel, Israel. Her research interests include the literature of seventeenth-century dissenters and the English war poets of World War I. Email: [email protected] Yair Seltenreich is a Senior Lecturer and Head of Department of Education at Tel-Hai College, Upper Galilee, Israel. He specializes in cultural and social aspects of Hebrew society in pre-state Israel, particularly in educational and emotional aspects. Email: [email protected] Yigal Sheffy is Professor of History at the Tel-Hai College and at the Program of Security Studies, Tel Aviv University. His main fields of interest include modern military history of the Middle East and intelligence studies. Email: [email protected]

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Jay Winter is the Charles J. Stille Professor of History at Yale University. He is editor-in-chief of the three-volume Cambridge History of the First World War, published in French in 2013 and in English in 2014. His main interest is military history, especially of the Great War. Email: [email protected]

CHAPTER 1 THE PALESTINE CAMPAIGN WITHIN THE GREAT WAR Jay Winter

Back to the future: materialist explanations of war During the 40 years that I have been studying the Great War, there have been two sea changes in the direction of historical research. In the mid-1960s, when I began my studies, there was a shift from the high political history of the war – the war of the staff headquarters and Cabinet rooms – to the broader social history of the war. This change was stimulated in part by the creation of the first great television series of the war. BBC2 was launched in 1964 with its stillunmatched 28-part series on the Great War. The historical authors of this series – Correlli Barnett and John Tremaine – wanted to give the series a patriotic gloss, assuring the viewing public that the war was terrible but that the right leadership and the right side won. Whatever their efforts, the public took away from the series a different message: that the war was a colossal waste, and that the soldiers who suffered it were lions led by donkeys, in the phrase made popular by a book of the time. At the same time, Marc Ferro, author of a sprawling social history of the Russian Revolution, produced a six-part series on French television which used film to illustrate the

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power of social movements, first in support of war and then, in support of revolution, thereby undermining the Russian war effort and overthrowing the monarchy. Social history in those days meant the history of the common people, and what better way to show their faces and their anguish than to use period film clips and the words of contemporaries, collected in volumes that grew into massive libraries. There was also a populist current in historical writing in the 1960s, when thousands of 50th anniversary books appeared to honour those who had fought in the war. Historians began to indict those who had led others into the trenches and kept them there until their political and economic interests were met. The people bore the brunt of the war, and for what: the dreams of generals and industrialists. So said Fritz Fischer, the great German historian, who in two major works published in 1961 and 1969 showed that German war aims were massive and punitive, and that the thrust to dominate Europe and the world was not initiated by Hitler in the 1930s but by Tirpitz, von Moltke, Hindenburg and Ludendorff a generation before. The Nazis were not parentheses in German and world history; they were the legatees of a war for world dominion. Many other historians pushed on in search of the people’s war. A decade later, three major works took the historiography of the war in a second new direction. In 1975 Paul Fussell published The Great War and Modern Memory; a year later John Keegan published The Face of Battle; and in 1979, Eric Leed’s book No Man’s Land appeared. All three have the Vietnam war in between the lines, and suggested that the impact of war was most pronounced not in the realm of political or social conflict but rather in cultural history, defined as the study of signifying practices in the past, or more simply, the study of the ways contemporaries high and low made sense of the violent world in which they lived. At the same time, there was a more general sense among historians that the Marxist and Marxisant ideas which had informed the work on the social history of this period were inadequate. More than a decade before the collapse of the Soviet Empire, the intellectual force of Marxist ideas throughout the academy had disintegrated. There

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seemed no reason to explore Marxism either as a theory of society (who rules and why) or as a theory of action (how groups of people overthrow one social order and establish another). In the vacuum thus produced, an idealist turn in historical studies helped spread the doctrine of cultural history among students in many parts of the world. Instead of studying ‘war and the working class’, young historians queued up to study representations of war in literature, in language, in war memorials and other facets of material culture. We are still in this cultural phase of the history of the Great War, and to my knowledge, there is no end in sight. In part this reflects a wider ‘memory boom’ inside and outside the academy, where everyone studies memory, whatever meaning he or she attaches to the word. But it may be time to suggest that we should turn the clock back a bit. I am not at all persuaded that the materialist vision of history of the 1960s – without the Marxist patina many of us used at the time – is utterly beyond redemption. Indeed it is my contention that once we move away from the great centres of the war on the Western Front, once we leave Western Europe and move to the multiple and varied periphery of the war, we will find at hand abundant evidence of the hard materials of imperial domination, resource exploitation, and colonial hypocrisy that Fritz Fischer identified in the German Foreign Office papers over half a century ago. Cultural historians study what they term war cultures, or sets of representations commonly shared among populations who use them to accept the burdens of war. They spar over whether the 1914 –18 war was total war, and indeed whether such a notion is ever possible, or whether, like Zeno’s paradox, totality is an ever-receding limit that is approximated but never reached. They consider whether the threshold of violence on the Western Front constituted a point after which anything was possible, and debate whether this new kind of war, total war, opened a door through which some – and only some people – passed linking warfare and genocide, in this case the Armenian genocide of 1915– 17 (on which more below). These questions all have force and significance, but when we move to the vast dependencies of the European combatant powers, do they really yield powerful analytical tools? My answer is by and large no,

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but I do consider the case of the Armenian genocide to be an exception to this rule. The cultural history of genocide is everybody’s business. My purpose here is therefore to heighten our understanding of the war outside Europe as a continuation of nineteenth-century imperial conflict and imperial warfare. This interpretation resides on the notion that history moves at different tempos during the same time period, and that the Great War was at one and the same time a move forwards to an era of industrial mass killing and a move backwards to an organization of the non-European world according to the strategic and material needs of the dominant imperial powers. Woodrow Wilson saw it otherwise: to him the war ushered in an age of selfdetermination and regime change, where those with right on their side could install democracy and instill democratic values in those adolescent nations unable to develop them on their own. It should surprise no one that George Bush had a photograph of Wilson on his desk in the Oval Office. He was one of the legatees of the moral highmindedness and imperial illusions of the Great War. What I intend to do, therefore, is not to say goodbye to all that; I am not about to turn my back on the field of cultural history where I myself have laboured for several decades. Instead I want to pause and consider that perhaps Marx was right when he wrote that we make history but not in the way we think we do. The Great War changed the language of war, albeit slowly, but despite redistribution of Germany’s overseas assets in 1919, the war also left intact very rough and unforgiving equations of imperial power in the post-war years. That is the tragedy of self-determination, and of the failure of the mandates sponsored by the League of Nations in the inter-war years. Words changed, but destinies did not. The tragedy of Palestine bears the marks of this glacial movement of imperial history over the past century.

Imperial histories There were two movements: towards imperialist power and away from it. The Great War was both the apogee and the beginning of the

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end of European imperialism. Materialist history explains the first, but not entirely the second. For that we need to explore what has been termed by Erez Manela the ‘Wilsonian moment’, that time from 1918– 22 when the staying power of imperialism was disclosed, as was the evanescence of American-led attempts to bring selfdetermination to subject peoples around the globe. There are good reasons to look at outcomes rather than at origins alone. Imperialism did not cause the outbreak of World War I, but it structured international relations in such a way as to make war likely, if not inevitable. Imperialism did not determine the conduct of the war, but it framed the choices made by each side and gave the Allies in the long run an insuperable advantage over the Central powers. Imperialism both structured and caused the failure of the post-war settlement, thereby ensuring that a second war would break out and that the imperial structures which emerged from the 1914 –18 conflict would fragment and collapse. The decolonization of all six great imperial powers – Britain, France, Germany, Austria-Hungary, the Ottoman empire, and Russia (last but not least) – was and is the lasting legacy of the Great War. The process I wish to describe is dialectical. The war expanded imperial horizons and objectives, so that by 1917 war aims were framed in blatantly imperialist language. Everyone knew this at the time because the Bolsheviks published the secret agreements from the Tsar’s foreign ministry. But these sordid arrangements were put in question not by Lenin, who was able to take Russia out of the war, at the price of a vast expansion in German imperial power and territory; the man who undermined empire was Woodrow Wilson and he did not do so in the way he thought he did. His call for selfdetermination collided with imperial realities and it was this collision, leading to the failure of self-determination, which brought about turmoil and violence in the immediate aftermath of the war. It was Wilson’s failure to secure a peace in which self-determination was power-blind and colour-blind which led in short order to riots in Cairo and Beijing. When Wellington Koo, the Chinese delegate to the Paris Peace Conference, cabled home with the news that German concessions in China were not to be returned but assigned in the

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short term to Japan, his message was received with shock. On 4 May 1919, 3,000 students demonstrated against imperialism and the Treaty in Tiananmen Square; thus the May 4 Movement was born. Among its fruits was the Chinese Communist party, the very last thing in the world someone like Woodrow Wilson wanted to bring about. And yet he did, with the same mix of blindness, Presbyterian high-mindedness and a sense of assurance that he and only he was right, which he left as a legacy to later American administrations. It is this binary history of war and imperialism that I wish to address in this introduction. After briefly examining the imperialist framing of international tension before the war and international efforts during it, I turn to the violence that followed the war, both chronologically and logically. The crisis of empire in the aftermath of war took lives all over the world. It did so here too. Eight young men and women – including Joseph Trumpeldor – died in an encounter in March 1920 in the upper Galil. These eight gave their name to Qiryat Shmona, a war memorial in its own right. One month later five Jews and four Arabs died, and hundreds were wounded in riots in the Old City of Jerusalem. In May 1921, 48 Arabs and 45 Jews – including the great writer Yosef Haim Brenner – were killed in riots in Jaffa. Was this kind of violence coming anyway? Perhaps, but the collision between an imperial outcome of the war and equal but diametrically opposite promises of self-determination made it both inevitable and immediate. The Great War both heightened expectations of national movements that their goal might be at hand, and at the same time made their realization even more remote and out of reach. That dual process of the expansion and violent contraction of hope is the source of post-war disorder and much else besides. First, we must address the preliminary questions, related to the limits of an imperial interpretation of the war. Does it make sense to describe the outbreak of war as caused in some sense by imperialism? From the vantage point of the Middle East, it does not. The war was not fought for oil. Output from Mesopotamian or Persian oil fields was then at very low levels, dwarfed by Indonesia and Venezuela, not

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to mention the United States. A number of countries sought advantage by blocking the access of others to these potential resources only then just coming on stream, but it is only later, emphatically during and after World War II, that both oil output and the strategic struggle over it took on global proportions. It is true that before 1914 there was considerable German investment and know-how in the Berlin to Baghdad railway project, incomplete at the outbreak of the war, and the Germans had helped build the Hejaz line. But there were much bigger issues closer to home than that. Britain and Germany went to war over which of the two powers would dominate North-Western Europe; a German victory would indeed have had consequences in the imperial realm, but first came the question of who controlled the Channel ports. Britain, which imported 75 per cent of its food supply in peacetime, simply could not afford to give up mastery of the seas. Even parity with Germany would have been a disaster. British dominance had to be ensured and the cost of doing so was the commitment of land forces, to be raised from scratch, to fight on the Continent. The neutrality of Belgium was a cover for a very real clash of vital interests. The decision of Turkey to join the German side on 5 November 1914 reflected first and foremost its long-standing conflict with Russia. To be sure, it was troublesome to the British and the French that a Muslim country had challenged them in this way. In part to stop British troops from chewing on barbed wire, in his inimitable phrase, and in part pour encourager les autres muselmans, Churchill thought up the hare-brained scheme of forcing the straits of the Dardanelles. When Turkish mines put paid to that plan, Churchill went full steam ahead and decided to launch a very difficult combined sea and land operation at Gallipoli in April 1915. The outcome was the same. Allied troops were pinned down for eight months and had to withdraw in total defeat in January 1916. This leads us to question what kind of intelligence Allied leaders were working with then. Did anyone photograph the cliffs at Gallipoli and work out the logistics of taking them? It seems to me that intelligence was less important to Churchill and Hamilton than good old Orientalism: the Turks would collapse in the face of British and Anzac troops, because in the British

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imaginaire that is who they were and what they did when challenged by European power. The subsequent disaster at Kut, where Townshend and 8,000 troops surrendered to the Turks, made matters worse. We know now that these were only temporary setbacks. A year later, General Maude’s relief column retook the town, and Allenby’s advance took care of the rest. The imperial dimension has more purchase when we turn to the subject of subversion as a strategy in the war. Both sides engaged in it, at times with appalling amateurishness. The Arab revolt guided by Lawrence of Arabia and the Balfour Declaration were subtle steps in this direction compared to the offer made to Mexico in January 1917 by the German Foreign Minister Zimmermann, that in return for support in the war, Mexico would be rewarded with New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas. This billet doux, easily intercepted by British Naval Intelligence, was made available to President Wilson two months later; Wilson’s reaction was furious, and the rest is history. The fact that Mexico thought that the German idea was preposterous was neither here nor there; it was German malevolence which had to be stopped. The same hand of the Kaiserreich blundered completely when, working through Sir Roger Casement, an Irish nationalist, Germany sent arms by U-boat to the Irish coast for an insurrection in Ireland. The arms and Casement were captured immediately; the British kept the arms and hanged Casement. But even without the weapons, Irish nationalists went ahead with their quixotic revolt, hoping – with reason – that the British would make martyrs of them all. This is precisely what the British did, thereby initiating a vicious civil war and undermining their hold over the Catholic counties of southern Ireland. Subversion was the name of the game when the German army sent Lenin from Switzerland to Scandinavia, and finally to the Finland Station in Petrograd in a sealed railway car; this gambit was somewhat more successful than the German demand to make the Ukraine an independent satellite state of Germany, a demand forced down Bolshevik throats in the treaty of Brest-Litovsk of March 1918, a treaty which evaporated when Germany lost the war.

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Imperial power did frame Allied victory, though, in ways which made all the difference to the war on the Western Front, though not to the war in the Middle East. I am still of the opinion that the war was won and lost in the West; there Allied strength was based on imperial reserves, human and capital, both formal and informal, which Germany could never match. That is why I stated years ago that Germany lost the war on the very first day of the conflict. The strength of the German army, the most remarkable fighting force ever put together to date, obscured that fact for four years, blunting everything the Allies could hit them with, and still remaining in March 1918 within shelling distance of Paris. By late 1918, it became apparent to even the German High Command that though they had had the strength to defeat French and British offensives in 1915, 1916, and 1917, and to punch a huge hole in Allied lines in March 1918, they simply could not win the war. They could not turn tactical gains into strategic ones. They could not defeat the whole world arrayed against them. The morale of an army sinks to breaking point when soldiers lose sight of victory; when it becomes clear that today’s sacrifice will never yield tomorrow’s breakthrough. German soldiers came to see the war this way, and it is this recognition which led them to surrender by the tens of thousands in the late summer of 1918. The German army was defeated on the field of battle; it lost the industrialized war.

Imperial wars Elsewhere, on the Eastern Front, in the Middle East, industrialized war was less in evidence. Lines of supply were admittedly long on both sides, and cutting the Hejaz railway undeniably made a difference to Allenby’s campaign. But in a line stretching from Riga to the Black Sea and then continuing to the Middle East, including Gaza and Jerusalem, an older kind of war was fought, one which had both industrial and non-industrial forms. The key measurement is the use of horsepower. In 1914, military supplies in British forces were divided 10/1 with respect to organic versus inorganic supplies: the predominance of manpower and horsepower lies here. By 1918 on

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the Western Front, the ratio was entirely reversed: there were now ten times the quantities of metal and machines and chemicals compared to food and fodder. Behind the Riga– Black Sea line and in the Middle East, the older ways continued. This was true of disease as well. Casualties in this extended Eastern Front were balanced between those inflicted by enemy action and those arising from disease. There a twentieth-century war was fought in nineteenthcentury sanitary conditions, and as a result the proportions of those who served who were killed rise rapidly the further east one looks. The notion of total war is also hard to apply to this eastern zone of warfare. Industrialization is the key to the concept of total war and only later, much later, did the military implications of different patterns of technical and scientific knowledge among adversaries become apparent in the Middle East. Israel’s victory in the 1967 war is one such case.

Self-determination The imperial character of the origins of the war and the way it was fought in the East pointed to the past, not to the future. That is, until Wilson changed the name of the game. A war for hegemony now became a war for ‘self-determination’, a term no one could then define with any precise meaning. Who was the self doing the determining? How did collectives respond to smaller collectives – smaller ‘selves’ – within their borders demanding their own future separate from that of their neighbours? These were no mere academic distinctions. Wilson made it both possible and inevitable that subject peoples could now turn to their superiors and demand self-determination. And in the peace treaty signed at Versailles and in the other instruments drawn up after 1918 to end hostilities, self-determination is emphatically what they did not get.

The Wilsonian moment Wilson was greeted on his arrival in France in December 1918 as something of a prophet, even a Messiah. The reason was evident. He

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tried to make this war the last, so that subsequent generations would not have to go through it all over again. Lenin pointed to another future, one based on ongoing class warfare. Those who were not persuaded by this grim vision looked to Wilson for another way, a way beyond war. That is why the disappointment was so great when everyone saw that Wilson had made a deal. He had won British and French support for his precious League of Nations at the price of his backing for their imperial aims outside of Europe and the humiliation and beggaring of Germany within Europe. By June 1919, almost everyone could see that his words were just that – the rhetoric of an American president dedicated to extending (as he put it) a new Monroe Doctrine to the world at large. If anyone had asked Cubans or Filipinos what that meant, the answer would be unequivocal: noble sentiments masking imperial power for the good of the powerful. It is true that the League of Nations was empowered to administer a system of mandates for those not ready for independence; that is another story, however, one with other imperial dimensions. But even before the Treaty of Versailles was ratified, it became clear that many people in Africa and Asia who had been forced to wait for independence were no longer prepared to do so. A wide array of Korean leaders, civil and religious alike, associating themselves with Wilson’s ideas, declared independence from Japan on 1 March 1919. Over 1 million people joined in the March protests against the continuation of Japanese rule. In Amritsar in north-west India, hundreds of unarmed demonstrators were mowed down by British machine guns on 13 April 1919, a Sikh religious festival. The arrest of the nationalist leader, Sa’ad Zaglul, on 8 March 1919 in Cairo set off a wave of strikes, demonstrations, and violent clashes today known as the 1919 Revolution. In May 1919, one woman demonstrator called for cheers for Egypt, for liberty, and for President Wilson. Zaglul was freed and even allowed to go to Paris to present his case personally to the president. On arrival in France, and before reaching Paris, he received the news that Wilson had ratified the British protectorate in Egypt. Zaglul was shocked and despite efforts to reach Wilson, the American president never saw him. He left the day after the treaty was signed on 29 June 1919.

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Indians, Koreans, and Egyptians had no official standing in Paris; they were not entitled to delegations of their own. The case of China was different. China was an ally, and had a full delegation in Paris. Given the Allied commitment to distributing German territories among the Allies, it seemed evident that German concessions in China would be returned to China. The Japanese, also among the Allied delegations in Paris, thought otherwise. And Japanese naval power had far outshone any contribution the Chinese, still engaged in civil war, had mustered. The Chinese delegation worked hard to hold Wilson to his principles of self-determination, but it was outmanoeuvred by the Japanese. Prince Makino suggested an amendment to the Covenant of the planned League of Nations which stated: The equality of nations being a basic principle of the League of Nations, the High Contracting Parties agree to accord, as soon as possible, to all alien nationals of States members of the League equal and just treatment in every respect, making no distinction, either in law or in face, on account of their race or nationality. This was a very clever manoeuvre. The prince knew very well that Wilson, a Southerner where matters of race were concerned, could not accept this; nor could the United States Senate. Having such a statement in the Covenant would doom the Treaty of Versailles to defeat, and with it would go Wilson’s precious League of Nations. The Japanese were persuaded to withdraw their amendment. How would they take another defeat, this time with respect to China? Wilson feared that the Japanese – like the Italians, blocked in their demand for the Fiume peninsula – would withdraw from the Peace Conference. Losing one ally was bad enough but losing two, as Lady Bracknell might have said, was unconscionable. Thus Wilson went along with the assignment of German concessions on the coast of China to Japan. Things got worse for the Chinese, not better. They pressed the ‘Big Three’, Wilson, Lloyd George, and Clemenceau, to be allowed to

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sign the peace treaty, but with a written reservation concerning the issue of German concessions returned to Japanese hands. They were denied this, and the Chinese delegation went home without having signed the treaty, and without even a fig leaf to cover their embarrassment at trusting in the words of the American president. Their rights were the price paid by Wilson to secure British and French support for his League of Nations. Here was the end of the ‘Wilsonian moment’, to reiterate the title of Erez Manela’s recent book. The contradictions built into the post-war international system doomed it to failure and the Middle East to a future caught between Sykes-Picot on the one hand and on the other endless promises, nothing but promises, the value of which would plummet as the inter-war years unfolded. So did the economic strength of the European powers, which backed up their determination to hold their imperial gains, come what may. The structure of mandates within the League of Nations merely delayed the demise of empire for a time. But it was then, at the end of World War I, that the die was cast. The triumph of empires in 1918 was the moment when the end of empires was at hand. In that sense, it was truly a Pyrrhic victory. Imperial power had secured victory in the Great War, but at the price of undermining it in the not-so-long term. That still-born moment of hope in self-determination, so powerful and yet so evidently doomed, was the time when the terms of conflict in the Middle East and elsewhere were set for generations. As the epitaph on Sir Christopher Wren’s tomb in London suggests, anyone who seeks evidence of the enduring consequences of the Treaty of Versailles for the Middle East and the world should simply look around him.

Contradictions: total war and genocide in Turkey Having made my case, I want – as hinted above – to return to the one feature of the war in the Middle East which does not fit my argument. I refer to the Armenian genocide of 1915, the systematic expulsion and murder of over 1 million Armenians.

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I have argued that the war in the Middle East was not marked by the characteristics we have drawn together under the heading of ‘total war’. The key point here is that the industrialization of warfare created an entirely new battlefield on the Western Front. Weapons systems and platforms changed on the Eastern Front too – witness the aerial reconnaissance photographs taken by the Turks and published in a fine book by my former colleague Benny Kedar some years ago.1 But the scale of the fighting and the unprecedented and seemingly unending industrial hardware expended in the effort to break the stalemate in the West caused a level of social, economic and cultural mobilization never before seen. The change in degree had shifted to a change in kind of warfare. It is now apparent that crimes against civilians were accepted by the German High Command as built into the nature of war. John Horne and Alan Kramer have shown that such crimes were not only known to the German general staff, but condoned either tacitly or explicitly. Later unrestricted submarine warfare targeted civilians and military alike. The use of gas warfare and the aerial bombardment of enemy cities meant that the rules of engagement in warfare were changing. Within a vast field of fire, no one was safe. I do not claim for a moment that war crimes were invented in 1914. But I do believe that something new, something monstrous, happened in the Great War that qualitatively changed its character. That is what we mean by using the term ‘total war’. It is never total, only totalizing, in the sense of a tendency to absorb all resources and to violate all prior norms limiting the spread of violence. The war in the East, including the war in Palestine, was not total war. That is true in all respects but one. And that is why we need to consider the case of the Armenian genocide as indicating the transitional nature of warfare, a bridge between nineteenth-century and twentieth-century norms and practices. In Anatolia, in 1915, we can see the degeneration of war into genocide. Was this event different from the killing of 300,000 Jews in Galicia by retreating Russian forces, which contemporaries termed the ‘Drittr Hurban’, the third catastrophe after the destruction of the Temple in 586 BC and AD 70? Yes it was, since this pogrom was

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stopped by the Russian High Command, which reined in the killing and replaced those who had ordered it. Was this event different from the Hamidian massacres of 1894– 6? Again, yes; these earlier events took place against organized Armenian resistance and demands for political reform within Turkey. In 1915, the killings took place under the pretext of the Russian invasion of northern Turkey, supposedly aided by Armenians fighting with the Russian army. By locating the killings within the structure of the Great War, the Turkish triumvirate which ordered the genocide took two fundamental steps into the twentieth century. The first was that the targets were generalized: all Armenians in Anatolia were to be uprooted, and their property seized before they were ‘relocated’ to the Mesopotamian desert. This was a euphemism for torture, murder and rape carried out by auxiliaries, mostly Kurdish in origin, who pursued the columns of Armenians, preyed on them, and then left hundreds of thousands to die of hunger and thirst in the desert. It is true that some Armenians in western Turkey were left alone. It is also true that some women were able to escape the slaughter through conversion to Islam. There also seems to have been little ideological warfare conducted before the killings started. Here lies a set of differences between the Turkish genocide and the Holocaust. But the purpose was the same: to permanently remove an entire people from the land in which they had lived for centuries, to wipe them from the face of the earth. This was not a crime carried out in the dark, and here we come to the second entry point into the twentieth century. The Turks then as now claim that the killings were done within the framework of a real threat of the dismemberment of Turkey. It is true that the Allies had invaded Gallipoli the day before the mass killings of Armenians had got underway. It is also true that the conflict with Russia was about survival. What made the killings different from those in the past was that the killers were shielded by Turkey’s allies, above all by Germany. When German Protestant missionaries went to Bethmann Hollweg, the German Chancellor, begging him to help save the lives of Christians being massacred in Turkey, he claimed that his hands were tied. A world war was at stake, and the Alliance came first.

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Reasons of state, higher issues, and broader questions, precluded intervention. Under the cover of war, genocide was not only thinkable, it was not only possible, it was unstoppable. What happened in Anatolia was indeed genocide, but it was not the assembly-line genocide the Nazis perfected. It reflected nineteenthcentury forms of killing in a twentieth-century war. Here is the transitional character of the crime, representing a significant instance in which the degeneration of norms of warfare evident on the Western Front was matched in a unique way in the East. Genocide is a form of total war. The conclusion we need to draw is clear. On both the Eastern and the Western Fronts, total war created a lethal environment in which the boundaries between limited and unlimited violence in the conduct of war were blurred. Limited violence, in the Clausewitzian sense of the term, is the application of force to compel an enemy to surrender. Unlimited violence is the application of force, either directly or indirectly, to all enemy nationals or even to your own nationals; whether or not they are in uniform, of whatever age or sex, and whether or not they have surrendered. How could the Armenians have surrendered? They were Turkish citizens, having lived under Turkish rule for centuries. Their ‘crime’ was being who they were, and the punishment for the crime was genocidal in character. The fear of subversion, Turks still argue, is what set the killings in motion. In and of itself, this was not the key to genocide. Every power tried it out, as we have seen. But only in Turkey did the threat of subversion lead to the extermination of so-called ‘subversives’ – men, women and children by the hundreds of thousands. This crime went well beyond the pogroms of 1915 in Galicia, pogroms to which the Russian High Command put a stop. Here there were no limits; only conversion offered a way out of the death sentence passed on all Armenians in Anatolia. Genocide then was much more than a reaction to an adversary’s probing of the weak links in an unraveling Imperial chain. Such an argument was (and remains) useful for exculpatory propaganda, but it does not take us very far, because it misses the key issue of context – the context of a revolutionary form of warfare. Genocide, in 1915 as

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in 1941, came out of total war, though the Armenian case was the exceptional element in the history of the war in the East. Only in its genocidal acts did Turkey enter the twentieth century in its way of waging war. ‘We know as little about war as we do about the true nature of matter.’ So said Fernand Braudel 50 years ago. To a degree it is still true. Why should we expect war to be a unified whole? It is a shifting kaleidoscope of cruelty and violence, one which requires more than an ideological or a materialist or an imperial interpretation to encompass. On both the Western and Eastern Fronts, total war entailed the obliteration of the distinction between military and civilian targets and the ruthless use of terror in the suppression of domestic groups suspected of or having even the remote potential of offering the enemy tacit or active support. The war in the West was more totalizing than in the East, though as we have seen, and as the history of Russia’s civil war and later purges attests, the less developed ‘East’ was catching up in the cruelty of its way of waging war against enemies internal and external alike. Unlike the historian Ernst Nolte, I see no resemblance in either case to what he terms ‘Asiatic barbarism’. The notion of ‘total war’ did not come out of Turkey but out of the West. Napoleonic warfare in Spain and Russia entailed war against civilians and irregular forces. Fifty years later, American civil warfare added another dimension to the cruelty of armed conflict. It was not a Turk but the American General Philip Sheridan who on 8 September 1870 told the future German Chancellor Otto von Bismarck that the ‘proper strategy’ in wartime consists in the first place in inflicting as telling blows as possible upon the enemy’s army, and then causing the inhabitants so much suffering that they must long for peace, and force their Government to demand it. The people must be left nothing but their eyes to weep with over the war.2 The ‘people’ in question were secessionists, it is true, but they shared the same language, many the same religion, and often came from the

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same families. What would wartime brutality look like when not tempered by such cultural bonds? What terms would we use to describe it? Genocide, a composite word invented in the middle of World War II by Rafael Lemkin, is that term.

Conclusion In conclusion, my argument is that an industrialized war in the west of Europe was the core of what we call the Great War. Surrounding the core was a set of other forms of warfare, less twentieth-century in character, and more dominated by imperial elements which had been in place for over a century. The more revolutionary and more lethal form of warfare was in the West, where the Clausewitzian notion that war was politics by other means was displaced by a new notion that war was assembly-line killing without end. No one before had ever seen war in the form it took in Verdun or on the Somme. There, as Ernst Ju¨nger put it, the twentieth century was born. But the nineteenth-century form of warfare was still evident on the periphery, and that is where the imperial character of war was alive and well. That imperial struggle was fought in conventional ways, with one massive exception. When the Armenian genocide occurred, a precedent had been set, one which the Nazi High Command were well acquainted with 25 years later. In the east of Europe the second genocide of the twentieth century built on the first, returning to the heart of Europe a practice which until then had only been seen elsewhere: in south-west Africa, in the Congo, in Anatolia. After 1941, war degenerated again, this time into genocidal murder of even greater ferocity than in World War I. What had in 1914– 18 been an exception turned into the heart of the matter. It remains so to this day. There is one final point which must be made, to counter the observation above that perhaps materialist interpretation still had its uses. Not when it comes to genocide. The perpetrators of the Armenian genocide sought hidden gold, and confiscated property and mansions, like those in Kars in Pamuk’s novel, Snow,3 which remain mute witnesses to the crime. But the material benefit of

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genocide remained trivial; it made no material sense. But then genocide makes no sense, in that it has no meaning. So after this materialist discursis, I return to my former identity; that of a cultural historian of war, searching for meaning in the meaningless. Quixotic, perhaps, this search for meaning in war, but necessary, very necessary, to keep the tale (and those who hear it) alive.

Notes 1 Benjamin Z. Kedar, The Changing Land between the Jordan and the Sea: Aerial photographs from 1917 to the Present. Yad Ben-Zvi and Israel Ministry of Defense: Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, 1999. 2 Moritz Busch, J. H. Bismarck. Secret Pages of his History. (2 vols, New York, Macmillan, 1898), vol. 1, p. 128. 3 Orhan Pamuk, Snow, translated by Maureen Freely. London: Faber and Faber, 2004.

CHAPTER 2 ALSACE-LORRAINE SOLDIERS IN THE PALESTINE CAMPAIGN: CONFORMISM AND SPECIFICITIES OF A NATIONAL MINORITY WITHIN THE GERMAN MILITARY MISSION IN TURKEY Jean-Noel Grandhomme

Introduction Since the mid-1980s, many books and articles have been dedicated to the soldiers of the Great War. Their lives and daily preoccupations, their sufferings and motivations have all been topics of research which have fuelled debates – some even quite heated – between historians. These diverse studies have allowed for a reconsideration of trench combatants – soldiers and officers alike – a subject which currently preoccupies the concerns of many researchers. However, this World War I combatant should not be overgeneralized. On the contrary, the ethnic communities involved in the conflict are extraordinarily diverse, though only those originating from Western Europe have been taken into account. In a period of

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heightened nationalism, accompanied by the triumph of the nationstate – a pattern inherited from the French Revolution – minorities, more or less assimilated, remained among all warring nations, such as the Irish in Great Britain. As a multinational and partly decentralized state, Germany too was confronted with similar matters: the Danes of Schleswig-Holstein, the Lithuanians of Memel, the Walloons of Eupen and Malme´dy, the Serbs of Lusace and, above all, the Poles and Alsatians-Lorrainers formed entities whose traits are peculiar within the Empire. Very few studies have been dedicated to these national minorities as of late, minorities whose behaviours have yet allowed us to perceive the limits – and, at times, the frightening efficiency – of patriotic ‘unanimity’ and state propaganda during the Great War. So as to determine not only the behaviours common to Germans and AlsatiansLorrainers drafted into the same army (and in particular sent to the Palestinian Front), but also the specific attitudes of these AlsatianLorrainers, we shall first define this national minority within the historical and ideological context of the years 1870–1914; then we shall consider the validity of the sources, establish a typology of the experiences lived between 1914 and 1918, and dwell on the conditions of their return (captivity and repatriation).

Alsatians-Lorrainers and the German Army prior to 1914 After 1871, Reichsland (i.e. Alsace and a part of Lorraine annexed in accordance with the Treaty of Frankfurt) quickly witnessed the appearance of a compulsory military service (1872), a powerful instrument of ethnic assimilation, at least in theory. Among the German conscripts, Alsatians-Lorrainers still considered themselves to be different – especially in the years preceding the Great War – due in part to the peculiar traits associated with the unmistakable signs of irredentism. On the one hand, several hundred young men fled each year so as not to serve in the ranks of the German Army, and many of them joined the French Foreign Legion. On the other hand, the number of career officers from Alsace and Lorraine remained very low. Being fewer in number in the German military apparatus than

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most of the other nationalities of the Empire, Alsatians-Lorrainers thus tacitly rejected the Prussian model. And yet France, more often than not anticlerical and Jacobin, did not inspire them with much confidence either. Above all, save a few fanatics, no one wished for retribution, knowing all too well that Alsace and Lorraine would be the battle’s front. Both well-integrated and jealous of their specificity, AlsatiansLorrainers remain a crystallizing point in the ideological and political confrontation between France and Germany. This is the context within which Emperor Wilhelm II mobilized his army on 1 August 1914: 250,000 annexed citizens entered the German Army (figures would climb to 380,000 by 11 November 1918, according to F. Roth).1 While it would be tempting to view these 1914 German recruits from Alsace and Lorraine as ‘Malgre´-nous’,2 to do so would be to erroneously conflate their situation with that of the recruits of World War II. The 1914 recruits were not drafted by force; they were citizens legally drafted into the army of what international law regarded as, for better or worse, their country: Germany.

The validity of the sources How are we to retrace the story of these soldiers and, if possible, understand their frame of mind, their doubts, and their beliefs? For the time being, we lack works of reference on Alsatians-Lorrainers in the German Army between 1914 and 1918,3 whose experiences are always recounted partially or biasedly in the rare books or articles that treat them, whether they belong to French4 or German5 propaganda. No study in particular on the presence of these combatants on one front or another, except for the Eastern Front,6 can be found. Consequently, there is nothing about Palestine. The matter was nearly eclipsed during the inter-war years, and even more so after 1945, at a time when anything that could bring to the fore the Teutonic traits of those who had been ‘disannexed’ for the second time in less than 30 years became suspect, including their dialect. Afterwards, the flood of books tackling the traumatic experience of the ‘Malgre´-nous’ of World War II all but erased the memories of their

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fathers’ generation, until their recent rediscovery in the wake of renewed interest in World War I. As far as the Palestinian front is concerned, sources are scarce, but they still exist. The Departmental Archives of Moselle, Bas-Rhin and Haut-Rhin provide indirect or partial information, along with the Service Historique de la De´fense in Vincennes, the Federal Military Archives (BAMA) in Freiburg im Breisgau and the ICRC archives in Geneva. Until a lengthy perusal of these sources has been completed, the present chapter will concern itself essentially with some of these archival sources, a private collection composed of letters sent by a group of soldiers to the vicar of their parish in Colmar, family iconographic archives (my great-uncle, Joseph Karst, who was born in Metz in 1890 and became a trainee primary school teacher before being drafted into the Liman von Sanders mission and who later died of typhus in Alep in 1918, left a certain number of photographs). I shall also use oral testimonies, which are documents worthy of paramount interest provided they are tackled with basic methodological precautions. On the occasion of a series of trips between 1994 and 2002, I was given the opportunity to meet some 50 war veterans, whose memories were recorded for eventual publication.7 Two of them had fought in Palestine. All of these documents allow me to outline a typology of the war experiences of Alsace-Lorraine soldiers of the German Army on the Palestinian front.

Second-rate soldiers? At the beginning of the war, Alsatians-Lorrainers can be found in all the theatres of operations on the Western Front. But following what Francophile Alsatian Florent-Matter calls ‘numerous expressions of anti-German tendency’ witnessed among them, restrictions were implemented.8 In March 1915, measures of suspicion and systematic removal to the Russian front seem to have been contemplated, but in practice there were many exceptions. Other conscripts served within the country’s borders, practically never leaving Germany or the occupied territories throughout the war. Many others were posted to

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German colonies, Italy, the Balkans or the Palestinian Front. One of the veterans interviewed in 1995, Fernand Zeysolff – born in 1899 in Gertwiller (Lower Alsace), a rebellious type – was sent to Romania, then to Palestine.9 Fighting alongside German soldiers on all fronts, were AlsatiansLorrainers really subjected to biased treatment? Sometimes harshly treated – especially during drills – they claim they were victims of harassment because of their nationality. The use of such expressions as ‘Franzosenkopf ’ or ‘square head’ is regularly mentioned. And yet, does this really surpass what Prussians inflicted on Bavarians, or vice versa? On the contrary, several witnesses maintain that they were treated the same as German soldiers of all origins, in the barracks and on the front line, and they are adamant in their claims of solidarity in the face of common ordeals. Many recruits – who merely ignored the matter of nationality, in favour of the small Alsatian or Lorraine homeland (Heimat) – adopted a detached attitude. ‘We had been raised in the German manner,’ says a veteran from Sarrebourg (Lorraine) openly. ‘Later on, we became French and we learned French.’10 Lastly, there were also some more or less Germanized Alsatians and Lorrainers, whose leader, after the war, was Dr. Robert Ernst (who was appointed Mayor of Strasbourg by the Nazis in 1940).

Daily life In the trenches, the Alsatians-Lorrainers’ lot did not differ much from that of other Great War combatants. The war stressed the phenomenon induced by military service in peacetime, which consisted of decompartmentalizing society; Alsace-Lorraine was no exception to the rule. However, the behaviour of Alsatians-Lorrainers still bore the signs of traditional references, with emphasis given to religion, whatever the denomination – Catholic, Protestant or Jewish – and a strong attachment to the original community (family, friends, priest, schoolteacher), to whom letters were sent whenever possible, even if the mail did not always work admirably. In a letter to Abbot Grau – the head of the youth club of Colmar’s Saint-Joseph

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parish – Xavier Krommenacker, who served as a Gefreiter in Funk Abteilung 151, inquired about the reason why he no longer received the club’s bulletin (Heimatgru¨ße), as he had already missed 15 issues. Still, one of his comrades managed to write to him: ‘Of all the letters from Alex Jenny, I can see everything has remained unchanged in Colmar, which rejoices me a lot. I do hope the club’s casualty list hasn’t grown.’11 The letter, dated 2 February 1918, from a place crossed out and unreadable, was opened and restuck by the censor.12 In another letter, dated 20 May 1918, Krommenacker confessed that he ‘unfortunately hadn’t had the opportunity’ to carry out his Easter duty, ‘certainly because we’re always on campaign. Whit Sunday was spent in isolation, as usual. One kindness, though, is that we can find comfort in prayers.’13 Joseph Karst even told his sisters Louise and Philome`ne, and the rest of his family, how moved and filled with wonder he was when he could meditate at the Holy Places of Christianity in Canaan, Damascus, Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and sent home many letters and photographs.14 As for veteran Ernest Bieth, born in 1898 at Wingersheim (Lower Alsace) and who arrived at Alep on 25 December 1917 as a telegraphist, he visited Jerusalem for only a few hours while held captive, yet he remembers a basilica that reminded him of an episode from the Old Testament.15 War was often the first travel experience for these young boys. ‘I was glad I could travel,’ said Bieth.16 In the combatants’ descriptions of local life, the climate features prominently. ‘The heat was tremendous,’ Bieth, who was billeted near Nazareth, recalled: ‘our tents were covered with dampened blankets, so that we could get a cool spot.’17 ‘Best regards from the hottest town on Earth,’ wrote Krommenacker from Baghdad on 2 November 1916: It is very hot here, nearly 458 C. In the heart of summer, the temperature is said to rise to 788 C. We have been here for two weeks, and have led a rather peaceful life. There aren’t many diseases in such places. I’m healthy. Baghdad is very interesting. Through a city of 125,000 inhabitants flows the Tigris, on which small and large boats move. Here, we are two hours ahead of Europe. At 6:00 p.m., a gun is fired to give us the time.18

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A few months later, the sanitary situation seemed to have worsened: ‘I’m fine, but the heat is still hard to bear. Every four weeks, we’re subjected to a bout of malaria, from which it is hard to recover,’ wrote the same soldier.19 Bieth, who suffered from malaria too, was treated on Mount Carmel.20 Apart from such inconveniences, life in the billets was usually spent in a friendly atmosphere – at least, this is how most veterans have remembered it, even if there are some notable exceptions. ‘We have a good opportunity to bathe here, and we take it every day,’ wrote Krommenacker.21 Most German soldiers were interested in the life of the civilians, and Joseph Karst took many photographs of their picturesque habits, such as riding mules. Homesickness was widespread too, though: ‘Ten days ago, ten men went to Germany on leave. I do hope my time will come,’ wrote Xavier Krommenacker to his vicar.22 Moreover, some encounters proved dangerous. Zeysolff recounted one such incident: Women came to surround me, they addressed me in their language, but I didn’t get a word. One of them touched my white eyebrows – I was black-haired but my brows had been white since I was ten – she wanted to know why they were so. The only answer I gave her was that it came from Allah, their good Lord. So she handed me back the 30 Marks she had stolen from me. Then, I followed to the letter the instructions my German instructor in Constantinople had given me. He had told us that if we were given some money back, we shouldn’t accept it at any cost, or we would be done for. That’s why I offered her the money. She gave me some food, a full bag. I didn’t eat much, but that ‘gift’ was welcome.23

The war Combat experience is a recurrent topic in a series of the soldiers’ testimonies. Alsatians-Lorrainers did not seem to have scruples on a front where they were never ordered to shoot at French soldiers, but

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were confronted with Britons or Indians (whose cavalry particularly impressed Ernest Bieth).24 Xavier Krommenacker was certainly regarded as a good soldier by his superiors, as he was awarded the Iron Cross.25 ‘I fought the British near Jerusalem,’ Fernand Zeysolff recalled.26 ‘For them, it was a “fine war”,’ he added: ‘It started at 8:00 a.m. and stopped at 6:00 p.m., and from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., the sky was crowded with English planes. The Germans didn’t have a single plane to set against theirs. They needed them on the Eastern front and in France.’ ‘The aerial activity is very intense here,’ concurred Xavier Krommenacker: Every day, five to eight planes fly by and drop 20 bombs on average. We are billeted near an airfield and we must stay on our guard all the time. A few days ago, our captain, Herr Schutz, shot down an English plane. The sight of that plane in flames falling from half a mile high was horrifying. Its occupants, two Englishmen, were dead. Only their faces were burnt. No sooner had the soldiers fallen than Kurds came to rob the corpses. They left nothing behind them, and merely despoiled the dead.27 In Ernest Bieth’s memories too, planes figure prominently, especially the bombing by Canadian planes.28 Germans were in charge of the training of the Ottoman Army on the Palestinian front. ‘We had friendly relations with the Turks,’ said Zeysolff: They felt secure in the company of a German soldier. One day, as I was laying down, a Turkish soldier came up and sat beside me. I did my best to tell him he had to lie down too, he didn’t want to do so and thought my very presence would preserve him from any danger. He drew the enemy’s attention to us. I had no other solution but to stand up too, and then I hurried out. A big lorry was there. No sooner had I left than I saw the Turkish soldier, who had followed me. I told him to lie down, it was to no avail, he didn’t understand anything and wanted to stay with me. Then, what he had been waiting for happened,

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and I heard: tac! tac! tac! The British shot hit the bull’s eye. His blood squirted onto my face, and I didn’t know whether he was dead or wounded. You can’t imagine what war is like!29 The war did not move in the right direction for the Turks and the Germans and Xavier Krommenacker witnessed the German retreat. In a letter dated 20 May 1918, he wrote he was heading for Mossul: ‘We’re staying here and don’t know if we’ll move forward or backward. Both solutions would be preferable to staying in the desert any longer.’30

On desertions The rate of Alsatian-Lorrainer draft dodgers having always been high, it comes as no surprise to see so many desertions during the war, especially in 1918. Fernand Zeysolff was one of these deserters. In February, British troops entered Jericho without fighting. At that time, Zeysolff was in that sector: The phone rang as I was at the Turks’. A German was yelling: ‘Ru¨ckzug ! Rette sich wer kann!’ (Retreat! Run for your life!). Not a single word more. I hurried to my battery, which was a few metres from the telephone and I repeated to my friends the message I had just received. There were twenty-four of us Alsatians in the heavy artillery. They said: ‘We are Alsatians, if we are made prisoners, nothing can happen to us, we are Alsatians.’ I answered them: ‘Don’t think Alsace is known as far as Jerusalem.’ I had yet another reason to say that: I couldn’t stand the heat of Jerusalem anymore. So I said to myself: ‘If I am captured as a prisoner of war, I’ll have to clean the battlefields, and I won’t stand the summer heat.’31 Fernand Zeysolff’s decision was made; he would desert: Only one Alsatian out of the 24 agreed with me. So the two of us left together. We took a coach drawn by two mules, on which

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we loaded some food, just as much as we could take. On the first day, each of us had the occasion to buy a melon from the natives. My friend sat down to devour it straight away; as for me, before sitting down, I watched all around me to notice any odd enemy in sight.32 Artilleryman Zeysolff especially feared Syrian cavalrymen who, as auxiliaries of the Allies, were used as scouts: All of a sudden, I could make out three cavalrymen coming towards me. I told my friend: ‘Come on, on the double, the Syrians are coming!’ and he answered me, ‘I’ve done them no harm, they will do me no harm either. I just want to eat my melon.’ I took all I could and, with my melon under my arm, I fled the opposite way from that where the cloud of dust came nearer. The melon fell down, but I didn’t take the time to pick it up. I was lucky. The Syrians cut off my friend’s head.33 For the fugitive, this was the start of an astounding clandestine odyssey: ‘There I was, in the Syrian desert. It took me a fortnight to cross Syria, it was appalling. I was alone. I ate very little. Fortunately enough, I was young.’34

Repatriation through Turkey Together with retreating German troops, Alsatians-Lorrainers were disarmed after the Moudros Armistice. Fernand Zeysolff melted into the defeated army, an anonymous soldier separated from his comrades, like so many others: I looked for Constantinople harbour and talked to its master. I proposed to him to work for free on the next ship coming in from the Black Sea. The crossing from Constantinople to Odessa was to last four days. But two days after its departure, the ship started to burn. Ye gods! I saved my life in Palestine by the sweat of my brow, was I going to burn on the Black Sea or

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drown?! Everybody wanted to help put out the fire. Imagine thousands of men bustling about. Confusion was at its peak, to such an extent that filling a bucket with water wasn’t possible. Fortunately, a dozen soldiers rescued from the Goeben and the Breslau had been designated to man our engines. They managed to put out the fire.35 Saved at the last minute, Zeysolff reached Russia, then Romania and, at last, Alsace by Christmas. According to the 19 December 1918 issue of The Times, all the German troops in Asia Minor (some 10,000 men) were concentrated in Haı¨dar Pacha at the same time. By mid-January 1919, British General Milne reported that there had been practically no departure of German troops: They are denied access to Odessa and Nikolaı¨ev, while Constanta and Trieste are held by French and Italian troops. Their only alternative is to reach Germany by boat on the open sea. The small German steamers which are in the harbour (of Constantinople) are fitted out with this aim, but they may only transport half the men at the most. [. . .] Some more boats should come from Germany. Anyhow, 80,000 Germans around the Black Sea are still to be transported to Germany as soon as possible, for their presence has become undesirable.36 Among them were many German troops from Palestine. The Commander-in-Chief of the Allied armies in the Orient, General Franchet d’Espe`rey, approved of Milne’s opinion on ‘the necessity to evacuate Germans from Turkey. Yet, general Liman von Sanders should be held hostage as a reprisal for the massacres of Armenians and Greeks.’37 At the same time, the president of the German Armistice Commission in Spa sent a warning about ‘the miserable situation of the Germans retained in Turkey’, and insisted on ‘their repatriation’.38 The evacuation was first envisaged by train, but it proved impossible.39

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On 31 January, the decision was made that they would board ships40 (Liman von Sanders had been evacuated as early as the 29 January).41 But on 18 February, Franchet d’Espe`rey complained to the Commander-in-Chief of the Allied armies, General Foch, about ‘the delays in the repatriation of the Germans interned in Turkey, due to the imprecision of their destination’. Four boats were ready to leave Constantinople. ‘Such delays cause inconvenience to our prestige, after the pressing efforts we have exerted on the Turks to make them quicken preparations, and regarding the safety of relations that can exist (between German prisoners and civilians).’42 Departures were slowly started at the end of January.43 They were sped up in March. On 21 March, 1,500 prisoners left for Hamburg, 2,500 were detained by the British, partly aboard two German boats in Constantinople harbour, partly ashore, and 6,000 were being transported to Salonika, where boats awaited. But this ‘temporary internment in Salonika imposed on all the services of a garrison that was being suppressed, very heavy responsibilities regarding billets and resupplying to which it is urgent to put a halt,’ wrote Franchet d’Espe`rey.44 On the next day, 22 March, the steamers Chio and Rodosto left the Bosphorus for Salonika with 2,500 prisoners on board; so did the Anatolie´ Mantjenoff on 23 March, with 1,500 men, then the Bello Rosia and the Jerusalem with 2,000 more, a few days later.45 On 26 May, Franchet d’Espe`rey allowed Major von Kessler, the chief-of-staff of Admiral Hopman – the former Commander-in-Chief of the German troops in Nikolaı¨ev – to embark 1,500 to 1,800 Germans from Salonika to Gibraltar and then to Hamburg aboard the steamer Constantin, a boat under an inter-Allied flag belonging to Armenian owner-charterer Gulmidjan.46 The ‘last’ Germans of Constantinople left on 12 June aboard the Gul Djemal. In the meantime, 184 officers, 3,829 soldiers, four women and a child – all German citizens – had left Salonika on 10 June aboard the Constantin and the Krisstou Neve. The 162 officers and 1,856 soldiers left in Salonika were finally transported on the steamers Ak Deniz and Rechid Pacha.47 Once these massive repatriations were completed, several Alsatians-Lorrainers were missing. An Alsatian woman named Jeanne Weber wrote to the International Committee of the Red Cross

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(ICRC) to trace her husband missing in Palestine (of whom she had heard nothing since 5 September 1918).48 ‘All the Germans and Austrians present in Turkey having been repatriated, we cannot inquire about them,’ replied the Ottoman Red Crescent to the ICRC on 27 March 1919.49 The same reply was given on 7 April to Earl de Chabannes La Palice, the representative of the ICRC to the Army of the Orient.50 In January 1920 Clotilde Georges, from Pouilly (Lorraine), had been waiting for news from her husband Philibert, a military baker in Constantinople-Pe´ra, since 18 December 1918.51

Captivity in Egypt For their part, nearly all of the Germans captured in Palestine by the British were interned in Egypt. Some of them, like Albert Ott, interned in the camp in Tura near Cairo, were soon transferred to French authorities.52 Unlike the latter, others were held in captivity by the British long after 11 November 1918. ‘In September [1918], it was all over,’ recalled Ernest Bieth. ‘We were captured by the English with our gear [the radio]. We were sent to Tel el-Ke´bir, between Port Said and Cairo. The news of the end of the war took a long time to reach us there.’ The veteran does not have fond memories of the British, his jailers: ‘A bad race they belonged to, a very, very bad race. They had harbours full of wheat, but they gave us nothing to eat.’53 The Alsatians-Lorrainers’ lot was hard for their relatives to understand. On 8 April 1919 Ade`le Pierrot, from Che´risey (Lorraine), asked for the liberation of her son Camille, who was captured in Palestine and who served as an interpreter in the camp at Kantara (Stationary Hospital 24), in Egypt: ‘My husband died on the 30th of March this year, my elder son is seriously ill and remains bedridden,’ she explained. ‘As resorting to foreign workforce for agricultural works is very hard, I am forced to leave most of my fields uncultivated.’54 The names of Wendel Cle´ment – born in 1898 in Basse-Yutz (Lorraine), interned at Port Said – and Nicolas Kasper, from Neufgrange (Lorraine), held prisoner in Turkey, can also be found on the list of the prisoners of war still missing by 30 May.55 For several relatives and spouses, the situation was even more difficult, for

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they were unaware of the fate of their sons or husbands. On 25 January 1919, General Corvisart, the chief of the French military mission in Great Britain and military attache´ to London, asked Colonel R.L.W. Larking – in charge of prisoners of war at the War Office – for information regarding several Alsatians: Paul Kuntz, born in 1895 in Thannenkirch (Upper Alsace), of the 146th Infantry Regiment, whose last letter had been sent from Jericho some time about 1 September 1918; Oberleutenant Fernand Weibel, seen for the last time in Osmanie´, near Diarbekir, in Turkey; Vize-Feldwebel Jacques Schreiber, of the 5th company, Maschinengewehr 142nd or 146th, Pacha Regiment, mentioned as sick at Damascus Turkish Hospital on 12 October 1918.56 The British – who had recognized the annexation of AlsaceLorraine by Germany in 1871, as did other great powers – actually balked at these liberations as long as the status of the territory was not juridically defined. The Treaty of Versailles signed on 28 June made the situation clearer when it retroactively ceded Alsace-Lorraine to France and allowed the reintegration of its inhabitants– under certain conditions – as French citizens. The procedure used for Michel Wendling, interned in the Heliopolis camp, thus became the norm. Sent to the Port Said French base in the hands of General Hamelin, the commander of the French troops in the Levant, he then headed for the Paris-Clichy depot of Alsatians-Lorrainers.57 Ernest Bieth also recalled the arrival of the first French officers in his camp in May: They had come to separate Alsatians from Germans. As we were undocumented, they differentiated us thanks to our dialect. In that camp gathering thousands of Turks and Germans, we were sent to a shed. A French officer named Maurer, from Colmar, addressed me in German and in Alsatian, he asked me what my village was, where it was located, etc. Forty or fifty men were separated from the rest and acknowledged as AlsatiansLorrainers.58 The trip to France lasted several weeks. Meanwhile prisoners received some mail, which did not necessarily boost their morale.

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Louis-Philippe Amann, interned in Alexandria, received bad news from his mother, who wrote him from Barr (Lower Alsace) on 17 May. She broke the news of ‘the death of [his] old father to whom [he] may only be kind by comforting [his] poor broken-hearted, solitary mother.’ ‘How I long to see you again,’ she added. ‘Let’s pray for the good Lord’s grace.’59 By mid-May, most Alsace-Lorraine prisoners in Egypt had been concentrated in Cairo before being transported to Port Said. However, some petty tricks postponed their departure; for example, the British authorities were not willing to provide them with clothing, ‘the custom being to send back prisoners dressed either in their prisoners’ outfits or in their combatants’ uniforms’. Consequently, the French agency in Port Said demanded credits to purchase civilian clothes.60 On 26 May, 164 Alsace-Lorraine prisoners were finally sent to Port Said. ‘“You’re free, now,” the British told us. We could eat, then. One of our comrades even died of eating too much bread,’ said Ernest Bieth.61 Most of them left for France a month later.62 On 27 June, ex-Oberleutnant Grimm, his filiation form in hand, was appointed chief of the Alsace-Lorraine detachment, which left Port Said for Beirut the following day on board the steamer Cerbe`re, before being transferred onto the steamer Machico heading for Marseilles63 (among them were Louis-Philippe Amann64 and E´mile Wurtz65). The detachment was composed of five officers, 151 men and five civilians66 (almost all of them were captured in Palestine and others in Eastern Africa67). They were commanded by officers and non-commissioned officers.68 Upon their arrival in Marseilles, the men were directed to their final destination by the general commanding the 15th Military District [15e re´gion militaire ].69 The prisoners’ families were informed and ‘inquiries [made] necessary to the former POWs’ quickest repatriation’.70 French authorities first wanted to make sure the ex-prisoners ‘had French origins and feelings’ and that neither Germanophile Alsatians-Lorrainers, nor Germans born in Alsace-Lorraine or elsewhere – pretending they were Alsatians-Lorrainers in order to benefit from preferential treatment or to be repatriated sooner – were among them. Ernest Bieth had no trouble satisfying them and reached his village, north of

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Strasbourg, on 26 July.71 Others, however, had to face lengthy procedures. E´douard Brauer, a cabinet-maker in Saint-Julien-le`sMetz, born in Metz in 1887 and captured in Amman on 25 September 1918 by the British, was still interned at the fort of SaintPrivat, near Metz, during the autumn of 1919.72 There were still some prisoners left in Egypt after the massive departure of 27 June. As in Turkey, late returns and mere disappearances were recorded. Some prisoners ‘forgotten’ on the occasion of the first repatriation were returned by the commander of the Maadi camp to the commander of the Port Said base on 26 August.73 Before leaving for France, they were joined by repatriates from the Heliopolis base, like Camille Pierrot (whose liberation evidently had not been quickened by his mother’s letter).74 On 14 July, Colonel Larking sent General Corvisart a list of the internment places of Alsatian-Lorrainer prisoners of war in the British Empire.75 Four men still remained in Sidi Bichr,76 two in Cairo77 and four in Palestine.78 In September, Alsatian Joseph Becker was transferred from Maadi Camp to Port Said.79 But on 9 January 1920, Francois Zimmermann, born in Plaine-de-Walsch (Lorraine) in 1896, was still in Egypt, held captive by the British.80 Ernest Weber, from Rombas (Lorraine), who went missing in September 1918 as a member of the German mission, still had his name on a list of men who had not returned home several months later.81 As for Le´onard Apfler, born in Barr (Lower Alsace) in 1897 and who took part in the Palestine operations, no news of his whereabouts had been provided since October 1918;82 the information given on 2 January 1919 by Larking to Corvisart remained too little to know if any trace of him was found. Apfler, who belonged to the 3rd Company of the 702nd Infantry Battalion, was missing in action on 9 April 1918 after a combined British and Indian attack near the village of Eld Kopfr, ‘between Jerusalem and the sea’.83

Conclusion Does their service on the Palestine front, and their captivity in Turkey and Egypt, allow us to reveal a specific war experience of the

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Alsace-Lorraine soldiers of the German Army? To Germans, physical or moral abuse against them seems not to have been a common factor, coming instead from cantankerous officers and non-commissioned officers. On the contrary, they undeniably suffered from an overall suspicion of them, which grew after the great battles of 1916 (Verdun, the Somme) then went through a temporary lull and reappeared strongly in 1918. Numerous Germans did not regard them as fellow citizens. To Alsatians-Lorrainers, most recruits got carried away by the routines of mobilization, drilling and combats as if it had been their fate to fight – some of them would even evoke a ‘tacit consent’, a disputed notion – as was the case for many drafted soldiers in all countries. If a few of them manifested real German patriotism, an appreciable minority opposed the Reich’s war effort, at least passively. The desertion rate among Alsatians-Lorrainers is undoubtedly very high compared with the German average, and may even be close to that of the Poles. Lastly, to the Allies, scruples linked with international law (for the British) and the will to reintegrate into French nationality only ‘genuine’ Alsatians-Lorrainers ‘of French origins and feelings’ (for the French) delayed their liberation and repatriation for several months. More globally, comparative studies on the experience of the Great War of soldiers belonging to national minorities would be likely to cast a useful light on the Alsace-Lorraine topic. Indeed, these men too waged war on the vanquished side and found themselves beside the victors when peace was signed. And victors are the ones who mostly write history, which complicates the perpetuation of the memory of events (it is particularly meaningful for remembrance ceremonies and war memorials, which bear a special significance in such areas). The historiography of ‘heir states’ (to which France belonged, as far as Alsace-Lorraine was concerned) forged a stereotypical image of the attitude of these minorities within the German or AustroHungarian Army between 1914 and 1918, an image that was meant to be intangible – otherwise suspicions of subversive, anti-national activities could be allowed. But ministerial instructions seldom accord well with scientific precision. In a period of definitive

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reconciliation among most European peoples, the time has certainly come to take an unbiased look at the inevitably multifaceted and balanced history of these Alsatians-Lorrainers in the Great War. As soldiers rooted in a land and an era, these men deserve not to be a political stake any longer, but rather a dispassionate object of study.

Notes 1 Roth, F., La Lorraine annexe´e (Nancy, Presses Universitaires de Nancy, 1976). 2 Annexed de facto by the Nazis in 1940, citizens from Alsace and Moselle – Moselle corresponds to former German Lorraine – were drafted by force into the German Army from August 1942 onward. They were called ‘Malgre´ nous’ (which means ‘against our will’). 3 Some elements can be found in Nouzille, J., Oberle, R., Rapp, F., Batailles d’Alsace 1914– 1918 (Strasbourg, Contades, 1989). 4 Florent-Matter, Les Alsaciens-Lorrains contre l’Allemagne (Nancy, 1918). 5 Ernst, R., Rechenschaftsbericht eines Elsa¨ssers (Berlin, Bernard und Graefe, 1954). 6 Grandhomme, J. N., ‘Les Alsaciens-Lorrains sur les fronts orientaux en 1914– 1918’, Revue d’Alsace 125 (1999), pp. 187– 98. 7 Grandhomme, J. N., Ultimes sentinelles (Strasbourg, La Nue´e Bleue, 2005). 8 Florent-Matter: Les Alsaciens-Lorrains contre l’Allemagne, pp. 65– 6. 9 Interview with Fernand Zeysolff, 9 November 1996. 10 Interview with Le´on Nonnenmacher, 6 February 1995. 11 Letter dated 2 February 1918. Abbot Grau’s private collection, kindly put at our disposal by General Bailliard. 12 It was restuck with a sticker reading: ‘Milita¨rischerseits unter Kriegsrecht geo¨ffnet.’ 13 Letter from Xavier Krommenacker, dated 20 May 1918. Abbot Grau’s private collection. 14 Family memory. 15 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995. 16 Ibid. 17 Ibid. 18 Letter from Xavier Krommenacker, dated 2 November 1916. Abbot Grau’s private collection. 19 Letter from Xavier Krommenacker, dated 2 February 1918. Abbot Grau’s private collection. 20 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995. 21 Letter from Xavier Krommenacker, dated 2 February 1918. Abbot Grau’s private collection. 22 Family memory. 23 Interview with Ferdnand Zeysloff, 9 November 1996. 24 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995.

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25 Letter from Xavier Krommenacker, dated 20 February 1918. Abbot Grau’s private collection. 26 Interview with Fernand Zeysolff, 9 November 1996. 27 Letter from Xavier Krommenacker, dated 20 May 1918. Abbot Grau’s private collection. 28 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995. 29 Interview with Fernand Zeysolff, 9 November 1996. 30 Letter from Xavier Krommenacker, dated 20 May 1918. Abbot Grau’s private collection. 31 Interview with Fernand Zeysolff, 9 November 1996. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid. 35 Ibid. 36 Service Historique de la De´fense (Terre) (SHD (T)), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Milne to Franchet d’Espe`rey, 14 January 1919. 37 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Franchet d’Espe`rey to Foch, 16 January 1919. 38 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Foch to Franchet d’Espe`rey, 17 January 1919. 39 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Berthelot to Franchet d’Espe`rey, 26 January 1919. 40 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Naval Forces Minister to Admiral Amet, 31 January 1919. 41 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Jean Bart Admiral to Commanding Officer in Salonika, 5 February 1919. 42 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Franchet d’Espe`rey to Foch, 18 February 1919. 43 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Armistice Commission, 3 March 1919 session. 44 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Franchet d’Espe`rey to War Minister, 22 March 1919. 45 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, note made by Franchet d’Espe`rey, 22 March 1919. 46 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Franchet d’Espe`rey to Commander of French troops in Macedonia, 26 May 1919. 47 SHD (T), Vincennes, 20 N 341, Franchet d’Espe`rey to Foch, 23 June 1919. 48 International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), Geneva, FAW 300– 500, undated. 49 ICRC, Geneva, FAW 200–250, box 16, Red Crescent to ICRC, 27 March 1919. 50 ICRC, Geneva, FAW 40 – 47, box 10, Red Crescent to Army of Orient, 7 April 1919. 51 Departmental Archives of Moselle (DAM), Metz, 5 R 547, Identification form, 9 January 1920. 52 SHD (T), Vincennes, 7 N 1324, Corvisart to Larking, 18 November 1918. 53 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995. 54 SHD (T), Vincennes, 7 N 1324, Letter to the widow Pierrot, 8 April 1919.

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55 DAM, Metz, 5 R 548, List of missing prisoners sent to mayors by the Republic Commissioner, 30 May 1919. 56 SHD (T), Vincennes, 7 N 1324, Corvisart to Larking, 25 January 1919. 57 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, War Minister to Under-Secretary for Military Justice, 24 May 1919 and Hamelin to P.O.W. General Administration, 2 July 1919. 58 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995. 59 DAM, Metz, 5 R 548, Postcard from Mrs Amann. 60 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, Diplomatic Agency and General Consulate of France in Egypt to the Commander of Port Said base, 6 May 1919. 61 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995. 62 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, War Minister to Under-Secretary for Military Justice, 7 September 1919. 63 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, Port Said Base, orders, 27 June 1919. 64 Formerly interned in Sidi Bichr Camp, Alexandria (address mentioned on a letter received 18 May 1919 – SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29). 65 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, Commander of Port Said base to Mayor of Colmar, 20 August 1919. 66 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, Port Said Base, orders, 27 June 1919. 67 DAM, Metz, 5 R 548, Battalion commander Fontana to Republic Commissioner, 17 July 1919. 68 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, Port Said Base, orders, 27 June 1919. 69 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, General Hamelin, Commander of the French troops in the Levant to Commander of Port Said base, orders, 9 May 1919. 70 DAM, Metz, 5 R 547, note of Alsace-Lorraine General Commissioner, 25 July 1919. 71 Interview with Ernest Bieth, 25 February 1995. 72 DAM, Metz, 5 R 549, information form, undated. 73 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, Commander of the Camp of Maadi to the Commander of the Port Said base, 26 August 1919. 74 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, list of prisoners, 26 August 1919. 75 SHD (T), Vincennes, 7 N 1324, Larking to Corvisart, 14 July 1919. 76 Othon Martin Behrendt, K.L.E. Hauser, Rudolf Guillaume Hauser and Alphonse Louis Keiling. 77 Charles Frey and Albin Passler. 78 Richard Dietz, Nicolas Jund, E´mile Thirion and Francois Zimmermann. 79 SHD (T), Vincennes, 4 H 29, Robinson, camp commander to commander of the Port Said French base, 14 September 1919. 80 DAM, Metz, 5 R 547, Identification form, 9 January 1920. 81 DAM, Metz, 5 R 547, List of missing, undated. 82 SHD (T), Vincennes, 7 N 1324, Corvisart to Larking, 24 October 1918. 83 SHD (T), Vincennes, 7 N 1324, Larking to Corvisart, 2 January 1919.

CHAPTER 3 HOPES AND JEALOUSIES: ROME'S AMBITIONS IN THE MIDDLE EAST AND THE ITALIAN CONTINGENT IN PALESTINE, 1915—1920 Nir Arielli

In January 1919, a report compiled by the British War Office remarked: ‘The essence of Italy’s policy is the desire not to be treated less favourably than the other Powers in the Mediterranean settlement.’1 A similar though more cynical view was held by the Zionist leader Chaim Weizmann: ‘The Italians have no designs on Palestine or Syria as long as the French have none. But they are extremely jealous of the French and they therefore immediately put up claims – quite fictitious and unreasonable – simply in order not to lag behind the French.’2 It seems that foreign observers got the impression that Italian policy towards Palestine and the Middle East was part of a zero sum game. Yet World War I and the post-war peace settlement were a significant turning point for both Italy’s quest for Great Power status and its ambitions in the Middle East. An examination of these ambitions and of the reasons that led to their frustration sheds light not only on the inner workings of Italy’s

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foreign policy and its relations with Britain and France from 1915 to 1920, but also on certain aspects of the Middle Eastern policy of the Fascist regime in the decades that followed. Italian colonial aspirations emerged shortly after the country’s unification. However, Italy’s path towards establishing an overseas empire was a difficult one. The other Great Powers were quick to seize the wealthier and better strategically located territories in the Mediterranean and Africa. The Italians were outmanoeuvred by the French, who captured Tunisia in 1881. A year later the British established themselves in Egypt. Rome had to settle for the less lucrative colonies of Eritrea and Somalia. After the war of 1911 –12 Italy managed to wrest Libya from the Ottoman Empire, though stubborn local resistance meant that by 1915 Italian rule was rolled back to a few bridgeheads on the coast of Tripolitania and Cyrenaica. Eager to be recognized as one of the Great Powers, the Italians sought, at the beginning of the twentieth century, to increase their cultural, economic and political influence in the eastern Mediterranean. In Palestine this effort often took on a religious aegis, thus posing a challenge to France’s traditional role as the protector of Catholic individuals and institutions in the Levant. In 1905, the Italian government achieved partial success when it reached an agreement with the French government, allowing Italian religious institutions (or institutions with a majority of Italian nationals) to come under Italian protection.3 Otherwise, Italian efforts to increase their political and economic penetration into the Ottoman were not very fruitful.4 When World War I broke out Italy remained on the sidelines. Six months later, developments in the Middle East played a part in the Italian decision to enter the war. In February 1915 the British and French fleets bombarded the Dardanelles. The Italian Prime Minister Antonio Salandra, and his foreign minister, Sidney Sonnino, feared that if Italy did not join the war soon, it would arrive too late to take part in the partition of the Ottoman Empire.5 In early March the Italian ambassador in London submitted to the British government Italy’s general conditions for entering the war. These included equitable treatment in the Mediterranean post-war settlement and a fair share of the Ottoman Empire (the Italians specifically asked to

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receive parts of Asia Minor).6 The negotiations that followed resulted in the Treaty of London, which was signed on 26 April 1915 and would soon bring Italy into the war. The treaty gave a vague assurance that Italy ‘ought to obtain a just share of the Mediterranean region adjacent to the province of Adalia’ (now known as Anatolia).7 However, Sonnino soon realized that Italy needed to keep an eye on its allies if it wanted to safeguard the terms of the Treaty of London. Despite Italy’s declaration of war on Turkey in August 1915, the Sykes-Picot Agreement, which partitioned the Middle East into British and French spheres of influence, was concluded in early 1916 without Italy’s knowledge. When Sonnino learned of the existence of this agreement he was alarmed. The text was finally disclosed to the Italians in October 1916 and only after Sonnino – a staunch supporter of Italy’s participation in the war – threatened to resign. Britain’s Prime Minister at the end of the war, David Lloyd George, later wrote in his memoirs that Sonnino ‘had legitimate ground for complaint at the treatment accorded to him,’ adding: ‘It was not straightforward. It was discourteous and foolish.’8 In the following months, Italian wartime diplomacy sought to modify the terms of the Sykes-Picot Agreement, adjusting them to Italy’s aspirations. Sonnino’s policy was epitomized by the slogan ‘O tutti o nessuno’ – meaning, either everybody gets a piece of the Ottoman Empire or nobody does.9 He insisted on discussing the delimitation of the Italian sphere in Asia Minor, which was not properly defined in the Treaty of London. Eventually, in the St Jean de Maurienne Agreement of April 1917, which was later embodied in an exchange of letters on 18 August 1917, Britain and France recognized Italy’s sphere of influence in Asia Minor as well as the Italian claim for an equal share in the administration of an internationalized Palestine.10 However, the Allies insisted on the agreement being ratified by the Russians, and the instability of the provisional government in Petrograd meant that Italy’s Middle Eastern ambitions were still not secured.11 Sonnino attempted to bolster Italy’s tenuous legal position by offering Italian military participation in the conquest of the Middle East. In view of the fact that most of Italy’s subjects in Libya and East

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Africa were Muslims, Sonnino argued that Muslim Italian colonial troops should be allowed to join the Hejaz expedition – an offer which the British repeatedly turned down.12 Sonnino met with more success when it came to ensuring Italian participation in the conquest of Palestine. In early March 1917 the Italian ambassador in Paris warned Rome that the French were preparing to join the British-led Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF). Sonnino responded by suggesting to the British government that Italy contribute 5,000 men, thus making sure that the Italian flag would also be represented in the international regime that was envisaged for Palestine.13 This offer was made despite the hostility of the Italian Chief of Staff, Luigi Cadorna, who opposed the idea of sending Italian troops abroad.14 The British government and the Chief of the Imperial General Staff were likewise unenthusiastic about the Italian suggestion, deeming it politically ill-advised and of little military value.15 However, at the same time Lloyd George was insisting that the Italians ‘enhance their military effort’, hoping to have Italian troops deployed on the Thessaloniki front. Italy, he said, had ‘to take an effective part in the overthrow of the Turkish Empire’. He pointed out to Sonnino ‘that Italy was doing nothing at all to support the war against Turkey,’ adding that ‘if she had ambitions in the East she ought to be ready to support them’.16 The British government could therefore hardly refuse when the Italians offered to participate in the attack on Palestine. Reluctantly, the British ambassador in Rome informed the Italian government that an Italian contingent could proceed to Egypt on condition that it ‘will be sent for representative purposes only and that its numbers will not exceed some three hundred men’.17 On 19 May 1917 the newly-established Italian detachment, led by Major Francesco D’Agostino and consisting of 11 officers, 444 Carabinieri and Bersaglieri along with 45 horses, arrived at Port Said. The Italians also sent a military attache´ to the headquarters of the commander of the Expeditionary Force. On 13 June, part of the detachment was sent to the front and was stationed at the front near Rafa.18 During the same month the British government informed the Italian ambassador in London that their recognition of an Italian zone

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in Asia Minor would be subject to an increased Italian effort in the war. One of the possibilities they put forward was a significant reinforcement of the Italian contingent destined for Palestine.19 However, when Sonnino presented this request to Cadorna, the Chief of Staff vetoed it, arguing that any further troops for the EEF must come from Libya and not from the Italian front. Sonnino’s attempts met further opposition when the Minister for the Colonies refused to spare any troops from Libya. Although the Italians had approximately 32,000 men in Libya, these were hard-pressed by local resistance and only managed to maintain bridgeheads along the coast by virtue of naval support.20 Information sent to Rome from Italian representatives in Egypt, according to which the French were creating a Legion of the Orient consisting of approximately 2,000 Syrians, persuaded the supporters of Italian involvement in the conquest of Palestine of the importance of expanding the detachment. As a matter of fact, the French precedent also presented the Italians with an opportunity for solving their manpower dilemma. If the French were recruiting Syrian-Arab and Armenian refugees in Egypt, perhaps the Italians could draw on the approximately 40,000 Italian nationals residing in Alexandria, Cairo and other Egyptian cities. D’Agostino pushed for this solution to be implemented and, by October 1917, the Italian War Ministry gave its consent. Soon, approximately 140 young men from the Italian community in Egypt were recruited to form a new unit which was given the name Cacciatori di Palestina. However, both the Italian and the British administrative machines moved slowly and these troops were only deployed in Palestine towards the end of the war.21 In early November 1917, when Allenby’s offensive against the Turks got under way, the Italian detachment participated in the attack against Gaza. On 4 and 5 November the Bersaglieri took part in warding off a Turkish counter-attack.22 D’Agostino reported with pride that, while the Italian troops fought, the French detachment refused to take part in the offensive, arguing that theirs was only an occupation force.23 This was the Italian detachment’s only combative contribution to the campaign. However, its political role was just beginning. The

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detachment’s undeclared objectives were to further Italian prestige and to counter any French attempt to gain influence in the international zone. In terms of prestige, Italian officers made note of every compliment the detachment received from the British, especially from General Allenby.24 On a more practical level, the architect Antonio Barluzzi, who joined the detachment in summer 1918, was called upon to help assert Italy’s presence in Palestine. He was given men to complete the construction of the Italian hospital in Jerusalem which had begun before the war. Barluzzi later went on to construct many Catholic churches in the Holy Land. As for countering French influence in the country, bickering with Franc
ois George-Picot, the French High Commissioner, was a primary pastime for D’Agostino and the other Italian officers. When Allenby entered Jerusalem on 11 December he was accompanied by the commanders of the French and Italian detachments as well as by the military attache´s of France, Italy and the US. He was also accompanied by Picot. The Italians became angry when the latter strayed from the position he was assigned and stood nearer to Allenby.25 Two weeks later, on Christmas Eve, Picot’s insistence on receiving the rights and dignities enjoyed by the French representative before the war caused further friction between himself and D’Agostino. In a letter to General William Robertson, Allenby noted: ‘The presence of Picot is keenly resented by the Italians; who don’t believe that he is merely here to advise me in case questions arise touching Syrian Arabs – nor does Picot for that matter.’26 D’Agostino found it difficult to adapt to the political requirements of his job. Soon afterwards he was replaced by Lieutenant-Colonel Gustavo Pesenti. The British attitude towards the Italian detachment was inconsistent: at times they tried to place limits on the number of troops deployed, at times they wanted to see greater Italian participation. In July 1918, while Allenby was preparing his offensive in northern Palestine, he asked the Italian minister in Egypt if Italy could send two divisions to join his forces. Sonnino tried to persuade his government that this would improve Italy’s chances of obtaining the territories it was promised in Asia Minor. However,

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like his predecessor, the post-Caporetto Chief of Staff General Armando Diaz was not enthusiastic about the idea, for he did not want to divert forces from the Italian front.27 By the time military authorities in Italy decided to enlarge the detachment in October, Allenby had already launched his offensive without making use of the Italians. At the end of the war Italian troops were stationed at Jaffa, Jerusalem and Lydda. Their tasks included guarding Christian holy places and policing duties. They also tended to the needs of 274 Italian prisoners of war who were released by the Turks.28 When the detachment was established its supporters in Italy had hoped that it would further a number of goals. First, it was to act as a counterbalance to the troops sent by France. Second, it was seen as an initial step towards Italian involvement in the administration of an internationalized Palestine (in accordance with the spirit of the St Jean de Maurienne Agreement). Finally, participation in the Middle Eastern theatre of the war was supposed to bolster Italy’s territorial claims in the partition of the Ottoman Empire. Sonnino therefore kept pressing for a bigger force to be sent, but his requests were continuously turned down by Cadorna, Diaz and the Ministry for the Colonies. In hindsight, it is unlikely that greater Italian involvement in the EEF would have brought about Italian participation in the administration of Palestine or secured Italy’s territorial aspirations in Asia Minor. Lloyd George was determined to bring Palestine under British control and there was little that Italy could do to alter this outcome. As for Asia Minor, developments in Turkey had a dynamic of their own in which Italy only played a marginal role. Subsequently, in the immediate post-war period the Italians resorted to exploring various alternative avenues in an attempt to strengthen their position in Palestine and elsewhere in the Middle East.

Italy’s religious and political interests in Palestine after World War I In the late 1910s Catholic interests were perhaps the most important issue for Italian policy in Palestine. The Italians set themselves two main goals: to acquire possession of the Cenacolo, the site on Mount

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Zion in Jerusalem where the Last Supper is believed to have taken place, and to abolish the French Protectorate over the Latin Church in the Levant. The former was an explicit interest of the Italian royal family. The House of Savoy had a strong connection to the Holy Land. When King Umberto I was assassinated in 1900, his son, the future Vittorio Emmanuelle III, was visiting Bethlehem.29 One of the titles he inherited was King of Jerusalem, a symbol of the House of Savoy’s claim to be successors of the Crusader kings.30 The Savoy dynasty had for a long time maintained a claim for the ownership of the Cenacolo as the successors of Robert d’Anjou, King of Naples, who had bought the grounds in the fourteenth century. Italian diplomats tried unsuccessfully to persuade the Sultan to hand over the Cenacolo before World War I and renewed their efforts once the war was over.31 In April 1919 the Italian High Commissioner in Constantinople, Carlo Sforza, persuaded the Sultan to give his consent to the preparation of an irade´ (decree), by means of which the Cenacolo was ceded to the King of Italy.32 However, the British government refused to recognize this concession. They informed the Italians that all outstanding questions regarding the holy places would be settled by a special international committee. Alas, such a committee was never convened and therefore Italian representatives in Palestine continued to press for possession of the Cenacolo until 1940.33 When it came to abolishing the French Protectorate the Italians were more successful because their interests coincided with those of the British. Italy had been trying to establish a foothold in Palestine through Catholic institutes and Italian clergymen for decades. The years 1918– 19 saw two Italians take charge of the most important Catholic posts in Palestine: Federico Diotallevi was nominated head of the Custodia Terra Santa and Luigi Barlassina became the Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem. At the same time Italian diplomats were pressing for France’s privileged position as the protector of Catholic interests in the Holy Land to be abolished. Eventually, Italian pressure in Jerusalem, in the Vatican, in Versailles and at the San Remo Conference of April 1920 paid off and the French Protectorate was indeed eliminated.34

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The Italians were far less consistent when it came to dealing with the other religious groups in Palestine. Here different individuals tried to advance different agendas. One of the avenues which Rome tried to utilize in order to gain a foothold in Palestine was to support Zionism. In February 1918 Gaetano Manzoni, the Director General of Political Affairs at the Foreign Ministry, began drafting internal memoranda about the advisability of using Italian Jews, who would participate in the Zionist movement, to promote Italian interests in Palestine and to counterbalance British influence. Sonnino endorsed the idea and agreed to send Comandante Angelo Levi-Bianchini, a young Jewish naval officer, and Dr. Giacomo Artom, a Jewish military physician, to Palestine to collaborate with Chaim Weizmann’s Zionist delegation. The aims of the mission of the Italian officers included ‘to study the resources of the land, commercial, industrial, agricultural, and mineral, and the opportunities for Italian economic activities’. Another objective was to draft proposals for ‘the establishment of permanent Italian cultural and charitable organizations in Palestine’.35 At the same time the Marquis di Soragna, an aristocrat with traditional Catholic sympathies who served as the Italian military attache´ to Allenby’s staff, attempted to rally anti-Zionist feelings, believing that by doing so Italy would gain the support of most of the population of Palestine. In June 1919 the new Italian Consul-General in Jerusalem, Alberto Tuozzi, believed that Italy ought to ally itself with the ‘natural tendency’ of the country, which was Muslim and nationalist. Subsequently, in late 1919 and early 1920 British officials and Zionist leaders complained that Italian officials were conducting anti-British and anti-Zionist propaganda.36 To further complicate matters, Italy had often assumed the role of ‘protecting power’ over the Sephardic Jews in the eastern Mediterranean. Levi-Bianchini had pointed out in late 1918 that the Zionist movement was neglecting the Arabic-speaking Jews.37 In June 1919, shortly before leaving the Foreign Ministry, Sonnino authorized the sending of a ship under the command of LeviBianchini on a ‘political-commercial cruise’ in the eastern Mediterranean. He was to establish commercial and cultural ties

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with Sephardic Jews in the port towns of Egypt, Syria, Greece, Turkey and Palestine. The ultimate aim of this project was to form a Mediterranean Sephardic Union loyal to Rome that would counterbalance the supposedly pro-British Ashkenazi Jews.38 However, this mission ended in disaster. In 1920 Levi-Bianchini was murdered on a train by Syrian Arabs who apparently mistook him for a French officer.39 Regardless of the conflicting priorities that individual officials tried to promote, Italy clearly did not have the resources to pursue ambitious policies in the Middle East. To give but one example, in late 1918 Rome complained that di Soragna did not enter Nazareth alongside the French representative. The military attache´ explained that he was the only Allied representative without means of transportation and promised he would ask the branch of Banco di Roma in Egypt for a vehicle to take him to the Galilee.40 In addition to Italy’s military and financial weakness, the country lacked a specific human resource which had proven instrumental in establishing Britain’s position in the Middle East: former archaeologists and surveyors who spoke Arabic and were familiar with Middle Eastern customs and terrain. The Italians had no Herbert Kitchener, T.E. Lawrence, Gertrude Bell or St John Philby. As one historian has pointed out, ‘to produce such men [and women] requires centuries of Oriental engagement’.41 Italy was a newcomer to the field of colonial powers in the Muslim world. It had much to learn in order to compete with the others members of this club. Diplomatically Italy was not in a strong position either. It fared badly at the Peace Conference, clashing with its wartime allies over the fate of Fiume and Asia Minor. While President Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points called for Italian frontiers to be adjusted ‘along clearly recognizable lines of nationality’, Italy’s aspirations in Turkey and in the Adriatic were out of touch with the Wilsonian spirit that sought to do away with the age of secret agreements ‘whereby diplomats bargained away the destinies of peoples behind their backs and over their heads’.42 The landing of Italian troops in Adalia, Marmaris and Bodrum and the sending of naval vessels to Smyrna in spring 1919, without giving prior notification to the Allies, aggravated the already

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tense relations between the Italian delegation to Paris and the Allied leaders. Meanwhile, the St Jean de Maurienne Agreement – Sonnino’s greatest achievement – was discarded on the pretext that it was never ratified by the Russian government. A change of government in Rome brought about a gradual Italian retreat from Middle Eastern affairs. Lloyd George observed that the new Prime Minister, Francesco Nitti, ‘did not belong to Italy’s Imperialist school of thought’.43 As Nitti later remarked in his memoirs, the policy of Sonnino and other advocates of expansionism ‘would have involved Italy in undoubted economic ruin and in the certainty of military adventures of incalculable difficulty, which would have absorbed all the resources of the country at the very time when Italy had most need of them’.44 By 1921, the Italians withdrew their forces from Asia Minor and opted to establish friendly relations with Mustafa Kemal’s Turkey.45 The costly and no longer necessary Italian detachment in Palestine was also withdrawn. In July 1922 and again in 1923, the Italians bowed to British and French pressure and ratified the Middle Eastern mandates despite not obtaining any territories in the region themselves. For the Fascists and the Nationalists in Italy the frustration of Italian wartime ambitions in the Middle East added to the ‘mutilated victory’ sentiment that emerged in the post-war period. Benito Mussolini’s daily newspaper, Il Popolo d ’Italia, complained in April 1919 that while Britain and France were expanding their empires and crushing the aspirations of their colonial subjects they had no qualms about invoking Wilsonian ideals whenever Italy’s interests and rights were concerned.46 Years later the Duce would comment: ‘We came out of Versailles with a mutilated victory. But the victory is still in our fist. It was mutilated in diplomatic protocols, but it is not mutilated in our arms and in our hearts.’47 Yet the memory of Italy’s wartime experience in the Middle East was set aside during the first decade of Fascism. It was only in the 1930s – at a time when Fascist Italy began to entertain ambitions of increased power in the Middle East – that these memories started to re-emerge. The regime’s propagandists began to point out that the mandate system was forced on Palestine and Syria against the will of

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the local population and that, like the Arabs, Italy had been mistreated by its wartime allies – Britain and France.48 Among the descriptions of the Palestine campaign that were published in Italy at that time were the memoirs of Gustavo Pesenti, the Italian detachment’s second commander.49 Casting an eye to the future he wrote that the ‘Orient in which the germ of future conflicts is hidden’ was the place where ‘Italy tomorrow will be able to say its word’. Under Mussolini’s leadership, he added, ‘Italy will take its place in the Mediterranean basin and no one will ever be able to contend with her’.50 If in World War I Italy had wished to benefit from an Allied victory to improve its position in the Middle East, during World War II the Fascist regime aspired to replace Britain as the hegemonic power in the region.51

Notes 1 Lloyd George, David, Memoirs of the Peace Conference (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1939), vol. II, p. 797. 2 Letter from Chaim Weizmann to Brandeis, dated 14 January 1918, The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann (Jerusalem: Israel University Press, 1977), vol. VIII, p. 46.; emphasis in the original. 3 Minerbi, Sergio Itzhak, The Vatican, the Holy Land and Zionism 1895– 1925 (Jerusalem: Yad Itzhak Ben Zvi Institute, 1985), p. 36. 4 Minerbi, Sergio, ‘Italian economic penetration in Palestine (1908– 1919)’, in Moshe Ma’oz (ed.), Studies on Palestine during the Ottoman Period (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1975), pp. 466– 82. 5 Seton-Watson, Christopher, Italy from Liberalism to Fascism 1870 – 1925 (London: Methuen, 1967), p. 430. 6 Letter from Sonnino to Imperiali, dated 16 February 1915, Documenti Diplomatici Italiani [DDI], 5, vol. II, pp. 692– 96. 7 ‘Agreement between France, Russia, Great Britain and Italy’, 26 April 1915, House of Commons Parliamentary Papers Online, Cmd. 671. 8 Lloyd George: Memoirs of the Peace Conference, pp. 505– 6. 9 Manuel, Frank, ‘The Palestine question in Italian diplomacy, 1917– 1920’, The Journal of Modern History 27/3 (1955), p. 274. 10 According to Sykes-Picot, the area of Palestine west of the Jordan River and exclusive of Haifa and Acre was designated to be administered internationally. Once he became aware of this treaty, Sonnino wanted Italy to participate in the government of an internationalized Palestine. 11 Manuel: ‘The Palestine question in Italian diplomacy’, pp. 264–5.

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12 Strika, Vincenzo, ‘Le relazioni tra l’Italia e il Higaz (1916 – 1925)’, Storia Contemporanea 20/2 (1989), pp. 181– 2. 13 Letter from Salvago Raggi to Sonnino, dated 4 March 1917; Salvago Raggi to Sonnino, dated 10 March 1917; Sonnino to Imperiali, dated 19 March 1917. DDI, 5, vol. VII, pp. 315, 347– 8, 389. 14 Letter from Cadorna to Sonnino, dated 7 March 1917. DDI, 5, vol. VII, p. 328. 15 Minutes of War Cabinet meetings, 21 March 1917 and 30 March 1917, Cab 23/2, The National Archives [TNA]. The Chief of the Imperial General Staff, General William Robertson, did not think much of Italian fighting capabilities. 16 Lloyd George: Memoirs of the Peace Conference, pp. 508– 9. 17 Letter from Graham to the Italian Foreign Ministry, dated 9 April 1917. E3, racc. 151, cart no. 15, Archivio dell’Ufficio Storico dello Stato Maggiore dell’Esercito [AUSSME]. 18 Minerbi, Sergio, L’Italie et la Palestine 1914– 1920 (Paris: Presses Universitares de France, 1970), pp. 205– 6. 19 Letter from Sonnino to Cadorna, dated 15 June 1917, DDI, 5, vol. VIII, p. 226. 20 Collins, Carole, ‘Imperialism and Revolution in Libya’, MERIP Reports 27 (1974), p. 8; F. 1 ‘addetto militare a Londra: rapporti trasmessi nel 1916’, AUSSME, G29, racc. 69. In 1916 there were approximately 8,000 Italian troops in Eritrea and 3,000 in Somalia but the colonial authorities there also refused to relinquish men for the EEF. 21 Scipioni to Supreme Council at Versailles, 19 March 1918, cart. no. 12; War Minister to Comando Supremo, 20 April 1918 and memorandum, 16 July 1918, cart. no. 13; Pesenti to War Ministry, 25 September 1918, cart. no. 22, AUSSME, E3, racc. 151. 22 Minerbi: L’Italie et la Palestine, p. 208. 23 Letter from D’Agostino to War Ministry, dated 16 November 1917, AUSSME, E3, racc. 151, cart. no. 21. 24 Allenby, on the other hand, seems to have shared Robertson’s negative opinion regarding Italian fighting capabilities; indeed both were anxious about Italy’s ability to maintain control over Libya. Allenby to Robertson, 8 August 1917; Allenby to Robertson, 3 November 1917; Robertson to Allenby, 16 November 1917; Robertson to Allenby, 23 November 1917, in Matthew Hughes (ed.), Allenby in Palestine: The Middle East Correspondence of Field Marshal Viscount Allenby June 1917 – October 1919 (Stroud: Sutton Publishing, 2004), pp. 50, 73 – 4, 86 – 7, 95 – 6. 25 ‘Ingresso del Generale Allenby in Gerusalemme’, 11 December 1917, AUSSME, E3, racc. 151, cart no. 34. 26 Letter from Allenby to Robertson, 25 January 1918. Hughes (ed.): Allenby in Palestine, pp. 128– 9. 27 Diaz to President of the Council of Ministers, 27 July 1918, AUSSME, E3, racc. 151, cart. no. 51.

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28 Storrs, Ronald, Orientations (London: Ivor Nicholson & Watson, 1937), p. 348; Minerbi: L’Italie et la Palestine, pp. 216– 20; report written by Pesenti, 31 October 1918, AUSSME, E3, racc. 151, cart. no. 41. 29 Storrs: Orientations, p. 383. 30 The House of Savoy had claimed this title since the fifteenth century, as heirs of the royal family of Cyprus. 31 Minerbi, Itzhak, ‘The attempts of the Italian government to obtain possession of the Cenacolo on Mount Zion (1908– 1923)’, Katedra 25 (1982), pp. 37 – 64. 32 ‘Memorandum on the Cenacolo from the Consulta’, in Count de Salis to Curzon, 28 June 1920, India Office Records, L/PS/11/175/5278a. After leaving Turkey, Sultan Mehmed VI found refuge in Italy and died in San Remo in 1926. 33 Schanzer to Rome, 27 June 1922; Schanzer to Tosti di Valminuta, 30 June 1922; Schanzer to Rome, 4 July 1922, TNA, HW 12/36; ‘Notes of conversation’, 26 June 1922, TNA, FO 141/446/7; Levine, Lee I. (ed.), Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity and Islam (New York: Continuum, 1999), pp. 488– 9. 34 Minerbi: L’Italie et la Palestine, pp. 180– 5; Allenby to Robertson, 25 January 1918, in Hughes (ed.): Allenby in Palestine, pp. 128– 9; Lloyd George: Memoirs of the Peace Conference, pp. 751– 6; Storrs: Orientations, p. 350. 35 Manuel: ‘The Palestine Question in Italian Diplomacy’, p. 269. 36 Meinertzhagen, Richard, Middle East Diary (Jerusalem: Shikmona, 1973), pp. 58, 65 – 6; Weizmann to Curzon, 2 February 1920, The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann, vol. IX (Jerusalem: Israel University Press, 1977), pp. 297– 8. 37 Gabellini, Andrea, L’Italia e l’assetto della Palestine (1916 – 1924) (Firenze: Societa` per gli Studi sul Medio Oriente, 2000), p. 84. 38 Manuel: ‘The Palestine Question in Italian Diplomacy’, pp. 267–9, 278; Minerbi: L’Italie et la Palestine, pp. 141, 151; Minerbi, S. I., ‘Italian Diplomatic Activity Among Sephardic Jews, 1915– 1929’, Peamim 12 (1982), pp. 59 – 85. 39 Storrs: Orientations, p. 432. 40 Foreign Ministry to War Ministry, 30 October 1918, AUSSME, racc. 151, cart. no. 23. 41 Ferguson, Niall, Empire (London: Penguin, 2003), p. 313. 42 Howard, Michael, ‘The legacy of the First World War’, in R. Boyce and E.M. Robertson (eds.), Paths to War (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989), p. 36. 43 Lloyd George: Memoirs of the Peace Conference, p. 828. 44 Nitti, Francesco, The Decadence of Europe (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1923), p. 162. 45 Fromkin, David, A Peace to End All Peace: Creating the Modern Middle East, 1914– 1922 (London: Deutsch, 1989), pp. 392, 532; Seton-Watson: Italy from Liberalism to Fascism, p. 530. 46 Mussolini, Benito, Opera Omnia di Benito Mussolini, vol. XIII, Edoardo & Duilio Susmel (eds) (Firenze: la Fenice, 1954), pp. 88 – 9. 47 Grasselli, Ettore, L’esercito italiano in Francia e in Oriente (Milano: Corbaccio, 1934), p. 393.

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48 Ambrosini, Gaspare, ‘La politica araba dell’Inghilterra e della Francia in Palestina e in Siria’, Civilta fascista VI/8 (August 1939). 49 Pesenti, Gustavo, In Palestina e in Siria durante e dopo la Grande Guerra (Milano: L’eroica, 1932). See also: Giannini, Amedeo, L’ultima fase della questione orientale 1913– 1932 (Roma, 1933); Masi, C. ‘L’Italia et il Levante nella storia politica e diplomatica (1815– 1934)’, in T. Sillani (ed.), L’Italia e il Levante (Roma, 1934). 50 Pesenti: In Palestina e in Siria, p. 275. 51 Arielli, Nir, Fascist Italy and the Middle East, 1933 – 40 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2010).

CHAPTER 4 THE CONQUEST OF BEERSHEBA, 1917, REVISITED:THE CRUCIAL ROLE OF GERMAN AIR SQUADRON NO. 301 Benjamin Z. Kedar

The aerial theatre of operations during the battle for Beersheba on 31 October 1917 has not as yet been adequately examined. The most detailed account of British activities appears in Henry Albert Jones’ multi-volume history of the Royal Air Force during World War I. In the fifth volume, which appeared in 1935, Jones speaks at length about the efforts to prevent German aviators from becoming aware of the British moves against Beersheba. The British, who at this stage enjoyed clear superiority in the air, had pairs of aeroplanes continuously patrolling the Gaza– Khelasa line from 27 October onward. On 30 October, with the concentration of forces against Beersheba completed, a German two-seater managed to evade the fighter patrols and photograph the British deployment on the Beersheba flank, but on the way back it was shot down by a Bristol Fighter. The German pilot and observer were captured, along with their aerial photographs, maps and notes, and the German-Turkish command was deprived of critical intelligence that would have divulged the British aims. Jones also writes that the British aviators

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were ordered, on 29 October, to photograph the Turkish defences around Beersheba in their entirety so that the set of photographs would reach the XX Corps and the Desert Mounted Corps in the afternoon of that day, and to take another series on 30 October that was to reach the troops by 10 p.m., right before the attack on Beersheba that was to start in the early hours of 31 October. During that attack, the British Fifth (Corps) Wing – operating from aerodromes at Deir el-Balah and Weli Sheikh Nuran – was to cooperate with the artillery, send out contact patrols, and engage in tactical reconnaissance. The Fortieth (Army) Wing, operating from the same aerodromes, was to engage in strategical reconnaissance and photography, to protect the Corps’ aeroplanes against their German counterparts and prevent the latter from observing British progress. Jones writes that during the attack – which, he believes, took the Turks and the Germans completely by surprise – the British aviators time and again dropped messages that updated the commanders on the ground about the British advance, carried out 15 reconnaissance flights, and helped the artillery to silence five batteries. Jones does not spell out that the Fortieth (Army) Wing succeeded, on the day of the attack, in preventing the German aviators from reconnoitring the British advance;1 yet that is what he appears to have thought, for in a footnote he remarks that ‘there were seven encounters with enemy aeroplanes in the four days from the 28th to the 31th [of October], but the hostile pilots retreated’. Jones was probably influenced by Allenby’s despatch of 16 December 1917, according to which ‘the Turks at Beersheba were undoubtedly taken completely by surprise’,2 and by the statement of the commander of the Turkish-German Sinai Front that, already on 29 September 1917, ‘the mastery of the air has unfortunately for some weeks completely passed over to the British’. (The statement is quoted in the official British record of the Palestine campaign, published in 1919.)3 Jones may also have been influenced by the account of the New Zealanders’ activities in Sinai and Palestine that Lt.-Colonel C. Guy Powles published in 1922, which claims that the British aviators enjoyed a superiority that enabled them to keep the

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German aeroplanes away or to compel them ‘to fly so high that they apparently saw nothing’.4 Yet Jones attributed too many successes to the British. Had he read Henry S. Gullett’s book of 1923 on the Australian role in the Palestine campaign, he would have learned that, during the attack on Beersheba on 31 October, German airmen bombed the headquarters of Lt.-General Chauvel, commander of the Desert Mounted Corps, and of Major-General Chaytor, commander of the Australian and New Zealand Mounted Division, and caused significant damage. At 2.30 p.m. two German airplanes bombed and strafed the 8th Regiment of the Australian Light Horse, fatally wounding its commander, Lt.-Colonel Maygar, and causing other casualties. As a precaution against German bombing, the squadrons of BrigadierGeneral Grant’s Fourth Australian Light Horse Brigade were dispersed over a wide area; when, therefore, Grant was ordered at about 3 p.m. to launch the decisive mounted attack on Beersheba, it took about 90 minutes to assemble the squadrons for the charge. At 5 p.m., when the 9th Regiment of the Australian Light Horse was on the move near Tell es-Sab‘e (today Tel Sheva‘), a German aeroplane bombed it from an altitude of about 800 feet, killing 13 Australians and wounding 20, as well as killing 32 horses and wounding 26. The same plane then caused casualties among the New Zealanders.5 Archibald P. Wavell, who published his study of the Palestine campaign in 1928, also maintains – without going into detail – that ‘a large proportion of the casualties in the Desert Mounted Corps was due to air attack, and it was mainly because the squadrons had been scattered to escape from air attack that it took so long to collect Grant’s brigade for the final charge’.6 Similarly, Cyril Falls and A.F. Becke wrote in their authoritative 1930 history of the campaign that during the battle at Tell es-Sab‘e, German planes dropped bombs that ‘caused a good many casualties to the horses’ (emphasis mine); that upon the Tell’s conquest at 3 p.m., several German planes dived down and bombed it; and that Grant’s squadrons were not ready for the attack until 4.30 p.m. because they had previously been dispersed to escape German bombing.7

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Thus, despite the British air superiority, German aviators succeeded in bombing both headquarters and troops, and inflicting casualties on men and horses during the battle for Beersheba; moreover, the desire to minimize the effect of German air attacks entailed a considerable delay of Grant’s decisive charge into the town. And what about the British attempts to prevent the German aviators from discovering their preparations for the attack on Beersheba? Falls and Becke in 1930, and Wavell in 1940, claimed – like Jones – that only a single German airplane succeeded in observing the great flanking movement toward Beersheba and this, too, was shot down; they added that Bedouin agents nevertheless informed the Turks and the Germans about the advance of the British forces, allowing them to reach an accurate estimate of their disposition.8 However, General Friedrich Kress von Kressenstein, the commander of the Eighth Turkish Army, disclosed in 1938 that German aviators had been able to uncover the British preparations. On 29 October they reported a significant reinforcement of the British units facing Beersheba; moreover, a reconnaissance sortie on the morning of 31 October confirmed Bedouin reports that two British cavalry divisions had advanced during the night from Bir Ibn Turkiye to ‘Arara (today Nahal ‘Aro‘er). To counter this advance, Colonel Ismet Bey, the commander of the Third Turkish Corps, deployed his cavalry division on the heights north-east of Beersheba to prevent the town’s encirclement by the British. In addition, he positioned a regiment on Tell es-Sab‘e and attempted to close the undefended, 5-km gap between Tell es-Sab‘e and the end of the Turkish positions at Ras Ghannam (today Giv‘at Tzon, south-east of Beersheba) with the two regiments that constituted his last reserve.9 In other words, the German morning flight on 31 October played a significant role in thwarting the British plans. The attack on Beersheba from the east, intended to come as a total surprise, was brought to a halt for several hours by the Turkish regiment positioned on Tell es-Sab‘e and by other forces. The last-minute change in the Turkish disposition is borne out by a comparison of the British maps of the Beersheba region, prepared before the battle, on which the advance during 31 October was

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Figure 1 Printed British map of the Beersheba region, with handwritten entries marking the situation at 1.05 p.m. on 31 October 1917 (courtesy Prof. Peter Collier)

marked by hand at various points during the operation (see Figures 1 and 2), and the map of the region appearing in Wavell’s book of 1928.10 The pre-battle maps show Turkish trenches north, west and south of Beersheba, with no defences whatsoever between Ras Ghannam and a point north-east of the town, whereas Wavell’s postbattle map also shows trenches to the east and south-east of it. But is Kress’ claim of 1938, that a German reconnaissance flight on the morning of 31 October confirmed reports about the advance of two British cavalry divisions to ‘Arara during the previous night, to be given credence? In an earlier account, published in 1921, Kress claims that the main British attack was aimed at the well-defended south-western part of Beersheba’s defences, and that Ismet Bey repulsed it; that toward the evening of 31 October there were signs that the British were about to retreat but that a British cavalry unit – a brigade at the most – succeeded in breaking through the thin

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Figure 2 Printed British map of the Beersheba region, with handwritten entries marking the situation at 4 p.m. on 31 October 1917 (courtesy Prof. Peter Collier)

Turkish line south of the town [sic ]. Kress goes on to criticize Ismet Bey for having squandered all his reserves and for having deployed his mobile reserve – a cavalry division – on a height at the extremity of his left flank, which had not been attacked by the British at all. He does not mention a German reconnaissance flight.11 Could it be that at some point between 1921 and 1938 Kress obtained information about the flight and its repercussions? At any rate, Kress’ claim in 1938 about a German reconnaissance sortie on the morning of 31 October is confirmed by aerial photographs preserved in the Gustaf Dalman Institute of the ErnstMoritz-Arndt University at Greifswald. Gustaf Dalman was the first director, in the years 1902 –14, of the German Institute for the Study of the Holy Land established in Jerusalem in the wake of Wilhelm II’s visit in 1898. Dalman

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made significant contributions to the study of Palestine, and his multi-volume Arbeit und Sitte in Pala¨stina is still of major importance for students of traditional Arab society. He exhibited also a vivid interest in aerial photographs of the country, which, as he put it, allowed for ‘a proper acclimatization in the land of Jesus and the prophets’; and he published, in 1925, 100 aerial photos taken by German aviators during World War I.12 To prepare this book, as well as for other purposes, Dalman collected many hundreds of aerial photos, some copied from glass negatives preserved to this day in the Munich War Archives, others copied from originals kept in Potsdam (which did not survive World War II), as well as aerial photos copied from originals owned by former German pilots and aerial observers. From 1927 Dalman taught at the University of Greifswald, where the institute bearing his name was established a year earlier. His aerial photos, as well as his other collections, are meticulously preserved there. Dalman died in 1941.13 Dalman’s collection contains two copies of aerial photos that show areas south-east and south of Beersheba; they were taken from an altitude of 3,000 m at 7 a.m. on 31 October by a crew of German Air Squadron No. 301, which was then stationed at Ramleh.14 Although no troop movements are visible on these low-quality copies, they provide conclusive evidence that a German reconnaissance flight did take place on that morning over the area through which the British were advancing to ‘Arara, south-east of Beersheba. Evidently the German aviators observed that advance, and their report definitely confirmed information supplied by Bedouin agents somewhat earlier. Consequently, Colonel Ismet Bey redeployed his forces at Tell es-Sab‘e and elsewhere in the hitherto undefended area east of Beersheba, thereby thwarting the British plan to take the town by a surprise attack from that direction. So it came about that the battle for Tell es-Sab‘e significantly delayed the British advance and Beersheba had to be taken very late in the day by the renowned charge of Grant’s Fourth Australian Light Horse Brigade. Thus, the reconnaissance sortie of German Squadron No. 301 in the early morning of 31 October was of crucial importance in the battle for Beersheba.

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Figure 3 British cavalry, west of Wadi ‘Arara, riding northward at 3 p.m. on 31 October 1917 (Gustaf Dalman Collection)

The Dalman collection contains also a photo (Figure 3) taken at 3 p.m. on 31 October from an altitude of 3,500 m by another crew from Squadron 301, consisting of Oberleutnant von Blankenburg (observer) and Leutnant Lindenau (pilot).15 As the caption indicates, the photo shows Wadi ‘Arara; near the large bend of the wadi, close to the photo’s upper margin, is situated the Byar ‘Arara (today Be’erot ‘Aro‘er). On the back of the photo, Dalman wrote: ‘engl[ische] Kav [allerie]’ – that is, British cavalry – and one can indeed see, to the right of the photo’s centre, three roughly parallel lines of cavalrymen riding northward (that is, towards the bottom of the photo). It is noteworthy that during the night of 30 –31 October the Second Australian Light Horse Brigade of the Australian and New Zealand Mounted Division advanced along this route.16 The photo shows that additional forces used this route at a later stage of the advance on Beersheba. At 3 p.m. – that is, a few minutes before or after the previously described photo – the same Blankenburg/Lindenau crew took a

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Figure 4 British troops east of Tell es-Sab‘e at 3 p.m. on 31 October 1917 (Gustaf Dalman Collection)

shot that bears the caption ‘Tell es Seba’ (Figure 4). As noted above, Tell es-Sab‘e was taken at 3 p.m. Yet Dalman commented on the back of the photo that it shows an area a short distance east of the Tell, and that British horsemen and cannon are visible in it. Dalman was right: it is not Tell es-Sab‘e that appears on the photo, but Wadi Beersheba in the area of Bir Salim Abu Irqaiyiq, north of the present-day village of Nevatim. It was here that the New Zealand Mounted Rifles Brigade concentrated on the morning of 31 October before starting its advance on Tell es-Sab‘e.17 At 7 a.m. on the following morning – 1 November 1917 – the Blankenburg/Lindenau crew took a photo of recently conquered Beersheba from an altitude of 3,000 m (Figure 5). This photo as well as the previous ones attest that German aviators provided valuable information both during the attack on Beersheba and in its immediate aftermath. On 2 November 1917, at 7.30 a.m., a crew of German Squadron No. 303, stationed at at-Tineh (near present-day Kefar Menahem),

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Figure 5 Beersheba at 7 a.m. on 1 November 1917 (Gustaf Dalman Collection)

took a photo of the village of Dhahiriya on the road from Beersheba to Hebron.18 The photo (Figure 6), taken from the low altitude of 600 m, shows many people on the road and just east of it, near what appear to be barracks. It is probable that the photo documents a known event. On 30 October a detachment of 70 British camelry and some Arab scouts commanded by Lt.-Col. Newcombe undertook a deep outflanking movement from ‘Asluj to Es-Samu‘, south of Hebron. On the evening of 31 October the detachment took up positions on the Beersheba – Hebron road north of Dhahiriya, in an attempt to cut off the Turkish retreat from Beersheba. However, on the morning of 2 November the detachment came under attack by a force that moved southward from Hebron and by two companies that advanced northward from Dhahiriya. After losing 20 of his men, Newcombe decided to surrender.19 The photo taken by Squadron 303 at 7.30 a.m. on 2 November 1917 probably shows the two companies making ready to move from Dhahiriya against Newcombe’s detachment.

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Dhahiriya at 7.30 a.m. on 2 November 1917

Notes 1 Jones, H. A., The War in the Air – Being the Story of the Part Played in the Great War by the Royal Air Force, vol. 5 (Oxford, 1935), pp. 227, 235– 9. 2 A Brief Record of the Advance of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force under the Command of General Sir Edmund H.H. Allenby, G.C.B., G.C.M.G, July 1917 to October 1918 (London, 1919), p. 3. 3 Ibid., p. 112. 4 Powles, C. G., The New Zealanders in Sinai and Palestine (Auckland, 1922), p. 128. 5 Gullett, H. S., The Australian Imperial Force in Sinai and Palestine, 1914– 1918, The Official History of Australia in the War of 1914– 1918, vol. 7 (Sydney, 1923), pp. 394, 405-406. 6 Wavell, A. P., The Palestine Campaigns (London, 1928), p. 125. 7 Falls, C. and Becke, A. F., Military Operations Egypt & Palestine: From June 1917 to the End of the War (London, 1930), pp. 56 – 8. 8 Falls and Becke: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine, pp. 40 – 1; Wavell, A. P., Allenby: A Study in Greatness (London, 1940), p. 210. 9 Kress von Kressenstein, F. Frh., Mit den Tu¨rken zum Suezkanal (Berlin, 1938), pp. 274– 5, 277. Probably influenced by Falls and Becke, Kress writes (p. 278) that the bombing by German aviators caused heavy losses among the horses of the British cavalry.

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10 Wavell, The Palestine Campaigns, p. 114. 11 Kress von Kressenstein, F. Frh., ’Zwischen Kaukasus und Sinai,’ Jahrbuch des Bundes der Asienka¨mpfer Vol I (1921), p. 43. Such criticism of Ismet Bey had fallen into British hands by 1919. The report about the campaign published in that year quotes a German staff officer who wrote: ‘The battle control of the IIIrd Corps appeared deplorable; even before the announcement of the decisive infantry attack, all reserves had been thrown in.’ A Brief Record (see above, no. 2), facing Plate 5. 12 Dalman, G., Hundert deutsche Fliegerbilder aus Pala¨stina (Gu¨tersloh, 1925). 13 On Dalman see Ma¨nnchen, J. Gustaf Dalmans Leben und Wirken in der Bru¨dergemeine, fu¨r die Judenmission und an der Universita¨t Leipzig, 1855– 1902 (Abhandlungen des Deutschen Pala¨stina-Vereins, Wiesbaden, 1987); eadem, Gustaf Dalman als Pala¨stinawissenschaftler in Jerusalem und Greifswald, 1902– 1941 (Abhandlungen des Deutschen Pala¨stina-Vereins, Wiesbaden, 1993). It was the late Alex Carmel who brought Dalman’s collection of aerial photos to my attention. 14 Dalman’s collection of aerial photos, Greifswald, Envelope LVIII; photos No. 22, 23, taken by the crew Wegener-Reilh. 15 Dalman’s collection, Envelope LVIII, No. 24. 16 See Falls and Becke: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine, p. 52 and Sketch 3 opposite to p. 51. 17 Falls and Becke: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine, pp. 53, 55. 18 The photo formed part of the private collection of Prof. Karl Heinrich Rengstorf, a noted biblical scholar. His widow, Elisabeth, entrusted me with his collection, which I intend to deposit at the National Library of Israel, Jerusalem. 19 Falls and Becke: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine, pp. 54 – 5, 82 – 3.

CHAPTER 5 LOYALTY, INDIFFERENCE, TREASON: THE OTTOMAN— GERMAN EXPERIENCE IN PALESTINE DURING WORLD WAR I Tilman Lu¨dke

In 1956, on the reissue of his book Falih Rıfkı Atay, Zeytindag˘ı wrote down his observations about the Ottoman situation in Palestine during World War I: ‘“O¨lberg” – the German word. “Gabal-alZaytun”, the Arabic. There never was a Turkish Jerusalem.’1 Atay’s remark holds some interesting information for the student of Palestinian history in the final years of the Ottoman period. It seems to imply that by 1914 Turkism had already become an important aspect of Young Turk ideology. Thus, the Ottomans would have felt themselves to be ‘foreigners’ in the Arab provinces and, in turn, they would have been regarded as foreign occupiers by the local population. This would also mean that the Ottomans – meaning Ottoman official society – regarded themselves as ruling over a ‘colonized’ population, which would deeply influence their experiences in Palestine during World War I.

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This chapter analyses Ottoman policies towards Palestine during World War I, beginning with an assessment of the perception of Ottoman rule in the region before 1914 and continuing with the description of the consequences for Palestine of both Ottoman security measures and the economic impact of the war. Next, it gives an overview of the attitudes of the Palestinian population towards the conflict, and it finishes with an appraisal of the German role and experiences in the region. The argument is that, in most cases, the Ottoman authorities acquitted themselves well in Palestine during World War I. Ottoman control over the country was never seriously endangered before the British breakthrough at Bir Sab’a. The Ottoman authorities managed to preserve internal cohesion and stability without recourse to excessive violence or highly alienating measures. The one case of treacherous activities by inhabitants of Palestine, the Zionist intelligence organization NILI, was handled with remarkable leniency, no doubt in order to avoid upheaval in the Zionist community. Although the war caused severe hardships for the civilian population of Palestine, the country may still be presented as an example where comparably moderate and skilful policies preserved Ottoman rule in spite of its weakness in the region. The driving force behind these policies was, with little doubt, a sober appraisal of the multi-ethnic and multi-religious nature of the Palestinian population and the political consequences resulting thereof.

Ottoman Rule in Palestine before World War I By 1914 the European Great Powers frequently interfered in Ottoman internal affairs, but nowhere more frequently than in Palestine. The only territory which arguably attracted similar foreign interest was Lebanon. In both cases European powers justified their intervention with the existence of religious (predominantly Christian) minorities, which they claimed needed to be protected from the threat they were facing from the Muslim majority (and Muslim government). While European public opinion regarded Ottoman rule in Palestine as incompetent and blundering (at best) or

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bloodthirsty and tyrannical (at worst), the real situation in the country was highly complex. Both ethnically and religiously the population was extremely varied. Many inhabitants of Palestine carried foreign passports, or at least enjoyed foreign consular protection. Moreover, the Ottoman authorities faced grave difficulties even in peacetime, given their weakness in the Arab provinces (due to shortages of finance, manpower and mate´riel). The outbreak of the European war in August 1914, and the Ottoman entry into the war in November of that year, aggravated these difficulties even more. Both the internal complexity of the Palestinian population and the strategic location of Palestine called for shrewd handling by the Ottoman authorities. As a front-line area, Palestine had to be defended against outside attack. It also served as a forward base for operations against Egypt. Therefore, it was of the utmost importance to keep the peace between the different ethnic and religious communities. This strong interest in internal stability even prevented the Ottomans initially from pursuing Pan-Islamic propaganda in Palestine (in contrast to other territories in the empire), as they feared this propaganda might cause violence between Muslims and non-Muslims. However, as it will be seen, they would not be averse later to using the tension between the different ethnic and religious groups in Palestine as a tool of control, through the principle of ‘divide and rule’. It is not easy to assess how Ottoman rule was experienced in Palestine. However, although not all of the following examples involve Palestinians, they may throw some light on the perception of Ottoman rule by local populations in the Arab provinces before and during World War I. The implication is that, despite their material weakness, the Ottomans still managed to present themselves as tough and strong rulers: 1. After the Ottomans were driven out of Sinai by Britain in 1917, the local British governor A. C. Parker (known to the local Bedouin under the name of ‘Barkil Bey’) convened a number of tribal chiefs and asked them how they liked their new rulers. The

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answer was: ‘Very humane and fair. But not of our faith!’ ‘So you liked the Turks better?’ ‘Well, the Turks were of our faith. But, by God, they were tough!’2 2. A British local administrator, unable to satisfactorily tackle a group of petitioners in Arabic, switched over to Turkish because ‘it was the old imperial language and was employed with the result that they were quickly and easily cowed.’3 3. During the debates about the terms on which the ‘Arab Revolt’ was to be staged, ‘Abdallah explained to Ronald Storrs, Oriental Secretary of the British residence in Cairo, that British aid, both in materials and manpower, was essential’; for otherwise it was certain that ‘the Turks, who have 80,000 men with guns in Syria, would descend on us and wreak terrible vengeance.’4 An even more important question is whether Ottoman rule was perceived as ‘alien’ or ‘colonial’. There is evidence that, for both rulers and the ruled, this was indeed the case. In his impressive study of the establishment of Bir Sab’a as an Ottoman administrative centre in the first years of the twentieth century, Nimrod Luz underlines that Ottoman rule in the Arab provinces did have some colonialist aspects. Luz identifies ‘a kind of Ottoman imperialism that had no colonies but that generated, at certain places and at certain times, colonial situations’.5 By applying the concept of mental mapping to these encounters we come to a most revealing realization. What was important in the provinces of the Ottoman Empire – and not only in the Arab ones – was less what ‘the government’ (a nebulous and opaque entity, comparable to that of the Yiddish kejser) actually did do than what it might or could do. The experiences of the Ottomans and their German allies in Palestine during World War I seem to bear this out. The Ottoman Empire ruled its provinces not with ‘an iron fist’, but with a sand-filled velvet glove. At times, this glove was used to strike a forceful blow and thus its impact was experienced as quite harsh. At other times, the glove allowed utmost flexibility. By the outbreak of the war in 1914, the Ottoman government already had a long history

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of counterbalancing meagre resources with impressive diplomatic skills in order to rule. Many of these policies could be traced back to the days of Abdu¨lhamid II, if not before. As Engin Akarlı has shown, Sultan Abdu¨lhamid regularly prevented local governors in the Arab provinces from using force in order to settle accounts, compelling them to seek diplomatic solutions.6 This strategy of voluntarily limiting the state’s power appears to have been quite successful. It meant that the state, rather than imposing itself on a population averse to control, became a force to be reckoned with while at the same time showing itself as open for negotiation. In fact, as Eugene Rogan has proved, the state managed to turn itself into one party in the complicated makeup of the Palestinian population. In some areas the state did not only pursue ‘traditional policies’ – such as extraction of taxes and recruits for military service – but also provided security and protection for groups suffering under the aggression of others.7 Thus, in spite of limited resources, Ottoman policies managed to achieve two basic goals: first, they ensured loyalty to – or at least acquiescence in – Ottoman rule by the local population; second, they managed to preserve internal peace. This second point is, for example, underscored by the King-Crane report, which describes rather neatly and accurately the role of the Ottomans in the custody of the Holy Places: For four centuries the Turk has served as a guardian of the peace between Moslems, Christians and Jew, and even between the different sects of each in the Holy Land. Nor has his function been merely nominal: Being a foreigner and having upon himself the responsibility of government, he has on the whole maintained well the status quo, or policed slow and delicate changes in one direction or another.8 The Ottoman government also co-opted local notables in Palestine to increase its acceptance by the Palestinian population. Notables were frequently appointed to government office. Thus they enhanced their personal power by being allied with the state, and at the same time

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were ensured of a rather high degree of autonomy and representation for their constituent groups. Therefore, it could be argued that by 1914 relatively enlightened policies had established the Ottoman state quite firmly in Palestine, where it played an important role in shaping and regulating the complex network of relations between the sedentary and the nomadic, the rural and the urban and, sometimes, the native (Muslim and Christian) and the ‘foreign’ (Jewish/Zionists). This situation would be greatly upset by the outbreak of war. However, contrary to the traditional negative view of the Young Turks in general, and Cemal Pas
a in particular, a high degree of internal cohesion was still maintained in Palestine, and by no means through brute force alone. The security measures introduced after the outbreak of war, though remarkably successful, were not excessively strict (at least until quite late in the war). Despite this, relations between the Ottoman state and the local population during World War I were shaped less by political than by economic considerations. The war, particularly the Entente blockade of the Syrian coast, had grave repercussions for the fragile economy of Palestine and soon resulted in shortages and deprivation. As a result, the Palestinian population grew war-weary and increasingly came to resent the Ottoman government and its German allies for being responsible for the war – which in turn caused an intensification of Ottoman security measures. These measures and the effect of the war on the Palestinian economy thus deserve closer attention.

Ottoman Security Measures in Palestine during World War I The comparative leniency of the Ottomans with regard to security in Palestine seems to be borne out by the fact that motions to establish a gendarmerie force to control the coastline were not initiated until the uncovering of the NILI ring in mid-1917. Until then, the Ottoman administration seems to have based its policies on the idea that the Entente blockade existed as much to keep imports out as to keep people and goods in. To one German observer, Dr Curt Pru¨fer, this seemed insufficient. In a letter to his superiors, he advocated

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internment of all ‘aliens’ in Palestine, closure of all foreign possessions and a vigorous guarding of the coast. The German diplomat reaped little reward for his efforts: he was ordered to refrain from all recommendations of tough measures to the Ottoman government, as this might have negative effects on the German reputation in neutral countries.9 Ottoman internal security measures gradually became more restrictive as the war progressed. The first tightening of the reigns had already occurred in August 1914, immediately after the conclusion of the German – Ottoman alliance. Mobilization of the Ottoman army had followed suit, and a state of alert was announced in all Ottoman provinces. On 6 August 1914, the governor of Jerusalem informed the German consulate-general about a state of siege in the Sancak of Jerusalem. Henceforth the military authorities were to be responsible for the maintenance of public order. All German citizens and protege´s were ordered to avoid any action that ‘might be misunderstood’.10 The consulate recommended that all Germans in Palestine carry a passport at all times, and register all their travel plans with the Ottoman authorities.11 In November 1914 all foreigners in the Ottoman Empire were obliged to carry passports and obtain internal travel visas.12 The same month also saw the imposition of curfews in Jerusalem. Everyone was ordered to be off the streets by 8 p.m., while cafe´s, bars and restaurants had to close by 6 p.m.13 On 17 November, the authorities demanded the official registration of all Germans in Jerusalem. The German consulate noted that in Istanbul this measure had only been applied to the nationals of enemy powers, but was instructed by the German embassy in Istanbul to comply without official complaint.14 On the same day the Ottoman authorities imposed tough measures to prevent enemy propaganda. Any negative comment about official government news was henceforth liable to be punished by imprisonment.15 As early as August 1914, the Ottoman authorities in Palestine had begun to target Christian institutions, which were subjected to searches of property and sometimes confiscations of buildings for Ottoman military use. Many priests and monks, particularly

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Catholics, were evicted. The Ottoman government justified its harsh actions with reference to Catholics being under French protection. Some Christian institutions tried to counter these aggressive moves by appealing to the German diplomatic representatives in Palestine, which was sometimes successful.16 German diplomats also began to assume the responsibility for foreigners from neutral countries (such as, for example, Spaniards), which also occasionally led to clashes with the Ottoman authorities.17 An important measure was Ottoman postal censorship, which was enacted by a law of 5 Qanun al-Thani 1330 (early 1915). Interestingly, the conditions of censorship varied according to the religious community that the letter-writers belonged to. Letters to Ottoman destinations had to be in Arabic or Turkish; letters in French were first sent to Damascus for inspection. Muslims and Christians were allowed to write letters with destinations abroad in Turkish, Arabic, French, Italian, German, Greek Armenian or ‘American’, i.e. US English. The Jewish population, however, was only allowed to use Arabic, Turkish or French. Letters in other languages would, according to the director of the Jerusalem post office, not even be transported.18 By summer 1916, Ottoman security measures already included the deportation of suspected individuals to the interior of Palestine. German observers noted that these deportations occurred quite frequently. Often the deportees were not guilty of espionage or rendering assistance to the enemy, but were deported because they belonged to one of the minority groups which the Ottomans in general, and Cemal Pas
a in particular, increasingly suspected of harbouring anti-Ottoman sentiments. The observers also noted that this policy had grievous economic consequences, as the absence of the deportees forced them to neglect their agricultural holdings. The reduced or spoilt harvests further depleted the already scarce food supplies in the country.19 In early 1917 security regulations were tightened further. Travellers who wished to cross the boundaries of Ottoman vilayets had to obtain passports and visas from the authorities. The government reserved for itself the right to refuse permission to travel. The

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passports had a validity of one month, after which they had to be renewed, and had to be presented to the local police upon arrival at the specified destination. All in all, the increasing severity of security regulations indicates the resolution on the government’s part to supervise the internal movements of the Ottoman population more closely, which in turn suggests a deteriorating security situation – at least in the eyes of the Ottoman authorities.20

The Economic Impact of the War in Palestine According to Pappe´, Palestinian society up to the brink of World War I was a ‘society without politics’.21 This appears somewhat exaggerated, as political questions like the status of the Arab provinces in the Ottoman Empire or Zionist immigration were quite intensively discussed. However, by perusing German diplomatic reports it is possible to identify economics, not politics, as the most important element that shaped the Palestinian population’s attitude towards the war. The economic situation in Palestine, as in all the Arab provinces, was precarious insofar as these territories were dependent on the possibility of trade, namely on imports of foodstuffs. This problem was aggravated in Palestine by the fact that since the nineteenth century cash crops, mainly citrus fruit, had been increasingly cultivated to the detriment of food production. The outbreak of war thus had a serious impact upon the Palestinian economy. First, it led to the severance of economic ties with neighbouring Egypt. Second, after summer 1915 the French imposed a blockade on the Syrian coast which had a particularly detrimental effect on the Zionists. A German diplomat noted that, from then on, American warships, which had occasionally visited Syrian and Palestinian ports bringing financial and material aid, would be barred from calling in these harbours. Finally, the war very soon led to a serious shortage of fuel, which had repercussions for both transport (the Hejaz railway being the only effective means of keeping the Ottoman garrisons in the Hejaz supplied with manpower and mate´riel) and agriculture. The citrus groves depended

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on plentiful water that needed to be pumped up with the help of petrol engines, and consequently any lack of fuel endangered the crops. Short-term solutions were found for the fuel crisis, yet at a high cost in the long run: the lack of petrol for the pumping engines was overcome by the conversion of petrol engines to gas generators, initiated by the ingenuous Zionist engineer Leon Stein.22 However, these gas generators consumed wood in large quantities. Due to shortage of coal the Hejaz railway also soon had to be fuelled with wood. Altogether the excessive consumption of wood meant a shortage of cooking and heating fuel for the civilian population, and – it may safely be inferred – an ever-declining enthusiasm for the Ottoman war effort. This lack of enthusiasm had already been reported by German diplomats in Palestine, even in the early days of mobilization. Dr Curt Pru¨fer described the situation in no uncertain terms as early as late 1914. While the war had inevitably had a negative effect upon the Palestinian economy, the situation had been further aggravated by the incompetence and rapaciousness of the authorities: The unusually long duration of mobilisation, which removes the best individuals from the country without tangible benefits, the many cases of excessively rapacious requisitioning and the planless character of these requisitions have already greatly diminished any enthusiasm for the war, even if it is doubtful that such enthusiasm ever existed.23 Requisitions for the armed forces were indeed experienced as a great burden on and by the civilian population. Above and beyond their mere existence, the often brutal and aggressive manner in which they were carried out turned these requisitions into an increasingly grave danger to the political loyalty of the Palestinian population. On 9 January 1916, the German consul-general in Jerusalem, Dr Schmidt, described the local situation to his superiors in the German Embassy at Istanbul. He objected strongly to the Ottoman authorities’ intentions of obtaining wine and other luxury items for the German military units in Palestine through requisitions, as such an act would

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further damage the German reputation in Palestine. The consulgeneral reported that the originally pro-German attitude of the Arab population had been replaced by growing indifference, if not outright hostility. Many of the Arabs put the blame not on the Ottomans, but on the Germans, who stood accused of being ‘responsible for the war and all the sufferings it brought’.24 In the second half of the war the economic situation of Palestine deteriorated even further. By that time, in addition to the abovementioned problems, the recruitment of men for the war effort had led to a serious shortage of labour. In order to alleviate the situation, the Ottoman authorities changed their policies towards deserters. While desertion had previously been punishable by death, now deserters were offered pardons on condition of volunteering for the Ottoman war effort, usually without pay. Yet the potential benefits of this policy were partly obliterated by the rather erratic behaviour of local Ottoman authorities when it came to dealing with deserters. Private entrepreneurs, relying on deserters’ labour to keep their businesses running, frequently complained that these deserters were being recruited for military service despite the fact that both they and their employers had been given guarantees and official documents (i.e. passports exempting the bearer from military service) protecting their labourers from recruitment. It might be argued that the high number of deserters – the German proprietor of a wood-working enterprise reported ‘tens of thousands’ as early as 1916 – left the authorities with very few alternatives in order to fulfil the army’s demand for manpower, yet in doing so they severely damaged the Ottoman war effort.25 A German press article from early 1916 neatly sums up the situation in Palestine. While rejecting the view that the Syrian army was Falling apart, the author vividly described the economic deprivations of both the armed forces and the civilian population. Ammunition, foodstuffs, commodities like petrol, coal, cloth, drugs, fodder, sugar, leather, spirits or preserves: all had grown scarce. To make matters worse, hunger and shortages were beginning to have a disintegrating effect on the social fabric of Palestinian society: ‘incapable of meeting starvation by good economics’ the population

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had turned to begging, theft, raids and assaults. Disease due to malnourishment was rampant, and hunger-related deaths had become a daily occurrence.26 War deprivations forced the Palestinian population to rely increasingly on self-help in order to make up for the lack of imports. However, some groups in Palestine were better equipped to undertake these measures than others. The German and Zionist agricultural communities seem to have had access to greater resources than the local Arab population. Aaron Aaronsohn, the founder of the Zionist spy-ring NILI, affirmed that the living conditions of these groups tended to be better due to their higher degree of organization, greater intellectual and material resources, and the availability of some relief funds. Attempts to live off the land included the planting of castor oil plants in order to produce lubricants and the growth of plants usable as fuel.27 Yet even good organization and husbandry could not obliterate the fact that, in the course of the four years of war, Palestine was slowly but steadily drained of foodstuffs and commodities. Economic sufferings soured the relations between the Ottoman authorities and the local population. Yet this does not mean that the diverse elements of the Palestinian population grew altogether disloyal to the Ottoman state. In fact, pre-war conditions and experiences – which varied according to ethnic or religious affiliation – continued to influence the political stance of religious and ethnic groups in Palestine until the end of World War I and the end of the Ottoman era.

The Palestinian population during World War I: an overview Both Ottoman and foreign observers agreed that the ethnic makeup of Palestine in 1914 was predominantly Arab. Muslims made up some 90 per cent of this Arab population, while the rest were Christians of various confessions. Neither of these two groups had as yet been greatly influenced by Arab nationalist thought. Nevertheless, religious denomination had important repercussions for the attitude of the respective groups to the Ottoman state. In general, Muslims

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supported, or at least accepted, Ottoman rule and showed proOttoman sympathies, although they were anything but enthusiastic about the Ottoman entry into the war. The Arab Christians, on the other hand, were almost unanimously pro-Entente, particularly proFrench. German observers attributed this attitude to the strong presence of French cultural, educational and charitable institutions in the country. In any case, relations between Muslims and Christians appear to have been satisfactory, although tensions must have existed, as is illustrated by the cautious attitude of Ottoman officials to the proclamation of jihad. What set Palestine apart from other Ottoman territories was its Jewish population, which the Ottoman authorities seem to have regarded as foreign. Legally speaking this attitude was understandable, as most Jewish inhabitants of Palestine retained the nationality of one or another European power. Although, as already pointed out, the war was far from popular in Palestine, there were occasional expressions of popular rejoicing in the case of Ottoman, German or Austrian victories during the first months of the war. In August 1915 the German consul of Jaffa noted with satisfaction that ‘a crowd of several hundred’ assembled in front of the consulate and celebrated till the early hours. However, the Ottoman kaymakam swiftly dispelled any notion of this celebration being an outburst of popular enthusiasm. During a personal visit he informed the German consul that the festivities ‘had been ordered, just like those at the Ottoman entry into the war’.28 Unenthusiastic from the beginning, most of the Palestinian population became war-weary by the second half of the war. Yet in spite of Cemal Pas
a’s draconic measures against Arab notables suspected of treason in Syria and Lebanon, or the ‘Arab Revolt’, the Arab population retained a sullen neutrality, as is borne out by Falih Rıfkı Atay’s account of how Ottoman prisoners of war guarded by British soldiers were marched through a Palestinian village. The soldiers were received with ‘Long live the Turks!’ by the villagers until their British captors became visible, upon which the crowd roared ‘Long live the English!’29 However, the case was quite different when it came to foreigners in Palestine, who were from the

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beginning the focus of Ottoman security forces, and from whose ranks the only organization actively working against Ottoman interests was to rise. By the outbreak of World War I Palestine was arguably the part of the Ottoman Empire with the highest percentage of resident foreigners, that is, residents on Ottoman soil who were not Ottoman subjects. This was particularly true for the Zionist immigrants, most of whom refrained from taking Ottoman citizenship. Besides the Zionists, the Templars, a Swabian Protestant sect that had been immigrating to Palestine in the 1880s, still held German nationality. A third foreign community, quite numerous due to the religious and political importance ascribed to Palestine, were diplomats. Many scholars have demonstrated how, from the end of the nineteenth century onwards, increasing numbers of members of Ottoman minorities had successfully attempted to obtain various foreign citizenships in order to enjoy consular protection against what they felt to be menace or real danger from the Ottoman state. After the outbreak of the war, the situation was fairly simple with regard to those holding Entente citizenship: they were offered the choice to become Ottoman subjects or otherwise leave the country within a specified time. However, the German and Austrian citizens – there is evidence that many Jews in the Ottoman Empire, particularly in Palestine, held Austrian passports – were to become a bone of contention between the Ottoman authorities, on one side, and the German and Austrian on the other.30 The first requisitions hit the foreign communities particularly hard, as they generally belonged to the wealthier segments of the Palestinian population. As the war went on, their situation deteriorated further, especially after the imposition of the French blockade, which deprived the Zionists in particular of any relief. It was scant comfort that, as the German consul in Jaffa noted, the blockade also removed the danger of Jews with ‘foreign citizenship’ being deported to Egypt.31 This commentary suggests increasingly tense relations between the Zionists and the Ottoman authorities, who doubted – not entirely without reason – the loyalty of the Zionist community to the Ottoman state. Even before the blockade came into being, an

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Austrian observer ascribed sinister motives behind the foreign aid to the Zionists: they were to be enabled to colonize the country. Having done so, they would certainly welcome a foreign protectorate.32 However, far from being a monolithic body, the Zionists were split up into factions, which were sometimes bitterly opposed. On the one hand, the geographic origin of the Zionist settlers exerted a powerful influence on their political thinking. German diplomatic sources indicate that Deutschjuden (German Jews) and their institutions, supporting Germany, were severely criticized and attacked by proEntente Zionist groups and newspapers. In an exemplary case, the German consul at Jaffa, enquiring about the author of anti-German articles in the local paper Sawt al-Osmaniye, received an acid reply from the head of the Zionist organization of Jaffa, Dr Ruppin. The person in question (a certain Simeon Moyal) was described as a ‘mauvais sujet’ (scoundrel), who had ‘nothing to do with Zionism’. Dr Ruppin’s further explanations are also noteworthy: by writing anti-German articles, Moyal had intended to increase his standing not only with the Sephardic, but also with the Ashkenazi population. Two conclusions can be drawn from this small affair: first, that the different factions in the Zionist community fought one another bitterly; and second, that the majority of Ashkenazi Jews seems to have been anti-German.33 The Zionist community was also split into a loyalist camp (the majority), which accepted Ottoman rule over Palestine as long as it did not infringe upon the internal affairs of the Zionists, and a minority which did indeed support a European protectorate over the region. Yet even without showing hostility to the Ottoman state the Zionists were suspect in Ottoman eyes. The problem was not that they were Jews, nor that they had plans for large-scale settlement in Palestine. The bone of contention was the continued foreign nationality of most Zionist immigrants, by which they hoped to benefit from the consular protection accorded to foreigners in the Ottoman Empire under the capitulations. The Ottoman authorities feared the evolution of a large foreign population within Ottoman borders, which would give the European powers a further excuse for intervening in Ottoman internal affairs. Yet it was not the Ottoman

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authorities who put up the most determined resistance against Zionist plans, but the local population. The Ottoman habit of using local notables in an administrative function meant that, in some cases, these local notables, using their official functions, had opposed Zionist designs. An example was the case of Druze Amir Amin Arslan, who in the 1890s had managed to invalidate the sale to the Zionists of a large tract of land in the valley of Esdraelon, formerly belonging to the Sursuq family.34 However, in spite of all their misgivings, the Zionist population of Palestine was spared the fate suffered by other minority groups in the Ottoman Empire during World War I. While this has sometimes been ascribed to Cemal Pas
a’s Jewish wife, it seems more likely that the real reason for Ottoman restraint was the international attention paid to the fate of Zionists, either by Germany or, until 1917, the still-neutral United States. This seems borne out by the way in which Aaron Aaronsohn managed to extricate himself from Cemal Pas
a’s accusation of espionage for the British. To Cemal’s question: ‘What would you say if I hanged you?’, Aaronsohn replied: ‘I could say nothing, Excellency, but the weight of my heavy corpse would make the gallows crack so loud that the sound of it would reach America.’ Not only was Aaronsohn not hanged, but he was acquitted – and thus enabled to form the NILI spy-ring later in the war.35 Even when that spy ring was eventually uncovered, and despite the fears of the official Zionist leadership in Palestine, the Ottomans dealt with the case rather leniently. Two death sentences and prison terms at Damascus and Istanbul compared fairly favourably with the fate of 35 Arab notables hanged in Damascus and Beirut in 1915 – 16. No general punitive measures were taken against the Zionist population as a whole. This was probably due to Cemal Pas
a’s desire to avoid alienation from Ottoman rule in Palestine similar to that observable in other parts of Syria and Lebanon. The small scale of NILI (23 ‘active’ and 12 ‘passive’ members) also hardly merited the punishment of the entire Zionist community.36 Lastly – but perhaps most interestingly – there is an argument originating with an unexpected source. In 1917 Amir ‘Ali, of the London Muslim League, addressed the British Foreign Office over the issue of

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Zionism. Amir ‘Ali pointed out that the British support for Zionism was not only a ‘manifest injustice to the Arabs’, but also clashed with the British policy of undermining Ottoman internal cohesion. Threatened with a Zionist takeover, the Palestinian Arabs would in all likelihood be reconciled to Ottoman rule, which they would come to regard as the only hope for the survival of an Arab Palestine. If one accepts that logic, Cemal Pas
a would have had one more reason not to harm the Zionist community. If Arab fears of Zionism were strengthening Arab loyalties to the Ottoman state, then the continued existence of the Zionist community was obviously in the interest of the Ottomans. If Cemal Pas
a’s lenient treatment of the Zionists was indeed based upon such deliberations, the Syrian governor-general would have to be remembered not only as an authoritarian and at times brutal ruler, but also as a shrewd disciple of Macchiavelli.37 In spite of Ottoman restraint, many Zionists still regarded the treatment they received from the Ottoman authorities as harsh and oppressive. Like other non-Muslim groups, they partly fell victim to the new political orientation of the Young Turk government, which – having abandoned ‘Ottomanism’ as an integrating tool to bond a multi-ethnic and multi-religious population together – began to use Islam as social glue. At least during the first half of World War I the Ottoman government attempted to portray the war as a Muslim affair, not entirely without success. The proclamation of ‘Jihad-i Ekber’ on 14 November 1914 failed to have much effect beyond the boundaries of the Ottoman Empire, but did indeed create some popular support for the Ottoman war effort.38 The new Islamic ideology of the Ottoman state did have serious repercussions for non-Muslim groups within the empire. Their situation was further aggravated by two other factors: first, due to German material and financial support, the Ottoman state greatly increased its power and did not hesitate to use it against groups suspected of dubious loyalty. Second, the abrogation of the Capitulations, and the war situation in general, vastly decreased foreign intervention in Ottoman internal affairs and gave the Ottoman state more independence than it had possessed for decades.

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State-orchestrated internal violence became a possibility – and in the Armenian-populated areas of Anatolia a reality. Non-Muslims groups began to fear for their continued existence once the news of the Armenian genocide became known in all parts of the empire. Even if in most parts of the empire such drastic fears did not materialize, the daily lives of non-Muslims generally became harder once the war had broken out. They were often harassed by the authorities and local Ottoman officials, both military and civilian, apparently saw little difference between friend and foe when it came to bullying individuals. A report by the German consul of Jaffa about the kaymakam slapping a young German is mirrored by a letter from the director of a Protestant orphanage in Jerusalem to the German consulate-general. It described the experiences of the mukhtar of the Arab Protestant congregation, who was slapped and insulted by an Ottoman officer as answer to a polite enquiry. While this might simply have been a case of abuse of power, it seems important that the beaten mukhtar was a Christian, indicating an increasingly aggressive policy of the Ottoman authorities with regard to non-Muslims.39 There is even evidence that the fears of massive violence against nonMuslim communities were not entirely exaggerated. Cemal Pas
a – a beˆte noire, interestingly, for both Arab nationalist and Zionist historiography – was reported to have remarked grimly after the execution of the Arab notables in Damascus and Beirut: ‘This was only the hors d’oeuvres. Now I shall run to hear the cries of those damned Jews, if a few of them were hung.’40 The expulsion of the Jewish population of Jaffa in late 1916 also boded ill for the Zionists and other non-Muslim communities. Once again a Macchiavellian, Cemal Pas
a appears to have used the expulsion to create greater Arab sympathy for the Ottomans by allowing widespread looting. Thus the action seemed to reduce the danger from Zionist espionage, improve the economic situation for the Arabs, and finally increase the tension between the different ethnic and religious groups in Palestine, making the task of controlling them easier through ‘divide and rule’. Aaronsohn noted with great dismay how the evacuation of Jewish Jaffa had included widespread plunder. Lynchings had also

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occurred, as ‘two Yemeni Jews found hanging in trees were the only Jews remaining in Jaffa’.41 However, the relief afforded by the expulsion of the Jewish community of Jaffa proved temporary. While German pressure on the Syrian governor-general probably played a role, Cemal Pas
a himself seems to have come to regard his harsh policies as a failure. In January 1917, after his return from Istanbul, he announced his intention ‘to assume a more conciliatory attitude to the Syrian Arab population and to attempt a peaceful solution to the Hijaz crisis’.42 While saying nothing about Cemal Pas
a’s true feelings, this statement at least betrays a realization that excessive brutality coupled with the lack of corresponding force was a dangerous mix for Ottoman rule in Syria and Palestine. If so, this realization came too late for Ottoman reputation in the region, and to this day some of the odium still lingers over Ottoman rule in Palestine in World War I. The anti-Jewish measures of Jaffa formed an important part of enemy propaganda against Ottoman ‘tyranny’, and were therefore taken up by the German press. Aaronsohn noted that German Jewish and gentile newspapers, such as the Ju¨dische Rundschau and the Frankfurter Zeitung, had denied the atrocities and that Cemal Pas
a had called for a consular commission and three prominent German Jews to make an investigation of the matter. However, the damage was done. Aaronsohn gleefully expressed his satisfaction that ‘we did well to make a big fuss’.43 Arab nationalist historiography has also accused the Ottomans of cruelty and brutality against all non-Turks, thus deliberately bringing about the Arab revolt – which consequently is interpreted as a fight for survival, not as treason.44 Consequently, Cemal Pas
a’s attempts to create a sense of unity between Turks and Arabs on the grounds of Muslim solidarity would have ended in failure – a view borne out by some Turkish authors with first-hand experience in the Arab provinces during World War I.45 Arguably, conditions in Palestine during World War I were neither better nor worse than in other regions of the Ottoman Empire, as far as relations between rulers and ruled were concerned. The government was resented for two main reasons: first, as the

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leveller of taxation, which people were highly unwilling to pay. Requisitioning after the outbreak of the war aggravated this antipathy, as did the introduction of paper currency, which was (soon rightfully) regarded as worthless. Second, the government imposed compulsory military service. The removal of young men from their families (thereby depriving the families of their labour) was bitterly resented, and its extension to non-Muslims after 1909 even more so. But the general attitude to the Ottoman Empire in general, and to the Ottoman war effort in particular, was one of indifference, turning into increasing apprehension and war-weariness as the war went on. Political interests appear to have been of very little importance, much to the chagrin of German diplomats trying to instigate enthusiasm for the war in the local population. This was not the least of the factors that made the German experience in Palestine during World War I a less than happy one.

The German experience in Palestine during World War I Scholarly and popular literature, from the time of World War I until today, often gives the Germans full marks for having been first-class villains in the Middle East during that period. This literature accuses the Germans building up their power cunningly in the Ottoman Empire, forcing it into an alliance, tricking it into war, then holding it in an ‘iron grip’, stirring up the Ottoman government and local authorities into all sorts of hideously brutal and violent acts and profiting shamelessly from the sufferings of their naive ally, who had been too dull to see through these evil German designs. The reaction of German diplomats, soldiers, missionaries and civilians then living or working in the Ottoman Empire to such a characterization would have been a bitter laugh. Most of them knew from the beginning – or found out very quickly – that the Ottoman Empire, and more particularly the Young Turk government, was the real beneficiary of the German– Ottoman alliance. It might be argued that the Young Turks got the spoils of the alliance, and the Germans received the blame. Curiously, this allotment of guilt to the Germans was shared by many interested parties. Pro-Ottoman writers, such as

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Ahmet Emin Yalman, wrote about the German use of ‘trickery’ to draw the Ottoman Empire into the war.46 Anti-Ottoman writers, like Alexander Aaronsohn, brother of the founder of the NILI espionage circle, justified his organization’s treacherous activity with that same German – Ottoman alliance: the Zionists, Aaronsohn maintained, had been prepared to ‘serve the Turks loyally, but when they cast in their lot with the Germans, a number of Zionists got together and came to the conclusion that the German-Turkish hold on Palestine must be broken forever.’47 Needless to say, the real story was rather different. In fact, the Germans were only the third (according to some sources the fourth) of the Great Powers to be asked for an alliance by the Ottomans.48 Initially, the Ottoman offer of alliance reaped the same reaction in Germany as in other European nations (Russia, France, and Britain), but was finally accepted. The Germans were to find out very soon that their new ally had no intention of being bullied into subservience, to the effect that German soldiers and officials in Palestine would have found the frequently-occurring term ‘German Masters of the Ottomans’ ludicrous. The German attitude towards the three religious groups in Palestine – Muslim, Christian and Jewish – seems to have been a mixed one during World War I. The Muslim population posed the least problems. It was described as ‘pro-Ottoman’ (and therefore, in the German view, pro-German – in fact, the German consul at Jaffa even hinted that the local Muslim population might have been more pro-German than pro-Ottoman). The Christian population was called ‘irredeemably pro-French’, but the German consul-general at Jerusalem soon knew how to deal with that. In a report to Berlin, he described his successful method of dealing with the local Christians, who had openly ‘expressed their hatred against Germany and the Ottoman Empire’. The consul let the Christians of Jaffa know that, due to his own good services, a massacre of Christians had, until then, been prevented. However, the consul also pointed out that it would hardly be his responsibility if ‘some Muslim fanatics were to cut their throats if they did not guard their tongues better in the future’. Dr Brode also noted that German and Ottoman propaganda in

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Palestine should direct itself against Britain, which had ‘many followers in Palestine due to the proximity of Egypt and the propaganda of the Arab Decentralisation Party’.49 According to the same report, relations between German diplomatic representations and the local Ottoman authorities were generally good. However, there were also altercations. Dr Brode reported the necessity to take steps against the Ottoman kaymakam of Jaffa, for he had slapped a young German. The steps appear to have been successful, for the kaymakam had in the meantime become the very example of amiability. The German consul asserted that such behaviour – unthinkable in the past – was due to the abrogation of the Capitulations.50 The report is a good example of the German attitude to the Zionists. Dr Brode decided to use the Jewish hatred against Russia as the mainstay of German propaganda. After the outbreak of war, many Russian Jews had in principle become ‘enemy aliens’. The German consul advocated their application for Ottoman citizenship, which many Jews in Palestine appear to have done. He also attempted to prevent harassment of the Jews by the Ottoman authorities, though not for love of the Jews: in his concluding remarks, Dr. Brode pointed out that ‘every service done for the Palestinian Jews would find a friendly echo with international Jewry and thus benefit German reputation in neutral countries’.51 In order to influence the local Jewish population, the Germans managed to convince – by economic pressure – some local Jewish newspapers, especially the Hacheruth, to switch their position from pro-British/French to pro-German. Even without the tensions created by German intervention on behalf of non-Muslims or foreigners, Ottoman– German relations were far from cordial. There were numerous examples of overbearing Germans clashing with easily-insulted Ottoman officers and officials. Apart from that, it soon became obvious that Ottoman and German war aims were by no means the same. Rather than a genuine alliance of ‘brothers in arms’, the alliance seems to have been an attempt at mutual exploitation. As the war progressed, matters went from bad to worse. Just how bad Ottoman– German relations on the ground were is amply proved by a long report from the Austrian– Hungarian

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liaison officer to the IV Ottoman Army Corps, Baron Latscher, to the Austro-Hungarian military representative in Constantinople, Josef Pomiankowski, dated 29 September 1916. According to Latscher, the fault lay predominantly with the Germans, who, as individuals, were often unqualified for a task requiring tact and ‘intercultural competence’. While Ottoman soldiers did not take kindly to being pressed into ‘Prussian discipline’, Ottoman officers rather concentrated on possible German political – i.e. territorial – aspirations in the Middle East. Relations were bad enough to force intervention from high-ranking Ottoman and German commanders, such as Kress von Kressenstein and Cemal Pas
a. The latter, in a speech held before the departing second Suez Canal Expedition, had exhorted the Ottoman soldiers to regard the Germans as their ‘dear brothers’. In the course of the expedition, Kress himself had done his best to prevent such positive feelings from emerging by ordering German machine-gunners to fire on Ottoman troops surrendering without a fight. Baron Latscher summed up with the fairly drastic statement that ‘most Ottoman officers wanted the Germans to go to the devil’. If matters were bad in the armed forces, they were not much better where the relations of German diplomats with Ottoman authorities were concerned. While some – such as Consul Loytved-Hardegg in Damascus – showed supreme aptitude for their difficult task (Latscher praised Loytved – Hardegg as ‘a true Levantine’), others behaved with little tact and diplomacy. Both German soldiers and diplomats were often accused of behaving as they would ‘in one of their colonies’, which naturally the Ottomans strongly resented.52 By a later period in the war, many Germans were not only being accused of impoliteness and colonialist attitudes but of outright cowardice, seeking safe and cosy positions in the Middle East rather than facing death on the battlefields of France. They were envied by their Ottoman counterparts for enjoying higher pay and for serving under better conditions.53 Yet what put the greatest obstacles in the way of good Ottoman– German relations on the ground was the growing Ottoman apprehension of possible German colonial aims in the Middle East. In June 1915 Kress wrote to Dr Pru¨fer that, in spite of the failure of

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the first Suez Canal Expedition, the situation was by no means hopeless. For a renewed attempt, however, Kress called for a stronger Austro-Hungarian involvement in order to alleviate Ottoman apprehensions that the attacks on the Suez Canal were only meant to serve German, not Ottoman, interests.54 Kress’s recommendation is all the more noteworthy as it was the Austrians rather than the Germans who were pursuing political interests in Palestine. In his reports to Vienna, Pomiankowski expressed quite openly that he was ‘working in order to turn the [Austro-Hungarian] monarchy into the dominant outside power in the Ottoman Empire’.55 Other sources also point to Austro-Hungarian designs on Palestine. However, it was certainly true that Germans and Ottomans did not see eye to eye when it came to the future of the Ottoman Empire. Late in 1915, Aaron Aaronsohn noted that a second expedition to the Suez Canal seemed to have been abandoned. The German colony, Aaronsohn noted amusedly, was ‘busy finding reasons why it was better to abstain from an offensive against the British in Egypt, a condition which it seemed to them would provide greater security for the German interests in the future than if the Turks managed to regain possession for themselves’.56 Such sentiments had also been expressed by the German ambassador in Istanbul, Baron Wangenheim, to his American counterpart Morgenthau as early as November 1914, pointing to highly different German and Ottoman war aims – an issue which, however, exceeds the scope of this chapter.

Conclusion World War I was a traumatic event for all peoples and states in the Middle East. Although Palestine was spared its worst ravages – it experienced neither mass starvation (as Syria and Lebanon) nor genocide (as the Armenians) – the economic deprivation caused by the war, coupled with increasingly harsh Ottoman security measures, effected a growing alienation of the Palestinian population, especially its non-Muslim segment, from Ottoman rule. However, the majority of the inhabitants of Palestine remained loyal, or at least indifferently neutral, during the war years. Propaganda intending to make the

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Palestinian Arabs join the ‘Arab revolt’ fell on deaf ears. On the other hand, Aaron Aaronsohn’s NILI spy ring, intended to aid the British in the speedy conquest of Palestine in order to save the Zionist community from an expected genocide, was regarded as a dangerous and reckless undertaking by the majority of the Zionists. The Ottoman government, while sometimes overreacting to perceived threats, in general managed the situation skilfully and thus prevented mass rebellions. While the Ottomans managed to keep the population by and large quiet and loyal, they also managed their German allies with skill and cunning – much to German chagrin. Largely due to cultural differences Ottoman–German relations in Palestine were by no means cordial, even early in the war. As the war dragged on, the Ottomans became increasingly apprehensive of possible German territorial designs on Palestine, if not on the entire Middle East. However, in spite of considerable pressure and its dependency on supplies from the Central Powers, the Ottomans largely managed to run their own show and successfully countered any attempts by the Germans to become ‘masters of the Ottomans’.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

6 7 8 9

Falih Rıfkı Atay, Zeytindag˘ı, (Istanbul, 1981), p. 6. Gilbar, Gad G., Ottoman Palestine 1800– 1914 (Leiden, 1990), p. 332. Quoted in Brown, Carl L., Imperial Legacy (London, 1996), p. 6. Storrs, Ronald, Orientations (London, 1945), p. 178. Luz, Nimrod, ‘The re-making of Bersheeba: winds of change in the late Ottoman Sultanate’ in Weismann, Itchak and Fruma Zachs (eds.), Ottoman Reform and Muslim Regeneration: Studies in Honour of Butros Abu-Manneh (London, 2005), p. 205. Akarlı, Engin, ‘Abdu¨lhamid II’s attempt to integrate Arabs into the Ottoman system’ in Kushner, David (ed.), Palestine in the Late Ottoman Period: Political, Social and Economic Transformation (Jerusalem, 1986), p. 82. See Rogan, Eugene, Frontiers of the State in the Late Ottoman Empire (Cambridge, 1999). The King-Crane Commission Report, section I, point 5: ‘The Area under British Occupation (O.E.T.A. South): “Custody of the Holy Places”.’ 28 August 1919, from http://www.cc.ukans.edu/,kansite/ww_one/docs/kncr.htm See Friedman, Isaiah, Germany, Turkey and Zionism 1914– 1918 (Oxford, 1977).

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10 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R157 III F82 – 90, Jerusalem, 6 August 1914, German Consul-General Schmidt to German Embassy, Istanbul. 11 Ibid., Jerusalem, 1 September 1914. 12 Ibid., Jerusalem, 13 November 1914. 13 Ibid., Jerusalem, 5 November 1914. 14 Ibid., Jerusalem, 17 November 1914. 15 Ibid., Jerusalem, 17 November 1914. 16 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde: File R14600, Document number 3222: Letter of P. Seraphim Cimino, Custodian of Custodia di Terra Santa, Jerusalem, to German Consul, Jerusalem, 25 November 1914; Document No. 3396, letter of Cimino to German Consul, Jerusalem, 4 December 1914; File R157 III F82 – 90, German Consulates in Palestine, Report about search of “Couvent Sant Sauveur” in Jerusalem by the Ottoman Police, Jerusalem, 23 November 1914. 17 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R157 III F 82 – 90, German Consulates in Palestine, Jerusalem, 29 November 1914, Consul-General Schmidt to German Embassy, Istanbul. 18 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R157 III F 82 – 90, Jerusalem, 5 Qanun al-Thani 1330. 19 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R14606, Letter of Julius Aberle, director of the Jaffa Branch of Deutsche Pala¨stinabank to director-general of Deutsche Pala¨stina-Bank, Berlin, Jaffa, 29 August 1914. See also File R14606, Document Number Kno.94/J. No.1474, Consular Report of Schabinger, German Consul, Jaffa to German Consulate-General, Jerusalem, Jaffa, 24 August 1916. 20 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R157 III F882 –908, German Consulates in Palestine, Translation of law concerning passports for internal travel in the Ottoman Empire of 20. Sefer 1335, 9 January 1917. 21 Pappe´, Ilan, A History of Modern Palestine: One Land, Two Peoples (Cambridge, 2006), p. 23. 22 Avitzur, Shmuel, ‘The L. Stein factory: early attempts to establish a modern industry’ in Dilbar: Ottoman Palestine 1800– 1914, p. 174. 23 Politisches Archiv des Auswa¨rtigen Amtes, Berlin, File R 21,126, Document No. A32932 1914, Report of Dr. Pru¨fer, Damascus, concerning the attitude of the Syrian population to German Embassy, Istanbul, Damascus, 3 November 1914. 24 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R157 III F 473 – 482, German Consulates in Palestine, Letter by German Consul-General, Jerusalem to German Embassy, Istanbul, Jerusalem, 9 January 1916. 25 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R14,642, Document Number 2461, Letter of Thimotheus Lange (Business director of A. Duc & Cie., Nachf., Haifa), to German Consulate-General, Jerusalem, 18 October 1916. 26 Baer, Vo¨lkerkrieg, 11. Band, Drittes Kriegshalbjahr, August 1915– Februar 1916, II: Die Ereignisse an der italienischen Front, in Italien, auf den tu¨rkischen Kriegsschaupla¨tzen sowie in der Tu¨rkei, in Persien und in Marokko, p. 320.

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27 Verrier, Anthony (ed.), Walther Gribbon: Agents of Empire. Anglo-Zionist Intelligence Operations 1915– 1919: Brigadier Walther Gribbon, Aaron Aaronsohn and the NILI Ring (London, 1995), p. 139. 28 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R14,603, document number 1829, Report of German Consul, Jaffa to German Consulate-General, Jerusalem, Jaffa, 10 Augsut 1915. 29 Atay: Zeytindag˘ı, p. 71. 30 Kriegsarchiv Wien, K.u.k. Geb.-Div. V. Marno, 1917 Pra¨s. 47 – 11/7, Report by Reserve Lieutenant Hoffer about observations in the economic, social and political area in Turkey 1916– 17 and the perspectives resulting thereof for Austria – Hungary, Constantinople, 2 June 1917, p. 21. 31 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R157 III F-82–90, Jaffa, 27 August 1915. 32 Ibid., p. 23. 33 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R157 III F-82– 90: German Consulates in Palestine: German Consul Jaffa to German Consulate-General, Jerusalem, Jaffa, 30 August 1915. 34 Haddad, William and William Ochsenwald (eds), Nationalism in a NonNationalist Empire (Columbus, 1977), p. 268. 35 Verrier, Agents of Empire, p. 116 36 Although NILI was soon forgotten after the end of the war, it was resurrected for an unedifying use in 1934: that of anti-Semitic Nazi propaganda. In that year the Bodung publishing house of Erfurt published a booklet ‘Die scho¨ne Simi Simon – die Mata Hari der syrischen Front’ (‘Beautiful Simi Simon – the Mata Hari of the Syrian Front’). The supposed author is Cevat Rifat Bey, a former Ottoman intelligence officer, whose work is ‘translated’ into German by a certain ‘Professor M.M’. The booklet deals with ‘Jewish Espionage in Syria during the First World War’, represented by a beautiful society girl (Simi Simon) in Damascus, who eventually is uncovered by the author’s diligent work. She is, however, only one member of a ‘vast network of Jewish spies’ in Greater Syria – all of whom get their just punishment at the end of the booklet. Although some historical figures appear, including Aaron Aaronsohn, the propagandistic intention of the booklet is clearly evidenced by the mass of antiSemitic invective and the large number of factual inaccuracies, which occasionally border on the ludicrous. This was one of the few cases in which NILI was remembered and used for a political aim – even if that aim was contrary to that pursued by NILI’s founders. 37 Abbasi, M. Yusuf, The London Muslim League 1908– 1929 (Islamabad, 1974), p. 343. 38 See Yalman, Ahmet Emin, Turkey in the World War (New Haven, 1930). 39 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File 14,005, Letter of Theodor Schneller, Director of Syrisches Waisenhaus to German Consulate-General, Jerusalem, 6 January 1915. 40 Verrier, Agents of Empire, p. 129.

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41 Aaron Aaronsohn’s diary entry for Thursday 19 April 1917, Port Said, Cairo. Quoted in Verrier: Agents of Empire, p. 255. 42 Kriegsarchiv Vienna, File 47 – 1/7, 18917 Pra¨s., Report of Austrian – Hungarian military representative, Istanbul to Austrian-Hungarian Chief of the General Staff, Istanbul, 6 January 1917. 43 Aaron Aaronsohn’s diary entry of Thursday 7 June 1917. Quoted in Verrier: Agents of Empire, p. 272. 44 See, for example, Antonius, George, The Arab Awakening (London, 1938). 45 See Stoddard, Philip H., The Ottoman Government and the Arabs: a Preliminary Study of the Tes
kilat-i Mahsusa, unpublished Ph.D. thesis (Princeton, 1963), p. 41: Es
ref Kus
cubas
ı (Field Director of the T-i M.) about the Pan-Islamic propaganda campaign and reasons for its failure. 46 See Yalman: Turkey in the World War. 47 Verrier, Agents of Empire, p. 307. 48 This third offer of alliance is elusive. It stands documented that Talat Bey offered alliance to Russia (to be rejected), and that Cemal Pas
a offered alliance to France (rejected), but evidence of the offer of alliance to Britain has, to my knowledge, not surfaced to this day. 49 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, File R14001, Document No. 3508/14, Report of Dr Brode, German Consul Jaffa to German Consulate-General, Jerusalem, Jaffa, 11 December 1914. 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid. 52 Kriegsarchiv Vienna, File 47 – 1/78, Nr. 143 res., Report by captain Baron Latscher, Austro-Hungarian liaison officer to IV Ottoman Army, to AustroHungarian military representative, Istanbul, Bir Sab’a, 29 September 1916. 53 Verrier: Agents of Empire, p. 125. This information was largely taken from articles written by Aaron Aaronsohn’s brother Alexander in the Egyptian Gazette. The Aaronsohns, at that time attempting to convince the British of the existence of deep rifts between the Ottomans and the Germans, may have exaggerated in order to serve their purposes, but the basic information nevertheless has the ring of truth. 54 Politisches Archiv des Auswa¨rtigen Amtes, Berlin, File R21134, Document No. A18843, Pera, 8 June 1915: Report of Dr Pru¨fer, Jerusalem, 19 May 1915, forwarded by German Ambassador Istanbul to Imperial Chancellor BethmannHollweg. 55 See Tarek-Fischer, Robert, O¨sterreich-Ungarns Kampf um das Heilige Land: Kaiserliche Pala¨stinapolitik im Ersten Weltkrieg (Frankfurt/Berlin, 2004). 56 Verrier, Agents of Empire, p. 141.

CHAPTER 6 FIELD MARSHAL VISCOUNT ALLENBY: ONE OF THE GREAT CAPTAINS OF HISTORY? Matthew Hughes

On 9 April 1917, General Sir Edmund Allenby’s Third Army on the Western Front launched the Battle of Arras. Considerable initial success quickly evaporated, and by 11 April the British had stalled due to the Germans’ defence-in-depth system. Allenby’s only major offensive as an army commander on the Western Front then became an attritional struggle along both banks of the River Scarpe that continued into May 1917 with heavy casualties for little ground gained. In early June 1917, Britain’s War Cabinet relieved Allenby of command of the Third Army and sent him to Palestine to take charge of the British-led Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF). Seeing this move as a demotion and proof that he had failed at Arras, a ‘desolate’ Allenby motored over to see the Hon. Sir Julian Byng – commander of the Canadian Corps and the man who would take charge of Third Army once Allenby had gone – where ‘he broke down very badly’.1 Yet once in Palestine Allenby was so successful, conquering the whole of the Levant region by October 1918, that at the war’s end he was rewarded with a field-marshal’s baton, a viscountcy, the post of High Commissioner in Egypt and £50,000 voted to him by Parliament.

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Rather like Byng, who went on to become Governor-General of Canada after the war, Allenby is best remembered for what he did outside of the Western Front. The Palestine campaign turned Allenby’s career around and made his name. It also overshadows his time in France where he struggled as commander of the Third Army. Without the move to the Middle East, Allenby would surely have ended the war as a prematurely dismissed or castigated commander, someone who had done little except throw away his men’s lives for no tangible gain in the latter phases of the Battle of Arras. In his assessment of Allenby, Sir Henry Gullett, Australia’s official historian of the Palestine campaign, paints an unflattering picture of the man: In any estimate of Allenby as a great General, consideration must be given to his overwhelming force and to the wretched morale and physical condition of the enemy [. . .]. Allenby certainly made the very most of his opportunity but any general with qualities above mediocre must have won decisive success. Allenby’s only claim to rank with the great captains lies in the fact that he exploited his opportunity to its extreme limit.2 Certainly, Allenby’s career before moving to Palestine had not been auspicious. Indeed, his reputation rested as much on his temper as it did on his military acumen, the former earning him the nickname ‘the Bull’. Sir Hubert Gough, Allenby’s chief staff officer when he was inspector-general of cavalry before the war, recalled that Allenby had a ‘great regard for regulations and all sort of detail’ and that if he saw any neglect of detail or orders when inspecting a unit he was liable to explode.3 Cavalrymen who neglected to do up their chinstraps would feel the full weight of Allenby’s concern with obeying all orders to the letter. While Allenby had been an easy-going young officer and a good-humoured squadron leader, he was a strict colonel, an irascible brigadier and an explosive general.4 Field command after 1914 only aggravated Allenby’s tendency to nitpicking where orders were concerned, as one of his officers noted: ‘When we arrived in France Allenby paid too much attention to chin straps, number of buttons on

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uniform sleeves, colour of tie etc. He tended to irritate commanders.’5 Stories abound of Allenby’s explosive temper – some true, many apocryphal – most of which have found their way into the various accounts of his time in France and Palestine. One officer, on being reproved by Allenby during a visit to the trenches, replied ‘Very good, sir’, to which Allenby barked back: ‘I want none of your bloody approbation’.6 Lieutenant-General Sir John Keir of VI Corps, someone willing to stand up to Allenby, was nicknamed ‘Toreador’ before Allenby dismissed him in 1916.7 On another occasion, Allenby berated a company commander over the regulation that steel helmets and leather jerkins should be worn at all times in the trenches: Allenby: ‘Did I or did I not issue an order that no man should go up to the front line without jerkin or helmet?’ Company commander: ‘Yes, sir.’ Allenby: ‘Then why has that man not got them on?’ Company commander: ‘The man is dead, Sir.’ Allenby: ‘Did I or did I not [. . .].’8 Lieutenant-General Sir (James) Aylmer Haldane, one of Third Army’s corps commanders, wrote in his diary how he took Allenby on an inspection of the trenches: He found fault over trivialities as usual – e.g., because a guard in reserve was a little slow in turning out, and one man had his chin strap at the back of his head. I showed him the veritable rabbit burrow out of which they had to come, with bayonets fixed and at the risk of sticking each other, and my opinion was that they turned out wonderfully quickly. The man is impossible and, to boot, is ignorant, as everyone feels.9 Two days later, Haldane recorded: [. . .] he was in one of his most unpleasant moods. He becomes almost comical when he lets himself go as he did today, but if one shows signs of not taking him lying down he caves in, for

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he is a prime bully. I pity his poor staff as they have a hard time with him and fortunately for [Lord] Dalmeny [Allenby’s military secretary] the Bull is a snob and grovels to anyone senior to him or still better has a title.10 While Haldane was not alone in criticizing Allenby, an injustice supposedly committed earlier in the war when Haldane served under Allenby in the Ypres salient might explain his hostility towards Allenby.11 Allenby was shy and socially awkward, and so, struggling with the responsibility and stress of senior command, he responded by becoming a martinet. On a tour of the front line with Allenby, Colonel Spencer Hollond witnessed his GOC (general officer commanding) bully a subaltern over a rusty rifle barrel: As we were driving home he told me how shyness had ruined his life. He had tried desperately to overcome this shyness, but had never succeeded. He described a meeting with [General Sir Douglas] Haig. They were both so shy that neither of them could say one word. It was ludicrous but true and so they silently and mutually agreed never to be alone when they met. As he was telling me about this shyness complex, I wondered what the 18-year old officer, who had been crushed in the trenches, would have thought.12 For Sir James Edmonds (who would become Britain’s official war historian), in conversation after the war with Sir Basil Liddell Hart, it was when Allenby reached the rank of major-general in 1909 ‘that he for the first time lost his popularity by his bullying ways, apparently due to feeling he must live up to his rank’.13 The stresses of war in France exacerbated this temper, which then abated when Allenby left the intrigues of the Western Front to take charge in Palestine. Indeed, on the way to Palestine, Allenby, in a private conversation, admitted his personal shortcomings, adding that he was determined to shed his nickname of ‘The Bull’.14 Sir Philip Chetwode, one of Allenby’s corps commanders in Palestine, supports this view, arguing

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that Allenby never earned his men’s affections until he came out to Palestine, a view also held by Colonel Charles Grant, general staff officer 1 (GSO1) in Third Army, who wrote in 1936 how the difficulties of trench warfare in France and ‘the endless possibilities of finding things wrong’ meant that Allenby was never personally popular among regimental officers as he was in Palestine.15 Another of Allenby’s corps commanders in France, Lieutenant-General Sir Thomas D’Oyly Snow, gets some way to the truth, writing how Allenby’s ‘curious characteristics never failed to puzzle all of us. As I said before, a man of great knowledge and wisdom, he was a curious contradiction; at times subject to almost demoniacal bursts of temper, even in front of tired troops; he was at other times, gentle and kindly, with a grim sense of humour.’16 Allenby’s experience at the head of the Cavalry Division and V Corps in 1914 and 1915 played its part in developing his abrasive personality and style of command. In 1914, in charge of the Cavalry Division on the retreat from Mons, Allenby struggled to hold together his oversized four-brigade division. In the chaos of the retreat, Allenby lost control of his brigades, with some of the brigade commanders – notably Hubert Gough, but also Henry de Lisle – preferring independent command to serving under him. In effect, the Cavalry Division disintegrated, something that reflected badly on Allenby.17 During the confusion of the retreat, Gough detached his unit and joined Haig’s corps. Disloyalty – or as one officer put it, ‘open rebellion’ – such as this played hard on Allenby and would dog him through the war as Gough, commander of Fifth Army from 1916, had privileged access to Haig backed up by his good social connections in Britain.18 (Gough was, of course, familiar with such behaviour, having been a leading figure in the Curragh mutiny of 1914.) Major-General Sir G. de S. Barrow was with Allenby on the retreat from Mons (Barrow would later serve with Allenby in Palestine) and saw first-hand the effect of Gough’s actions: Allenby, myself, Home and Howard were in a little two room cottage, which had one bed. Allenby lay on the bed and we slept on the floor. Before lying down I saw Allenby for the only

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time show signs of fatigue. He sat for a short while on a chair, leaning forward with his forehead in his hand, looking physically and mentally utterly tired out. I never saw him like this again. The continuous responsible strain and physical fatigue together with the certain sense of impotence in face of disloyalty of subordinates supported by higher authority which deprived him of the power of acting more vigorously [. . .] all combined to wear down momentarily even his strong name and spirit.19 Allenby remained loyal and straight despite the machinations of those such as Gough who ‘never lost an opportunity of indulging in common abuse of Allenby before his staff or any officer no matter how minor [. . .]. Had he not been a persona grata with French and Haig he [Gough] would have been sent straight back to England.’20 Allenby’s determination to ignore the intriguing that went on around him was, for Barrow, his ‘greatness of character’, the expression also tellingly used by Sir Archibald Wavell as the subtitle for the first of his twovolume biography Allenby: A Study in Greatness (1940). Not once, it seems, did Allenby lose his temper over Gough’s behaviour, at least not while there was a war on, as Barrow recalled in the 1930s: I was in constant close touch with Allenby all this time, until I left the Cavalry Corps H.Q. and I know how much he felt Gough’s behaviour and abuse of which he was well aware. But he never once lost his temper or showed any further resentment than to say ‘It’s only Gough’s funny little way.’ Not long before his death, however, he one day let himself go. We were walking home together in London. Gough’s name came up, and all the pent up feeling burst out with a vehemence worthy of his best efforts of earlier days. And what he said of Gough there – quite unrepeatable – is a measure of the self control he showed when greater matters called for his attention.21 Hugh Jeudwine, Brigadier General-General Staff with V Corps and later GOC of 55th Division, also remembered Allenby’s complete

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obedience to orders, even if he disagreed with what he was being asked to do: His silent loyalty to his superiors had the effect of leading his subordinate commanders to believe that the responsibility for a mistaken policy was his own, and you probably know that in certain instances some endeavoured by approach to G.H.Q. behind his back to effect his removal. Allenby was fully aware of this but treated such actions with contempt and never allowed his knowledge to affect his treatment of the culprits.22 Allenby’s willingness to carry out orders, even if he thought that they were wrong, would be part of the reason that he came unstuck at the Battle of Arras. As The Times noted in its obituary of Allenby in 1936, at Arras, Allenby ‘conscientiously, if clumsily, carried out an operation which, it was recognized, could hardly be decisive, and had been continued mainly with a view to giving the French time in which to recover’.23 The assessment of Gough, who, as commander of Fifth Army, would himself face the sack following the first Ludendorff offensive in March 1918, was that while Allenby was ‘very just’ and ‘never bore any malice against subordinates who disagreed’, he also had ‘no ideas and when in France would apply orders rigidly without reasoning’.24 Moreover, it seemed as if Allenby cared little if there were heavy casualties, as long as his orders were obeyed.25 One of Allenby’s biographers noted that while Allenby was tenacious, aggressive and had moral stamina these were, perhaps, poor substitutes for generalship.26 Liddell Hart recorded in a later conversation with Gough that Allenby had very few ideas of his own, ‘although he was good at taking them from a subordinate and generous in accepting responsibility for any failure, but he had no grip on the situation in France – partly because his Chief of Staff was John Vaughan who did not supply him with ideas. Gough wondered whether his success in Palestine was not due mainly to the easier problems he had to deal with’.27 The difficult experience of command in the Ypres salient in 1914 and 1915 convinced Allenby that he had to take ‘personal control’ of

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the battlefield.28 This might explain the obsession with orders: they were Allenby’s means of asserting himself and his emotional response to the strains of high command. What Allenby lacked in cerebral brilliance he would make up for with effective preparation and planning, an absolute loyalty to his superiors, and a tight control over his emotions. Consequently, he was a rigid commander and someone who, while possessing a wide knowledge on an eclectic range of subjects, was not personable: with subordinates he would ask blunt questions and be easily annoyed by unsubstantiated assertions; with his seniors – such as Haig – he was unable to articulate himself. This all seemed to change when Allenby went to Palestine in June 1917. He built up his new army, captured Jerusalem in December 1917 and smashed Turkish forces in Palestine at the Battle of Megiddo in September 1918. Moreover, in Palestine, Allenby’s unpleasant, fiery temper was suddenly an asset – a sympathetic quirk – rather than a liability; an idiosyncratic mark of character rather than a signifier of bad manners and meanness. Allenby had his triumphs in Palestine, notably, at first, in restoring the EEF’s morale. When Allenby arrived in Egypt on 27 June 1917 – assuming command the following day – EEF morale had collapsed. Under the uninspiring leadership of General Sir Archibald Murray, the force had been defeated, twice, at the town of Gaza in the spring of 1917. While capable of building the communication infrastructure needed to take the EEF across the Sinai, Murray lacked the verve to move from logistics to operational success. The two defeats at Gaza, while partly the result of determined Turkish defence, were, in the main, the product of Murray’s inability to control operations. This lack of ‘grip’ seeped into the fabric of the EEF and Allenby’s first job was to rebuild it into a force capable of successfully taking the offensive. He moved his headquarters to Khan Yunis, just behind the front line at Gaza, and embarked on a series of tours of EEF front-line troops. The tough Australian and New Zealand mounted troops that formed a mobile core to the EEF soon noticed the change in atmosphere. Trooper L. Pollock, an Australian light horseman, remembered how under Murray he and his comrades were ‘fed up – we considered we hadn’t

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had the leadership we were due for and it seemed to be one blunder after another. Then the arrival of Allenby, morale rose.’29 Allenby’s impact resonated through the army based in Egypt. Richard Meinertzhagen, an EEF staff officer, recorded how the force was finally awakening from its ‘lethargic sleep’ under Murray, while Sir Ronald Storrs noted that under Allenby the EEF was advancing with ‘exhilaration into new hope’.30 With the weight of the Western Front lifted from his shoulders, Allenby rose to meet the challenges of his new post. Allenby was not an ‘office general’ and, physically fit, was willing and able to travel over bumpy tracks in the stifling heat to visit units in the desert. Allenby’s experience of field command of everything from a troop in southern Africa in the 1880s to an army in France gave him the standing to talk to the men and lift their spirits. His physical and psychological presence lifted morale and, like Generals Sir Bernard Montgomery and Sir William Slim in World War II, he convinced the men that they now had the leadership and resources to win the impending battle.31 While Allenby’s personality remained fundamentally the same after June 1917, the special circumstances in Palestine drew out his best qualities, emphasizing a more human side to his personality.32 Even Henry Gullett, the Australian historian, made note of the ‘new’ Allenby. He remembered Allenby visiting an Australian unit out in the desert where the canteen had been open for some time before Allenby arrived and, consequently, many of the men were drunk. The drunk soldiers struck matches on Allenby’s car and ‘almost leaned on him. The tighter they were the closer they wished to get to him.’33 Allenby’s reaction to this incident was afterwards to write an appreciative note to the unit commander. This incident provides an obvious contrast to all the talk of Allenby as a disciplinarian. Barrow, one of Allenby’s divisional commanders in Palestine, compared him favourably to Haig, writing how Allenby was happy to be contradicted as long as this was backed up by a cogent argument.34 Allenby infused new life into the EEF, transforming it into a fighting force capable of taking the offensive. His first battle, the Third Battle of Gaza, opened in October 1917 with the objective of capturing Jerusalem.

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Allenby accepted as his plan for the Third Battle of Gaza one worked out by Murray’s staff and presented to him on his arrival. Thus, it was Allenby’s staff officers who established the basic command structure, one which he then drove forward to victory. What Allenby provided was good leadership and effective management of a pre-existing command system. London also heavily reinforced Allenby in the autumn of 1917 and before the Third Battle of Gaza artillery, aeroplanes, men and equipment poured into Egypt and Palestine, turning the EEF into a well-equipped force of ten divisions – seven infantry and three cavalry. On 12 August 1917, Allenby organized these units into three corps: XX and XXI (infantry) Corps, and the Desert Mounted Corps. These reinforcements were vital for the planned offensive to break the Turkish lines that stretched in a ragged line from Gaza to Beersheba. The plan worked out by Murray’s staff involved shifting the emphasis of attack away from Gaza, with two of Allenby’s three mounted divisions, plus four of the infantry divisions available, attacking the weaker eastern extremity of the Turkish lines at Beersheba, before rolling up the enemy defences from east to west. Simultaneously, intelligence deception would deceive the Turks into thinking that the attack would come, as before, at Gaza.35 This plan worked, eventually. Australian light horse troops charged in and took Beersheba on 31 October, before moving west to join up with the force at Gaza prior to the push on Jerusalem. But the lack of water in the desiccated distance between Beersheba and Gaza hampered the advance and, as the EEF cavalry faltered for lack of water for horses and men, the Turks escaped to fight another day. Jerusalem was finally captured on 9 December 1917, the actual surrender being taken by two soldiers from the 60th (London) Division out looking for water who were accosted by the mayor of Jerusalem, himself out looking for someone to surrender to and bearing the keys to the city.36 Considering the powerful punch of the EEF and the weak nature of the Turkish defences at Gaza, rather than dissipate the EEF’s potential by assaulting Beersheba, would Allenby have done better to concentrate his augmented force, which included a substantial pool of medium and heavy artillery, for a direct assault on Gaza town? The

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presence of water and a reasonable transport system on the coastal plain of Palestine behind Gaza allowed for the rapid exploitation of any breakthrough. As it was, the gradual advance after the attack on Beersheba meant that Turkish forces escaped to fight another day. This counter-factual argument, first posited by Clive Garsia, GSO1 with the EEF’s 54th Division, has led to an ongoing debate about whether a comprehensive victory was within Allenby’s grasp at the Third Battle of Gaza before he wasted the opportunity with the decision to attack Beersheba.37 While it is true that the decision to attack at Beersheba meant that the Turks were allowed the space to retire in good order to a new defensive line across central Palestine just north of Jerusalem, from which they were not dislodged until the war’s end, the Third Battle of Gaza revenged the two earlier defeats in 1917 and resulted in the capture of the historic city of Jerusalem. Allenby was under intense pressure to invade Palestine and take Jerusalem as quickly as possible, especially after his poor performance in the latter phases of the Battle of Arras. Having examined the Beersheba plan offered to him by his staff on his arrival in Egypt, Allenby felt that the attack at Beersheba offered the best likelihood of fulfilling the wishes of his political superiors in the time allotted for the task. Under pressure at the operational level to reverse the defeats at the first Gaza battles before the winter rains arrived, he was also having to make his plans within the context of a protracted struggle between Lloyd George and elements within the British military establishment, notably the Chief of the Imperial General Staff (CIGS) General Sir William Robertson over war strategy and whether ‘sideshows’ such as Palestine were worthy of support – the argument being that Robertson opposed the peripheral (or ‘eastern’) operations favoured by the Prime Minister. Caught in the middle of an acrimonious struggle – which culminated in Robertson’s dismissal in February 1918 – Allenby had to tread carefully and please both sides as best he could. Whether Allenby, under pressure from Robertson, produced disingenuous reports designed to scupper Lloyd George’s strategy is a matter of debate. Certainly, Allenby’s request on 9 October 1917 for an extra 13 divisions to take and hold Jerusalem was, to say the least,

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incongruous considering his assault with ten divisions at the Third Battle of Gaza that took and held Jerusalem, and led some to question whether he was working in cahoots with Robertson to produce exaggerated reports that made a further offensive beyond the Jaffa– Jerusalem line seem impracticable.38 But Allenby’s correspondence taken as a whole does not suggest deceit – even taking into account the secret ‘R’ telegram system between Robertson and Allenby – and critics of Allenby would do well to weigh up the historical evidence that points to a newly-arrived, overly cautious commander responding to intelligence reports that the Turks were planning to reinforce the Palestine Front and launch their own assault on the EEF. This threat of an attack by the Turks, rather than any duplicity on the part of Allenby, best explains the demand in the autumn of 1917 for extra troops for Palestine above and beyond the initial reinforcement.39 The capture of Jerusalem in December 1917 thrilled the British nation and Christian world (even the German press took note), and provided a welcome relief from the horrors of the Third Battle of Ypres that had finally petered out a month earlier with the capture of the ruined Flemish village of Passchendale. Local papers such as London’s Islington Daily Gazette captured the popular mood, recording for its readers on 12 December 1917: ‘More than military significance attaches to the surrender into British hands of a city held in reverence by all Christendom.’40 A week later, on 19 December 1917, the magazine Punch included a sketch of Richard I looking down on Jerusalem with the caption: ‘The Last Crusade, Coeur-deLion (looking down on the Holy City). “My Dream Comes True.”’ With the capture of Jerusalem, Allenby became the modern-day Richard ‘Lionheart’, finally recapturing for Christianity the holy city lost to Islam in 1187. For Britain, the fall of Jerusalem was a massive propaganda coup at a difficult moment in the war; for Lloyd George, it was the Christmas present for the nation that he had demanded of Allenby before he left for Palestine.41 Allenby’s entry into the city on 11 December was a carefully stage-managed affair.42 He entered on foot through the Jaffa Gate, having dismounted outside the walls, in a brief ceremony read out a proclamation of martial law, and then left,

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again on foot. This carefully contrived and understated entrance compared favourably to the German Kaiser’s ostentatious entry into Jerusalem on horseback in 1898 through a hole made for him in the city walls just by the Jaffa Gate. Keen to push on in Palestine, in February 1918 Lloyd George sent the South African general Jan Smuts on a troubleshooting mission to Palestine (12– 22 February 1918). Simultaneously, Robertson sent the Deputy Director of Military Operations, Colonel Walter Meryyn St George Kirke, to Palestine with the job, it was later claimed, of passing on instructions from the CIGS telling Allenby that he was to ignore the Smuts Mission and was not to pursue further operations.43 In sending Smuts to Palestine, the Prime Minister’s objective was to redirect Britain’s offensive punch away from France to a peripheral war zone such as Palestine. This was a strategy that Robertson strongly opposed. Prior to the Smuts Mission, Lloyd George had succeeded in getting the recently formed inter-Allied planning forum, the Supreme War Council, to accede to Joint Note 12 that called for a defensive posture on the Western Front while an attack was delivered against Turkey.44 But the German Ludendorff offensives on the Western Front in the spring of 1918 shattered this renewed attempt at an ‘eastern’ strategy. They also severely restricted Allenby’s operational planning, as the EEF was a potential reserve force for France. When the first Ludendorff offensive broke in March 1918, Allenby lost the bulk of his infantry and some of his cavalry, which were sent to France to stem the German offensives. These losses were made good with raw Indian troops that needed time to be absorbed into the EEF. This made a rapid push forwards after the taking of Jerusalem almost impossible. Nonetheless, from March to May 1918, just as his men were leaving for France, Allenby launched two ‘Transjordan raids’ – the official nomenclature for two multi-divisional attacks – across the river Jordan towards Amman. The objective of these failed ‘raids’ is not entirely clear, but seems to have been an attempt to secure Allenby’s eastern flank by cutting the Hejaz railway and uniting with allied Arab forces before a drive along the Palestine coast; they resulted in two comprehensive defeats by Turkish forces, defeats that could not be undone afterwards by

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disingenuous reports outlining how the raids cleverly forced the Turks subsequently to leave a large force to cover Amman.45 These defeats constrained British policy towards local Arabs, whom Britain was keen to win over to its cause and who now sat on the fence, seeing little gain to be had from joining a power unable to eject the Turks from Amman. This was also the only occasion during the campaign when the Turks captured EEF artillery pieces, lost in the meˆle´e of fighting on the eastern bank of the River Jordan – a material and symbolic triumph for Turkish forces – with the nine captured Royal Horse Artillery 13-pounder guns paraded by the Turks after the battle. These setbacks rattled Allenby and for such a circumspect commander, usually so methodical and measured, show a real loss of grip on operations.46 Allenby’s finest hour, and the crowning triumph of the Palestine campaign, came with his final offensive against the Turkish armies in Palestine, launched on 19 September 1918, which culminated with an armistice signed at Mudros on 30 October 1918. This final battle was given the epithet ‘Megiddo’, as Allenby’s forces pushed by the ancient settlement of Megiddo, located on the Plain of Esdraelon by the Musmus Pass, the scene of many battles through history and the supposed site of the final battle (or Armageddon) revealed in the Book of Revelations (16: 16). Megiddo was a cavalry triumph: once artillery and infantry had punched a hole in the Turkish lines, Allenby’s Australian, British, Indian and New Zealand cavalry swept out behind Turkish lines, captured Damascus and advanced all the way to Aleppo in northern Syria. It was an immense victory: three Turkish armies plus supporting German units were routed and destroyed in addition to the entire Levant region coming under British control. Having said this, the poor condition of the Turkish forces in Palestine must be factored into any assessment of Allenby’s success at Megiddo. Debilitated by a lack of men and equipment, the Turkish forces in Palestine were in a much-weakened state by September 1918. The Turkish High Command from late 1917 had starved the Palestine Front of mate´riel, preferring to concentrate resources on a push towards Baku on the Caspian Sea. Thus, by the time of the Battle of Megiddo, the Turks in Palestine could do little

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to resist Allenby’s overwhelming offensive punch. Not fully aware of the Turks’ plight, Allenby’s original plan at Megiddo was for a methodical push into Palestine and Syria.47 Once he realized the extent of the Turkish collapse, he then used his cavalry force as the means to transform his original plan into something much more dramatic. This use of mounted force was remarkable as, while cavalry was used extensively in the Russian Civil War (and even during World War II), the Battle of Megiddo was the last time that the mounted arm could, almost singlehandedly, win such a significant battle. In this sense, the Battle of Megiddo was the swansong of cavalry; the symbolic end of the era of the horse as a decisive weapon of war. Throughout the campaign, Allenby liaised with Hashemite Arab forces allied to Britain. Directed by Colonel T.E. Lawrence (‘of Arabia’), the Arabs were deployed on Allenby’s right flank. While Allenby approved Lawrence’s Arab operations, the considerable postwar interest in the enigmatic Lawrence should not detract from Allenby’s concentration on the main push by the EEF west of the River Jordan.48 At the Battle of Megiddo, Allenby took little account of the Arab force militarily, although he accommodated the imperial need to promote the Hashemites as Britain’s allies by ordering his troops to allow the Arabs into Damascus ‘first’, even though EEF cavalry clearly entered the city on 30 September– 1 October 1918 before Arab forces arrived with the 4th Indian Division on the morning of 1 October.49 Having said this, Allenby’s correspondence shows that he was acutely aware of the wider value – both political and military – of having the Hashemites as allies, especially in a long war, and, earlier in 1918, he made much play in his reports to London of the negative impact if the Hashemites were to fight on the other side. In conclusion, was Allenby one of the great captains of history? Or is Gullett right in concluding that he was, at best, a mediocre commander whose success against weak opposition was remarkably unremarkable? Certainly, Allenby will not enter the pantheon of military greats – to sit alongside Alexander the Great, Hannibal, Salah al-Din, Marlborough or Napoleon – but his command in

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Palestine compares well to other commanders and other theatres of operation. Too many generals of the Great War, on all sides, foundered or cracked under the pressures of industrialized warfare. There were many commanders capable of achieving less, of breaking down under the strain, of losing the confidence of their men, even of being comprehensively defeated (and then being uninterested in the fate of their troops taken into captivity) – as happened in 1916 with General Sir Charles Townshend after defeat at the siege of Kut-elAmara in Mesopotamia. Before Allenby arrived in Palestine, Murray had achieved little beyond establishing the basic logistical infrastructure needed to take the offensive; meanwhile, on the Western Front, the rapid rotation of senior commanders reflected the immense stresses of a war that demanded the right men for the job. Nor was it just the Entente powers that struggled to find the right military leaders: in Germany, the changes in supreme command from Moltke the Younger to Erich von Falkenhayn to Erich Ludendorff and Paul von Hindenburg to collapse and defeat in 1918 proved that the other side was unable to produce the winning formula when it came to leadership and command. Allenby did not break down; he inspired his men in the EEF and raised their morale, he husbanded his resources and built up his logistics and, excepting the Transjordan raids, he was never defeated in battle in Palestine, instead triumphing at Jerusalem and the Battle of Megiddo and occupying for the British Empire a vast stretch of territory that it could use as a bargaining tool at the Paris Peace Conference in 1919. After October 1918, Allenby proved himself a competent administrator of occupied territories50 and he provided perspicacious advice for those in Paris who were deciding the future status of the region. This is a creditable rather than mediocre record in a war in which so many commanders failed the test of the modern battlefield. Allenby’s command can be compared favourably to that of General Slim’s in Burma in World War II as Allenby, like Slim, successfully managed an expeditionary force in a discrete theatre of operations, providing the right mix of logistics, caution and balance that led to eventual victory. Allenby’s Palestine campaign, as with the Fourteenth Army’s in Burma, achieved ‘organizational mobility’ –

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a style of warfare that matched operations with proper preparations to achieve operational success.51 The result in both cases was an overwhelming theatre victory.52 As Slim was quick to point out, it was easy to talk about dramatic pushes – or ‘flings’ – forward but it was usually best to sit tight and work methodically against the enemy, building up supplies, morale and training before taking the offensive when the time was right.53 This worked in Burma in 1944 when Slim resisted the calls to push forward to fight his decisive engagement with the enemy beyond the Chindwin river, instead fighting a crushing defensive battle against the Japanese 15th Army at the battles of Imphal and Kohima, and in Palestine it is significant that the one time that Allenby was defeated was when he pushed forward without sufficient preparation during the Transjordan raids. As with Slim’s 14th Army, Allenby’s EEF was a multinational, multicultural imperial effort: only two of Slim’s 12 infantry divisions in 1945 were predominantly British, while in the EEF by the summer of 1918 only one division out of a total of 11 was primarily British.54 The remainder of Allenby’s force comprised Algerians, Armenians, Australians, Burmese, Egyptians, French, Hashemite Arabs, Indians, Italians, Jews, New Zealanders, Rarotongans,55 South Africans, West Indians and others – including a Hong Kong and Singapore unit, Russian Jews, a Canadian construction battalion and former Ottoman prisoners of war serving with Hashemite forces. There was even talk of Japan sending troops to fight with the EEF, something that Allenby encouraged, feeling that the addition of Japanese divisions would be a great benefit. These diverse national units had differing, indeed, at times, conflicting, agendas and the management of such a disparate force – both during the war and afterwards as an occupation force – required tact and diplomacy. The fact that, after the Ludendorff offensives in March 1918, Allenby had to absorb 54 untrained or partially-trained Indian infantry battalions plus some 13 Indian cavalry squadrons, many of which were Muslim in terms of troop composition, as replacements for his experienced British divisions sent as reinforcements to France,

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compounded his predicament. These Indian troops were not only being asked to fight against a Muslim empire, but for the 29 per cent of the newly-arrived force who were Sunni Muslims, their spiritual leader was the Ottoman Sultan in Istanbul.56 Turkish intelligence was quick to exploit this situation and, in the summer of 1918, Allenby noted in his cables to the War Office the presence among his troops of seditious literature in the ‘Indian vernacular’. Some Indian Pathan troops even deserted to the enemy.57 It was Allenby’s job to weld this potentially fissiparous force into one capable of taking the offensive. He succeeded. The parallel with the Burma campaign is again apparent as Slim had to contend with the lure of the Japanesesponsored Indian National Army raised from Indian prisoners of war in 1942 that fought for Indian independence on the side of the Japanese. Considering these challenges, Allenby’s successful push on Damascus after the Battle of Megiddo – and Slim’s equally triumphant final offensive in 1945 towards Rangoon – are impressive achievements. Ronald Lewin’s description of the ‘beautiful consistency’ of Slim’s ‘great curve’ of operations that started in India and Burma and ended in the fall of Rangoon can, mutatis mutandis, be applied to Allenby’s sweep north from the Sinai desert to southern Turkey.58 But such a success required careful timing and preparation, and an awareness of the right moment to deliver the knockout blow. It was easy to be beguiled by the promise of quick victory – be it the Schlieffen Plan in 1914, the Dardanelles and Gallipoli in 1915, Robert Nivelle’s assurances for his offensive along the Chemin des Dames in 1917 or the Ludendorff offensives in 1918 – but the Great War required a mature, methodical approach that took into account the new ways of warfare. Too often, dramatic quick fixes failed. Allenby understood this and in Palestine he rarely promised what he could not deliver, either militarily or politically. The comparison with Slim bears further examination. In Burma, Slim benefited from having Admiral Lord Mountbatten, the supreme commander in the South-East Asia theatre of operations, protecting him from unnecessary interference from Prime Minister Winston Churchill in London. This firewall gave Slim some breathing space in which to make his plans and build up his forces for the push against

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the Japanese. Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke as CIGS provided Montgomery with a similar service in the European theatre of operations during World War II. Allenby was not so lucky. Robertson as CIGS never properly shielded Allenby from Lloyd George’s attempts to guide war strategy, including the direction of the war in peripheral zones such as Palestine. When General Sir Henry Wilson replaced the taciturn Robertson as CIGS in February 1918, matters did not improve as Wilson, a natural intriguer, tried to deal with both the Ludendorff offensives and the wily Lloyd George. Consequently, Allenby was, too often, looking over his shoulder, trying to marry contradictory instructions coming from London with the immediate military requirements in Palestine. Pulled in opposite directions, Allenby struggled with an uncertain mandate: on the one hand, Lloyd George was urging him on to achieve great things; simultaneously, Robertson and the military were reining him in, hoping that he would adopt, at most, an aggressive defence rather than go for the all-out attack that would take the EEF deep into enemy territory. Since the 1980s, scholarship on the war in France has leapt forwards as all aspects of the fighting have come in for a raft of critical re-evaluation: some of it vitriolic and personal; most of it considered, interesting and scholarly.59 By contrast, Allenby’s cavalcade through the Holy Land in 1917 and 1918 offered such a pleasing contrast to the attritional slog on the Western Front that after the war there emerged a sanitized narrative of both Allenby and the Palestine campaign. Lawrence’s desert operations and the romanticism associated with fighting in the exotic East – as Edward Said has pointed out, the ‘Orient’ entered history because of the Palestine campaign60 – have added to the appeal of Allenby’s war, making it appear somehow different to other theatres of operation. Since the 1990s this has begun to change as scholars have produced studies of the Palestine campaign that have provided non-Eurocentric perspectives on World War I, broadening our understanding not just of the Great War but also its place in history.61 In doing so, they have re-assessed Allenby and his command, showing him warts and

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all but also leaving him with his reputation as a field commander fundamentally intact. Acknowledgements The author is grateful to the Trustees of the Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives for permission to quote from material held at the centre, and to the Controller of Her Majesty’s Stationery Office for permission to quote material held at the National Archives, London.

Notes 1 Gardner, Brian, Allenby (London: Cassell, 1965), p. 113; Snow to Wavell, 29 April 1937, Allenby papers, Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives (hereafter LHCMA), 6/7/55–56. 2 ‘Allenby’, Gullett papers, AWM, 40/77. 3 Quoted in Gardner: Allenby, p. 62. 4 Wavell, Archibald Percival, Allenby: A Study in Greatness (New York: Oxford University Press, 1941– 3), i, p. 114. 5 Howell (GSO3 for Cavalry in War Office 1910– 14) to Wavell, 20 July [?], Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/4. 6 Diary, 8 November 1916, Haldane papers, National Library of Scotland (hereafter NLS), Ms. 20249; also told in Haldane, Aylmer, A Soldier’s Saga: The Autobiography (Edinburgh and London: Blackwood, 1948), p. 338. 7 Diary, 7 August 1916, Haldane papers, NLS, Ms. 20249. 8 Quoted in James, Lawrence, Imperial Warrior: The Life and Times of Field Marshal Viscount Allenby, 1861– 1936 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1993), p. 84. This quotation comes from Charles Grant (GSO1 Third Army) to Wavell, 21 November 1936, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/7/25– 26 or Edmonds to Wavell, 28 June 1938, Allenby papers, 6/1. 9 Diary, 27 November 1916, Haldane papers, NLS, Ms. 20249. 10 Diary, 29 November 1916, Haldane papers, NLS, Ms. 20249. See also diary, 7 November 1916, Haldane papers, NLS, Ms. 20249. 11 James: Imperial Warrior, p. 74; Haldane: Soldier’s Saga, pp. 307, 334; Diary, 7 January 1916, 15 January 1916, 24 February 1916, 6 April 1916, 22 July 1916, 7 August 1916, Haldane papers, NLS, Ms. 20249; Norman, Terry (ed.), Armageddon Road: A VC’s Diary 1914–1916 by Billy Congreve (London: William Kimber, 1982), p. 143. 12 Spencer Hollond to Wavell, n.d., Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/7/30– 31. Spencer Hollond (1874– 1950) was a brevet colonel in the war and is sometimes confused in the literature with Major-General A.E.A. Holland (1862 – 1927) who was Allenby’s chief artillery adviser. 13 Talk with Edmonds, 7 June 1934, Liddell Hart papers, LHCMA, 11/1934/41. 14 Ibid.

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15 Chetwode to Wavell, 20 June 1938, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/26; Charles Grant (GSO1 Third Army) to Wavell, 21 November 1936, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/7/25– 26. 16 Snow to Wavell, 29 April 1937, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/7/55– 56. 17 Gardner, Nikolas, ‘Command and control in the “Great Retreat” of 1914: the disintegration of the British Cavalry Division’, Journal of Military History 63 (January 1999), pp. 29 – 54. See also Gardner, Nikolas, Trial by Fire: Command and the British Expeditionary Force in 1914 (Westport and London: Praeger, 2003). 18 Chetwode to Wavell, 20 June 1938, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/26. For Haig’s favouritism towards Gough, see also Travers, Tim, The Killing Ground: The British Army, the Western Front and the Emergence of Modern Warfare, 1900– 1918 (London: Unwin, 1990), p. 11. 19 Notes by Barrow, enclosed in letter, Barrow to Wavell, 3 June [1938?], Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/10. See also Wavell to Barrow, 9 July 1938, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/20 and Howell (GSO3 for Cavalry in War Office 1910– 14) to Wavell, 20 July [?], Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/4. 20 Notes by Barrow, enclosed in letter, Barrow to Wavell, 3 June [1938?], Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/10. 21 Notes by Barrow, enclosed in letter, Barrow to Wavell, 3 June [1938?], Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/6/10. 22 Jeudwine to Wavell, 26 June 1938, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/7/39. See also Neillands, Robin, The Great War Generals on the Western Front (London: Robinson, 1998), p. 332 and Simkins, Peter, ‘Haig and his army commanders’ in Brian Bond and Nigel Cave (eds), Haig: A Reappraisal 70 Years On (Barnsley: Leo Cooper, 1999), p. 83. 23 Obituary of Allenby, The Times (15 May 1936), p. 18. 24 Talk with David Lloyd George and Hubert Gough, 28 November 1935, Liddell Hart papers, Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives, LHCMA, King’s College London, 11/1935/107. 25 Neillands: Great War, p. 332. 26 James: Imperial Warrior, p. 67. 27 Talk with Sir Hubert Gough, 9 April 1935, Liddell Hart papers, LHCMA, 11/1935/72. 28 James: Imperial Warrior, p. 75. 29 Trooper L. Pollock, Imperial War Museum (hereafter IWM), Sound Archive, 4220. 30 Meinertzhagen diaries, 15 July 1917, Rhodes House library, Oxford; Ronald Storrs, Memoirs [1937] (New York: Arno Press, 1972), p. 270. 31 Hughes, Matthew, Allenby and British Strategy in the Middle East, 1917– 1919 (London: Frank Cass, 1999), pp. 14 – 17 32 This is a point made by Cyril Falls in his entry for Allenby in the 1949 Dictionary of National Biography. Allenby’s entry for the New Dictionary of

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33 34 35

36 37

38 39

40 41 42 43 44

45 46 47 48

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National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press) (Oxford: OUP, 2004) (edited by Brian Harrison) has been comprehensively revised by this editor. ‘Murray’, Gullett papers, Australian War Memorial (hereafter AWM), Canberra, Australia, 40/69. Barrow, George de S., The Fire of Life (London: Hutchinson, 1942), p. 46. For discussion of the intelligence dimension at the battle, see Sheffy, Yigal, ‘Institutionalised deception and perception reinforcement: Allenby’s campaign in Palestine’ in Michael Handel (ed.), Intelligence and Military Operations (London: Frank Cass, 1990) and Sheffy, Yigal, British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign, 1914– 1918 (London: Frank Cass, 1998), passim. James: Imperial Warrior, p. 140. Some accounts have two sergeants taking the surrender and photographs of the surrender show two sergeants with the dignitaries of the city. See Clive Garsia to S.W. Hare, 8 June 1920, Hare papers, IWM, 3rd Gaza Folder, 66/85/1; Garsia to Historical Section CID, 10 October 1928, the National Archives London (hereafter TNA), CAB 45/78, authors A– D, p. 3; Garsia to Liddell Hart, 28 April 1934, Liddell Hart papers, LHCMA, 1/306/1; and Garsia, Clive, A Key to Victory: A Study in War Planning (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1940). See Woodward, David, Lloyd George and the Generals (London and Toronto: University of Delaware Press, 1983), pp. 206, 231 and Hughes: Allenby, pp. 35 – 40. For more on Allenby’s relationship with Robertson and British strategy with regard to Palestine generally, see Woodward, David, Field Marshal Sir William Robertson: Chief of the Imperial General Staff in the Great War (London: Greenwood, 1998), Chapter 9. Held at Islington Central Library, London. Lloyd George, David, War Memoirs (London: Odhams Press, 1938), ii, pp. 1089– 90. Newell, Jonathan, ‘Learning the hard way: Allenby in Egypt and Palestine 1917– 19,’ Journal of Strategic Studies 14/3 (September 1991), p. 372. Kirke to Wavell, 1 March 1939, Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/9 – 10/31 and Kirke papers, IWM, Re´sume´ of Kirke’s Career, volume 7, p. 6. A copy of Joint Note 12 can be found in TNA: WO106/729 (also in TNA: CAB25/68 dated 19 January 1918). There is a published copy of Joint Note 12 in History of the Great War: Belgium and France, 1918, Appendices (London: HMSO, 1935), appendix, paragraph 19. See Hughes: Allenby, pp. 71 – 88. For Allenby’s shock at the failure of the Transjordan raids see Shea to Archibald Wavell, 10 May [1939?], Allenby papers, LHCMA, 6/9– 10/40– 1. Hughes: Allenby, p. 97. For Allenby’s approval of Arab operations to take Damascus, see Alan Dawnay to Pierce Joyce, n.d, Joyce papers (formerly the Akaba papers), LHCMA, I/M11.

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50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

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Wilson, Jeremy, Lawrence of Arabia: The Authorised Biography (London: Minerva, 1990), p. 1102, endnote 24 gives a date of 20 September for this message. The issue of who entered Damascus first is discussed in Kedourie, Elie, ‘The capture of Damascus, 1 October 1918’, Middle Eastern Studies 1/1, (October 1964), pp. 66 – 83. This was reprinted and expanded in Kedourie, Elie, The Chatham House Version and other Middle-Eastern Studies (Hanover and London: University Press of New England, 1984), pp. 33 – 51. See also Hughes, Matthew, ‘Elie Kedourie and the capture of Damascus, 1 October 1918: a reassessment,’ War and Society 23/1 (May 2005), pp. 87 – 106. For a less flattering portrayal of Allenby as High Commissioner in Egypt, see Kedourie, Elie, Politics in the Middle East (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), pp. 163– 4. For the comparison with Slim, the author is indebted to General Sir Rupert Smith, ‘Should Generals be Slim Today?’ Talk given at the British Commission for Military History AGM, Imperial War Museum, 9 February 2002. Murray, Williamson and Allan R. Millet, A War to be Won: Fighting the Second World War (Cambridge and London: Belknap, 2000), pp. 350– 1. Slim, William, Defeat Into Victory (London: Cassell, 1956), p. 291. Falls, Cyril, Official History, Military Operations, Egypt and Palestine (London: HMSO, 1928 and 1930), ii, pp. 418, 421. One of the Cook Islands in the Pacific, Rarotonga is sometimes spelt (incorrectly it seems) as Raratonga. The Rarotongans came to Palestine with New Zealand forces. General Headquarters Egypt to War Office, 1 July 1918, Milner papers, Bodleian Library Oxford, III/B/140. Allenby to Wilson, 5 June 1918, Wilson papers, IWM, HHW2/33A/4. See also Oriental and India Office Collection, British Library, London, files at L/MIL/17/5/3919 – 3920. Lewin, Ronald, Slim: The Standardbearer (London: Leo Cooper, 1990), p. 192. Such as Terraine, John, The White Heat: The New Warfare 1914– 1918 (London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1982); Woodward, David, Lloyd George and the Generals (London and Toronto: University of Delaware Press, 1983); Simkins, Peter, Kitchener’s Armies: The Raising of the New Armies 1914– 1916 (Manchester University Press, 1988); Laffin, John, British Butchers and Bunglers of World War One (Stroud: Sutton, 1988); Bourne, J.M., Britain and the Great War, 1914– 1918 (London: Edward Arnold, 1989); Travers, Tim, The Killing Ground: The British Army, the Western Front and the Emergence of Modern Warfare, 1900– 1918 (London: Unwin Hyman, 1990); Bond, Brian (ed.), The First World War and British Military History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991); Winter, Denis, Haig’s Command: A Reassessment (London: Viking, 1991); Prior, Robin and Trevor Wilson, Command on the Western Front: The Military Career of Sir Henry Wilson (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992); Travers, Tim, How the War was Won: Command and Technology in the British Army on the Western Front, 1917– 1918 (London: Routledge, 1992); Samuels, Martin, Doctrine and Dogma: German and British

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Infantry Tactics in the First World War (Oxford: Greenwood, 1992); Samuels, Martin, Command or Control? Command, Training and Tactics in the British and German Armies, 1888– 1918 (London: Frank Cass, 1995); Rawling, Bill, Surviving Trench Warfare: Technology and the Canadian Corps, 1914– 1918 (Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1995); ‘Haig the Unknown Soldier’ (BBC TV: Timewatch, 3 July 1996); Griffith, Paddy (ed.), British Fighting Methods in the Great War (London: Frank Cass, 1996); Schreiber, Shane, Shock Army of the British Empire: The Canadian Corps in the Last 100 Days of the Great War (Westport and London: Praeger, 1997); Brown, Ian, British Logistics on the Western Front, 1914– 1919 (Westport and London: Praeger, 1998); Woodward, David, Field Marshal Sir William Robertson: Chief of the Imperial General Staff in the Great War (London: Greenwood, 1998); Mosier, John, The Myth of the Great War: A New Military History of World War One (London: Profile, 2001); and Sheffield, Gary, Forgotten Victory. The First World War: Myth and Realities (London: Headline, 2001). 60 Said, Edward W., Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient [1978] (London: Penguin, 1991), p. 240. 61 Newell, Jonathan, ‘Learning the hard way: Allenby in Egypt and Palestine 1917– 1919,’ The Journal of Strategic Studies 14/3 (September 1991), pp. 363– 87; Newell, ‘Allenby and the Palestine campaign’, in Brian Bond (ed.), The First World War and British Military History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991); Sheffy, Yigal, British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign, 1914– 1918 (London: Frank Cass, 1998); Hughes, Matthew, Allenby and British Strategy in the Middle East, 1917– 1919 (London: Frank Cass, 1999); Erickson, Edward, Order to Die: A History of the Ottoman Army in the First World War (Westport: Greenwood, 2001); Hughes, Matthew (ed.), Allenby in Palestine (London: Army Records Society, 2004); Erickson, Edward, Ottoman Army Effectiveness in World War I: A Comparative Study (London: Routledge, 2007); Grainger, John, The Battle for Palestine, 1917 (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2006).

CHAPTER 7 A DIFFERENT KIND OF BATTLE: ALLENBY'S ANTI-MALARIA CAMPAIGN, PALESTINE, 1918 Eran Dolev’s

On 11 December 1917, General Edmund H.H. Allenby, the commander-in-chief of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF), entered Jerusalem as the liberator of the Holy City from Ottoman rule. Though the capture of Jerusalem boosted the morale of the British public, who were eager for good news, it was not a very significant achievement from a military point of view: the strategic goal of the EEF had been and still was the destruction of the Turkish military power in Palestine and Syria and this goal remained to be achieved. For three more months, the British defence lines beyond Jerusalem were defined and established. This process was completed on 21 February 1918 when an Anzac mounted force captured Jericho without any resistance. By reaching the Jordan valley in the east, the right flank of the British front was secured. The line was held by units of the Desert Mounted Corps. At the same time, the XXI Corps formed a line of defence between the Mediterranean coast in the west and the Auja river in the north. The hills between these two sections were held by the XX Corps.

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It was imperative that the EEF should be ready for a future decisive campaign against the Ottoman forces in Palestine. General Allenby’s plan for this offensive was based on the principles of deceit, surprise and speed. The idea was that British infantry divisions would engage and defeat the Turkish lines near the Mediterranean coast, allowing the mounted divisions to break through to the north. In order to create the necessary deceit and eventual surprise, General Allenby planned two raids beyond the Jordan. These raids had three goals: the most important one was to help the Arab troops of Prince Feisal, who were at the time under constant pressure from superior Ottoman forces. The second one was to divert the attention of Turkish intelligence from the Mediterranean coast, where the future British offensive would take place, to this remote eastern area. The last goal was also quite important: EEF units were expected to try and hold a new defence line along the ridges of Transjordan instead of holding a line in the Jordan valley itself. As an outcome of the failure of these two raids, this third goal was not achieved. General Allenby demanded reinforcements from the Ministry of War. However, late in March 1918, just when the EEF’s first raid to Amman commenced, the situation on the Western Front – the principal front of the Great War – deteriorated: the Germans launched a massive offensive against the British and French armies along the front. It was understood that the fate of the whole war was at stake and the British Ministry of War ordered General Allenby to send most of the EEF infantry divisions to France immediately. The units that were sent to the Western Front consisted of experienced soldiers. The gap in manpower was gradually filled by Indian units that generally lacked previous combat experience. Thus, any attempt to resume an offensive in the near future was out of question and for about 9 months, until the beginning of the final British offensive, the Palestine Front remained quiet. The main task of the various EEF units during this period of time was to train the new inexperienced units and at the same time to hold the front line facing the Turks. The practical implication was that units of considerable size had to spend the hot season in the Jordan valley, an area where ‘no European had passed summer’.1 It also

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meant that many units, bivouacked in various locations along the Mediterranean coast, might be exposed to the threat of malaria, known to be very prevalent in Palestine. While the EEF troops were staying in Egypt or fighting their way through the Sinai desert, their state of health was good and they did not suffer from malaria. Only after the Third Battle of Gaza, when the EEF divisions entered southern Palestine, did they encounter malaria, ‘the scourge of the Holy Land’.2 Malaria was justly feared as it had been a threat to the human race from time immemorial. It had been held responsible for calamaties as great as the elimination of empires and various military disasters through history.3 The cause of malaria was a protozoan parasite, Plasmodium, which was discovered by a French Medical Officer named Alphonse Laveran in 1880. In 1897, the British Ronald Ross, working in India, discovered that the Anopheles mosquito was the carrier of malaria, transmitting the Plasmodium parasite from an infected human being to other people by its bite. Due to the parasite life-cycle in the human body, the disease typically manifested in spikes of fever, every 3 or 4 days, followed by extreme rigours. Two forms of human malaria were important in the Middle East: the benign form, caused by Plasmodium vivax, was mainly a severe relapsing febrile disease which neutralized its victims; and the disease’s malignant form, caused by Plasmodium falciparum, which in many cases was lethal and thus named ‘malignant malaria’.4 Immediately after Ross’s discovery of malaria transmission, the British Army established ‘Malaria Intelligence’ units. First in India and then in various locations all over the British Empire, these units conducted malaria surveys. After the outbreak of war, many of these units were incorporated into the various British Expeditionary Forces outside Europe. It was viewed as very important as the British Army encountered malaria in several battle zones, mainly in Macedonia, East Africa, Mesopotamia and Palestine. From the available medical literature it was discovered that malaria, especially of the malignant variety, occurred all over Palestine. It was an endemic disease that used to become epidemic

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during the autumn season and reached its climax during October. Victims who survived attacks of the disease could be reinfected but also served as a source of infection to others. Data concerning the epidemiology of malaria in Palestine had already been collected before the Great War, mainly during the years 1912– 13, by several physicians and scientists who had been living in the area for many years. The data had been published in the medical literature and were available to the EEF medical officers. However, these data concerned mainly the Jerusalem area and the Sharon plain, near the Mediterranean coast north of Jaffa. Nothing was known concerning the incidence and prevalence of malaria at the Jordan Valley.5 Based on the experience acquired in Macedonia, Mesopotamia and East Africa, malaria was considered to be a special problem in the context of military surgery: it had been learned that abdominal penetrating wounds might injure an enlarged spleen due to a chronic stage of the disease and thus transform it from a regular problem in military surgery to a direct threat to the injured soldier’s life. It was also observed that acute exacerbations of malaria could be precipitated by wounds. On the other hand it was felt that malarious acute attacks could delay or even completely arrest the process of wound healing.6 When General Allenby decided that EEF units would occupy the Jordan valley during the summer, in spite of the danger of malaria, he never ignored this health problem. It is interesting to note the response of one of his senior doctors towards this decision: ‘Nothing is known of the climate in summer-time, since no civilized human being has yet been found to spend summer there.’ So said the official Intelligence handbook about the Jordan valley. Yet Allenby, after the two failures to establish a position in the hills east of Jordan, was practically compelled to maintain a considerable force in the valley, both for the protection of his right flank and to keep alive the enemy’s apprehension of another thrust at Amman and Deraa. He did so with eyes open to the risks he ran. It was mainly a medical

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problem, and Allenby’s dealings with his doctors were typical of his methods. Few commanders of large armies have consulted the heads of their medical services more regularly and earnestly than did Allenby; few have more boldly overruled their advice than did Allenby when his plans demanded a course of action that they regarded as dangerous. No general probably has ever given fuller assistance and support to his doctors in their measures for combating the risks of disease.7 Based on the Macedonia experience there was no consensus concerning the value of quinine as a prophylactic measure against malaria. Thus quinine prophylaxis was not compulsory and was left to the discretion of unit commanders.8 There was no agreement among doctors concerning the value of quinine in the prevention of relapses of the disease. In 1918, there was not even a consensus concerning the appropriate intravenous dose of quinine for the treatment of the initial attack. Thus, when General Allenby decided to wage war on malaria, he had to use combined methods of coping with this threat, mainly prevention. Units were supplied with mosquito-proof huts and antimosquito nets. Soldiers were supplied with veils, nets, repellent creams and gloves.9 The Jordan valley had always been regarded as an impossible habitat for Europeans in the late summer months, and Maritime Plain almost as bad. With full realization he boldly faced the danger of occupation, which he considered essential to his strategy; but – and here he showed his greatness – He gave unstinted help in carrying out every method of mitigating the danger that was put forward. Work on anti-malarial schemes was given priority over all other work behind the lines. Thousands of Egyptian workers were put at the disposal of the anti-malarial authorities for draining marshes and training the course of streams, such engineering projects as had never before been undertaken in the face of an enemy. The result was that the mosquito population was marvelously diminished, and

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malaria, troublesome as it was, never became a menace to the general health or morale of the troops.10 At the Royal Army Medical Corps level, the professional level, a guide for the identification of mosquitos was issued to each medical officer, together with particulars of the common malarial carriers of the country.11 Most of the medical officers were given a course of instruction at the laboratories of the various corps, in order that they might be able to make a rapid and definite diagnosis. It was known that in the malignant type of malaria, where the parasites affected circulation in the brain, the first symptom was often loss of consciousness, and a definite rapid diagnosis would initiate a fast treatment and in many cases would save the sick soldier’s life.12 At the level of the units, the campaign against malaria was ordered, directed and executed as any other military operation. The attitude towards this campaign was set by General Allenby himself and it penetrated through all the ranks: ‘Every man in the force was made to feel some personal responsibility in the fight against the pest.’13 For every division, a division anti-mosquito officer was appointed, together with a divisional sanitary officer and three brigade sanitary officers. An anti-mosquito squad was appointed in every brigade under the brigade sanitary officer. The campaign itself began in April 1918 and lasted until the British offensive in mid-September. Thousands of soldiers as well as thousands of Egyptian non-combatants cooperated in treating possible breeding areas. This treatment included surveying wells and oiling them, drying and oiling shell holes, and cleaning cattle troughs. Swamps and rivers were cleaned, streams were diverted into canals, reeds and vegetation were cut and marshes and ponds were drained by canals. After the initial treatment of all possible mosquito breeding locations, maintenance working parties continued to supervise all these places. In the XXI Corps alone, the anti-malaria campaign utilized 222,840 man hours.14 General Allenby, who inspired the campaign, was also constantly involved in its details. He was most probably the only British general

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officer who could report quite proudly to General Wilson, the Chief of the General Staff in London, about this unusual campaign: I am campaigning against mosquitoes; draining, clearing, burning, etc; and hope, in a week or two, to have improved things. Many acres of bog have already been drained and cleared, and the drains, though some are as salt as the Dead Sea, and stink of sulphur, swarm with little, active fish. These will, I hope, feed on the larvae.15 The ‘medical services combated malaria, the chief scourge of Syria and Palestine, with excellent results’.16 There is, however, no doubt that despite the anti-malaria campaign in the Jordan Valley new cases of the disease were diagnosed every day. Judging the problem from the soldiers’ point of view, it may be concluded that all that great effort was in vain: many soldiers fell sick with malaria during the summer, mainly in the Jordan Valley. One of them wrote in his diary: Gunshot wounds take their toll, but mostly it is the malaria; many would willingly have wounds in exchange for this cursed fever; it brings about a seesawing temperature. One minute its victims are sweating with heat, the next rolled shivering in blankets, shivering when the shade temperature is one hundred and twenty and more. Often the blood turns jet black, they cannot eat, just lie in the shade doing nothing but drink huge quantities of water. It is not possible for everyone developing fever to be removed, as this would mean the line becoming deserted; only the very bad cases go out.17 An Australian trooper found that humor and cynicism was an appropriate way to deal with this horrifying disease: You, with your winding, creeping course,

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What of men of our Southern Horse? Valley of night, with your winged pest, What of our heroes now at rest, Down by your Dead, salt Sea? What of the ones we have left behind? What of these men of our kith and kind, Nigh where your blood streams hiss? Better the true and unerring shot! Better the Death when their blood run hot – Than this, Malaria! Malaria! You, with your aged river’s flow, What of our Riders laid below Valley of Death, with your torpid heat, Look where your swirling hill streams meet, Down by your Dead, salt sea! Look to the ones on your mounded knoll! Look to the ones of your chosen toll! Those of your fevered kiss! Better the blast of the rending shell! Better the toll of the War God’s knell! Than this, Malaria! Malaria!18 The reasons for this phenomenon were quite obvious: most of the new cases were soldiers who had been engaged in military activities either in no man’s land or near the front lines. In both cases they had been exposed to the bites of mosquitos which bred in enemy territory where no anti-malaria campaign had been undertaken. It was noted that the incidence of malaria among soldiers in rear units, where all anti-malaria measures had been taken, was much lower. In the XXI Corps, the picture was much better than in the Jordan Valley: less than 10 per cent of the force suffered from malaria and many of those cases were relapses.19 It was indeed a unique campaign which positively represents the attitude of the EEF commander, General

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Allenby, towards the health of the troops in general and prevention of disease in particular. This was a very rare attitude in the context of the British culture of command at the time.20 On 19 September 1918, the final and decisive British offensive against the Turkish Army in Palestine commenced. During several days the three Turkish armies, two in Palestine and one in Transjordan, were annihilated by the EEF. On the eve of 30 September, Australian mounted units were surrounding Damascus. It was the last large-scale cavalry operation in Western history. Yet few people knew that even in planning this brilliant campaign, General Allenby had not forgotten the issue of the health of his troops: After men are bitten by an infected mosquito they have roughly seven to ten days before they are incapacitated. Field Marshal Lord Allenby informed me that he was aware of the danger and made his plans accordingly. He is, I think, the only commander who has fought in this country who did fully understand the position and the seasonal risk.21 About 90 years after the Palestine Campaigns, it is interesting to find that the combination of responsibility for the recently occupied lands, together with deep emotional and religious feelings, brought some malaria experts to think about the future of the Holy Land: The mosquito is a vital problem that will have to be considered by those responsible for the health of Palestine in the future.22 And also: The desirability of a strenuous after-war campaign against malaria and Bilharzia in Palestine if this fertile country, after its happy happy release from Turkish misrule, is ever again to become ‘a land flowing with milk and honey’, or even a fit place for white colonists to live in.

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The intervening years have seen many anti-malaria campaigns conducted by governments and non-governmental organizations in the region, yet we look back in admiration at the fierceness and rigour with which this forgotten battle on the Palestine Front was fought by General Allenby and his men.

Notes 1 Butler, A. G., The Official History of the Australian Army Medical Services in the War of 1914– 18, Volume I: Gallipoli, Palestine and New Guinea (Australian War Memorial, Melbourne, 1938), pp. 830– 1. 2 Waserman, M. and Neumark, Y., ‘The conquest of malaria’ in Waserman, M. and S.S. Kottek (eds), Health & Disease in the Holy Land (The Edwin Mullen Press, Lewiston, USA, 1996), pp. 389– 94. 3 Dolev, E., ‘The role of armies in spreading epidemics: vector and victim’ in Wilder-Smith, A., E. Schwartz, M. Shaw (eds.) Travel Medicine – Tales behind the Science (Elsevier Publications, Amsterdam, 2007), pp. 299– 304. 4 Manson-Bahr, P, ‘Experiences of malaria in the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’, The Lancet 1920/I, pp. 79 – 85. Low, N., Malaria in Palestine (J Roy Army Medical Corps, 1922), pp. 400– 1. Boyd, F. D., ‘Experiences of a consulting physician on duty on the Palestine lines of communication’, Edinburgh Medical Journal 1919/2, pp. 276– 87. Anonymous, ‘Malaria in the Armies’, British Medical Journal 1918/I, pp. 350– 1. Yekutiel, P., ‘Masterman, Muhlens and malaria, Jerusalem 1912– 1913’, Korot 1996– 7/12: 107 –23. 5 Manson-Bahr: ‘Experiences of malaria in the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’. Low, Malaria in Palestine. Boyd: ‘Experiences of a consulting physician’. Masterman, E.W.G. ‘Jerusalem from the point of health and disease’, The Lancet 1918/I, p. 305. Cropper, J., ‘The malaria fevers of Jerusalem and their prevention’, Journal of Hygiene 1905/5, pp. 460-6 and ‘The geographical distribution of Anopheles and malarial fever in Upper Palestine’, Journal of Hygiene 1902/2. Masterman, E.W.G, ‘Notes on some tropical diseases of Palestine’, Journal of Hygiene 1913/13, pp. 49 – 62; and ‘Notes on some tropical diseases of Palestine’, Journal of Hygiene 1914/14, pp. 1 – 11. Muehlens, P., ‘Bericht uber eine Malaria Expedition nach Jerusalem’, Zentralbl. F. Bakt 1913/69, pp. 41 – 85. Bruenn, W. and Goldberg, L., ‘Die Malaria Jerusalems und ihre Bekanpfung’, Zeitschr. F. Hyg. Infekt., 1913/75, pp. 209– 35. 6 English, T.C., and Kelly, R.E., ‘Notes on surgery at Salonica’. British Medical Journal 1918/I, pp. 305– 10. 7 Wavell, A.P., Allenby: a Study in Greatness (George G Harrap & Co., Ltd., London, 1940), pp. 255– 6. 8 Luce, R.H., ‘War experiences of a Territorial Medical Officer’. WIHM/CAMC RAMC document No. 2031, pp. 529– 30.

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9 Sewell, E.P. and Macgregor, A.S.M., ‘An anti-malaria campaign in Palestine’, Journal of the Royal Army Medical Corps 1920/34, pp. 85 – 100; 204– 18. Searle, C., ‘Bilharziasis and malaria during the Palestine campaign’, Journal of the Royal Army Medical Corps 1920/34, pp. 15 – 34. Woodcock, H.M., ‘Notes and comments upon my malaria experiences while with the Egyptian Expeditionary Force, 1916– 1918’, Journal of the Royal Army Medical Corps 1920/34, pp. 385–96; 471–83. Evans, W., ‘Anti-malarial work with the Australian mounted Divison in Palestine’, Medical Journal of Australia ii (1919), pp. 526–9. 10 Letter from R.H. Luce to General Wavell, dated 1 December 1936. Cited in Wavell: Allenby: A Study in Greatness, p. 256. 11 Low, ‘Malaria in Palestine’. 12 Teichman, O., The Diary of a Yeomanry M.O., Egypt, Gallipoli, Palestine and 24. Italy (T. Fisher Unwin Ltd., London, 1921), p. 221. 13 Acting Sgt. J. E. Scott, 2nd London Sanitary Company, Royal Army Medical Corps. Imperial War Museum, Document 79/1/1. 14 Sewell and Macgregor, ‘An anti-malaria campaign in Palestine’. Searle, ‘Bilharziasis and malaria during the Palestine campaign’. Woodcock, ‘Notes and comments upon my malaria experiences’. Evans, ‘Anti-malarial work with the Australian mounted Division in Palestine’. 15 General Allenby to General Wilson, 5 June, 1918. The Wilson Papers, IWM, W2/33A/4. 16 Lovegrove, P., Not Last in the Crusade: A Short History of the Royal Army Medical Corps (Gale & Polden Ltd., Aldershot, 1955), p. 45. 17 Gray, J.L., ‘Red Dust’, An Australian Trooper in Palestine (Jonathan Cape, London, 1931), pp. 141; 161– 2. 18 ‘Koolawarra’ (Malaria), in Gullett, H.S. and Barrett, C., Australia in Palestine (Angus & Robertson Ltd., Sydney, 1919), p. 144. 19 Dolev, E., Allenby’s Military Medicine: Life and Death in World War I Palestine (I.B. Tauris, London, 2007), pp. 138– 9. 20 Harrison M., ‘Medicine and the culture of command: the case of malaria control in the British Army during the two World Wars’, Medical History 1996/40, pp. 437– 52. 21 Barrett, J.W., ‘The Halford Oration’, Medical Journal of Australia, 1932/ii, pp. 707– 18. 22 Boyd, ‘Experiences of a consulting physician on duty on the Palestine lines of communication’.

CHAPTER 8 A CAVALRY VICTORY? CAVALRY IN THE HISTORIOGRAPHY OF THE SINAI—PALESTINE CAMPAIGN Jean Bou

The role of the British, Indian and Dominion cavalry in the Sinai and Palestine campaigns is a topic that has received considerable attention in the historiography. Whole books, series of journal articles and today websites have been devoted to them. The official histories of the war and the better general histories of the campaign have taken a wider view, and in recent years the historiography has begun to broaden to investigate new areas, but there is no doubt the horsemen have received a lot of attention. This brief chapter will look into the way that the cavalry in this campaign has been remembered in the historical literature and elsewhere, consider why it has been presented so, and finally consider this presentation in relation to the cavalry’s performance during the campaign. Following the end of World War I it was not long before the first works were produced examining the exploits of the cavalry in Palestine. The journalist W.T. Massey produced his Allenby’s Final Triumph in 1920, in which the cavalry operations of Megiddo figured prominently, and R.M.P. Preston, an artilleryman, quickly followed

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with his more obviously narrow book, The Desert Mounted Corps, in 1921.1 The volume of the Australian official history, which not unnaturally focussed on the efforts of the almost exclusively mounted Australian troops, appeared in 1923.2 The New Zealanders had produced their volume on the campaign, again focussed on their horsemen, a year earlier in 1922.3 In the professional publications, the British Cavalry Journal began a long serialized history in 1921 and the US Cavalry School produced a monograph on the cavalry campaign in 1922, returning to the topic before World War II.4 The British official histories took a wider view of the campaign but when one of the historians, Cyril Falls, returned to the campaign in 1964 it was to the heavily cavalry-influenced operations of Megiddo with his book, Armageddon 1918.5 To this list can be added a considerable number of general campaign histories, regimental histories, memoirs, articles and a continuing stream of popular histories, which have recounted the exploits of the cavalry more or less explicitly. This output may not appear remarkable in itself, but comparing it to the literature on the rest of the war it soon becomes clear that, in relation to the Sinai and Palestine campaigns, plenty of authors have decided to focus on one of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’s (EEF) particular combat arms, perhaps at the expense of the others. The attention given to the cavalry does not, however, necessarily have a universal focus. In Britain, and probably most of the world, the attention has mostly come from an interest in the Battle of Megiddo and the subsequent advance to Damascus in September and October 1918. In Australia, where the interest in the light horse remains noticeable, this is less of a factor and, while there are other contributing themes, the interest probably stems mostly from a fixation on the charge at Beersheba on the last day of October 1917. The Beersheba charge has been well tended to in all forms of print, dramatized for Australian feature films twice, and is still frequently described in Australia (despite all the evidence to the contrary) as being the ‘last cavalry charge in history’, or in a more grandiose, ambiguous and self-congratulatory manner as ‘the last great cavalry charge in history’.6

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In considering why the cavalry has garnered this attention it seems worthwhile to note first that the mounted troops did a great deal to forge the shape of the British campaign. While the infantry became the predominant combat element from the First Battle of Gaza onwards, particularly through 1917, the mounted men played a large role in almost every operation, and the mobility and range they gave the EEF gave the fighting much of its character. Mounted troops played a dominant role in the advance across the Sinai; were prominent at the First Battle of Gaza, though less so at the second; and were crucial at Beersheba before taking a significant part in the operations following the Third Battle of Gaza, and again in the two Transjordan operations of 1918. Megiddo, despite being a complex operation involving the whole EEF, owed its stunning success largely to the use of cavalry. The influence of the Western Front on the conduct of the campaign grew as it progressed, but a campaign conducted solely along some variation of Western Front infantry and artillery techniques with little or no contribution from cavalry would have looked quite different. W.T. Massey contended, with some credibility, that the 6-week dash by the cavalry from Jaffa to Damacus in 1918 might have taken the infantry, based on previous experience in the theatre, upwards of 1–2 years to complete.7 Second, British, Indian and Dominion cavalry did do some militarily noteworthy things in the Sinai, Palestine and Syria during the war. The seizure of the Sinai Peninsula in 1916 and early 1917 was underpinned by a remarkable logistic effort, but it was almost exclusively the cavalry of the mounted divisions, the mounted infantry of the camel corps and their supporting gunners that did the fighting.8 Despite a perhaps well-founded desire to qualify the success of the cavalry operations at Megiddo and subsequently on the advance to Damascus by wondering at the quality of the Ottoman Army,9 there is no doubt that it was an astounding military success. Though ultimately a stunning example of a successful all-arms offensive using the full resources available, it was also the only successful ‘G in Gap’ operation (the vernacular term for cavalry exploitation of an infantry breakthrough) by British forces in the war, and the envelopment, and destruction, of three Turkish armies,

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followed by the pursuit of the remnants, largely by the cavalry of the Desert Mounted Corps, over hundreds of miles in a period of about six weeks must undoubtedly rate as a significant military achievement. But a bald admiration of the feats of cavalry is only part of the reason why the cavalry has garnered this attention and there are other factors to be considered. It is unlikely to be a surprise to anyone with an interest in twentieth-century military history that cavalry did not always receive such a good press in the years after World War I. The historiography is now becoming more balanced but for many years, anything associated with cavalry, particularly British cavalry, was generally presented as backwards, hidebound, reactionary or just plain stupid.10 The idea had roots in interpretations of modern warfare made in the second half of the nineteenth century, but received a new, strong impetus in the aftermath of World War I as part of the effort to understand the costly and static years of trench warfare on the Western Front.11 As the British historian Gervase Phillips has recently highlighted, this was tied up with the fierce condemnations made of the commanders of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF), Field Marshals Sir John French and Sir Douglas Haig, both cavalrymen. Accordingly pundits like Basil Liddell Hart, politicians like David Lloyd George and a multitude of historians all weighed in with thin, selective or sometimes bogus evidence condemning cavalry as obsolete and characterizing cavalrymen, or at least cavalry officers, as dullards unable to adjust to modern war.12 Cavalrymen, and those who studied them, were not slow in trying to defend the mounted arm from such barbs, and the examination of the performance of the cavalry in Palestine quickly became an essential element of that. It became a counter to an intellectual and military view, perhaps held with some substantiation, that only what had happened on the Western Front during the war counted or was representative of modern war. In Allenby’s Final Triumph of 1920, W.T. Massey wrote that Megiddo and its aftermath afforded ‘the opportunity all cavalrymen hoped for of proving that a large force of mounted troops was as necessary in an army today as in the past’.13 The following year the

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Australian Lieutenant-General Sir Harry Chauvel, who had commanded the Desert Mounted Corps, wrote in the preface to Preston’s history of the Corps that the book served to ‘demonstrate to the world that the horse-soldier is just as valuable in modern warfare as he ever has been in the past’.14 When the British Cavalry Journal began its serialized history of the campaign, it did so by pointing out it was the ‘story of an indispensable arm’, and then went on to explicitly object to the domination of the memory of the Western Front: There are to-day a few critics whose minds seem all obsessed by the standpoint of warfare on the Western Front. It should hardly be necessary to remind them that the British officer’s horizon is not limited by the doings in one particular theatre of war, however great that struggle may have been, and although the development of the world war has added to the number of weapons deployed, it has not replaced those of former days. When the world theatre of war is examined, not only does it demonstrate the tremendous possibilities of the cavalry, under dashing and intelligent leadership, and gives the true cavalryman a vast encouragement, but it shows beyond doubt that to-day the Empire needs the best cavalry that can be produced.15 Thus the accounts and histories of British cavalry in the Near East quickly took on a threefold purpose. First, they were traditional histories; chronicles of the campaign intended to record its happenings, personalities and salient features, and in the better ones also critically analyse what had gone on. Second, they served to highlight the remarkable achievements of an arm thought by many to be utterly obsolete and which, according to conventional wisdom, had been utterly useless on the Western Front. In doing so they took on a third, didactic, purpose of instructing the reader on the continuing value of horsed cavalry in a modern army; particularly an imperial army. This third purpose gradually fell away as the inter-war years progressed and mechanisation became increasingly viable and, despite the continuation of cavalry operations on the Eastern Front,

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met its effective end in World War II. The other two themes could be said to still exist and remain relevant to some extent. All of this led, however, to a perhaps irregular outcome in the historiography. The attempt to overcome the dominance of the analysis of the Western Front was probably doomed to failure from the start. The events that took place in a subsidiary campaign against the Ottoman Empire, or what was more derisively termed a ‘sideshow’, was never likely to rate highly against the decisive and devastating war in Europe against the continent’s most capable military power. Why worry about the doings of three or four cavalry divisions in the Middle East, no matter how worthy, when there had been hundreds of divisions fighting devastating battles in France and Belgium, not to mention on the other fronts? Thus, not surprisingly, the actions of the cavalry in Palestine has not necessarily counted for much in the broader view of the war, and the supposed uselessness of cavalry in Western Europe – desite the debatable nature of this idea – has become an accepted and extrapolated part of the historical view. The criticisms of cavalry officers resonated too, and the idea that the BEF were ‘lions led by donkeys’ was inevitably linked to the fact that many of the so-called donkeys, especially the top ones, personified by Field Marshals Sir John French and Sir Douglas Haig, had been stabled with the cavalry at Aldershot.16 Thus in 1994 when the Marquess of Anglesey, as part of his multi-volume history of British cavalry, produced his book on the operations of British cavalry in Palestine, he still felt the need to draw on the historical traditions established in the early 1920s by writing: One of the motives that has driven me on during the compiling of this chronicle has been the desire, almost I feel self-imposed duty, to do homage to the memory of those stalwart members of the mounted arm who throughout the war in all theatres have been so largely disregarded, not to say slighted, by those who have entered the minefield which is the history of the First World War.17

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Though this attempt to broaden the analysis of World War I and create an appreciation of the cavalry’s performance was not overly successful, it did have the perverse effect of producing a historiography of the Sinai and Palestine campaigns in which the cavalry featured very prominently, perhaps overly so. More than one historian has objected to this. One of Allenby’s biographers, Lawrence James, noted how the focus on the cavalry at Megiddo and afterwards tended to downplay the role of artillery, machine guns and armoured cars, among other things. He also pointed to the way that the role of airpower, particularly in September and October of 1918, was overlooked when raking over the cavalry’s exploits.18 John Mordike followed this train of thought about Palestine’s air war (and perhaps highlighted that cavalrymen have no monopoly on military partisanship) in a 2002 monograph on the campaign produced by the Royal Australian Air Force’s think tank, the Aerospace Centre.19 In the 1920s Archibald Wavell noted the acclaim given to the cavalry in the campaign and conceded that the use of the mounted arm was its outstanding feature but, with an inter-war eye to mechanisation, contended that the ‘true lesson is not so much the value of the horseman as the value and power of mobility, however achieved’.20 Colonel Eustace Keogh, who was the founding editor of the Australian Army Journal and a vigorous military historian, forcefully complained of the inter-war view that cavalry still had a place in modern war, based on events during the Palestine campaign, as sentimental and ‘an illogical deduction [. . .] arrived at by arguing the particular to the general’.21 To these rather traditional historiographical considerations should be added two more everyday ones in relation to how the cavalry of the Palestine campaign is remembered. The first is what may be termed ‘equine nostalgia’. Tied up with the long tradition of marvelling at the supposed glamour and dash of cavalry, it should be realized that there are plenty of people around who have a taste for all things to do with horses, and when that combines with an interest in military history, scholarly or amateur, a focus on cavalry often results. In Britain, yeomanry associations are nothing more than regimental old boys’ clubs. In places where there

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is more space and enough horse owners, however, today there are bodies that have an entirely different character, usually being umbrella organizations for an amalgamation of re-enactors, history buffs, genealogists and amateur authors, with internet discussion forums being the medium of choice. The Australian Light Horse Association, for example, is one such organization and aims ‘to preserve the history and tradition of the Australian Light Horse and its predecessors’.22 The New Zealand Mounted Rifles Association has a similar stated purpose, but adds that it also aims to remember the horses themselves.23 Though not tied to the Palestine campaign, the US Cavalry Association and the Internet-based Society of the Military Horse appear to be of the same character.24 There are plenty of internet sites and discussion forums that reflect an interest in the Great War in one way or another, yet it would be difficult to find equivalent groups keen or populous enough to establish sites dedicated to, say, the garrison artillery, the military police or even specifically the infantry. These sorts of organizations are not necessarily grand contributors to the historiography, but they highlight that a popular interest in the cavalry is widespread and this no doubt has its consequences for the way that the campaign is remembered. Linked to this is the second ordinary consideration – another form of nostalgia – which is that the cavalry operations in Palestine are often portrayed as being the last of their type in one way or another. Cyril Falls, in Armageddon 1918, thought that the ‘absorbing interest’ of the campaign was due to it being ‘one of the most brilliant cavalry operations in the history of warfare – and the last of its kind’.25 Similarly, reflecting the Australian taste for portraying Beersheba as the ‘last charge’, Ian Jones, who has published several books on the Australian Light Horse, has conceded that there were cavalry charges after October 1917, but made it clear that in his view ‘it was certainly the last great cavalry charge; great in what it attempted, in how it was carried out and in what it achieved’.26 The campaign, having occurred at that point in history when the cavalry horse was disappearing as a tool of war, will likely continue to attract a certain amount of attention as purported ‘last hurrahs’ often tend to do; one

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of those historical waypoints that attracts the mind, whether scholars think it should or not. So against this it seems germane to establish some clarity about the strengths and weaknesses of the mounted troops of the EEF. Perhaps their greatest asset was, of course, their mobility; the speed of manoeuvre and action over roads and rough ground conferred on them by their mounts. This, when coupled with the range that the mounted formations demonstrated in the Sinai and beyond, gave Generals Murray and then Allenby a force which could be quickly moved about to cover contingencies or strike at distant objectives. Because they were equipped with the rifle and, as the war went on, a fairly liberal number of machine guns, they also had some of the ability to seize and hold ground in the same way that infantry did. Thus they could fulfil all the traditional cavalry roles of reconnaissance, protection, raiding, screening, patrolling, foraging and the protection of lines of communications. But thanks to their firepower they could also take their place in the line in all the phases of war as mobile riflemen. As was also repeatedly demonstrated during the campaign, units equipped for and prepared to make mounted attacks possessed another element of flexibility. This point is perhaps best made by the repeated, and eventually successful, efforts of the Australian Mounted Division to be issued with swords through late 1917 and into 1918; weapons which they then used to impressive effect on the advance to Damascus.27 There were some distinct limitations, however. Logistics was, as it had always been, a significant matter for the mounted troops. For an army fighting in the deserts of the Sinai and then the arid terrain of Palestine, getting enough fodder and water to the mounted formations, not to mention every other animal and man in the force, was a major headache. Considering the requirements of keeping the EEF on the move, one author concluded that to ‘make such a force move at all was a major achievement in itself; to make it fight and win battles verges on the miraculous’.28 Having said that, the logistical arrangements for the mounted troops during the Sinai and Palestine campaigns, though by no means perfect were, broadly speaking, quite good, particularly given the circumstances. Still

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those arrangements had to be thorough and the mounted forces were capable of stretching them well beyond their limits. Everyone advancing north from Beersheba in November 1917 was parched, but the striking power of the mounted troops was particularly affected by the lack of water and the need for the mounted units to spend time looking for places to give their horses a drink.29 Despite the tactical flexibility I mentioned before, there were also limitations to what the mounted troops could do on the battlefield. Cavalry units, designed to be controllable by commanders while on the move, were only a fraction of the size of their infantry equivalents. An Australian light horse regiment, for example, had an established strength of about 25 officers and 450 men, this being about half of what a British infantry battalion at full strength would have on the roll-books. If committed to a dismounted action, this relatively small number quickly became even smaller as one in every four men was required, not to fight, but control the horses and keep them safe. This meant that cavalry units fighting dismounted were largely unable to develop the depth of formation or firepower of their infantry equivalents. In rough terms a dismounted regiment was equivalent to perhaps two, maybe three, infantry rifle companies; a brigade to an infantry battalion.30 The cavalry ability to seize and hold ground was largely intended for undertaking such endeavours in mobile warfare against opposition doing much the same sorts of things. Cavalry dismounted tactics were about skirmishing, rapid fire and manoeuvre, surprise attack, and putting every available rifle in the firing line (as opposed to the deeper formations of infantry) in an effort to quickly overwhelm the enemy. Ideally, an unsuccessful dismounted action would quickly be broken off and the horsemen would then try again with a different plan; pitched firefights were to be avoided.31 Artillery could compensate for these restrictions to some extent, but the batteries attached to the mounted formations in the Middle East were also intended for mobile operations, carried small ammunition reserves and were equipped with relatively light field guns; 18- and then 13-pounders from the latter part of 1917.32 Few people were impressed with the firepower of the 13-pounder and, as

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commander of the EEF’s Eastern Force in 1917, Sir Phillip Chetwode was decidedly nonplussed to hear he was getting some from England.33 There were plenty of thinking and able soldiers in the EEF, but whether these strengths and limitations were well understood must be open to some doubt, though both were evident early in the campaign. The attacks at Magdhaba and Rafa in the Sinai in 1916 could only be made by mounted troops given the need to rapidly strike across the desert, but, while in each case they were successful, the battles were close-run things, success being achieved only late in the day by dashing unit actions rather than being the probable result of well-executed operations.34 Both battles proved the flexibility, range and fortitude of the mounted troops, but also showed that their lack of mass and firepower did not make them well suited to attacking entrenched, fixed defences dismounted.35 Perhaps the early successes in the Sinai masked the problem, and for much of the campaign mounted troops would continue to be used in this way. At Beersheba, again only the mounted troops could have made the long approach to take the position in the rear, but the difficult day the Anzac Mounted Division and their light field guns had taking the redoubt at Tel el Saba, to Beersheba’s east, was perhaps another example of mounted troops being committed to an action which was not well suited to their qualities.36 The Beersheba cavalry operations were saved by a mounted action making full use of the potential for sensible modern charge tactics, but not everywhere was so well suited to attacks like this. On the rugged hills in front of Amman during the first Transjordan operation of April 1918, the Anzac Mounted Division and the Imperial Camel Brigade (and later the infantry of the 60th Division), lacking artillery support, could do little but fruitlessly batter themselves against the prepared Ottoman and German defences for several days. In this case the mounted men could do no more than launch under-powered and rather futile dismounted attacks.37 In short, dismounted cavalry was not an interchangeable substitute for infantry. The cavalry operations of the Palestine campaign have received a substantial amount of attention, and given the popular attention they

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garner this may well continue to be the case. But this attention has not been arbitrary and the exposure given to cavalry reflected, for many years, the determination of cavalrymen and cavalry observers to have their exploits recognized, an aim reinforced by the view that what had happened on the Western Front should not dominate military thought and, in the inter-war years, military practice. Such motivations should not be begrudged – similar ones are undoubtedly behind much of military history – and to the careful student they should not matter. Balanced histories of the campaign have long made it clear that the contribution of the cavalry just needs to be kept in perspective and that they were not the super-arm of the EEF. They were part of a large all-arms expeditionary force and made a significant, and sometimes spectacular, contribution to the British victory, but they had their strengths and weaknesses just like every other arm. In Palestine during World War I, as it has been since warfare began, it was through combined arms action that battles were won. Cavalry were at their best and most useful when the operations were mobile, but in set-piece battles their limitations in strength and firepower were frequently evident. Cavalry in the Palestine campaign should receive the credit and criticisms due to it, but then so should the commanders; the staff officers; the infantry; the gunners and the airmen; not to mention the always under-represented supply units.

Notes 1 Massey, W.T, Allenby’s Final Triumph (London: Constable and Company, 1920); Preston, Lt-Col. R.M.P., The Desert Mounted Corps: An Account of the Cavalry Operations in Palestine and Syria 1917– 1918 (London: Constable and Company, 1921). Preston eventually became the Commander Royal Artillery of the Australian and New Zealand Mounted Division in Palestine. 2 Gullet, H.S., Official History of Australia in the War of 1914– 18, Volume 7: The Australian Imperial Force in Sinai and Palestine, 1914– 1918 (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1941, originally published 1923). 3 Powles, C.G., The New Zealanders in Sinai and Palestine (Auckland: Whitcomb and Tombs, 1922). 4 Foster, Lt-Col. W.J., ‘Operations of the mounted troops of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’, The Cavalry Journal , xii/39 (1921), pp. 3 – 32, marked the beginning of the series which would continue under this and other authors until 1923; US Cavalry School, The Palestine Campaign (Fort Riley, Kansas: US

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7 8

9

10 11

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Cavalry School Department of General Instruction, 1922); and US Cavalry Association, Cavalry Combat (Washington: Cavalry School, 1937). Falls, Cyril, Armageddon 1918 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1964). The films are Charles Chauvel’s 1941 film 40,000 Horsemen, and Ian Jones’s 1987 film, The Lighthorsemen. When announcing the name of the Light Horse Interchange (part of a motorway complex in western Sydney) in 2003, the minister responsible, the Honourable Carl Scully MP, informed the New South Wales parliament that Beersheba was the ‘last successful mounted charge in military history’. See: http://www.westlinkm7.com.au/LightHors eInterchange-Overview.asp. Similarly Australia’s national broadsheet, The Australian, writing of the opening of the Park of the Australian Soldier in Be’er Sheva in April 2008 called it ‘the last of the great cavalry charges’; see ‘Light Horseman takes stand in Beersheba’, The Australian, 29 April 2008, online edition. Massey: Allenby’s Final Triumph, p. 9. This is of course conjectural, but Massey pointed out that with infantry operations in Palestine ‘a progress of five miles in three days’ stern fighting [. . .] was the best that could be hoped for. . .’. The Australian Light Horse and New Zealand Mounted Rifles were, for most of the campaign, strictly speaking, mounted rifles, not cavalry proper. This distinction was generally disregarded in the theatre and the term ‘cavalry’ was used to describe all mounted troops except the cameliers. It is not unusual for the light horse in particular to be described as mounted infantry, but despite them being used as such at various actions, particularly in the Sinai, it is an incorrect title. For more see: Bou, Jean, ‘Cavalry, firepower and swords: the Australian Light Horse and the tactical lessons of cavalry operations in Palestine, 1916–1918’, The Journal of Military History 71/1 (January 2007): pp. 99–125. Matthew Hughes, for example, is scornful of the Ottoman Army of late 1918 and clearly views it as one beyond the point of effectiveness. He also asserts, somewhat speculatively, that the EEF would have been far less successful against German opposition. See: Hughes, Matthew, ‘General Allenby and the Palestine Campaign, 1917– 18’, The Journal of Strategic Studies 19/4 (1996): pp. 73 – 9 and Allenby and British Strategy in the Middle East 1917– 1919 (London: Frank Cass, 1999). For an excellent article on the way that cavalry has been portrayed, see: Phillips, Gervase, ‘Scapegoat arm: twentieth century cavalry in Anglophone historiography’, The Journal of Military History 71/1 (January 2007): pp. 37– 74. For a summary of the views on British cavalry in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and the cavalry’s response to them, see: Badsey, Stephen, ‘The Boer War (1899 – 1902) and British cavalry doctrine: a re-evaluation’, The Journal of Military History 71/1 (January 2007): pp. 75– 97; or ‘Fire and the sword: the British Army and the arme blanche controversy 1871– 1921’, PhD Thesis (University of Cambridge, 1981). Phillips: ‘Scapegoat arm’, pp. 50 – 9. Massey: Allenby’s Final Triumph, p. 9.

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14 Preston: The Desert Mounted Corps, p. vii. 15 Foster: ‘Operations of the mounted troops of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’, p. 3. 16 The term ‘lions led by donkeys’ was popularised by Alan Clark in his 1961 book Donkeys, though the origin he gives to the term, a purported conversation between two the German generals Erich Ludendorf and Max Hoffmann, is likely bogus. 17 The Marquess of Anglesey, A History of British Cavalry 1916 to 1919, Volume 5: Egypt, Palestine and Syria, 1914 to 1919 (London: Leo Cooper, 1994), p. xxiv. 18 James, Lawrence, Imperial Warrior: The Life and Times of Field Marshal Viscount Allenby, 1861– 1936 (London: Weidenfield and Nicholson, 1993), pp. 175– 6. 19 Mordike, John, General Sir Edmund Allenby’s Joint Operations in Palestine, 1917– 18 (Aerospace Centre, paper no 6, August 2002), pp. 26 – 7. The Aerospace Centre has since been retitled the Air Power Development Centre. 20 Wavell, Archibald Percival, The Palestine Campaigns (London: Constabe and Co., 1928), p. 234. 21 Keogh, Colonel E.G., Suez to Aleppo (Melbourne: Directorate of Military Training, 1955), p. 265. Keogh had been a soldier in Mesopotamia during World War I and after gaining a commission in the inter-war years served in the Middle East, Australia and New Guinea during World War II. He was the Australian Army Journal’s first editor from 1948 until 1964. 22 See: http://www.lighthorse.org.au/. 23 See: http://www.nzmr.org/statement.htm. 24 See: http://www.militaryhorse.org; and http://www.uscavalry.org/. 25 Falls: Armageddon 1918, p. 11. 26 Jones, Ian, A Thousand Miles of Battles: The Saga of the Australian Light Horse in WW1 (Aspley, Queensland: Anzac Day Commemoration Committee, 2007), p. 114. This is a revised edition of Jones, Ian, The Australian Light Horse (Sydney: Time-Life Books, 1987). 27 For more on this see Bou; ‘Cavalry, firepower and swords’, pp. 99– 125. 28 Grainger, John D., The Battle for Palestine 1917 (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2006), p. 187. 29 Gullet: The AIF in Sinai and Palestine, pp. 409– 26. 30 Wavell: The Palestine Campaigns, p. 170. 31 ‘The employment of Camel Corps’, issued by the General Staff, General Headquarters, Egyptian Expeditionary Force, 11 January 1918, Australian War Memorial (AWM), AWM25, 157/5. This document outlines the differences in the tactical employment between the mounted infantry of the Imperial Camel Corps and the mounted rifles of the light horse, etc. 32 For example the 19th Brigade, Royal Horse Artillery, attached to the Australian Mounted Division exchanged their 18-pounders for 13-pounders in September 1917. Australian Mounted Division, Divisional Order no 9, 12 September, 1917, p. 2, AWM: AWM4, 1/58/58/3 part 1. Confusingly, however, there appear to be times when the 13-pounders were again temporarily exchanged

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PALESTINE AND WORLD WAR I back for 18-pounders. Walker, G. Goold (ed.) The Honourable Artillery Company in the Great War, 1914– 1919 (London: Seeley, 1930), pp. 136, 140. GOC Eastern Force, Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Chetwode, to CGS EEF, Major-General Sir A. Lynden-Bell, 30 April 1917, Chetwode Papers, P183, Imperial War Museum. At both places the battles were brought to an end by unit charges, mounted and dismounted, launched at the Ottoman defences. Wavell: The Palestine Campaigns, p. 120. Gullet: The AIF in Sinai and Palestine, p. 390; Wavell: The Palestine Campaigns, p. 120. Gullet: The AIF in Sinai and Palestine, pp. 547– 585.

CHAPTER 9 MAPPING FOR THE THIRD BATTLE OF GAZA, 1917 Peter Collier

Introduction In the aftermath of World War I, the Third Battle of Gaza was studied for the lessons it offered on the use of mobile forces to affect the outcome of a battle. In 1928, Archibald Wavell1 contended that the Palestine campaign should be studied if the military were to regain the ‘power of movement and manoeuvre, which was lost in the principal operations of the late war in Western Europe’.2 He held that the cavalry actions at Beersheba and El Mughar were classic examples of the dictum that ‘speed is armour’. However, Wavell was well aware that the action at Beersheba also demonstrated the limitations of cavalry unless supported by firepower. He further speculated that mechanised forces would have provided a more comprehensive victory, since the pursuit would not have been constrained by lack of water. He regarded the true lesson of the campaign to be the value and power of mobility, however achieved. This was in contrast to others, who regarded the campaign as a demonstration that cavalry still had a role to play in warfare. In fact, the action at El Mughar turned out to be the last time that British cavalry were to take part in

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a massed charge against an enemy position (the later large cavalry actions involved Empire forces). What even so perceptive a writer about military matters as Wavell failed to apprehend was the important role played in the battle by maps. In fact, the three references to maps in Wavell all concern the inadequacies of the maps available during the campaign.3 More recent scholarship4 has drawn attention to the major innovations in map-making which took place during the Palestine campaign, particularly in the run-up to the Third Battle of Gaza, while, as Sheffy noted,5 a post-battle assessment paid tribute to the precision of the map-making. In contrast to map-making on the Western Front, where the German forces were technically more advanced than the British in the use of aerial photography, the British surveyors in the Middle East seemed much more ready to innovate than their German counterparts.6 Most German mapping in Palestine remained firmly based on the Conder and Kitchener Survey of Western Palestine, conducted on behalf of the Palestine Exploration Fund (PEF) in the 1870s. Arguably, the PEF map was always a rather poor product, even when first produced. While it was based on a conventional triangulation scheme, the detail was provided using compass and cavalry sketching-board, and never achieved the accuracy of plane table surveys. That the Germans should have continued to rely on such an inadequate basis for their operations remains something of a mystery. A possible explanation is that the war in Europe had stretched their surveying capacity to its limits, whereas the British were able to call on a body of trained surveyors from the colonial survey departments and from India. Many of the officers in the 7th Field Survey Company were drawn from the Survey of Egypt and some individuals, on whom we have more information, are known to have served in more than one survey department (Meldrum, for example, served in the Survey of Nigeria before moving to Egypt). This colonial service would have been ideal practical experience to bring to the task of mapping in Palestine. The other major advantage that the British enjoyed was the close proximity of the Survey of Egypt itself, under its dynamic and progressive head Ernest Dowson.

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British military mapping showed innovation in a number of areas. There were the technical innovations in topographic mapping using aerial photography; the use of aerial photography to provide intelligence over-prints; the introduction of sound ranging to locate enemy batteries and the rapid production of ‘situation maps’ to show both allied and enemy dispositions during the course of the Third Battle of Gaza.

Topographic mapping The only mapping available to the Allies at the outbreak of World War I in the Middle East were the PEF map of Western Palestine; a 1:125,000 survey of Northern Sinai; a covert military survey of the Wilderness of Zin (the Negev Desert) produced under the cover of an archaeological survey; Maunsell’s 1:250,000 maps of Eastern Turkey in Asia (IDWO 1522),7 which did not extend as far south as Palestine; and Survey of Egypt mapping of the eastern approaches to the Suez Canal. As already noted, the PEF map of Western Palestine was insufficiently accurate by the standards of the time, and already more than 30 years out of date. The 1:125,000 mapping of the Sinai and of the Wilderness of Zin were the result of reasonably accurate plane table surveys, but they were designed for use by cavalry in mobile warfare of the kind experienced in the Second South African War, and the scale was too small for the purposes of the infantry and artillery battles of World War I. The only really adequate mapping was that produced by the Survey of Egypt. This was soon supplemented by additional mapping carried out at 1:15,000 and 1:7,500 scales by surveyors from the Survey of Egypt, who were part of the newly-established Topographical Section. These officers were subsequently to form the core of the 7th Field Survey Company, which produced the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’s (EEF’s) mapping throughout the Palestine campaign. The gridded maps extended for 10,000 yards beyond the canal between El Ferden and Deversoir, and also around Kantara. This mapping was supplemented by large-scale plans of posts.8 Following the advance of the EEF across the Sinai, initial mapping around Gaza was carried out using the same Canal Zone scales of

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1:15,000 and 1:7,500. However, the 1:20,000 scale used in France and Belgium was soon adopted, to be followed by 1:10,000 and 1:40,000. There seems to have remained some uncertainty over just which scales would be needed. The war diary of 7th Field Survey Company records a visit by Meinertzhagen on 20 August 1917,9 to inform the officer in command (OC) that 1:20,000 maps were to replace 1:10,000 and 1:40,000 scales. This decision resulted from a Chief of General Staff Conference at general headquarters on the same day, which had decided: a) The following will be taken into permanent use as soon as they are issued:- 1 inch, 1/20,000, 1/250,000 b) The following maps will be used temporarily until they are cancelled:- 1/10,000, 1/40,000, 1/250,00010 Why 1:250,00 was mentioned twice is unclear, and may simply be an error in the notes of the meeting, but 1:40,000 scale mapping was to remain in production until the end of the campaign, while the 1-inch maps were not issued on any significant scale. There had been some attempts to use aerial photography in association with the extension of Canal Zone mapping into the Sinai in October and November 1915, but as Maule noted,11 there were enormous problems in determining the absolute positions of the aerial photographs, which made their use in mapping very difficult and time-consuming.12 As a consequence of the difficulties, the method was abandoned in favour of conventional ground survey methods. It was only following the stabilization of the front on the Gaza-Beersheba line following the First Battle of Gaza (26 –27 March 1917) that aerial photography became increasingly important for both mapping and reconnaissance. As Sheffy notes, the first effort to produce a map of the Gaza area was not produced by the Topographical Section, which was still at headquarters in Ismailia.13 The urgent need for a map of the Rafa position led the Wing Photographic Officer, Hugh Hamshaw Thomas,14 to create a map at 1:15,000 using aerial photography. The map covered about 4 square miles and was the first on that Front produced entirely from aerial photography.15 In essence, the approach

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adopted by Hamshaw Thomas was to create mosaics from aerial photographs, and then to trace off detail to create a map. Sometimes, by being tied to control behind British lines, the mosaics could be controlled fairly accurately. On other occasions, the connection with British lines was not carried out until after the Turkish forces had abandoned the position, such as with Weli Sheikh Nuran.16 Control could be carried up to the front line by conventional triangulation. Where possible, points that could be located on aerial photographs would be fixed by intersection. The relatively flat and featureless landscape between Gaza and Beersheba offered few natural landmarks, so the few man-made objects, such as sheikhs’ tombs, often served as these points. Aerial photographs were then taken in parallel lines, the orientation being dependent on topography but also on the availability of ground control or previous mapping. Tie strips were also flown to help control subsequent mapping. In some cases it was found necessary to fly intersecting strips to ‘fix’ prominent features behind Turkish lines. The photographs were normally taken to give fore and aft overlaps of 30–40 per cent and a scale of about 1:20,000.17 Upon receipt at the compilation section, the photographs would have any identifiable control points marked on them. They were then assembled into strips on sheets of cardboard by edge-matching between adjoining prints. The scale of each strip was determined from whatever control was present on the strip. The required detail would then be inked up and transferred to a sheet of tracing linen using a pantograph. Detail along the edge of each strip was also identified and marked to facilitate joining strips together. Inevitably, as on the Western Front, there were many problems in reconciling photography with a variety of tilts with coordinated positions. Where the tilts could not be accommodated, it was necessary to fly new photography.18 Gridded sheets were then prepared onto which was plotted all existing control. Some of this was derived from triangulation from behind British lines and some derived from the PEF survey. The detail from any adjacent sheets would also have been traced across. The next stage was the intensification of the control network using a crude approximation to aerial triangulation. In this method, points

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were selected that could be identified on more than one tracing linen strip. The position of each of these points was then determined by reference to the primary plotted control using a separated determination for the point on each strip. A weighted mean position was then taken. These secondary points were selected to give one every 3,000 yards. Having achieved the required density of primary and secondary control points, the tracing linen strips were then placed under the gridded sheet and the detail traced off, constantly adjusting to the control. In the absence of more sophisticated techniques, it was not possible to provide height information for areas behind Turkish lines. Instead, form-lines were used to give an indication of relief. While this gave relatively poor results for the relatively flat areas on the Gaza to Beersheba line, the results for the Judean Hills were quite good, as the nearly horizontally-bedded limestone lent itself to the technique. In the run-up to the battle, the limited printing capacity of the 7th Field Survey Company was stretched to produce topographic sheets for the army. The printing presses were only suitable for short print runs, any more substantial demand having to be met by the Survey of Egypt, or even the Ordnance Survey. This necessarily meant that it was difficult to provide revised editions with large print runs at short notice. In total, the Company printed 6,600 1:40,000 sheets, 2,500 1:20,000 sheets, and 6,900 1:10,000 sheets.19 Despite the reservations of Wavell, the accuracy of these maps was considered to be good. Maule quotes the Commanding Officer of ‘V’ Sound Ranging Section: ‘The revised ATAWINEH 1/20,000 map (made entirely from Aeroplane Photographs) must be extremely accurate, as in each case when an X location has been obtained it has fallen with 25 yards of the Map position.’20

Aerial reconnaissance In common with most battles of World War I, aerial reconnaissance played an important role in the preparations for the Third Battle of Gaza. Aerial reconnaissance was used to provide intelligence

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assessments of the enemy’s dispositions, the strength of its forces and troop movements. What aerial reconnaissance could not provide was information on the enemy’s intentions. As Sheffy demonstrates, the major source of this kind of information was radio interception, rather than human intelligence.21 Aerial reconnaissance was still in its infancy when Turkey entered the war, and the allies had no aircraft in the Middle East. In late 1914, three Royal Flying Corps (RFC) aeroplanes and five French Nieuport seaplanes arrived to provide a much-needed air reconnaissance capacity. In addition to the official literature22 and published files, there are three first-hand accounts of the activities of the reconnaissance aircraft which provide an insight into the difficulties and dangers of carrying out reconnaissance in the primitive aircraft of the day. Interestingly, all three accounts are by men whose service was with the ships of the East Indies and Egypt Seaplane Squadron. The earliest account by Wedgwood Benn (1919) describes his work as an observer in one of the Short seaplanes carried by the Ben-my-Chree, a converted Liverpool-to-Isle of Man ferry. He describes how the observer had to cradle the camera between his knees during take-off to shield the lens from the salt spray that would have spoilt the exposures.23 The second account to be published was by Weldon (1925), who served as an intelligence officer on the Aenne Rickmers, a captured German cargo boat. The Aenne Rickmers served as the tender for French seaplanes, and Weldon was able to observe their work at close quarters.24 Weldon is perhaps now best known for his work with the NILI network, a group of Zionists who spied for the Allies.25 The third account is by Hughes (1930), and mainly focuses on bombing operations, although it also mentions spotting for the ships, which were giving fire support to land operations during the Third Battle of Gaza.26 Unfortunately, what none of the first-hand accounts give us are descriptions of the hazardous missions flown to acquire reconnaissance photographs prior to the Third Battle of Gaza. In the first half of 1917 the British were reasonably well supplied with aircraft for reconnaissance missions, but the best aircraft were still being

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deployed on the Western Front, leaving the smaller German air force with a technical superiority over its British opponents. As Sheffy notes, the RFC’s 5th Wing had about 20 serviceable planes at any one time compared to the ten of the German 300th Squadron.27 But in July 1917 the Germans were able to shoot down four British aircraft with no aircraft losses of their own. British losses continued to be high, but the determination of the fliers ensured that most reconnaissance tasks were accomplished. In the second half of the year there was a gradual build-up in British aircraft numbers, and an improvement in the quality of the aircraft. By the eve of battle, the RFC was able to deploy as many as 70 serviceable aircraft. It had regained air superiority in September 1917, and was not to lose it again during the campaign.28 Ultimately, it was British air superiority that ensured that the air photo interpreters and the map-makers were able to obtain the aerial photography that enabled them to do their work. Sheffy makes an interesting point about the quality of air observers, and the possible role that this played in the development of aerial photography.29 Air observation was regarded as important and it was noted at the time that ‘Egypt has become one of the largest training grounds for pilots and observers in the Empire’.30 However, air observation did not attract the best officers, as the tasks lacked prestige and delayed promotion.31 It was recognized at the time that this ‘deprived us of much of the value of that superiority’.32 This problem stimulated the development and use of air photography. New and better cameras were introduced and Hamshaw Thomas, photography officer of the Wing, ran two courses on air photo interpretation and the use of air photos for intelligence purposes.33 Towards the end of the year Hamshaw Thomas also produced an interpretation guide to aid the identification of Turkish works and battery positions. The increasing interest in the use of air photography led to an acceleration in the number produced. In January 1917, 277 exposures had been made, from which 2,493 prints had been produced; in July the numbers reached 365 and 2,702, respectively. By the autumn, in October there were 894 photos taken and 21,126 prints produced. In

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November the figures were 1,184 and 14,714, respectively, and in December 1,342 and 24,113.34 It was therefore not just that the aircrew were taking more air photos, but there was also a much greater demand from users for prints.

Sound ranging Before World War I the location of enemy artillery positions for counter-battery fire had largely been carried out by direct observation. Some indirect fire had been used during the Russo – Japanese War, but it seems that little was learnt from this experience by the military observers of the future combatant nation. The Austrian Army seems to have given some consideration to the possibility of using sound ranging, but little was done to develop a system.35 The first attempts to develop sound ranging as an operational system were made at the Institut Marey in Paris in the autumn of 1914. A system was ready for testing in November and demonstrated to army officers on 17 November. In parallel, another system was being developed and tested in the line as early as January 1915. This system came to nothing, but two of the systems developed in the Institut Marey were adopted, the so-called T.M. system, which was adopted by the French Army, and the Bull system, which was adopted by the British Army. The British had tried to develop their own system, but this came to nothing, and they started to take an interest in the French Bull system. After considerable delay, a system was finally ordered in June 1915, and delivered in October. A series of improvements were made to the Bull system under the technical direction of Lawrence Bragg.36 In total 34 sound– ranging sections were formed. Most served on the Western Front, but two were sent to Salonika, two to Egypt, and one to Italy. To carry out sound ranging, an array of microphones were set out behind the lines at precisely located positions. These microphones were connected by cable to a recording device which registered the sound waves received at each microphone from the firing of enemy artillery pieces. The recording device recorded as a trace the signal received from each microphone. Each type of artillery piece created a

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unique signature, and experienced operators could easily distinguish between different types and calibres of guns. As the sound of any gun fired would reach each microphone at a different time, depending on the distance of the microphone from the gun, it was possible by a relatively simple application of mathematics to determine the distance of the gun from each microphone and resect its position. In theory, sound location was simple, but in practice it was rather more complicated. One of the major complications was the effects of wind speed and direction, on one hand, and temperature, on the other, on the time taken for the gun’s sound to reach any of the microphones. It was therefore necessary to correct for the effects of wind spend and direction to obtain accurate locations. This led, in turn, to the establishment of meteorology sections, where they did not already exist for other purposes. Flash spotting was a rather simpler process and relied on two or more widely-spaced observers recording the flash of a gun, and measuring its direction relative to a known azimuth. In theory, observing a gun flash from just two points should have permitted an accurate fix of the gun’s position. In practice, there could be confusion regarding which flash was measured when a number of enemy guns were firing at the same time. In addition, flash spotting could only be carried out at night when the gun flashes were more clearly visible. Flash spotting was started in France in the middle of 1915, but was not fully developed before early 1916. Initially, flash spotting duties were undertaken by Royal Artillery personnel, but gradually the work was taken over by Royal Engineers units. The techniques of sound ranging and flash spotting were not introduced into the Palestine theatre until 1917. Flash spotting was introduced first in May 1917. Meldrum had studied the technique in France and organized a series of observation posts and observers to look for flashes. Unfortunately, the Turkish artillery did very little firing at night. It was decided to provoke the Turks into firing by opening heavy fire as if in support of a raid. When the Turkish gunners responded it was possible to fix 11 battery positions, which were later confirmed by aerial reconnaissance. However, there seems

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to have been little real interest in the idea, and it was allowed to drop.37 More successful was sound ranging, which was introduced in September 1917 with the arrival of ‘N’ and ‘V’ Sections. The work of ‘N’ Section, based near the coast, was particularly successful. The country around Gaza with its cactus hedges and citrus groves afforded good cover for artillery, making battery location extremely difficult. The arrival of ‘N’ Section meant that the search areas on the aerial photos could be refined, leading to the rapid detection of a high percentage of enemy guns.38 Some 410 locations were made in the space of 8 weeks. These locations were then plotted on maps supplied to the artillery for counter-battery operations. ‘V’ Section was less successful. It was located in the Sheikh Abbas salient in very broken ground, with no inter-visibility between microphone positions. This made survey work difficult and delayed the Section coming into action. In the 8 weeks the Section was in operation, 291 locations were made. After the battle, Captain Cockburn, the section commander, reported that 58 positions either marked on the map or located by ‘V’ Section were visited. Of these, 32 had been located by ‘V’ Section, but 21 were found not to have been occupied.39 However, ‘V’ Section also located 13 batteries in the Gaza district, all within 100 yards of their true positions.

Meinertzhagen and the position maps The facts around the ‘position maps’ produced during the Third Battle of Gaza are very thin on the ground. Meinertzhagen claims that he initiated the issue of the maps: I have been issuing daily printed maps showing enemy dispositions; they have proved to be extremely accurate. Their distribution has extended to Corps and Divisional Commanders. Yesterday Guy Dawney forbade me to send them to either Corps or Divisional Commanders as they ‘might frighten them’. I thought that pretty poor.

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These maps were issued daily from 28 October, 1917 to 19 December, 1917, almost all based on information from prisoners and DPM. After the war I checked them with the Turkish General Staff and they were remarkably accurate. My Mapping Section performed a remarkable task. They were given the originals at 4 p.m. and turned out twenty-five copies by 6 p.m. every evening.40 As Sheffy notes, it is by no means clear what Meinertzhagen meant by DPM. Sheffy also questions the value of the human intelligence that Meinertzhagen claims to have been such a vital source.41 In part, this is due to the lack of alternative sources of information on intelligence activities in the Middle East. Apart from Hamshaw Thomas’s writings, which focus mainly on mapping, there is little literature on the use of aerial photo methods, and there is even less on the important role played by wireless interception.42 The accuracy claimed by Meinertzhagen for his maps is less likely to have been due to human intelligence, and more likely to have been due to a combination of wireless interception and aerial photo analysis. Meinertzhagen is not even accurate concerning the number of copies made of each map. Examination of the war diary of the 7th Field Survey Company R.E. (1917– 19) reveals that the true number printed was 15. What is beyond dispute is that Meinertzhagen was heavily involved in the production of these maps. Maule records that: Whilst at KELAB the Headquarters were visited every day by Major R. MEINERTZHAGEN, D.S.O. G.S.O.2 (I) whose technical knowledge was of great service to the work in hand. All ranks were greatly encouraged by the close interest taken in the work of the company by the General Staff.43 The approach adopted for the production of the position maps was quite simple. Multiple copies of a suitable base map were prepared and printed in advance by the Survey of Egypt. During the course of the day, any relevant intelligence on the position of Turkish forces was

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collated by Intelligence and then supplied to the drawing section. Initially, the maps were printed at 1:100,000, this scale being used until 8 November. On 9 and 10 November the maps were printed at 1:250,000, and from 11–14 November they were printed at 1:168,960. The final scale, of 1:500,000, was adopted on 15 November. On 23 November, the 1st to the 26th editions (28 October to 21 November) were reprinted at the new common scale of 1:500,000. The changes of scale make sense as the widening area of operations became too great to be accommodated by the larger scale initially adopted. The decision to reprint all earlier maps at the new smallest scale seems to have owed more to an eye on history than to the needs of the ongoing operations. This is confirmed by the note in the war diary of the 7th Field Survey Company (1917–19) that the 30 copies printed were to be held by the Survey Company. The number of copies printed varied during the course of the battle, presumably on the orders of Meinertzhagen. Thirty copies of the first editions were increased to 81 for the 4th and then 90 for the 5th, 6th and 7th, before dropping to 40 for the 8th edition (4 November). The 5th– 8th editions had print runs of 43, but the 9th and 10th (the 1:250,000 scale sheets) had print runs of only ten sheets. The 1:168,960 scale sheets (editions 15 –18) had print runs of 15, as did the first six editions at 1:500,000 scale. On 20 November, the 25th edition was printed in a run of 16 sheets, and this was the number of sheets for the first printing of all subsequent editions. On 2 December, editions 22– 9 inclusive were reprinted in runs of 20 copies, again it seems for record purposes. The National Archives has copies of all versions, including some on which British positions have been added and annotated by hand. These copies all form part of the GHQ collection (in classes WO 153/1035/2 and WO 153/1035/3) which were transferred to the National Archives earlier than the ones in class WO 303. Those in class WO 303 all seem to come from the reprinted copies, as they are all at 1:500,000. There is a second partial set of original maps in WO 153/1039 (some hand-drawn sheets are missing from this class, and it only covers the period up to 14 November). A set of 1:500,000 reprints for the period 28 October to 19 December is also found in

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class WO 153/1041. The chief interest of this collection lies in the inscription on the front cover of the folder: Daily situation maps 1:500,000 28/10-19/12/1917 Deposited with the Historical Section (Military Branch) by Mr C. Malamar, Historical Section Note Mr C. Malamar belonged to the Survey Coy. GHQ EEF during the period covered by the maps and was one of the 2 Draughtsmen responsible for drawing the coloured plates representing the two Armies on each night. Unfortunately, we do not know the name of the other draughtsman. What we do know is that they worked directly under Maule, who seems to have overseen the production process. There is a little confusion over terminology. What is referred to here as ‘position’ maps are sometimes called ‘operations’ maps (this how they are referred to in the war diary). When class WO 303 was transferred to the National Archives in 1989, the listing referred to the 1:10,000, 1:20,000 and 1:40,000 scale maps as ‘Operations [trench] maps’. Meinertzhagen refers to the maps as showing ‘enemy dispositions’, whereas the printed sheets available in the National Archives show both Turkish and Allied positions (or dispositions). Meinertzhagen certainly thought that these maps were important, but were they a sufficiently novel innovation to put alongside the pioneering use of air photography for map-making? While the absence of evidence should never be taken as evidence of absence, it does seem that Meinertzhagen’s maps were novel. A trawl through the General Staff copies of maps from major battles on the Western Front has revealed nothing quite like the maps produced during the Third Battle of Gaza. In part, that may be a reflection of the almost static nature of the warfare on the Western Front, which meant that rather more simplified maps showing the front line and the frontages of the troops facing British forces was all that was required. The style of maps produced by Meinertzhagen would, however, have been

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familiar to any officer who had been trained using maps of past battles. Meinertzhagen’s innovation was to apply the same style of mapping to an ongoing operation, and produce updates on at least a daily basis. What the maps can offer is an insight into the sources of intelligence available during the course of the operations. The initial maps show Turkish dispositions in or near the front line, plus some reserve units. This information could have been collected from prisoner interrogations, supplemented by radio interception and aerial reconnaissance. At later dates the maps indicate the presence of units behind the frontline where human intelligence is unlikely to have been a source. The positive identification of units implies that signals intelligence must have been a source (see, for example, the Turkish 20th Division on the map for 8 November 1917). In addition, some maps indicate that Turkish units are in theatre, but at unknown locations (see the note about the 53rd Turkish Division on the map for 18 November). This intelligence was also likely to have been derived from radio interception. A detailed analysis of the maps, in conjunction with the surviving intelligence files, may yield a better picture of the relative inputs from the different intelligence sources.

Conclusions Despite Wavell’s criticism of the mapping available in Palestine,44 the maps produced before and during the Third Battle of Gaza played an important role in the successful conduct of the operation. Successful commanders rarely give credit to the maps they used in planning operations, and are often quick to blame them for failures. In another World War I campaign, the failed relief of Kut-el-Amara in Mesopotamia was blamed on the inaccuracy of the map, but postbattle assessments showed that the map was reasonably accurate and that the real reason for the failure was the inability of the troops to find their way in the dark. It is therefore not surprising to find few positive comments about the quality and value of the maps produced for the Third Battle of Gaza, but what is clear is that the quality of

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the topographic mapping far exceeded that available to the Turkish forces, in scale, accuracy and completeness. Access to better-quality maps clearly gave British commanders an advantage in planning operations, controlling artillery shoots and briefing troops. Post-battle assessments carried out by the surveyors confirmed the accuracy of the maps and, in particular, the locations of Turkish artillery positions, which enabled accurate counter-battery shoots. The topographic maps were products of pioneering attempts to use aerial photography to create maps of previously unmapped territory. This was in contrast to the largely revisional role played by aerial photography on the Western Front. However, while the techniques used produced maps which were comparable in accuracy to ‘plane tabling under active service conditions’,45 they could not be as accurate as those produced using rigorous techniques. This was recognized by their replacement by conventionally-surveyed maps once territory was under British control. Ultimately, the lack of rigour meant that the techniques developed in Palestine were a blind alley. The techniques being developed simultaneously in Mesopotamia were to be much more fruitful.46 Coupled with the better-quality topographic maps was the incorporation of accurate intelligence-derived information on enemy positions. Most of the information relating to the front line, or areas immediately to the rear, was derived from a combination of aerial reconnaissance and sound ranging, both areas in which British forces enjoyed a clear advantage over their opposition. Meinertzhagen’s ‘position maps’ allow us to study the course of the battle in detail, but did they play a significant role in the conduct of the battle? Clearly Meinertzhagen thought that they were important and influenced decision-making, otherwise it is unlikely that he would have included them in his book.47 They are listed in the war diary of the 7th Field Survey Company (1917– 19), but Maule makes no mention of them in his report.48 They do reappear, in redrawn form, in the first published account of the EEF’s operations under Allenby’s command,49 and the reprinting of earlier sheets during the course of the battle seems to indicate that someone (Meinertzhagen?) thought that they were important. What has not yet come to light is

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a contemporary independent assessment of their usefulness in the planning and conduct of operations.

Notes 1 Wavell was in Egypt as a liaison officer from the General Staff in London. During World War II, he was Commander-in-Chief for the Middle East from August 1939 to June 1941. 2 Wavell, A.P., The Palestine Campaigns (London: Constable, 1928). 3 Ibid. 4 Gavish, D. and Biger, G,, ‘Innovative cartography in Palestine 1917– 18’, Cartographic Journal 22/1 (1985): pp. 38 – 44; Collier, P., ‘Innovative military mapping using aerial photography in the First World War: Sinai, Palestine and Mesopotamia 1914– 1919’, Cartographic Journal 31 (1994): pp. 100– 4; Collier, P. and Inkpen, R, ‘Mapping Palestine and Mesopotamia in the First World War’, Cartographic Journal 38 (2001): 143– 54. 5 Sheffy, Y., British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign 1914– 1918 (London: Cass, 1998). 6 Collier: ‘Innovative military mapping using aerial photography’. 7 Colonel Maunsell RA had been an intelligence officer in the Near and Middle East since the 1880s, either as a military attache´ or using the cover of archaeological explorations. 8 RE Report, 1915. Report dated 25 March 1915 in WO 95 4417. 9 Richard Meinertzhagen was an intelligence office on General Allenby’s staff. He had earlier served in German East Africa, and went to France early in 1918. Meinertzhagen was a Christian Zionist and a famous ornithologist, who was later to be accused of inventing new bird species. There is also evidence that he rewrote some of his wartime diary, but his role in Palestine has never been seriously criticized. 10 Appendix in General Headquarters (GHQ) EEF, 1917, ‘Provision of Aeroplane Observers’. War Diary GSO GHQ EEF August to November 1917. WO 95/4368. 11 Major Maule was Commanding Officer of the 7th Field Survey Company. Before the war he had been a surveyor with the Survey of Egypt, a post he resumed after the war. 12 Maule, W. J., ‘Report of the Work of the Seventh Field Survey Company, R.E.: Egypt, Sinai, Palestine and Syria’, unpublished report to G.S.G.S. Map Research and Library Group DMS Tolworth, 1919. 13 Sheffy: British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign. 14 Hugh Hamshaw Thomas was a Cambridge biologist and early enthusiast for aerial photography. He was the first to realise its potential for vegetation mapping, and served again in the Royal Air Force during World War II as a photo-interpretation specialist.

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15 Hamshaw Thomas, H., ‘Photographic work of the R.F.C. in Sinai and Palestine during 1917’, P.R.O. AIR 1/2415/303/28 (1918). 16 Ibid. 17 Ibid. and Hamshaw Thomas, H., ‘Geographical reconnaissance by aeroplane photography, with special reference to the work done on the Palestine Front’, Geographical Journal 55 (1920), pp. 349–76 18 Ibid. 19 Maule: ‘Report of the Work of the Seventh Field Survey Company’, 20 Ibid. 21 Sheffy: British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign; and Sheffy, Y., ‘British intelligence and the Middle East, 1900– 1918’, Intelligence and National Security 17/1 (2002): pp. 35 – 52. 22 Jones, H.A., The Official History of the War in the Air, Vol. 6 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1937). 23 Wedgwood Benn, W., In the Side Shows (London, Hodder and Stoughton, 1919). 24 Weldon, L.B., Hard Lying: Eastern Mediterranean, 1914– 1919 (London: Herbert Jenkins, 1925). 25 Sheffy: British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign; and Sheffy: ‘British intelligence and the Middle East’. 26 Hughes, C.E., Above and beyond Palestine (London: Ernest Benn, 1930). 27 Sheffy: British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign. 28 Jones, H.A., The Official History of the War in the Air, Vol. II (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1928). 29 Sheffy: British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign. 30 GHQ EEF, ‘Provision of Aeroplane Observers’. 31 Sheffy: British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign. 32 GHQ EEF, ‘Provision of Aeroplane Observers’. 33 Hamshaw Thomas: ‘Photographic work of the R.F.C. in Sinai and Palestine’. 34 Ibid. 35 Innes, J.R., Flash Spotters and Sound Rangers (London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1935), p. 139. 36 Bragg was one of the best young scientists of his generation; he had already shared the 1915 Nobel Prize for physics with his father for the development of X-ray crystallography. 37 Maule: ‘Report of the Work of the Seventh Field Survey Company’. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid. 40 Meinertzhagen, R., Army Diary 1899– 1926 (Oliver and Boyd: Edinburgh and London, 1960). 41 Sheffy: British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign; and Sheffy: ‘British intelligence and the Middle East’. 42 Ibid. 43 Maule: ‘Report of the Work of the Seventh Field Survey Company’. 44 Wavell: The Palestine Campaigns.

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45 Collier and Inkpen: ‘Mapping Palestine and Mesopotamia in the First World War’. 46 Ibid. 47 Meinertzhagen: Army Diary 1899–1926. 48 Maule: ‘Report of the Work of the Seventh Field Survey Company’. 49 Pirie-Gordon, H. (ed.) A Brief Record of the Advance of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force under the Command of General Sir Edmund H.H. Allenby, G.C.B., G.C.M.G. (The Palestine News: Cairo, 1919).

CHAPTER 10 DESTABILIZING THE ENEMY: THE RAID ON NAZARETH, 1 19—20 SEPTEMBER 1918 Yigal Sheffy For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the supreme excellence. (Sun Tzu)2 The era of ‘Revolution in Military Affairs’ (RMA) during the last third of the twentieth century led to the emergence of new paradigms in the study of warfare. One of these, ‘pre-battle destabilization of the enemy’, is the object of this chapter. The term refers to an action carried out just prior to the beginning of hostilities or as part of the opening moves taken by the attacking army, the aim of which, according to one definition, is ‘to use all the capabilities of a balanced military force so that the final outcome of any war will be decided before the first engagement. The way to do that is to collapse the enemy’s will to resist.’3 A test case to investigate the ability of such pre-battle destabilization is the World War I Megiddo Campaign (or Armageddon and the ‘opening of the gate’, by its popular nomenclature). The September 1918 campaign in Palestine resulted in the Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF) under the command of

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General Sir Edmund Allenby capturing the northern part of Palestine from the Ottoman Empire in one week, and thus completing the conquest of the entire country.4 The actions taken to destabilize the enemy took place on two levels: framing its perception in the months and days preceding the campaign, and neutralising its command, control and communications system (C3) during the first hours of Z-Day (the day the campaign started). Actions to frame the enemy’s perception included psychological warfare and propaganda aimed at lowering the morale of the Turks and encouraging desertion, on the one hand, and an elaborate and wide-ranging deception operation to mislead the Turkish-German command in Palestine with regard to the main sector of the offensive and its timing, on the other hand.5 Actions to neutralise the C3 system were calculated to prevent the enemy command from reaching correct battle wisdom during the operations, and to disrupt its capability to communicate with the troops, transforming them to a sheep without a shepherd. These actions included air bombing of the main telephone exchange of the Turkish army in Palestine, situated in Afula; a similar air attack on the headquarters of the Turkish Seventh and Eighth Armies in Nablus and in Tulkarem, respectively,6 and a deep cavalry raid on their general headquarters (GHQ) in Nazareth, the subject of this chapter. The raid, which was carried out by the Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade under the command of Brigadier-General P.J.V. Kelly during the first night of the offensive and the following morning, is mentioned in almost all of the books that discuss the Megiddo Campaign. Also mentioned is the fact that the raid did not achieve its main aim – capturing the German General of Cavalry (and Ottoman Marshal) Otto Liman von Sanders, commander-in-chief (C-in-C) of the Yildirim Army Group, responsible for the defence of Syria–Palestine territory, whose headquarters were located in Nazareth. Thus, the raiders were forced to retreat within a few hours. In general, authors have placed responsibility for the failure on the tactical commander, General Kelly, who was removed from command after this failure on the one hand and due to the bad luck that accompanied the raid on the other.7 The present chapter maintains that this accepted explanation of responsibility for the failure does not stand up to a critical

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examination of the available documentation. Such examination indicates that, like many cases of failure in hierarchical oraganisations, accountability rested mostly with the senior commanders and staff rather than with the junior echelons. In our case, the EEF’s chain of command puts a brigade commander in a relatively junior position, located on the fourth level, after the C-in-C (Allenby), the corps commander and the division commander; the three of them, in this author’s view, bore the main responsibility for the raid’s unsuccessful outcome. This assertion is examined here in detail.

Planning the Raid The Third Battle of Gaza, which began on 31 October 1917, and during which the British broke through the Turkish lines of defence between Gaza and Beersheba, led the EEF by 1918 to gain control of southern Palestine, including the towns of Jaffa and Jerusalem, up to the line stretching from Arsuf in the west (north of present-day Herzliya) and north of Jericho in the Jordan Valley in the east. In the coastal plain the XXI Infantry Corps was stationed; Samaria and the mountain ridge were held by the XX Infantry Corps, and the Desert Mounted Corps (DMC) was located in the Jordan Valley. Opposite them were the Turks, assisted by German units, forming a defensive line of three armies, much weaker than the British corps; the Eighth Army (in the coastal plain), the Seventh Army (in Samaria and on the mountain ridge) and the Fourth Army (in the Jordan Valley and Transjordan), all under Yildirim Army Group command. The place of General Erich von Falkenhayn, who had been Yildirim C-in-C during the Battle of Gaza, had been inherited by General Otto Liman von Sanders, the former head of the German military mission to the Ottoman Empire, who had made his name as the defender of Gallipoli in 1915. His first act upon his new appointment in March 1918 was to cancel his predecessor’s decision to withdraw Yildirim headquarters from Nazareth to Damascus in the rear, and to return those of its staff who had already moved back to Nazareth.8

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Allenby had intended to renew his offensive northward in June 1918, but the German spring offensive on the Western Front that had begun in March and which threatened to break through Allied lines had disrupted his plans. A significant number of EEF fighting formations had been sent as reinforcements to the British Expeditionary Force in France and Belgium, and their place had been taken by Indian formations and units – infantry, cavalry, artillery and engineers – many of them arriving in Palestine undertrained and lacking in battle experience. The time it took for them to arrive, acclimatise and be trained forced the EEF to postpone the offensive by a few months and it had finally been set to begin on 19 September 1918.9 The well-known British plan will be only briefly mentioned here: breaking through and advancing across the length of the Turkish front by two infantry corps (six infantry divisions), launching the main effort in the western coastal sector and a supporting effort in the mountainous sector. An improvised reinforced division would carry out a diversionary effort in the Jordan Valley sector, while Arab forces would advance northwards east of the Jordan River. Immediately after the line was breached in the coastal sector, three of the four cavalry divisions of the DMC would pass through the breach (the fourth was allocated to the Jordan Valley) and would rapidly advance northward along the coast, outflanking the Turkish defence dispositions, and reaching their rear. They would then turn eastwards, cross the ridges of Carmel and Menashe and, advancing in the Esderaelon Plain (Jezreel Valley), the Lower Galilee and the Jordan Valley to the Afula– Beisan (Beit She’an) line, would capture road and railway junctions as well as the Jordan River crossings. This would trap the retreating Turkish troops between the cavalry and the advancing infantry, forcing them to surrender or be annihilated. The first echelon of the DMC was composed of the Fourth and Fifth ‘Indian’ Cavalry Divisions, followed by the Australian Mounted Division. The Fourth Cavalry Division was intended to advance via Wadi A’ra (Nahal ’Iron) to Lajjun/Musmus Pass (Megiddo Junction) and from there to Afula, while its companion, the Fifth Cavalry Division, was meant to advance to Afula via Wadi Milekh (the Zichron Ya’akov – Yokneam road) and Abu Shusha (Mishmar

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Ha’emek) in the Menashe hills, cutting off the railway between Haifa and Afula on the way. This division was also charged with the task of taking Nazareth and capturing prisoners and documents there. The division was composed of three brigades (of about 2,000 men), each of which was made up of three regiments, two on the basis of Britishcommanded Indian troops, and the third made up entirely of British soldiers. A regiment contained about 500 men and was divided into four squadrons, of four troops (i.e. platoons) each. The Yildirim GHQ consisted of about 200 officers and soldiers, many of whom were German. It was located at the Casa Nova, a four-storey building at the centre of the city (opposite the Church of the Annunciation) with an adjacent building housing Liman von Sanders. In the house next to it, the German general’s two daughters lived. Officers were quartered in Hotel Germania, Nazareth’s main hotel (later called the Galilee, located on today’s Paulus VI Street), which was situated about 400 m south of the Casa Nova. Throughout the town, under the commandant, Major Albin-Karl von Keyserlingk, German and Turkish rear and logistic facilities and a few combat units were scattered. The latter included the Thirteenth Depot Battalion, for the training of recruits (located in the lofty building of the French orphanage on a dominating hill in the north of the town, which would play a significant role in the affair and which today houses a school next to the Silesian Church of Jesus the Adolescent), the security company of Yildirim headquarters, and a gendarmerie unit. A number of main roads led in and out of Nazareth: in the south, towards Haifa and towards Afula, and in the north, a road to Tiberias and a paved road to Acre (Akko) exited from a large intersection. The process that led to the decision to carry out the raid is not sufficiently clear. In the available documentation, no written order of the EEF has been found dealing with the raid or with the idea of capturing the enemy commander, and no mention of Nazareth is to be found in the first operational order of the EEF GHQ, issued on 9 September 1918 and signed by its Chief of Staff, Major-General L. J. Bols.10 The first documented mention of Nazareth as an objective is found in the minutes of a planning conference held by Allenby on

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11 September, according to which, during the discussion, the C-in-C emphasised to Australian General Harry Chauvel, General Officer Commanding (GOC) of the DMC, the importance that he placed on quickly reaching the Afula-Besan sector, and instructed him to include Nazareth among his objectives. Allenby also instructed that ‘the city of Nazareth was on no account to be bombed or shelled at any time during operations’, an order which no doubt reminded his subordinates of a similar order by Allenby a year earlier regarding Jerusalem, for fear of causing harm to the sacred places of the Holy City.11 The minutes gave no reason for having to reach Nazareth, and the idea of capturing the enemy commander was not mentioned until one day later, when the DMC headquarters issued an operation order, that indicated the intentions of the EEF, saying that ‘dispositions (of the Fifth Cavalry Division) should ensure a detachment visiting Nazareth, with a view to capturing influential prisoners and important documents’.12 The wording of the Corps order was general and vague, and may have led to misunderstandings. For example, the explicit name of Liman von Sanders, the specific and prime target of the operation – as argued post factum – did not appear, and those who received the order may have understood (and, as detailed below, actually did understand) that the objectives of taking prisoners and collecting documents were equally important. In retrospect, Chauvel maintained that taking Liman von Sanders prisoner in the mounted raid was his idea, but that at first, most likely on 11 or 12 September, it was opposed by Allenby, who wished to use all available mobile troops for deep penetration in order to cut off all avenues of retreat, avoiding sidetracked actions. However, Allenby – according to Chauvel – finally agreed with the Australian’s idea.13 During the week between the issuing of the divisional operation order and Z-Day, the Fifth Cavalry Division GOC, General H.J.M. MacAndrew, designated the Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade to conduct the raid on Nazareth, and the Fourteenth Cavalry Brigade to participate in the capture of Afula, while the third brigade – the Fifteenth Cavalry – would be held in reserve. The details of the planning procedures on the divisional and brigade levels have

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remained unknown and it is not clear whether Kelly was privy to the secret objective planned for his brigade before 18 September, when he first received his orders in writing only about 36 hours before the beginning of the campaign, or whether MacAndrew in fact included him in the divisional planning process, due to the veil of secrecy under which the EEF was operating. For instance, brigade commanders were told of the Z-Day date only 48 hours earlier, and more junior officers even later. This extreme operational security adversely affected the preparations of those in the middle and lower echelons for the combat to come.14 As mentioned, less than 24 hours before the beginning of the advance northward, Kelly first received his operation order in writing. According to this order, before dawn the brigade was to pass through the breach created by the infantry, along the coast in the region of Arsuf, to cross Nahr el-Falik (today, Poleg River, south of the town of Netanya) and to reach Hadera (or Liktara, as it was called in several publications) in four hours. In Hadera, the riders were to rest until 6.15 p.m., when they would set out on their journey of 45 km to Nazareth, where the first regiment should have arrived at about 3 a.m., that is, about one hour before sunrise.15 According to the order: It is of the utmost importance that Nazareth is surrounded before daybreak. All roads will be barricaded so as to make it impossible for a car, by rushing the posts, to enter or leave Nazareth. All individuals moving to or from Nazareth are to be made prisoners [. . .]. Hostile GHQ is situated in the town and all commanders, staffs and documents are to be seized and taken care of.16 The order re-emphasised the prohibition on shelling Nazareth and the importance of speed, even at the expense of the force’s build-up before entering the town. In his notes to the draft of the official Australian history of the war in Palestine, Chauvel maintained that he personally had explained to the Fifth Division GOC, MacAndrew, that ‘Liman von Sanders and his Headquarters were the sole objective of the raid’.17 MacAndrew could not give his version of events, as he died in a

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tragic accident a few months after the war, but his staff officer W.T. Hodgson (later a Major-General, not to be confused with MajorGeneral H.W. Hodgson, GOC of the Australian Mounted Division) asserted that MacAndrew had discussed the details of the raid with Kelly before the brigade arrived at the assembly area (18 September), to ensure that Kelly understood the special importance attributed to taking von Sanders prisoner and, hence, to the speedy capture of Nazareth’s northern road intersection leading to Tiberias.18 According to Hodgson, he personally watched the brigade’s preparations in the assembly area on that day, talking with Kelly about the task ahead. Hodgson also asserted that from the three cavalry regiments composing the brigade (the Indian 9th Hodson’s Horse and 18th Lancers, and the British Gloucestershire Hussars Yeomanry), Kelly chose the Hodson’s as the leading regiment, and its commander sat all that day, studying his task and objectives for the first time. From this testimony, it becomes clear that not only were the actual participants – the brigade commander, his small staff and the commanders of the regiments – brought into the picture at the last moment, but that all three higher echelons, who were privy to the mission earlier – the EEF, the DMC and the Fifth Cavalry Division – did not take the trouble to set up a viable operational plan and, as will be seen, did not even gather the necessary intelligence. Instead, they thrust the responsibility for planning a complex surgical operation upon the combatants themselves. At the last minute, raid commanders should make at the most final adjustments, fish for last-moment intelligence or go around the troops for morale-boosting. Instead, Kelly and Lieutenant Colonel Claude Rowcroft, commanding officer of the leading regiment, had to allocate time and energy to formulate a new plan without even having the necessary detailed intelligence, and without being able to back up the plan with even minimal training in a type of urban combat which was totally unknown to the horsemen. It also becomes clear that the objective of the operation as defined in the written orders – encircling Nazareth, on the one hand, and the orally-transmitted objective of capturing Liman von Sanders, on the

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other hand – dictated different forms of action. Enclosing the town meant gaining control of key areas in its outskirts in the first stages of the raid, while capturing the German C-in-C meant a sudden and immediate arrival at his residence before closing off the retreat routes. It is not even clear whether Kelly, under normal conditions and with no pressure, would have realised this contradiction and approached his superiors for clarification, but the short time available and the pressure involved certainly did not assist in resolving this dichotomy.

Intelligence and Lack of Intelligence A basic precondition for planning and carrying out a successful surgical operation is detailed and exact intelligence with regard to terrain, targets and hostile forces. In the case under discussion, such intelligence, which referred to the advance route and the location of military installations in Nazareth, primarily Yildirim headquarters and Liman von Sanders’ residence, was not put at the disposal of the raiders. According to Kelly, he was only provided with a general map of the town and erroneous information that Yildirim GHQ was located at the Germania Hotel.19 When he started out, he had a vague idea regarding the route and the key areas for controlling Nazareth, and knew almost nothing about hostile forces that he might encounter in the town and its vicinity. The intelligence failure had already begun at the phase of the advance. A realistic analysis of time and distance to Nazareth and geographical data with regard to the region might have warned in advance that the time slot of nine hours allotted for covering the 45 km between Hadera and Nazareth was too optimistic considering the movement was taking place at night, even in the light of a full moon, and involved 2,000 mounted men in an area where riding was frequently limited to one single line and sometimes even required dismounted march. This calculation left minimal time for rest and for dealing with unplanned occurrences, such as navigation errors or hostile encounters (which did in fact take place). Also, the brigade

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was supposed to receive a local guide, familiar with the route and with the Nazareth area, but no such guide arrived. The reasons for these intelligence blunders are not clear. The EEF intelligence was privy to the most up-to-date topographical information, including current aerial photographs of the town and its surroundings; the result of an intelligence effort during August 1918 to photograph the northern region of Palestine from the air, including the area of Nazareth, for mapping purposes.20 Starting from April, Nazareth was defined by intelligence as a ‘priority target’ for infiltrating Arab agents,21 while additional updated information about Nazareth and its military setup could have been supplied by German and Turkish prisoners of war and defectors, dozens of whom, in the months prior to the Battle of Megiddo, were reaching the EEF every week (in the six weeks preceding 19 September, no less than 350 defectors had crossed the lines).22 To judge by the unit list of those defectors and prisoners, more than a few of them had passed through Nazareth or been quartered in its vicinity and could therefore have provided relevant and up-to-date information.23 An additional source could have been the many Arab inhabitants who crossed the lines during 1918 and were regularly interrogated. Whether intelligence efforts were indeed made vis-a`-vis Nazareth remains an open question, but what is clear is that, although updated material had accumulated in the EEF Intelligence Department’s files, including, for example, the nearly accurate picture of all field units in Nazareth,24 this information never reached the brigade. Basic information prepared by the EEF for distribution regarding Nazareth until the beginning of September was not very great. Indeed, the Handbook of Northern Palestine and Southern Syria, published by the EEF Intelligence Department in April 1918 (and which, despite its being specified as a temporary edition, was not followed up by another), contented itself with general descriptions of the towns in the northern region and seemed more like a tourist guide than a military one.25 Additionally, the collection of maps of Palestine issued by the EEF and now found in the British National Archives includes only one town map of Nazareth at a scale of 1:11,000, issued in April 1918.26 However, this turned out to be a

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translated version of a map printed originally for the 1912 edition of the German Baedeker tourist guide to Palestine. Considering the absence of other maps in the archives and based on the absence of updates and the lack of any indication of military installations in the April 1918’s EEF map, it seems that this was indeed the map which was provided for Kelly’s use.27 Even if Nazareth – despite being designated ‘a priority target’ – had not in fact been an objective for intensive intelligence collection efforts before September, being far from the front, then, after it had been targeted, it would have been possible to closely re-examine the files for relevant data, to re-interrogate prisoners and defectors and to allocate aircraft for specific air-photo missions over the town for the preparation of updated and detailed maps with an operational view. Apparently, none of this had been done. From the incomplete evidence available, it appears that this omission had its roots, at least partially, in the unfounded fear of spies ‘behind every bush’ that characterised the culture of secrecy common in the EEF. This led to severe field security instructions, to draconian information security, and to over-compartmentalisation of everything connected with the planning of the raid and its details.28 The fear that any intelligence activity dealing with Nazareth might expose EEF intentions to the enemy, along with the strict internal compartmentalisation, ensured that up until the last minute the very idea of the raid was known only to a limited group of officers, and it is doubtful that the relevant army and air intelligence people in the different echelons had been among them. This led to inactivity both in the fields of information collection and intelligence dissemination, even if up-to-date and relevant information would have actually arrived. The fact that the promised local guide did not reach the Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade, which was later revealed to be a crucial weakness, was also explained in retrospect as stemming from field security considerations. From the beginning, providing a guide who knew the way to Nazareth well had been planned, but, as Kelly maintained, Hodgson informed him on the day of the raid that the EEF did not try to find such a man because it was feared that searching for such a guide

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might expose the operation too early.29 However, explaining the omission by field security is unconvincing in light of the fact that the EEF had at their disposal expert and security-vetted guides who had already been assigned to the cavalry divisions shortly before the offensive. These were Palestinian Jews, some from the 40th Jewish Battalion and others associated with the Jewish spy group Nili, whom during the pre-offensive months had undergone strict security screening and had been attached to the EEF Intelligence Department (those who had failed the screening were retuned to their units). For unknown reasons the attachment of the guides who had been assigned to the Fifth Cavalry Division had been cancelled, which might explain why no guide had been sent to the Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade as promised, although the guides who had been assigned to the two other cavalry divisions rode with them all the way to Afula.30 It is indeed hard to understand why an experienced guide was left with a secondwave division, such as the Australian Mounted Division, rather than being attached to a brigade which was not only one of the two leading brigades of the entire corps, but about to carry out an independent action in an unexplored territory. One cannot exclude the hypothesis that this post factum claim of ‘blaming’ field security was designed to cover up command negligence and blunders. It is worth mentioning here that in Kelly’s retrospective opinion, if he had had a knowledgeable guide at his side, he would have succeeded in capturing the crucial high ground that controlled the roads intersection in the north of Nazareth without having to enter and cross the entire town, as in fact happened.31

Advancing to Nazareth The 9th Hodson’s Horse Regiment was chosen as the leading regiment of the brigade – and thus, of the entire Fifth Cavalry Division – in moving from the assembly area in the Sommeil orange groves (Northern Tel Aviv) to the holding area in the neighbourhood of al-Jelil (Glilot), south of Arsuf, on the night of 18– 19 September, and from there, on Z-Day, to Hadera and to Nazareth. Looking back, Kelly was criticised for choosing the regiment that had already been

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designated to enter Nazareth first to lead the entire way as well, and thus, from the first moment, expecting it to bear the onus of anticipated fighting along the advance. It may also be argued that he acted unprofessionally when he ordered the leading horses to trot from the beginning, with no real reason, on sandy ground that was not suitable for this type of riding in the area between the Falik River and Hadera. Making the horses trot was undoubtedly an error, particularly when Hodson’s horsemen found themselves fighting in a number of skirmishes near the village of Umm Khalid (in the environs of Netanya). Although these were insignificant and there were no casualties, they required the investment of time and energy.32 Hence, the horses of the Hodson’s became unnecessarily tired, and after reaching Hadera, Kelly was forced to put the unprepared 18th Lancers in the lead.33 This switch did not aid in readiness either: the Lancers’ commanding officer had very little time to learn his new mission, and especially the route of advance, which later contributed to navigating errors. However, placing responsibility for the failures on Kelly alone is unjust. First, the orders given to the brigade were, as mentioned, to reach Hadera no later than four hours from crossing the breach, in spite of the fact that the entire division was not to depart from Hadera before 6.15 p.m., so that the element of time during the first stage was not really critical at all. Second, both the Fifth Division’s GOC and his senior staff officer were present at the time the brigade began its journey, witnessed the overly fast pace, and could have intervened if they so wished. Hodgson, in retrospect, excused their inactivity in unsuccessful attempts to reach Kelly (who rode, leading, at the head of the brigade), advising him to slow the pace.34 Yet, had MacAndrew sent one of his officers ahead, he would certainly have reached Kelly with the GOC’s instructions not long afterwards. This was not done, and it appears that, at the time, MacAndrew was not troubled by the rapid pace, all the more so as it was actually in line with his own orders. In Hadera, an Arab guide was recruited in unclear circumstances to lead the brigade to Nazareth. While according to Hodgson the recruitment was done by the divisional intelligence, Kelly argues the opposite: that he personally devoted precious time to search for suitable Arab or Jewish guides (he was a fluent Arabic speaker) and

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finally found two Arab residents who claimed to know the way and agreed to accompany the brigade for a small sum of money. If the latter is correct (indirect support for Kelly’s version can be found in the late arrival of the division headquarters in Hadera), the fact that the brigade commander chose to personally deal with the matter indicates the extent to which earlier and appropriate handling of it by senior headquarters would have removed this superfluous burden from Kelly’s shoulders, freeing him for proper duties as brigade commander, or even for much-needed rest. The route determined for the brigade was Hadera to Zarkaniya (East Binyamina) to Sindiyanna (north of Avi’el) to Sabbarin (near Amikam) to Joua’ara (misspelled by the British as J’ara or Jarak) to Abu Shusha (near Mishmar Ha’emek) to Waraqani (near Kfar Barukh) and so to Nazareth. Movement through the Menashe hills was to be carried out by advancing through terrain without defined paths. When the brigade set out, Kelly again chose to lead from the front, accompanied by his small forward command group and an Arab guide, riding adjacent to the spearhead troop. After them, one after another, rode an improvised company of engineers tasked with destroying the railway; the Lancers Regiment; the brigade’s machine gun company and the Gloucestershire Yeomanry Regiment, with the Hodson’s Horse Regiment bringing up the rear. From Hadera, the riders turned north-east to the Menashe hills for a few kilometers, south of the Wadi Milekh route, continued through a difficult rocky area of low hills in the proximity of the Arab villages of Sabbarin, Joua’ara (which they reached at 1 a.m.) and Abu Shusha (arriving at between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.), and descended the slopes to the Jezreel Valley, with delays stemming from movement through difficult terrain and due to several units who had lost their way and had been separated from the main force. Precious time was lost while the brigade reassembled near the railway between Haifa and Afula in Warakani (3 a.m.). From there they advanced in a north-east direction and at 3.30 a.m. they reached the outskirts of an urban area identified by the guide as the suburbs of Nazareth. This actually turned out to be the Arab village of Mujaydil (Migdal Ha’emek), about 5 km south-west of Nazareth and which the cavalry had been

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intended to bypass. Kelly quickly realised the mistake, but was dragged into mopping-up action, taking the Turkish soldiers in the village prisoner out of fear that they would resist or flee to Nazareth, raising the alarm of the approaching raid (in fact, 200 men were taken prisoner with no opposition). The detour to Mujaydil added another half-hour to the march, which was further slowed when, in the village of Yafia’ south-west of the town, through which the road passed, Kelly was forced to slow again, departing from another mopup squadron. The brigade’s spearhead reached the south-western outskirts of Nazareth between 4.30 and 5.30 a.m., after dawn, and about an hour to an hour-and-a-half later than had been planned.35 The delay stemmed from a series of command decisions which also decreased the brigade’s order-of-battle to about half, so that, when the horsemen finally entered Nazareth, their effective fighting strength totalled only six cavalry squadrons and an understrength machine gun company. Already at the beginning of the advance, a cavalry troop had been assigned to protect the logistic column, and in Hadera a second troop had been taken for accompanying the divisional forward command group. Then, reaching Joua’ara, Kelly, following an order by the Fifth Cavalry Division, left two squadrons behind to secure the left flank of the corps when crossing the Musmus (Megiddo) Pass from Wadi A’ra into the Jezreel Valley.36 Here, too, the versions conflicted: while British official history and Kelly placed full responsibility for the order on the Fifth Cavalry Division, Hodgson maintained in retrospect (and the divisional war diary supported him) that the division ordered the brigade to leave one squadron only, but Kelly, for his own considerations, chose to double the force that was left.37 As the journey continued, the brigade column continued shrinking: a squadron got lost during the night and failed to join up until the following day; the railway’s demolition removed another squadron which remained to protect the sappers. In Mujaydil, Kelly had no choice but to leave another squadron and two additional troops in Yafia to mop up and secure the road from Haifa. Kelly’s post-war complaint about this reduction was rebutted by Hodgson, who argued that the division commander preferred to leave the tired horsemen of the Hodson’s in Joua’ara after their strenuous

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ride to Hadera, rather than assign the task of securing the Musmus Pass to the Fourteenth Brigade, because he had wished to keep the latter at full strength for the coming challenges.38 Yet, the fact remained that MacAndrew saw fit to reduce the strength of a brigade in an independent effort for corps and divisional assignments, instead of allocating unemployed units for the job, a decision indicating, perhaps, a perception of the raid as a relatively simple and easy task. The advance was further hampered by mishaps characterised by a combination of difficult terrain and human factors, all of which slowed the movement. First of all, the topography dictated brigade movement in a lone column which stretched over 5 km. Second, near Sabbarin, the guide had already erred in navigation, which resulted in lengthening the pace of movement, as the riders unnecessarily descended into wadis and ascended hills, creating gaps between units. Third, Kelly, who persevered in his decision to ride at the head of the column, pushed his small command group into a quicker pace than the rest of the column, neglecting the basic rule in leading forces – maintaining contact with those behind. Thus, east of Joua’ara, one of the Lancers’ Indian squadrons lagged behind, creating a cut-off between Kelly and the forward elements, who continued in their advance, and the rest of the brigade, who had to stop at an intersection not knowing in which direction to proceed. Only after about an hour was contact re-established (as mentioned, one squadron did not find its way back for many hours). Fourth, the guide’s ignorance reached its peak when he led the brigade erroneously into Mujaydil, which he identified as Nazareth. Finally, due to the necessity of leaving a unit behind in the later village, Kelly was forced, for a second time, to change the leading regiment. This time, it was the turn of the Gloucesters, who – although they were at full strength – were caught by surprise when ordered to be the first to enter Nazareth and capture both Yildrim GHQ and Von Sanders.

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The Battle for Nazareth What was going on in Nazareth in the meantime? In the last days before the offensive, Yildirim received an increasing amount of early-warning indications. Consequently, front-line units were reinforced with troops sent from the rear, among them the security company of Yildirim GHQ that left Nazareth a day or two before the attack. Although its place was taken by an improvised detachment that was hastily established from among German and Turkish administrative staffs, its men had been scattered among posts around town and never saw action as a unit. Also, following the first news of the British attack on 19 September, Oberstleutnant Ulrich Frey, Yildrim’s Chief Engineering Officer, was sent out in the morning commanding an improvised force of the Nazareth gendarmerie and part of the depot battalion to secure the Musmus Pass. The remaining 150 trainees and instructors of the depot battalion constituted the only organised combat unit left in Nazareth.39 In addition, several hundreds of armed logistic and administrative troops, mostly Germans, were still in town. On the night before the ground offensive, a lone Handley Page heavy British bomber – the only one in the region – had destroyed Yildirim’s main telephone exchange in Afula in a surgical raid, and in the early morning hours the latter was air-attacked again. Simultaneously, Turkish army headquarters in Nablus and in Tulkarem, along with three Corps headquarters, were attacked by air strikes directed against telephone exchanges, landline junctions and wireless stations. The strikes destroyed a great part of Yildirim’s communications system, incapacitating, to the point of neutralisation, its command and control capability. In addition, British constant air patrols over Jenin and Afula enemy airfields prevented German reconnaissance planes from taking off throughout the day.40 After 20 hours of fighting, Yildirim GHQ, although realising that the defence line had been broken, nevertheless greatly underestimated the dimensions and tempo of the British advance, and was ignorant of the deep cavalry penetration. In retrospect, von Sanders admitted that the real information about what was occurring on the

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battlefield he learned only later, and some only from British publications after the war.41 On 19 September, an emergency plan for the evacuation of the Yildirim GHQ was prepared and preliminary steps had been taken to send sensitive material away; a safe holding the headquarters’ funds, for example, which was in fact taken to Damascus, or classified documents collected for an evacuation the following morning.42 No preparation, however, was made to evacuate the military hospital, which continued to receive patients even on the morning of the actual raid, 20 September.43 When Von Sanders retired to his room for the night, he never imagined that he would awaken at daybreak to the reality of combat taking place only hundreds of metres from his residence. Kelly in Mujaydil, aware of the error made by the guide and mindful of the delay in schedule, ordered the Gloucesters to join him in a trot to Nazareth and instructed the Lancers to follow as soon as they had completed the mopping-up action. The errors and mishaps that had accompanied the brigade now began to take their toll. First, the raiders entered an urban area which was no longer asleep as planned; instead they advanced into an awakening town in which hundreds of soldiers were rising and were therefore able to recover from their initial surprise faster than might have been anticipated. Second, instead of reaching the northern road intersection first and closing it off, the entire force entered Nazareth from the south-west, which was the farthest extremity from the intersection, compelling the raiders to cover a greater distance to the intersection while fighting a recuperating enemy. Kelly had two options to consider: he could bypass the densely-built centre by advancing slowly northwards along the western hills, or, alternatively, he could cross this centre by riding rapidly along the streets that ran north – south. He compromised, dispatching two troops via the hills and, simultaneously, perhaps under the influence of the arme blanche culture, which viewed a mounted charge as creating a paralysing shock among the defenders, directed most of his available troops to conduct a riding charge through the town. However, the fact that the brigade had been significantly reduced now came into play. Not only had the available force become smaller by half, but Kelly was forced to allot

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additional forces to secure its flanks and to deal with unexpected threats, such as the camp of a German motor-car unit, whose men opened fire, requiring the assignment of a cavalry troop to overcome them. Another two troops were sent to locate von Sanders’ residence, to take control of the buildings hosting Yildirim GHQ and to collect documents there. The remaining force available for combat through the town center had now been reduced to the weakened Gloucestershire Regiment alone, which, upon command, at about 6 a.m. drew swords and, in the best cavalry tradition, galloped along the main street (today Paulus VI Street), accompanied by Kelly and his command group. They quickly found themselves mired in urban fighting as the opposition gradually increased. The fire directed towards them obligated the yeomanry to stop about 200 m south of Casa Nova and to try to proceed dismounted, but they were again pinned down by fire, huddling along the side walls of the houses without being able to advance. Moreover, the frequent change in tasks among the regiments, their poor intelligence, and apparently also Kelly’s vague briefing to the Gloucesters, meant that the raiders had not internalised the crucial nature of gaining quick control of the northern intersection. Thus, when the leading squadron arrived at the Germania Hotel, the troops turned their attention to this impressive house, believing that they had reached Yildirim GHQ instead of the residence of staff officers, as ‘Apparently the sight of the Turkish and German sentry boxes outside the Hotel Germania was too much for them’.44 Instead of driving forward, they took their time, taking over the hotel rather peacefully, and began to search there for the German C-in-C. Officers taken prisoner and documents collected there augmented the wrong impression about Hotel Germania, causing even the troop tasked with occupying the headquarters to remain there, busy with assembling documents. Only after a time was the mistake realised, and a new search began, focusing on houses whose size might have enabled them to function as a headquarters. However, the real building remained unknown despite field-interrogation of prisoners. The troop that was searching for Liman von Sanders had been luckless as well. Its troops had not the vaguest idea of where the

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German commander resided. They simply walked around and when they saw a house which looked impressive, entered in the hope that the general might be found there. It can be assumed, perhaps, that even if they had had accurate information and a specific location to home in on, the method of advance chosen by Kelly would have prevented them from putting their hands on him, as the entire force was halted before it reached the Casa Nova. However, as can be gathered from the battle narratives, the first moments of the actual encounter in the streets was characterised by Turco-German confusion, indecisiveness and aimless, scattered small arms fire. Under such promising circumstances, Kelly and his Gloucesters – had they possessed a pinpointed address for von Sanders’ house – could have concentrated their effort and fire, raced the few hundred metres separating them from the house before opposition increased, and captured the German general who was still there. But, alas, no such intelligence existed. Instead, Kelly received information – mistaken in fact – from prisoners at Hotel Germania and seemingly Arab residents (and not, according to the common narrative, from the General’s housekeeper, who remained at her employer’s, which they had never reached), that Liman von Sanders had left the city the previous night.45 This erroneous news, which reached Kelly at about 7 a.m.,46 apparently discouraged the British general from maintaining the aim at hand, and as will be seen, had a decisive effect on decisionmaking on the divisional level as well. The initial surprise of the Germans and the Turks met unfocused British effort and insufficient British forces and was to last for a short time only. Although their forces in the south of Nazareth were cut off from the rest, at no stage did Von Sanders and von Keyserlingk lose control. During the first stage, non-combat units were ordered to retreat towards Tiberias, and in fact, the open road enabled administrative units, transport columns and the staff and patients of the military hospital to successfully evacuate the town in the midst of the raid. An urgent appeal for reinforcements was also radioed to the garrison in Haifa (in reality, they were sent too late the day after).47 Liman von Sanders himself did not leave the city, and during the first stage did not leave his dwelling either. There is no truth in the

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widespread account that he had fled at the last minute, before the cavalry had reached his home (some even add ‘wearing only pajamas’)48 which derived seemingly from the mistaken identification of Hotel Germania as the site of Yildirim GHQ. Not only did the British not even approach his home, but he actually spent the first two hours of the battle there. A German staff officer, Lieutenant Heinrich Holzhausen, actually met the general at the entrance to his home, holding a drawn pistol and trying to cross the road and reach his daughters, but failing to do so because of British fire (a young officer who volunteered to cross instead of the General paid for the errand with his life).49 The source of the pajama story is apparently linked to a case of mistaken identity: when the raiders approached Hotel Germania, the commandant, Von Keyserlingk, left the hotel for the Casa Nova, still wearing pajamas, to organise the defence. When this information later reached the British, it was attributed to the commander rather than to the commandant. While von Sanders was being torn between his duties as a commander and those of a father, Von Keyserlingk collected an improvised company of German soldiers and officers and sent them northwards to halt a British dismounted advance towards the northwestern hills. The remnants of the Turkish depot battalion were ordered to capture those hills as well. At first, the Turko-German command was under the impression that the attackers had the upper hand, as demonstrated by the main wireless station in the town being destroyed (according to Von Sanders, without having been ordered to do so).50 However, after about two hours it became apparent that the British in-town advance had been halted and that the immediate and real threat was developing from the force which was flanking the town to the west and approaching the northern intersection. Von Sanders then left home and, after driving by motor car to the large French Orphanage (a journey that testifies to the extent to which the British were far from controlling the town), took command of the defenders. In the race for control of the northern key points, the Germans won. At the orphanage perimeter, the German officers organised the defence, based on the improvised company, the remainder of the depot battalion and retreating soldiers, and stopped

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the small British force from further flanking advance through the hills by fire and a counterattack, which although halted with more than a few casualities, nevertheless served its aim. At the same time, the disorganised opposition in mid-town was also increasing as soldiers and officers who were stationed in various buildings along the main street recovered and began to fire from windows and roofs and, as mentioned, succeeded in halting the yeomanry advance. At around 8.30 a.m., the Gloucesters experienced an air attack by a plane which machine-gunned the head of their column and, although it inflicted no real losses, nevertheless contributed to further delay and to a loss of determination. This attack can be added to the small mysteries accompanying the raid: British sources naturally identified the plane as German, and German publications augmented the impression as well. Despite this, the documentation available does not support this version of events as, on the morning of 20 September, no German plane took off from Jenin airfield, while all planes which managed to take off from Afula, the other airfield in the vicinity, set out at daybreak only to fly directly to Dera’a for evacuation.51 Furthermore, at the hour mentioned, the field at Afula was already in British hands.52 On the assumption that the air attack actually did take place, it is more logical to assume that this was a British plane, one of the many that were circling over the Lower Galilee on that day (a few of them were even sighted circling over Nazareth)53 that accidentally opened friendly fire on the yeomanry. The brigade’s only wireless set malfunctioned and Kelly’s wireless report of at 6.50 a.m., according to which he had taken control of the Yildirim GHQ but had found that Liman von Sanders had escaped on the previous day, and that he was requesting reinforcements, was apparently not received at the divisional command group, few kilometres away. Two hours later Kelly sent a mounted messenger who, this time, delivered the message. A disappointed MacAndrew, who a short time previously had been alerted by the DMC to be ready to continue the advance to the Jordan River crossings, responded to Kelly’s message by wireless, apparently at about 11 a.m., that he could not provide reinforcements and that the brigade should evacuate Nazareth.54 As noted, the untimely death of the division

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commander makes it impossible to know what he had in mind, but it may reasonably be assumed that the order stemmed from a combination of his wish to maintain his force for the new task and the recognition – which turned out to be incorrect – that it was, in any case, impossible to fulfill the principle goal of the raid due to the escape of the German general. Kelly, on his part, had begun to disengage the Gloucesters even before having received the order, and by 10 a.m. the, brigade was assembled in the south of the town and evacuated Nazareth in an orderly fashion until stopped in Mizra’, on the way to Afula to rest and regroup. It suffered about 30 casualties including four dead. Yildirim lost 43 dead and more than 1,000 prisoners who had been captured in Nazareth, Mujaydil, and Yafia’.55 In retrospect, the withdrawal was not inevitable. The core question in Nazareth on the morning of 20 September was ‘who blinks first’? Von Sanders, according to his own version, had already reached the conclusion during the fighting that the prevailing tactical status quo could not last for long and, over time, his force would risk envelopment by additional British forces. Thus, as soon as he began to feel that direct pressure was easing, he returned at about 10.30 a.m. to the Casa Nova and ordered a total evacuation. This was carried out at the same time as the British withdrawal, in an orderly fashion, enabling not only the removal of vital military equipment and documents but also precious luxuries, such as chocolate and wine stored in the Hotel Germania.56 Von Sanders himself left by car for Tiberias during the afternoon, accompanied by two staff officers, and from there continued on to Samakh (Tzemach) and orchestrated the organised delaying action put by the retreating Turkish-German units northwards. During that evening, Nazareth remained ungoverned, and, according to stories passing down through the years in Nazarethian families, its citizens’ conduct that night corresponded with that of other towns in Palestine that found themselves in similar situations with no fear of authority, such as Jerusalem on the night of British occupation on 8– 9 December 1917: they broke into abandoned

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buildings and empty government institutions, looting anything they could get their hands on.57 Next morning, MacAndrew ordered Kelly to retake Nazareth, and the Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade entered and occupied the town, this time with no opposition.

Conclusion The gap between failure and success in military operations is small and is sometimes dependent on the goddess of fortune. She did not accompany the Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade in its raid on Nazareth. Deficient planning and conduct of the higher headquarters, as described above, left the chances of success in question from the very first moments. This included a vague operation order, significantly defective intelligence, minimal time for preparation, an overoptimistic timetable, unnecessary reducing of the brigade’s strength and preclusion of vital assets, such as qualified guides. The conduct of senior officers in the corps and the divisional levels testified to their view that the planned raid was a uncomplicated minor operation with minimal hazards, which they apparently ignored. Kelly, on his part, erred as well in his decision to lead the brigade at a pace which turned out to be too fast, leading troops and horses to exhaustion, loss of contact, lack of control, rapid task-changes and, last but not least, overdependence on an untested guide who indeed misled him. In a post-war apologia, Kelly pointed an accusing finger at his commanders for ambiguity in defining his mission, for lack of intelligence, for too many tasks vis-a`-vis too small a force, and for the exhaustion of the troops.58 Although the raid failed for various reasons, the most conspicuous is the lack of intelligence that accompanied the operation, culminating in the absence of information regarding the whereabouts and location of the prime target. This chapter demonstrates that notwithstanding the prevailing situation which was created by the late arrival to Nazareth with too small a force, time and space still allowed the raiders to change the odds by reaching Liman von Sanders’ residence in good time, and perhaps even exit the town with their prisoner before

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engaging in urban fighting, if only they had known where to go. Acquiring this information before 19 September was not beyond the means of EEF intelligence – if only it had been required to do so. On 14 October 1918, almost a month after the raid, Allenby relieved Kelly from his command, and according to the accepted narrative, this was the price the latter paid ‘for the late arrival of the force at Nazareth and for its weakened and exhausted condition’.59 This harsh step seems surprising, not only because of the long time that had passed between the crime and the punishment but also because, as the EEF C-in-C, Allenby did not usually occupy himself with the relief of brigade commanders, a task he left to the corps and divisional commanders. (Thus, for example, in the first night of the offensive, Chauvel relieved another brigade commanding officer of his command on the spot for a navigation error.) Moreover, there was no apparent reason for such an act at that time, as Kelly – so it was erroneously believed for weeks to come – had succeeded in his mission of capturing Yildirim GHQ, while Liman von Sanders escaped capture only due to the good fortune that had made him leave town before the raiders’ arrival. In addition, Kelly was a decorated officer who had defeated the rebellious Sultan of Darfur’s army in Southern Sudan in 1916, facilitating British effective control of the province. There is no explicit explanation for Allenby’s act, as he left no diary or memoir, but it seems that the raid on Nazareth was not the only, or the direct, reason for Kelly’s dismissal. According to one source, the latter was already ‘being closely watched’ since having taken part in the EEF’s ‘Second raid east of the Jordan’ in May 1918. Already a brigade commander, Kelly dared to question an order to assualt a Turkish position, considering his force to be too small for the task. Ordered again, he attacked and failed, drawing criticism from above at what was perceived over-cautiousness (higher echelons, customarily, were not harmed).60 The Nazareth raid probably added to this criticism, but apparently the straw that broke the camel’s back came later. During the EEF advance northwards towards Damascus, Kelly again became embroiled in a navigation error, taking hold of the wrong village. In addition, he lost touch with his forward

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squadron, which became involved in a skirmish without the brigade command having any idea of it.61 Risking a slide towards the minefield of judgement in hindsight (or worse – to counterfactual history), and with no prejudice to the British decision to mount the raid, doubt can be cast as to whether, considering the realities of September 1918 in Palestine, success in capturing Liman von Sanders could have significantly contributed to the destabilisation of the Turks and to the achievement of the hopedfor victory. To begin with, the overall superiority of the EEF over the Yildirim from the outset did not accord great prospects to the TurkishGerman armies of frustrating the offensive and surviving, with or without Yildirim GHQs’ direction of the battle. Then, the initial destruction of the Turkish communications system almost completely paralysed von Sanders’s command and control power, depriving him of any capacity to bear upon the battlefield in effective time, even if he remained in Nazareth. Ironically, it could even be claimed that leaving Nazareth’s Yildirim GHQ in place unmolested, cut off from its forces, for another 24 hours might have contributed to hasten the Turkish army groups’ disintegration. Instead, the arrival of Von Sanders to the Samach-Tiberias area put the German C-in-C at the precise spot in which he was able to exert his impact – albeit limited at that stage – on the continuing battle, by organising effective delaying action. This facilitated an orderly retreat northwards along the Sea of Galilee and through the Golan Heights, saving many from the pursuing British, Indian and Australian horsemen.

Notes 1 I am indebted to Norbert Schwake and Haim Goren for their kind support in providing valuable references for this chapter and in translating documentation written in the German language. For the sake of simplicity, this chapter uses the term “Turkish army” instead of the official title “Ottoman army”. Current placenames are given in parentheses following traditional/Arab names. 2 Tzu, Sun The Art of War (Ware: Wordsworth Reference, 1993), p. 105. 3 Scales, Jr., Robert H., Future Warfare, Anthology (Carlisle, Pennsylvania: US Army War College, c. 2000) p. 140.

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4 The standard works on the EEF’s final offensive and the Battle of Megiddo are: Preston, R.M.P, The Desert Mounted Corps: An Account of the Cavalry Operations in Palestine and Syria 1917– 1918 (London, Constable and Co., 1921), pp. 202– 94; Wavell, Archibald, The Palestine Campaign (London, Constable and Co, 1928), pp. 192– 233; Falls, Cyril, Military Operations Egypt & Palestine. From June 1917 to the end of the War (Official History of the War) (London: HMSO, 1930) Part II, pp. 447– 625; idem., Armageddon, 1918 (London: J.B. Lippincott Company, 1964); Gullett, H.S., Australian Imperial Force in Sinai and Palestine, 1914– 1918 (St Lucia, Queensland: University of Queensland Press, 1984, org. 1923), pp. 677–792. See also: The Marquess of Anglesey, A History of the British Cavalry 1816– 1919, Vol. 5: 1914– 1919, Egypt, Palestine & Syria (London: Leo Cooper, 1994), pp. 258– 340; Woodward, David, Hell in the Holy Land: World War I in the Middle East (Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 2006), pp. 190– 206; Erickson, Edward, Gallipoli & the Middle East, 1914– 1918 (London: Amber Books, 2008), pp. 190– 201. 5 On deception in the Megiddo Campaign: Sheffy, Yigal, ‘Institutionalized Deception and Perception Reinforcement: Allenby’s Campaigns in Palestine, 1917– 1918’, Intelligence and National Security 5 (2) 1990: pp. 196– 238; Davies, Martin, ‘Conceal, Create, Confuse’: Deception as a British Battlefield Tactic in the First World War (Stroud: Spellmount, 2009), pp. 213– 8. 6 On aerial operations in the Megiddo Campaign: Bullock, David, ‘Swift as Eagles: the Victory of the Royal Air Force in Palestine, 1914– 1918’, unpublished PhD. dissertation, Kansas State University, 1995, pp. 415– 90; Jones, H.A., Official History of the War: The War in the Air (Official History of the War), Vol. VI (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1937), pp. 205– 27. 7 For example: Falls: Armageddon, 1918 (Note 4), p. 81; Hill, A.J., Chauvel of the Light Horse (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1978), p. 169; Perrett, Bryan, Megiddo, 1918 (Oxford: Osprey, 1999), pp. 46 – 7. 8 Von Sanders, Liman, Five Years in Turkey (Annapolis, Maryland, US Naval Institute, 1927), pp. 199– 200. On Otto Liman von Sanders: Sheffy, Yigal, ‘Liman von Sanders, General Otto (1855– 1929)’, in: Gordon Martel (ed.), Encyclopedia of War (London: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), pp. 1252– 4. 9 On the ‘Indianization’ of the EEF: Showalter, Dennis, ‘The Indianization of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force, 1917– 1918: An Imperial Turning Point’, in Kaushik Roy (ed.), The Indian Army in the Two World Wars (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 145–64; Kitchen, James, ‘The Indianization of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force, Palestine 1918’, ibid., pp. 165– 90. 10 EEF, GHQ, Force Order No. 68, 9 September 1918, in Falls, pp. 713– 5. 11 Australian War Memorial (hereafter AWM), 1/62/6, Minutes of Commander-inChief Conference, held at General Headquarters, 11.9.18, 12 September 1918. On Allenby’s order on the shelling of Jerusalem: Allenby to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, telegram EA 549, 26 November 1917, Imperial War Museum (hereafter IWM), Dawnay Papers.

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12 Desert Mounted Corps Operation Order No. 21, 12 September 1918 in Falls: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine (Note, 4) p. 721. 13 Chauvel to C.E.W. Bean, comments on the draft of official history, 8 October 1922, Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives, Allenby papers 2/5/16. 14 Sheffy: ‘Institutionalized Deception’ (Note 5), p. 213; Kelly to Falls, comments on the draft of official history, 6 November 1929, The National Archives (hereafter TNA), CAB 45/79; Anno., Through Palestine with the Twentieth Machine Gun Squadron (London: Baxter, 1920), p. 48. 15 Crack of dawn on 20 September 1918: Jewish calendar, www.yeshiva.org.il, accessed 10 August 2012. 16 Lt. Colonel Hodgson, General Staff, Fifth Cavalry Division, ‘Special instructions to GOC Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade: NAZARETH’, 18 September 1918, TNA, WO 95/4515. 17 Chauvel to Bean (Note 13). 18 W.T. Hodgson to Cyril Falls, comments on the draft of official history, 28 October and 19 November 1929, TNA, CAB 45/79. 19 Kelly to Falls (Note 14). 20 EEF Intelligence Department, Daily Intelligence Summary, 14 and 30 August 1918, TNA, WO 157/730. 21 Ibid, 14 August 1918; Sheffy, Yigal, British Military Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign, 1914– 1918 (London: Frank Cass, 1998), pp. 302– 3. 22 Ibid., p. 304. 23 EEF Intelligence Department, Daily Intelligence Summary, 3 and 4 September 1918, TNA, WO 157/731. 24 EEF Intelligence Department, Daily Intelligence Summary, 8 and 14 August 1918 (Note 20). 25 EEF Intelligence Department. Notebook on Northern Palestine and Southern Syria, (Cairo, Government Printing Press, 1918). 26 Survey of Egypt, Nazareth Map, 1:11,000, 26 April 1918, TNA, WO 303/504. 27 Map of Nazareth (En-Nasira), 1:11,000, Karl Baedeker, Palestine and Syria: Handbook for Travelers (Leipzig, K. Baedeker, 1912), p. 246. 28 On the ‘secrecy culture’ in the EEF: Sheffy, Yigal, ‘The Spy who never was: An Intelligence Myth in Palestine, 1914– 1918’, Intelligence and National Security 14 (3) 1999: pp. 123– 142. 29 Kelly to Falls (Note 14); Ethel Kelly, ‘A Memoir of Philip James Vandeleur Kelly’, IWM, Papers of PJV Kelly. I am indebted to Norbert Schwake, for putting Kelly’s memoir at my disposal. See also: Falls: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine (Note 4), p. 528. 30 Elam, Yigal, ha-Gedudim ha-’ivriyim be-milchemet ha-’olam ha-rishona (Hebrew: The Jewish Battalions in the First World War) (Tel Aviv, Ma’arachot, 1973), pp. 251– 2; Smilansky, Moshe, Ktavim (Hebrew: Writings) Vol. 10 (Tel Aviv, 1936), p. 261; testimonies of Eliahu Eilat and Noach Sunin, ‘Haganah’ History Archive, Tel Aviv. 31 Kelly to Falls (Note 14).

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32 Cardew, F. G., Hodson’s Horse, 1857– 1922 (Uckfield: Naval & Military Press, 2006. org. 1928), pp. 200–2; Fox, Frank, The History of the Royal Gloucestershire Hussars Yeomanry, 1898–1922 (London: Philip Allan & Co, 1923), p. 361. 33 Hudson, H., History of the 19 th King George Own Lancers, 1858– 1921 (Uckfield: Naval & Military Press, 2007. org. 1937), p. 227. 34 Hodgson to Falls (Note 18). 35 Different war diaries mentioned deferent times of arrival. See for example: Desert Mounted Corps War Diary, 20 September 1918, TNA, WO 95/4473; Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade War Diary, TNA, WO 95/4518. 36 Fifth Division, General Staff, War Diary, 20 September 1918, 01:00, AWM/45/11/41. 37 Falls: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine (Note 4) p. 524; Kelly’s memoir (Note 30); Hodgson to Falls (Note 18). 38 Kelly’s memoir (Note 30); The Marquess of Anglesey: A History of the British Cavalry (Note 4), p. 270. 39 Von Sanders: Five Years in Turkey (Note 8), pp. 278– 9. 40 Williams, Richard, These are Facts: The Autobiography of Air Marshal Sir Richard Williams KBE, CB, DSO (Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 1977), p. 93. 41 Von Sanders: Five Years in Turkey (Note 8), pp. 275– 6; Turkish General Staff, TC, Birnici Du¨nya Harbi’nde Tu¨rk Harbi: Sina-Filistin Cephesi (hereafter: Turkish Official History of the Palestine Campaign). Vol. 2 (Ankara: Genelkurmay Basimevi, 1986), p. 633. 42 Heinrich Holzhausen, ‘Die letzten Tage von Nazareth, September 1919 [1918?]’, Orient Rundschau 3 (4) 1933 (hereafter Holzhausen), p. 33. 43 Meinhardt: ‘Erlebnisse in Nazareth’, ibid., p. 34. 44 Hudson: History of the 19th King George Own Lancers (Note 33), p. 232. 45 Fifth Cavalry division War Diary, 20 September 1918, TNA, WO 95/4515; Desert Mounted Corps War Diary, 20 September 1918 (Note 36); Allenby to Lady Allenby, 20.9.18, Allenby Papers 1/9/2; Kelly’s memoir (Note 30). 46 Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade to Fifth Cavalry Division, telegram BMX 20, 20 September 1918, 06:50, Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade War Diary (Note 36). 47 Turkish Official History of the Palestine Campaign, (Note 41), p. 638. 48 Preston: The Desert Mounted Corps (Note 4), p. 209; Cardew: Hodson’s Horse, 1857– 1922 (Note 32), p. 204; Falls: Armageddon (Note 4), p. 81. James, Lawrence, Imperial Warrior: The Life and Times of Field-Marshal Viscount Allenby, 1861– 1936 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1993), p. 165. 49 Holzhausen: ‘Die letzten Tage von Nazareth’ (Note 42), op. cit. 50 von Sanders: Five Years in Turkey (Note 8), p. 284. 51 Fox: The History of the Royal Gloucestershire Hussars Yeomanry (Note 34), p. 266; Nikolajsen, Ole, Ottoman Aviation 1911 to 1919, unpublished manuscript, p. 195; Planagan, Brian, ‘The reports of Major Serno, 1918: Last days of the Ottoman Air Force’, Cross & Cockade 11 (4) 1970, p. 360; idem., ‘Palestine Jagdstaffel: The Puzzling History of Jasta 55’, Cross & Cockade 12 (1) 1972, p. 55; Berthold, Fritz, War Diary of Fliegerabteilung [flight unit] 304B, 18 –20

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September 1918. I am indebted to Norbert Schwake for this reference, which he obtained from the Bavarian War Archive in Munich. Fifth Cavalry division War Diary, 20 September 1918 (Note 45). Meinhardt: ‘Erlebnisse in Nazareth’ (Note 43), p. 35. Fifth Cavalry Division war diary (Note 37). However, according to the Thirteenth Cavalry Brigade war diary, the order was received before 9.40 a.m. Fox: The History of the Royal Gloucestershire Hussars Yeomanry (Note 34), p. 266; The Marquess of Anglesey: A History of the British Cavalry (Note 4), p. 273; Von Sanders: Five Years in Turkey (Note 8), p. 285. Holzhausen: ‘Die letzten Tage von Nazareth’ (Note 42), pp. 33 – 4. I am indebted to Nahle Bishara, who shared with me his grandmother’s account of the night of 20 – 21 September 1918, which she had experienced as a young girl in Nazareth. See also: Meinhardt: ‘Erlebnisse in Nazareth’ (Note 43), p. 35. Kelly to Falls (Note 14). Hill: Chauvel of the Light Horse (Note 7), p. 169. Woodward: Hell in the Holy Land (Note 4), p. 179. Hodgson to Falls (Note 18); Falls: Military Operations Egypt & Palestine (Note 4) pp. 567– 76.

CHAPTER 11 A DIPLOMAT IN THE HOLY CITY: THE SPANISH CONSUL IN JERUSALEM 1914—1920 Roberto Mazza

Introduction Antonio de la Cierva y Lewita, later referred as Conde de Ballobar, left Spain for Palestine late in July 1913. Following a route that took in France and Egypt, the young consul, not yet in his 30s, reached Jerusalem. Ballobar travelled extensively around the region for several months before taking his post and starting his work as consul. By September 1914 the Spanish diplomat had begun to record in his diary his experiences in Jerusalem, a city that was increasingly involved in World War I due to the Ottoman alliance with Germany. In his words: On 8 September the Ottoman Grand Vizier communicated to all the foreign ambassadors that the Sultan had signed an irade, abolishing the Capitulations. The effect of such a notice can scarcely be described: Christians fell victim to a tremendous panic, given that demonstrations immediately began against

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the Europeans. In Jerusalem there was one that did not take on great importance, but it did have an official character. The governor of the city attended it and read out a telegram from the Minister of the Interior, confirming the news. The information I get from other zones is much more serious, as events have now a marked anti-Christian character.1 This chapter will discuss a relatively unknown but prominent figure in relation to the history of Palestine and Jerusalem from 1914 to 1919; the Spanish Consul in Jerusalem, Conde de Ballobar. First, I will discuss the importance of this new source in relation to historical research into Jerusalem and Palestine. Second, I will examine the main sources for studying the Spanish consular mission and its consul. This chapter will then introduce the figure of the consul through a brief biographical sketch, although I will focus on his years in Jerusalem. In order to highlight the relevance of this source, I will discuss some examples from the diary involving the consular activity of the Spanish consul, comparing this diary with other contemporary works. In the second part of this chapter I will also attempt to address a particular issue: that is, dinners and other gatherings with sociopolitical relevance arranged by the local and foreign elites of Jerusalem. I will introduce and try to define this particular idea in an attempt to identify and elucidate a pattern linking these events, and I will look at some examples of these socio-political occasions that took place in a time of extreme emergency for Jerusalem and its inhabitants. These events have been discussed by other available local sources which will be compared and contrasted with Ballobar’s diary.

Importance of Ballobar as a source What is the relevance of Ballobar as a historical source? What corners of history can this source can shed light upon? How can this source be used by researchers? It is essential to bear in mind these questions while discussing Ballobar and the Spanish consular mission. During his first stay in Jerusalem, the Conde de Ballobar, while still in his 20s, wrote a diary which was eventually published in 1996 and has

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still not been translated into English; currently, therefore, it is available only to the Spanish-speaking academic community. So, why is Ballobar an important source for the history of Palestine and Jerusalem? Through the diary and the documents available, it is possible to add a new and fresh historical perspective. It is also possible to cross-check disputed historical facts and to fill out hitherto unknown corners of history. Ballobar as a historical source falls into the category of diplomacy and the history of religion, considering his official position and his mission; however, from the diary and other sources, it is clear that the figure of the Spanish diplomat is highly relevant for analyses of the social history of Jerusalem during World War I, as will be shown below. The consul was the only diplomat who lived through the whole period of World War I in the city, as Spain remained neutral in the conflict. The American consul Otis Glazebrook also stayed in the city throughout most of the war; however, besides some material from the American archives, there are no personal papers, memoirs or diaries available that would enable us to study this figure in more detail. Ballobar, as mentioned earlier, eventually became a sort of ‘universal’ consul in Jerusalem as he represented the interests of all countries involved in the conflict, but above all he became a link between the Ottoman Government and British rule. When the British arrived in December 1917, they did not need Ballobar in order to establish their administration; however, Allenby, commander of the British force in Palestine, and the Foreign Office allowed him to maintain the protection of British interests and others until the military and political situations were consolidated.2 The diary and the consular material shed light on what Jerusalem was like during World War I, particularly with regard to social aspects, as the consul reported on many occasions on the living conditions of the Jerusalemites, and on political issues with local but also international relevance. Local politics was the most important issue to the young consul as it had a direct impact on Spanish interests; however, considering his isolation from the rest of the world, whilst attending social events he always tried to gather as much information as possible on what was happening outside the

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microcosm of Jerusalem. This material, if associated and read through available social and anthropological theories on food-related issues, will provide some insight into particular social gatherings that can appear superficial but, if discussed in light of these theories, become crucial in understanding the social structure of the elites in Jerusalem during the war.3 As a source, Ballobar has only been mentioned in scholarly written works by Tom Segev, despite the fact that when the British occupied Jerusalem the Spanish consul was a well-known figure.4 It is clear however that Ballobar’s status as a key figure in the city diminished quite rapidly after the British capture of Jerusalem for several reasons, including the fact that Spain was not a crucial actor in the Middle East, Ballobar’s limited knowledge of English, and the way in which events developed, cutting him off from the political mainstream. Segev, however, has only partially captured the importance of Ballobar, as he reported some of the diary entries but his brief analyses of the Spanish consul ended with his socialite behaviour.5 Researchers should however reconsider this particular figure. As this chapter will show, Ballobar played a major role in wartime Jerusalem and his ‘socialite’ attitude is not an obstacle, but provides a fresh perspective on the city and its politics.

The Diary and Sources In terms of available sources, aside from the diary, references to the Spanish consular mission can be found in several archives. Let us start with the diary. The diary was written in Jerusalem from September 1914 to May 1919. It was written almost on a daily basis, though sometimes there are large gaps from one entry to the next, as when the consul travelled to Istanbul in 1917. Apparently he left some space in the diary to fill at a later date, but he never completed the part relating to his journey to Istanbul. The diary is the testimony of an individual within a specific context, but it would be reductive to see it as simply a personal account. Ballobar as consul, churchgoer and local resident had a good grasp, though sometimes slightly naive, of the local socio-political

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context. His narrative is a reflection of a particular historical period. Thus, his personal views (once we acknowledge the problems associated with this type of source) are still valuable for sociopolitical history. The advantage with this particular source is the new information about this period it provides; it seems in fact that in comparing this source with others a number of questions can be raised. On the other hand there are indeed disadvantages, as the very nature of this source raises methodological issues and problems with bias and partial views of a complex situation. In order to interpret this source, it is crucial to understand the constructed nature of the source itself, to distinguish the genuine experience from the ritualised memory of the experience even if impressed on the diary soon after it took place.6 Similarly, Abigail Jacobson has worked on the diary of another resident of Jerusalem during the war, Ihsan Tourjman, pointing out that besides the methodological issues involved in the use of this type of source, the lack of documentation of wartime Jerusalem imbues these diaries with great value for the study of this crucial period in the history of the city.7 This is indeed a very interesting source; it is in fact possible to extrapolate several themes from the diary. On a personal level Ballobar was extremely concerned with the difficulty in contacting the Spanish embassy in Istanbul or the Spanish Foreign Office in Madrid; as the consul was a very young diplomat he felt that isolation was his worst enemy. This isolation was exacerbated by the sense of detachment from the local population that it is possible to feel in his writings. Another concern of the Spanish diplomat was in relation to the Christian Catholic institutions of Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Ballobar, in fact, was sent to Jerusalem in order to deal with the stalemate between the Spanish consular mission and the Custody of the Holy Land. Following a diplomatic incident between Spain and the Custody in 1913, Ballobar’s predecessor, Rafael Casares, severed all relations with Father Custos Carcaterra, who was Italian by constitution.8 Spain at the beginning of the twentieth century engaged the Custody in a battle over the possession of certain convents that were established by Spanish citizens or clergy. Besides this tense environment, Ballobar also had to cope with the unilateral

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abolition of the capitulations in 1914, which reduced his protection against the Turks. These are, of course, only some of the issues that emerge from the diary. The main bulk of the sources available for the study of the Spanish consular mission are in the Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores (Spanish Foreign Office), in particular from the Obra Pia. The latter was a Spanish religious institution, linked to the Spanish Foreign Office, whose purpose was to promote and protect (religious) Spanish interests in the Holy Land. Material in relation to the consular activity of the Spanish mission is now conserved in the Archive of General Administration at the Ministry in Madrid as well as at the archives in the outskirts of the Spanish capital (Alcala de Henares). However, important and valuable material is also to be found in several other archives, such as the Italian Foreign Office archives, the Archivio Vaticano Segreto (Vatican Archives), the Archives of the Custody of the Holy Land (that is the Catholic Franciscans) and those of other smaller institutions. It is quite evident that there is significant material in relation to the consul and the activities of the consulate that remains unexplored.

Biography Antonio de la Cierva y Lewita, later Conde de Ballobar and Duque de Terranova, was born in Vienna in 1885. His mother was Austrian of Jewish origin but converted to the Catholic faith. His father was a Spanish military attache´ to the Spanish Embassy in the Austrian capital. The title Conde de Ballobar was inherited from his father’s second wife, and that of Duque of Terranova from his own wife.9 In 1911, Ballobar entered the Spanish consular service and was sent as vice-consul to Cuba. In May 1913 Ballobar was appointed consul in Jerusalem, when he was under 30 years old; according to his personnel file he took possession of the consulate in August 1913 and remained until the end of 1919.10 When Ballobar reached Jerusalem his task was limited to the protection of Spanish interests, mainly of a religious nature, and the re-establishment of ‘diplomatic’ relations with the Custody of the Holy Land.11 By the time of the British

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occupation of Jerusalem in 1917, he found himself the only consul in the city, in charge of the protection of the interests of all countries involved in the war. Ballobar spoke fluent French and Italian, but only basic English, and he did not speak Arabic or Turkish, though he adopted a number of words used locally. He became a crucial personality, though, as it will be shown later, this rapidly faded away. In 1920 he married Rafaela Osorio de Moscoso, Duchess of Terranova. Later on the Count often referred to himself Terranova instead of Ballobar. In January 1920 Ballobar took charge of the Spanish consulate in Damascus; however in November of the same year he moved to Tangier, where he served for a few months.12 On 24 June 1921 Ballobar resigned his commission as consul and moved back to Spain.13 Ballobar was commissioned to create a report on the Spanish convents and hospitals in Palestine in 1925, but until 1936 he was an ‘excedente voluntario’, that is he took an extended leave of absence. In August 1936 Ballobar decided to publicly support Francisco Franco and his ‘Junta de Denfensa Nacional de Espan˜a’ against the left-wing Popular Front that had won the election a few months earlier. Due to some anti-clerical violence against the Church that took place after the elections, it is not surprising that the pious Ballobar supported Franco. In August 1936 Ballobar was first appointed in the Diplomatic Cabinet of the ‘Junta’, and then as Secretary of the External Relations of Franco’s Foreign Office. During the interwar period and in the 1940s Ballobar mainly worked at the Spanish Foreign Office, where he had a particular interest in relations with the Holy See. In June 1938 he was appointed as First Secretary of the Spanish Embassy to the Holy See; however, a year later Ballobar returned to Spain with his wife and five children.14 In the 1940s Ballobar did work for the Spanish Foreign Office; he was offered important positions as consul around the world, such as Canada or the United States, although he did not accept these appointments. On the contrary, he asked for a short leave of absence which he alternated with short periods at the Spanish Foreign Office.15 Unfortunately, from the sources available it is not clear what reasons he had for this behaviour, though it can be speculated that he did not

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want to be too involved with public activities, preferring to manage family business enterprises. In May 1949 Ballobar was once again named consul to Jerusalem where he served until 1952. He eventually died in Madrid in 1971 at the age of 86.16

Three case studies Ballobar was a man who cared about his appearance and his social life: in fact he always, even in times of crisis, dressed carefully according to the social occasion, wearing suits; but he also worried a great deal about his personal residence, seeing this as a reflection of his status, changing houses when other foreign officials left the city due to war conditions.17 He was famous for the luxurious meals he served at his residence, and indeed he was also able to entertain the local political and military establishment: Cemal Pasa was a regular guest. Nevertheless, to define him as a socialite is to present a very superficial picture of the consul. Looking at three examples, using the diary and other sources, I will suggest a different perspective of the Spanish diplomat. Ballobar was indeed a classical orientalist, in Saidian terms, as he possessed an ideological misperception, latent and manifest, of the ‘Orient’.18 Ballobar’s mind was dominated by classical stereotypes and cliche´s in relation to the Middle East and its inhabitants; therefore it is not surprising that in his diary and reports he avoided granting any particular attention to the local population, nor did he discuss the indigenous population in negative terms. Ballobar often did not differentiate between the different communities living on Jerusalem unless discussing particular cases, therefore on some occasions he used the term ‘Arabs’ to mean all the local population. On the occasion of the solar eclipse of 6 July 1917, Ballobar said of the locals: As expected, the Arabs considered the eclipse a sign of evil. The one who shouldn’t consider it so is Djemal Pasa. If the following scheme they are telling me is confirmed, he will be named the supreme commander and Minister of War.19

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The first reference to be found in the diary concerning the local population is a note on 16 February 1915. Ballobar interestingly reports the Arab frustration against the Turks who sent them to fight a war they did not want to fight. The Arabs are angry against the Turks for having sent them to their death. But there is no single one who is capable of resisting the oppressors. These people have no consciousness of what nationalism is.20 In this case the writer ungenerously states that the Arabs have no sense of nation and national spirit, due to his lack of knowledge of the local milieu. According to the sources available, we may speculate that he did not know anything about the rising local national movements, or at least did not give too much credit to them. It took three months from the outbreak of the war for Ballobar to write a note on the locals; a reflection of his poor attention to the local inhabitants, at least in the first stages of his consular mission in the city, but also a reflection of his mission which was meant to deal with religious institutions rather than with people. This is quite the opposite of the American consular mission as intended by Glazebrook, who in fact cared a lot about the local population and reported quite frequently and at length about them. In June 1915 Ballobar was informed of current Arab political activity; however, he maintained his negative opinion and he openly claimed the Arabs would not be able to achieve anything against the Turks.21 Later on Ballobar took some interest in the state of the Turkish army and the development of the Palestinian Front, as well as in the living conditions of the Jerusalemites, most evidently towards the end of the war. At the time of the invasion of the locusts in 1915, Ballobar continued to dine with the other foreign officials in the city as well as with the German commanders, enjoying cognac, wine, cigars and large meals, a sign that the war was indeed very far from his mind. In March 1915 Ballobar was mainly concerned with the increase in the price of wheat that had resulted from the invasion of locusts.22 Apparently the spring and summer of that year proved to be quiet for

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the consul, as he wrote on 16 July 1915: Time keeps going by with crushing monotony. What I am going to say in these brief notes? Nothing that is worth the effort. Almost every day I have an excellent beer from Berlin with the Austrian consul Kraus, or with my friend Kittani in Faig’s house.23 Ballobar was indeed aware of his lowprofile role and he played along until 1917, when the pressure of the war reached Jerusalem and he personally had to deal with a shortage of resources and with his new and unexpected role of ‘universal’ consul. Still he continued to be detached from the local population, reflecting on questions such as the devaluation of Turkish paper and the rise in the cost of living less in terms of their impact on the population rather than on the money available to him. In Jerusalem today bread costs 10 piasters . . . one loaf of bread!, which produces a general unease. We are in the most amusing situations: A rotal of meat costs 36 piaster, compared to the 18 it used to cost in peace time. They need 500 Pounds of gold a day to assure the bread for Jerusalem, and as the Bedouins do not accept paper, and it is impossible to find gold, the result is, as affirm the President himself of the Union of Bread Commission, Zaky Bey, within a very little while there will not be much to give the population, and then what will we do?24 A second example of the relative importance of the Spanish consul as historical source is provided by the consul’s personal character. Ballobar enjoyed being centre stage, and Jerusalem under war conditions gave him the chance to do just that. In April 1917, with the British conquest imminent, the Ottoman authorities ordered the evacuation of Jaffa with a particular focus on the Jewish population who were to be deported.25 The news of the evacuation of the Jewish population of Jaffa reached Europe and beyond. What Ballobar noted on 11 April 1917 as ‘The Jews have departed, for the most part, to the Jewish colonies of Galilee’ became portrayed as a massacre of Jews and a pogrom in the press around the world.26 The Revue Israelite d’Egypte wrote that Jews had been deported and eventually condemned to die along the way.27 The New York Times entitled its

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report: ‘Plea for the Jews of Jaffa; driven out by Turks, they are wandering in increasing misery.’28 The Vatican expressed its concern as well in relation to the evacuation of Jaffa and the fate of the Jews. The Apostolic Delegate in Istanbul interviewed the German ambassador in the Ottoman capital and reported to Cardinal Gasparri, Secretary of the Vatican State, that the deportation was ordered for military reasons and the issue of massacres was not supported by solid evidence.29 It is clear that the deportation of Jews from Jaffa became a significant topic in Ottoman and German circles. For the Germans it was crucial not to alienate those German Jews supporting the Reich, as suggested by a campaign led by the press supporting the adoption of a German pro-Zionist stance.30 The Germans, besides, made clear that it was Cemal Pasa’s choice to evacuate Jaffa and not a necessity of war.31 In June 1917 the German Ambassador in Istanbul and Cemal Pasa himself asked the Spanish consul to investigate. Ballobar interviewed some Ottoman and German officials but at the same time he also managed to interview local Jews. Eventually Ballobar concluded that no massacre had taken place and, as said earlier, the Jewish residents of Jaffa had moved towards Galilee and some to Jerusalem.32 The results of his work were sent to the various Foreign Offices around the world, but they were not reported in the press until later in 1917. A similar case occurred after the British occupation of Jerusalem took place. Rumours reached Europe that the British had sentenced some German subjects, including civilians, to death. Ballobar was urged by the Spanish Foreign Office to investigate.33 The consul eventually reported that the British in 1918 did not shoot anyone; indeed they deported some German subjects for security reasons.34 The war provided Ballobar with another chance to become a prominent social actor and to increase his prestige. As mentioned earlier, until the last few months before the end of the war, Ballobar was quite detached from the local population, though at times he took care of the fate of some local residents. [30 November 1917] We find ourselves in a complete mania of anti-Semitic persecution, since the governor does nothing but arrest right and left all the Jewish notables: Dr. Thon, the

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leader of the Zionists, Astroc, director of the Rothschild hospital, Dr. Ticho, Farhi of the Israeli Alliance, Barouchan and Dr. Schatz of Bezazel, also the dragoman of the Franciscans and other notable Christians and even a Muslim from Jaffa. For this matter I went to the hospice of St. Paul to interview Major Schrecker, who transmitted my reports to General Falkenhayn.35 During the war Ballobar was also charged with the distribution of aid and relief, principally from the United States. This job was mainly handled by the American Consul Otis Glazebrook, but when in April 1917 the United States joined the war and broke diplomatic relations with the Ottoman Empire, Ballobar was asked to carry on this task. On 17 April 1917 Ballobar met Glazebrook and they agreed on the procedures to adopt in case the United States severed diplomatic relations with the Ottoman Empire.36 Following these events Ballobar took charge of distributing aid, mainly to the Jewish population of the city, but also to the other communities of Jerusalem.37 Ballobar complained that this work required most of his time as he had to keep a record of all the money that arrived and to make sure that it would reach the correct persons. He also complained that this work and all social activities would have repercussions sooner or later on his health.38 After the arrival of the British the consul fell victim to a light neurasthenic attack due, according to him, to stress caused by the overload of work.39 A third example that will be discussed in relation to the Spanish consul is Ballobar’s perceptions of the Ottoman administration. He was not very fond of the Ottoman rule; however, it would be reductive to label his comments as merely orientalist and not to pay attention to some of his views. Ballobar had some good friends among the Ottomans like the local Chief of Police Nur al-Din Bey, Zaki Bey (military and later also civil governor of Jerusalem for some time) and Cemal Pasa (governor of Syria and of the Fourth Army). He was suspicious of the Ottoman governors, as they usually stayed only for short periods, and he was afraid he could not establish proper relations with them. On many occasions he had quarrels with Ottoman officials, often solved due to the intervention of Pasa. Late

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in November 1917, when it was clear that it was only a matter of time before the British would occupy Jerusalem, the Ottoman authorities ordered the deportation of the highest religious figures in the city, including the Latin Patriarch Mons Camassei.40 Ballobar complained against this particular measure, above all in relation to the way the clergyman’s deportation was handled considering he was 70 years old and in poor health. Ballobar lost no time complaining about the Governor’s handling of this to Cemal Pasa.41 The governor is furious with me as he has heard an earful from the Minister of Interior, because the crudeness with which he treated me when the Patriarch was expelled.42 From the diary it is not clear how and when this ‘friendship’ with Cemal began. Nevertheless it is clear that from the first few times the two met their acquaintance developed rapidly and easily. Cemal Pasa eventually confessed to the Spanish consul the veracity of rumours that he was having an affair with a Jewish woman named Lea Tenenbaum in September 1915.43 This episode clearly shows the close relationship between Pasa and Ballobar. The affair between Cemal Pasa and Lea Tenenbaum was apparently quite famous and gave rise to criticism of the General, as shown by the wartime diary of local resident Ihsan Tourjman, who considered Lea Tenenbaum a ‘private prostitute’ and Pasa not fit to lead the army.44 Wasif Jawhariyyeh, a Greek Orthodox resident of Jerusalem, also discussed Miss Tenenbaum, describing her as one of the most beautiful Jewish women in Palestine.45 Besides reporting rumours and gossip, Ballobar indeed provided some light relief when he described the Ottoman Triumvirate as the Holy Trinity with Talat as the father, Pasa as the son and Enver as the Holy Spirit.46

Dining out in Jerusalem: Socio-political Relevance The second part of this chapter will deal with a particular category of social events: that is, dinners with socio-political relevance due to

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their purpose or their participants. Dining out in Jerusalem during the war was not an unusual activity. Dinners took place mainly at the residences of foreign consuls, Ottoman officials and local notables. Meals were not the only social gatherings: tea, coffee, poker and lunch were also very popular among the elites of the city. It seems these events were very fashionable and well-known among the local inhabitants. Besides Ballobar, Tourjman and Wasif Jawhariyyeh also discussed these social events (albeit with a different focus and differing opinions).47 Dinners and other gatherings as social events have been chiefly discussed by social scientists, anthropologists and archaeologists.48 There are few historical works dealing with this particular issue. It has been suggested that food can be used as a system of communication. The way food and activities are organised is a reflection of a particular message.49 It has also been argued that the way people use food and drink is a metaphor for the character of the relationship between the participants.50 The analysis of the dinners and other social gatherings described by Ballobar are indeed a reflection of the historical situation and of the status of the relationships between the different actors mentioned. We should bear in mind that these dinners and social gatherings took place during the war, the role of which must not be overlooked. Before discussing some social events portrayed by Ballobar, we should consider briefly the same category of events as rendered by Tourjman and Jawhariyyeh. It is clear from Abigail Jacobson’s analysis of Tourjman’s diary that he was dissatisfied and angry with the Ottoman Government that, according to him, was neglecting the local population in a time of crisis. Tourjman also proved very critical of public celebrations and parties, which he felt were ‘decadent and immoral especially in a time of war’.51 Jawhariyyeh, as a musician, was often part of these social events which he mentioned as part of his account of music, art and social life in the late Ottoman period in Jerusalem. He was less critical and more descriptive.52 We shall now see how the writer portrayed such events and analyse briefly some of the diary’s entries with the purpose of highlighting the historical context and those socio-political relations discussed earlier.

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On 25 November 1914 Ballobar had a dinner at his residence with the civil governor Macid Bey. Ballobar indulged in the description of the dinner and he praised his Arab chef, who prepared excellent stuffed courgette.53 The purpose of this dinner was quite clear; Ballobar was interested in getting better acquainted with the local establishment. They did not discuss particular topics, or at least none were reported, suggesting that the Spanish Consul was mainly interested in becoming acquainted with the Governor and gathering more information on the ongoing process of mobilisation in preparation for a possible war that started in Jerusalem in August 1914 with the proclamation of martial law.54 This event indeed shows a particular system of communication put in place through food consumption. A few weeks later, Ballobar travelled to Jaffa where he spent New Year’s Eve with the Kueblers, a German family in charge of Spanish interests in Jaffa. Ballobar described in detail the menu offered, likely surprised by the excellent spread in a time of war. The meal has been described as German; in fact beer from Munich was served together with German cigars while Wagner was played. It is not clear whether it was a formal dinner; however, considering the relationship between Ballobar and Kuebler we may presume it was a friendly environment where they could discuss sensitive topics like the war, the situation of the Christian institutions in the area, and the Jews; in fact, rumours were circulating that French Jews had been ordered to leave the country.55 Here the impact of the war is yet not visible, or we may presume it was hidden beneath the social rituals of this special dinner. It was in fact the first Christmas under war conditions, and yet military operations in the Middle East were a long way from being commenced. A different example of social activity is represented by a billiards game followed by a dinner on 23 February 1915. Ballobar played against the Greek consul Raphae¨l; the two were quite close friends. After the game, they decided to pay a visit to the new military governor, Ali Riza Bey. Ballobar depicted the Ottoman official as a nice person. Both diplomats were indeed interested in getting to know their new counterpart. They enjoyed the night out discussing

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war news, above all the Dardanelles campaign and the question of the prisoners of war.56 On 26 May 1915 Ballobar was informed that Italy had joined the war. An official dinner was scheduled that night at the United States consular residence. The Italian, German and Austrian consuls did not attend the dinner; they all sent notes of apology to the American representative, but clearly they could not attend the same event together. The dinner was no less animated because of their absence; in fact the guest of honour, Cemal Pasa, entertained the other guests by talking about the CUP and Kitchener, the British Minister of War. Pasa reported that Kitchener had attempted to employ a professional killer, Pasa himself, in order to murder Talat; the British in fact believed that by eliminating Talat it would have been possible to take the Ottoman Empire out of the conflict. During the dinner Raphae¨l and Pasa had a mild discussion, the first of many, on the role of Greece in the war time. Eventually the discussion was downplayed when the small crowd moved to the cinema where a party was organised by the local Jewish notable Antebi and where the ice cream served helped to cool down the tense Turko– Greek relations.57 In this case the war is not relevant in terms of dietary change, as discussed by some scholars, but as influential in the behaviour of the people sitting around the table.58 In a long entry on 9 July 1916, Ballobar described several events that took place from 29 June when the Spanish consul received a late visit from Cemal Pasa. Ballobar called Raphae¨l and with Cemal discussed the possibility of Greece and Spain joining the war, yet according to Ballobar the situation was not tense. On the contrary, it was quite friendly. Cemal then began to discuss urban plans for Jerusalem, such as the construction of a park on Mount Zion and a new road between the Franciscan school and Damascus Gate. A few days later, on a Friday, Ballobar again met Cemal for a short visit. They discussed the Armenians and the question of whether it was true that these people had to convert to Islam: Cemal denied it. Sitting around the table, Ballobar commented upon a book by the leading Zionist Dr Ruppin. Cemal then yelled: ‘He is a swine!’59 On 6 July Cemal visited Ballobar’s residence where the consul served a

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dazzling meal. Ballobar wanted to impress his guest and it may be concluded that he succeeded. The menu included Turkish soup, fish, fillets, meat pies and stuffed turkey; as desserts, vanilla ice cream, pineapple and other fruit was served. After dinner they played poker and discussed news coming from Europe. It seems as if the war was light years away from them and Jerusalem.60 Ballobar made quite an effort to serve this meal considering the scarcity of resources, however he used this event as a metaphor to show his continuing power and the importance attributed to his guests. All of a sudden, during a dinner called by the Governor of the city and held at the convent of Artas on 9 September 1916, Cemal attacked the Greek consul, accusing the Greeks of being revolutionaries paid by the Entente powers; this demonstrated how the tension caused by the war could enter any kind of environment. Cemal mentioned ‘Ali Fuad Bey, former ambassador to St Petersburg and then commander of the Western Front against the Greek: ‘We will treat them (the Greeks) worse than the Armenians.’61 It is clear that Pasa distrusted the Greeks, but his concern was particularly apparent in relation to rumours of the impending British invasion of the Suez Canal, also mentioned by Ballobar – quoting a German newspaper – a few days earlier.62 On 4 May 1917 it was already clear that the situation in Palestine was going to change drastically and that it was only a matter of time before the British engaged in a battle for Jerusalem. Ballobar dined at Zaki Bey’s place where the German consul Bro¨de confirmed the news that Jerusalem would not be evacuated, to the great satisfaction of the Spanish consul. They played poker and discussed the question of typhus and of America joining the war against Germany but not against the Ottoman Empire. Typhus was becoming an urgent issue, according to Ballobar, as members of the various consular missions in the Ottoman Empire had also been affected.63 From the narrative it seems that in Jerusalem, among the commanding elites, there was some sort of sense of fatality, as if they were merely passively waiting for something to happen. A few months later the wait was over. On 8 December 1917 Ballobar dined for the last time in company of German officials.

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During the dinner, Perfall, a German officer, made an official announcement: ‘The 20th Corps of the Army will defend the surrounds of Jerusalem and it will withdraw during the night, leaving only three regiments which then will take the road to Jericho.’64 Food and war once again went hand in hand. Ballobar described himself as quite surprised; however, we can say that he was indeed waiting for this day to come. On 20 November 1917 Ballobar had already written to the Ministry of State informing his superiors of the impeding Turko –German withdrawal.65 Ballobar then reached the Spanish consulate while confusion reigned due to the battle surrounding the city. Panic spread among the population, and also among the troops. Before nine o’clock he received the visit of an Ottoman official, Arif Bey, who asked the consul to surrender the Jews hidden in the consulate, the banker Siegfried Eliezer Hoofien and his associate Jacob Thon. Ballobar promised him that he would hand over these people to the Ottomans the day after.66 Clearly Ballobar knew that by the following day the city would have been evacuated and he also knew that the Ottomans were in no position to make such a request. Nevertheless, Ballobar remained concerned with the fate of some Zionists, who he feared could have been arrested during the night. It is difficult to say whether Ballobar was for or against Zionism. All available sources suggest a quite neutral approach towards this particular subject; he was keen to help individual Jews, as he did on many occasions, but he never clearly expressed any opinion in relation to Zionism. Interestingly, Zionism is not the only omission from Ballobar’s diary and other sources. As soon as the British arrived, any references to the previous regime and his ‘old friends’ Cemal Pasa and others disappeared. After the British arrival many things changed in the city; however, social gatherings maintained their important status. They became even more important and, indeed, fashionable considering the arrival of new people and new resources. A few months after the British occupation of the city on 8 April 1918, Ballobar attended an official dinner which was served in the buffet style. Ballobar had never seen anything like that; however, he said it looked practical, though he could not understand how an aristocrat could enjoy that system.

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Music was played and a short theatrical show was represented. We may say that Ballobar was not aware of this use of food as means of communication, it was indeed an entire new world for him to explore. He discussed the military and political situation in Jerusalem with several British officials, but Allenby was quite effective in giving little away. Ballobar also requested a leave of absence and a permit to travel to Egypt, which was not granted due to military considerations.67 Eventually Ballobar was granted permission to leave, which was his main goal after the arrival of the British. After his return from Egypt in July, Ballobar dined with the new military governor Ronald Storrs, who claimed that the best solution for Jerusalem was to leave the city to the Americans. Ballobar did not agree and his personal view was that the British were not about to leave the region; the future of Palestine and the Middle East was yet to be decided. Besides, Ballobar thought that British rule was the best solution when one considered the possibility of a Palestine ruled by French or even Italians, the strongest competitors of Spain in the Holy Land.68 Interestingly, Storrs reported the dinner with Ballobar in his memoirs; however, he focused mainly on some comments given by Ballobar on the German and Ottoman authorities in the city: ‘Jemal was sale type but bon garcon, and Enver aimait beaucoup la boisson: Falkenhayn and Kress sympathiques.’69

Conclusion Through a discussion and analysis of Ballobar’s diary and other sources, this chapter has highlighted the particular figure of the Spanish consul and the activities of the Spanish consular mission in Jerusalem, which have been hidden from historians for a long time. Ballobar lived in a microcosm which reflected the larger context of the war in the Middle East. The diary and related material has proved to be a valuable and a unique historical source which sheds light on several corners: socio-political life in Jerusalem, Ottoman policies and religious institutions. There is also new material on Turko–Greek relations; information on typhus and cholera epidemics in Jerusalem and Palestine; a good picture of the British Military Administration

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in Jerusalem; and data, figures and information on the war and its effects in the region. The discussion of social gatherings in Jerusalem has aimed to show that a scrupulous reading of this source also necessitates association with other sources available, as mentioned earlier, in order to produce a better picture of this particular phenomenon. This chapter also suggested taking into consideration social and anthropological theories dealing with food-related issues in order to attempt to analyse historical events, like the social gatherings Ballobar attended in his time in Jerusalem, with new tools. It is quite clear that research on this topic has not been exhausted. As was pointed out at the start of the chapter, this source can be used as a cross reference. It would be a great opportunity to study Ballobar together with Tourjman and Jawhariyyeh and perhaps other sources yet to be researched in a comparative analysis. This source can also be used to open new lines of research and to add a new perspective to the existing scholarship on the late Ottoman administration of Jerusalem and Palestine, as well as on larger topics such as the Arab/Zionist struggle which is portrayed by Ballobar as some sort of local dispute.70 When Ballobar met the new Governor of Jerusalem, Ronald Storrs, early in 1918, the British official wrote in his diary: ‘His (Ballobar’s) diary, judging from other samples with which he occasionally favoured me, is, to my regret, not likely to be published in extenso during his lifetime.’71 Unfortunately for Ballobar this statement turned out to be true. The diary was only published in 1996 and, as a historical source, was nearly forgotten. Ballobar played a game that possibly exceeded his abilities, not to mention his will, when he was charged with the protection of all consulates in Jerusalem. Despite the fact that he did not belong to any crucial international factions involved in the war in the Middle East, he coped with the unusual and certainly unexpected situation he was confronted with. Ballobar witnessed at first hand the continuity and changes brought by World War I to Jerusalem and Palestine. It is, therefore, up to the historians now to interpret and make use of this source.

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Notes 1 Conde de Ballobar, edited by Roberto Mazza, Eduardo Manzano Moreno, Jerusalem in World War I: the Palestine Diary of a European Consul, (London: I.B. Tauris, 2011), p. 27. 2 TNA: PRO FO141/665, Foreign Office to High Commissioner for Egypt, London: 31 January 1918. 3 For a brief summary of anthropological studies of food see Mintz, Sidney and Christine M. Du Bois, ‘The Anthropology of Food and Eating’, Annual Review of Anthropology 31 (2002): 99 – 119. 4 Segev, Tom, One Palestine, Complete (New York: Holt & C., 2001). 5 Ibid., p. 17. 6 See Young, James E., ‘Interpreting Literary Testimony: A Preface to Rereading Holocaust Diaries and Memoirs,’ New Literary History 18 (1987): 403– 23. 7 Jacobson, Abigail, ‘Negotiating Ottomanism in Times of War: Jerusalem During World War I Through the Eyes of a Local Muslim Resident,’ International Journal of Middle East Studies 40 (2008): 71–2. 8 Barriuso, Patrocinio Garcia, Espan˜a en la Historia de Tierra Santa (Madrid: MAE, 1994), vol. II, pp. 627– 30. 9 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 25 –6. 10 Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores (AMAE), Madrid, P481/33813, Personnel files Antonio de la Cierva y Lewita. 11 The reasons for the argument between the Spanish consular mission and the Custody are discussed in Barrioso: Espan˜a en la Historia de Tierra Santa, pp. 625– 30. 12 AMAE, P481/33813, Personnel files Antonio de la Cierva y Lewita. 13 AMAE, P481/33813, Minutes of Secretary of States, 22 October 1921, Madrid. 14 AMAE, P481/33813, Spanish Embassy to the Holy See, 21 May 1939, Vatican City. 15 A complete picture of the positions offered is to be found in the personnel files. MAE, P481, Personnel files Antonio de la Cierva y Lewita. 16 Officially the Spanish government did not recognise the State of Israel; however, Franco wanted to establish a consulate in Jerusalem in order to open a dialogue with the Israeli authorities. It was only in 1986 that full diplomatic relations were established between Spain and Israel. 17 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, p. 28. Ballobar moved his residence on 16 November 1914. 18 Said, Edward, Orientalism (London: Pantheon Books, 1978), pp. 205– 9. An example of manifest Orientalism can be seen in Ballobar: Jerusalem in World War I, p. 52. 19 Ibid., p. 164. 20 Ibid., p. 52. 21 Ibid., p. 70. 22 Ibid., pp. 55 – 56.

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23 Ibid., p. 71. 24 Ibid., pp. 131– 132. 25 AMAE, H3025/020, Spanish Embassy in Berlin, copy of the German report on the evacuation of Jaffa, 9 June 1917, Berlin. 26 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 150–51. 27 Archivio Storico Ministero degli Affari Esteri (ASMAE), Archvio di Gabinetto, Italian Consular Mission in Egypt, 30 may 1917, Cairo. 28 New York Times, 22 May 1917. 29 Archivio Segreto Vaticano (ASV), Segr. Stato, Guerra (1914– 1918) - 130, Card Dolci to Card Gasparri, 3 June 1917, Istanbul. 30 Fromkin, David, A Peace to End All Peace (New York: Owl Books, 2001), p. 296. 31 AMAE, H3025/020, Spanish Ambassador to Ministry of State, 10 August 1917, Istanbul. 32 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, p. 151. 33 AMAE, H3078/005, Ministry of State to Diplomatic Mission in Palestine, 13 April 1918, Madrid. 34 AMAE, H3078/005, Ministry of State to German Embassy, 8 August 1918, San Sebastian. 35 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 179–180. 36 Ibid., p. 150– 151. 37 AMAE, H3069/008, Ballobar to Ministry of State, list of payments, 10 October 1917, Jerusalem. 38 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 159–161. 39 Ibid., p. 194. 40 ASV, Segr. Stato, Guerra (1914 – 1918) - 130, Card Dolci to Apostolic Delegation in Vienna, 29 December 1917, Istanbul. 41 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 170–176. 42 Ibid., p. 180– 181. 43 Ibid., p. 77. 44 Jacobson: ‘Negotiating Ottomanism in Times of War’, p. 77. 45 Tamari, Salim, ‘Jerusalem’s Ottoman Modernity: The Times and Lives of Wasif Jawhariyyeh,’ Jerusalem Quarterly File 9 (2000), 27. 46 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, p. 65. 47 For details on Wasif Jawhariyyeh see Tamari: ‘Jerusalem’s Ottoman Modernity’, pp. 5 – 27. 48 See for instance Beardsworth, Alan and Tersa Keil (eds.), Sociology on the Menu (New York: Routledge, 1997). Beardsworth and Keil have attempted to study in sociological terms the experience of food-related issues, in particular food production and consumption. Bell, David and Gill Valentine (eds.), Consuming Geographies (New York: Routledge, 1997). Bell and Valentine argue that food and eating is packed with social, cultural and symbolic meanings; they also suggest that every meal can tell us something about the individuals involved in the action of eating and their place in society.

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49 Hunt, Geoffrey, ‘The Middle Class Revisited: Eating and Drinking in an English Village,’ Western Folklore 50 (1991): 401– 2. 50 Farb, P. and G. Armelagos (eds.), Consuming Passions: The Anthropology of Eating (Boston, Massachusetts, Houghton Mifflin, 1980), p. 103. 51 Jacobson: ‘Negotiating Ottomanism in Times of War’, p. 75. 52 Jacobson, Abigail, From Empire to Empire (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2011), p. 60. 53 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 32 –33. 54 National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), Washington DC, Consular Post Vol. 69/A, Governor of Jerusalem, 3 August 1914. 55 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, p. 42. 56 Ibid., pp. 52 – 53. 57 Ibid., pp. 64 – 65. 58 Mintz and Du Bois: ‘The Anthropology of Food and Eating,’ p. 105. 59 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, p. 103. 60 Ibid., pp. 101– 104. 61 Ibid., pp. 109– 110. 62 Ibid., p. 104. 63 Ibid., p. 156. 64 Ibid., pp. 182– 183. 65 AMAE, H1927, Ballobar to Secretary of State, 20 November 1917, Jerusalem. 66 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 184–185. 67 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 196–197. 68 Ibid., p. 202. 69 Storrs, Ronald, The Memoirs of Sir Ronald Storrs (New York: Putnam’s Sons, 1937), pp. 303– 4. 70 Ballobar, Conde de, Jerusalem in World War I, pp. 229– 230. [. . .] not published in Hebrew. Ibid., pp. 234– 235. 71 Storrs, Ronald, The Memoirs, p. 304.

CHAPTER 12 THE SITUATION IN JERUSALEM DURING WORLD WAR I, ACCORDING TO THE MEMOIRS OF WASIF JAWHARIEH Mustafa Abassi

Introduction The memoirs and diaries of soldiers and commanders from the period of World War I (1914– 18) constitute one of the important sources for researching the history of that war. Interestingly enough, most of the memoirs that were published about the war were written by commanders and fighters from the Allied armies of Britain, France, Australia and the US. On the Ottoman side, the number of memoirs is much lower, especially those written by Arab fighters.1 In addition to the importance of these sources for understanding the course of the war and its development in general, they also make a significant contribution towards comprehending other aspects of the history of the region and of Palestine of that period, and shed a new light on the social and economic life of the population. This is especially so because during that period Palestine was on the front lines and was the arena of battles from the outbreak of the war until it ended.

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To all this we should add the fact that the period of World War I is considered as the most formative and decisive in the history of modern Palestine, a period in which many changes occurred in all spheres of life. For example, besides considerable investment in infrastructure, railways and roads, the digging of wells, and the installation of postal and telegraph communication wires, etc., social life also underwent changes of no less importance, as can be seen in part from the perspective of what occurred in Jerusalem. Because of the emergency situation and the absence of many of the men who had been conscripted en masse into the army, many of the inhabitants of the country suffered from economic difficulties and distress and from the widespread phenomena of beggary and prostitution. The prolonging of the war accelerated the breakdown of existing social structures and frameworks. Many villagers were recruited and exposed to a new style of life by being merged with different social groups from other nations and races, including European soldiers. At the end of the war, they found it difficult to return to their former places of habitation, preferring to live in the larger cities. The war was also a turning point between two periods, the Ottoman period that had lasted for 400 years and the 30-year period of the British Mandate which rapidly altered the country, causing far-ranging upheavals that affected both Arab and Jewish Palestinians, the results of which still influence us today. In recent years, there has been increasing interest in researching the history of Palestine during that period. Among the leading scholars in this field we should note Salim Tamari, who researched the period from the Palestinian viewpoint and who has, in addition to publishing the memoirs of Wasif Jawharieh,2 also published a series of memoirs and studies about this same period.3 The research carried out by Tamari can be added to those studies that were written by the ‘first generation’ of Palestinian historians, some of whom were born at the end of the Ottoman period and some who were old enough to have experienced some of the sufferings of the war period at first hand. Among those few, we should note Ihsan Nemer4 and Izat Darwaza5 of Nablus, Khalil Sakakini of Jerusalem,6 and Fawzi Qawakji,7 who is not a Palestinian but participated in battles in the

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south as an officer in the Ottoman Army and has documented in detail this stage in his life. It is important to emphasize that this chapter focuses on a description of life in Jerusalem, mainly during the course of the war years, but in order to give a wider picture it also refers to the situation in the country as a whole, since the influences and developments mutually affected both Jerusalem and other parts of Palestine. Although Jerusalem was then the centre of a large administrative district (mutasarifiya) that included most of the central and southern parts of the country and was directly subordinate to Istanbul, it also had close ties with two other districts, that of Nablus and of Acre, which were administratively subordinate to the wali (governor) of Beirut.8 Another point that I wish to stress is that the main discussion here deals with the Arab Palestinian population, although there is some reference to the Jewish population, especially with regard to mutual trade relations in the city of Jerusalem and the surrounding area. The memoirs before us are the most recent collection of this kind and were partially published by Salim Tamari in two volumes. The first volume, which focuses on the years 1904– 17, is the one with which I primarily deal with in my chapter. I would like to stress that this is only a limited picture but is taken from a new and unusual viewpoint.

The memoirs of Wasif Jawharieh The memoirs of Wasif Jawharieh extend from the beginning of 1904 till 1968. These memoirs refer to the period of Ottoman rule and the periods of British, Jordanian and Israeli rule which is of interest to us. The writer was born in Jerusalem in 1897 in the Al-Sa’dia quarter in the old city and died in 1973 in Beirut. His father, Girjis, was the mukhtar of the Orthodox community in the city and a member of the Jerusalem municipality.9 The family owned a wellknown coffee-house that allowed them to form ties with many of the foremost personalities in the city. As can be learnt from his memoirs, this was a family whose status had risen over time, especially towards the end of the nineteenth century, and most of its sons in addition to

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Wasif and his father worked in various positions in administration and officialdom.10 The Jawharieh family was closely associated with the Husseini family. Girjis was employed by the Husseinis as a manager and supervisor of the family lands in the villages near the city. There was an exceptionally strong bond with Hussein Hashem al-Husseini, who served as the mayor of Jerusalem until his dismissal by the Turks in 1915. After the death of Girjis, the father of Wasif, in 1914, Hussein Effendi adopted him and gave him every assistance, even arranging for his good treatment when he was recruited into the Ottoman Army. Through this bond, Jawharieh became very familiar with the social elite of the city, especially with the Turkish Army officers. Wasif was educated in Jerusalem, at first in the German school in the old city, then in the national school that was founded by the wellknown Jerusalem writer Khalil Sakakeni, before completing his studies in St. George’s School, where he was mainly attracted to music.11 Over the years he became one of the leading Arab musicians in Jerusalem. As we shall see, through his music he was able to penetrate the elite social strata of the city and to document for us a different aspect of social life. The memoirs give us a new picture about the notables and the society they represented, a society which has always been described as conservative and that supported itself mainly by the administration of religious affairs. It was a society that seems to have been secluded within the various communal neighbourhoods of Jerusalem, with very little interaction among them. The memoirs show that members of the so-called conservative group were not very conservative, and even their business interests went beyond the field of religion and focused mainly on administration and trade. They present to us a city with a different social system, especially in regard to the Arab population, which was then at the beginning of a modernization process, attempting to break down the boundaries between communities and neighbourhoods, even by moving outside the walls of the old city into the new Arab neighbourhoods in the north part of the city.

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In the following I intend to describe three different areas of interest that are strongly stressed in the memoirs: a. The situation in the city at the outbreak of war; b. The relationships between the Arab leadership and the Turkish authorities in the city; and c. Leisure activities in the city, especially among the officer class and members of the elite in the shadow of war.

Situation in the city at the outbreak of war When the war broke out in Europe in August 1914, fears mounted in Jerusalem about the position of the Ottoman state. The number of officers in the city increased, which made it necessary for the authorities to rent apartments to accommodate them.12 Jawharieh mentions that at the first stage, before the state officially joined the war at the end of October 1914, the authorities distributed letters through the district mutasarrif (governor) to all the mukhtars in the city and villages, and requested that they prepare the people for the possibility of the imminent outbreak of war. The distribution of the letters increased the fears even more, especially among the Christian communities. The official announcement that the state had joined the war came about 3 months later and was published in Jerusalem during Friday prayers at the Al-Aqsa Mosque. An atmosphere of pessimism and fear for the future of the country prevailed, and no signs of joy were felt. Conscription orders were issued to many of the city residents who were soon to be sent to the various fronts.13 Jawharieh notes that immediately after the war broke out, some members of the Arab national associations began to be active in the city. They exchanged their tarbush for the Arab kufiyah and began talking about the start of a new phase. They called for dissociation from the Ottoman government and for the establishment of an Arab Caliphate under British protection.14 Parallel with the activities of Arab national factions in the city, the pro-Ottoman factions, with the encouragement of the authorities,

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began a propaganda campaign even during the waiting period before the declaration of war.15 At the request of the authorities, Sheikh Ali Ba-fakih, the sha’afi mufti of Medina, arrived in Jerusalem accompanied with his two sons. A grand reception was held in his honour, and the city dignitaries as well as military officers greeted him with great respect.16 Strangely enough, on the very next day, Sheikh Ali Ba-fakih died. His death aroused great disappointment among the authorities, and their propaganda campaign began unsuccessfully. But they quickly filled in the gap and asked Sheikh As’ad Shuqeiry, who was known for his close relations with the Young Turks, to come to the city in order to enlist public support for the war effort. Sheikh As’ad Shuqeiry was the mufti of the 4th Ottoman Army under Cemal Pas
a and was closely associated with him as one of the prominent propagandists for the Ottoman war effort. In this connection, Yehoshua Porat noted that Sheikh As’ad Shuqeiry was outstandingly pro-Ottoman. He was against the idea of the Arab national movement with regard to breaking away from the Empire and opposed the Arab National Congress that was held in Paris in 1913.17 He was later accused by the Arab National Movement of assisting the Ottoman government to execute many of its activists, an accusation that he strongly denied.18 On 20 December, when Pas
a arrived in Jerusalem with the banner of the Prophet Muhammad that had been taken from Mecca to Damascus and from there to Jerusalem in order to arouse public enthusiasm, the city received the banner with great adulation, but it very soon reverted to its former atmosphere of gloom. It is interesting that the presence of Sheikh As’ad was disliked from the mufti Muhammad Amin Husseini viewpoint, because they did not need anyone to teach them loyalty to the state. The relations between the two sides remained cool, and this continued during the period of the British Mandate, when he stood in opposition to the mufti.

Relations between the Turks and the Arab notables The relations between the Turkish Army and the inhabitants of Jerusalem can be generally described as more or less normal.

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Sometimes good cooperation seems to exist between all sides, and sometimes there are feelings of mistrust and mutual suspicion. Naturally, these relations changed according to the developments on the war front, and they also differed between the various social strata, the city leadership and the ordinary residents. It is important to note that the massive military presence in Jerusalem, especially of the officer ranks and those who were responsible for matters concerning logistics and health, was strongly felt in the city during the entire period of the war and created a situation of much closer Ottoman supervision over city affairs than in the pre-war mutasarrif period. The freedom of manoeuvre for the notables in managing the city became very restricted, and the city was largely administered by senior Turkish officers and government officials. The Turks also took control over some of the public buildings that had once been Alliedowned and were now used by the Turkish Army for various purposes. This military presence put a great strain on relations with the leaders of the Husseini family. Even though this family had served as leaders of the Arabs in the city and the surrounding region and emphasized its loyalty to the Sultan and state, this did not entirely convince Cemal Pas
a, who doubted the loyalty of the Arabs towards the state. On the other hand, in spite of the suspicions we shall see that the cooperation continued, especially with regard to the food supply in the city. In this matter there was mutual dependence. Some of the notables who were also merchants wanted a continuation of the contacts that served their own interests and the authorities were in need of the merchants in order to promote their grain-dealing business with agents in Transjordan. For example, because of Cemal Pas
a’s suspicions and the activities of the Arab national associations, he dismissed Hussein Husseini from his position as mayor of the city in 1915. Jawharieh notes that the Husseinis were mostly loyal to the Ottomans, and did not support the activities of those associations. It seems that Jawharieh, who was closely associated with Hussein Husseini and his father Salim Effendi Husseini, overlooked the causes for the tension between Hussein and Cemal Pas
a. Hussein had been chosen as mayor of the city in 1910. His father had served as the previous mayor (1882–97) and was a powerful figure in the city

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and the district. But Hussein, who had taken his position immediately after the Young Turks revolution and the deposition of the Sultan Abdu¨lhamid in 1909, did not approve of the Young Turks and even began to act against them. In 1912 he obtained the signatures of scores of Arab notables in Jerusalem on a petition that was passed on to the British and contained a desire to have closer relations with them in order to set up an Arab state and release themselves from Ottoman rule.19 Cemal Pas
a, who arrived in Jerusalem when the war broke out, was aware of the steps taken by Hussein, but because of the influence and status of the Husseini family and on the advice of some of his officers he refrained from taking any stronger measures as he had done in certain places in Syria.20 Although Hussein was very disappointed by his dismissal as mayor, he did not turn his back on the authorities and did not do anything that might be interpreted as anti-Ottoman, since his business interests and his family standing made it necessary for him to remain loyal. Hussein even assisted the authorities through the Red Crescent Society, which he headed, and which included important Jerusalem leaders from all three communities.21 In addition, we learn that the army officers were not united in their attitude towards ties with the Arab leadership in the city. For example, Jawharieh details the close and friendly relations between Hussein al-Husseini and Ali Rushan Bey, who was an Albanian officer and the manager of Notre Dame de France which served as headquarters (commissariat) for the 4th Army in the city. Ali’s title was ‘Residence Inspector’ (Mufattish Manzil) and he was responsible for matters of supply and logistics in the southern front.22 According to Jawharieh, Rushan Bey was a moderate officer and one of the best in the city during the war period. He loved the city and took care of the inhabitants. Rushan claimed that it was he who saved Hussein from Pas
a and persuaded him not to injure him further. A similar relationship existed with Nuri Bey, the police commander in the city, and with Ahmad Effendi Yuzbashi, the officer in charge of the Ottoman Musical Troupe; it was through Yuzbashi that Khalil Jawharieh, Wasif’s brother, was taken on by the

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troupe and saved from being sent to serve in a military unit. According to Jawharieh, these officers and others such as Nihad Bey and Sadek Bey were from highly respected families in Istanbul who loved the city and were loved by its inhabitants in return. They served to moderate the attitude of Cemal Pas
a to a great extent.23 It is interesting that in spite of the coolness shown by the Turks towards the Husseinis, the latter did everything they could to prove that they were truly loyal towards the state. This became evident during the visit of the War Minister, Enver Pas
a, in 1916. The War Minister’s cavalcade, accompanied by a number of German officers, arrived in Jerusalem and was received with demonstrative warmth by the mufti, Kamil Effendi Husseini – a cousin of Hussein Salim – who laid out a grand banquet in their honour and later conducted them on a tour of the Haram al-Sharif. After completing his visit to Jerusalem, Enver wished to visit Jericho. The town was decorated in his honour and a festive reception was held there according to instructions from the Jerusalem notables, who had considerable influence in Jericho and even owned houses and lands there. Following all the efforts invested by Hussein Husseini and the mufti Kamil Husseini in this reception, Cemal Pas
a changed his attitude towards them.24 From the memoirs we learn that the Turkish authorities felt great admiration for the Jewish community, and according to Jawharieh, the Jews were given more respect than the Arabs because of their ability to intervene and influence foreign opinion. He mentions a number of Jewish personalities who were closely associated with and even active in various public bodies in the city at that time, especially Yitzhak Elyashar and Albert Antebi.

Parties and leisure activities Among the subjects given extensive and detailed coverage in the memoirs of Jawharieh is that of parties, which surprises many and raises even more questions. It seems that during the period of battles on the southern front, noisy parties were held in Jerusalem with the participation of senior

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officers of the Turkish Army in the city. These parties were usually organized by members of the Red Crescent Society in Jerusalem, headed by Hussein Husseini. It is important to note that the position of Husseini at the head of this society was not fortuitous, but was used by him as a means to maintain his influence in the city, especially among the Turkish officers and government officials. After his dismissal from the position of mayor, he began to engage in commercial matters and assisted greatly in importation of grain from Transjordan, both overland and through the wharf that had been set up on the shores of the Dead Sea. He knew that his interests and those of his family required him to maintain contact with the ruling authorities, especially at this stage in the war when it was not absolutely clear how it would end. The activists in the Red Crescent Society included some of the elite in all of Jerusalem’s communities. Prominent among the Muslims there was Hussein and Ismail Husseini, among the Jews there were merchants and businessmen such as Yitzhak Elyashar, Intibi and Yosef King,25 and among the Christians there was Selim Khoury who was also a businessman. The aim of the Society was to collect funds and assist in the Turkish war effort. However, the Society also held parties to which senior Turkish officers were invited. High-level guests from among the military were received in its offices, such as Enver Pas
a and Cemal Pas
a. In the offices of the Society, introductions were made and encounters took place between these high-level personalities and the beautiful women of Jerusalem, which progressed very quickly beyond mere friendship. Each of these officers and city notables was permanently attached to one of these young women. They rented apartments for them and provided them with servants and assistants.26 The relationship that particularly occupied Jawharieh was that of Cemal Pas
a with Mrs Lea Tenenbaum. According to him, she was the most beautiful woman in Jerusalem and was the uncrowned queen for her special relations with the commander-in-chief of the army. Another strong attachment was the one created between

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Sa’adallah Bey, the commander of the security forces in the city, and Sima the Moroccan, who is described in the memoirs as a girl who played, sang and danced. Majd Bey also had a girlfriend, Mrs Kob, who came from Salonika. The parties were held in the homes of the notables and even in monasteries, where they could enjoy vintage wines of the very highest quality.27 Jawharieh notes that in addition to Hussein Husseini, his cousin Ismail Husseini also used to participate in these parties. Ismail was the most prominent leader of the family during the Hamidian period. Jawharieh notes that Ismail Bey was regularly accompanied by three young women who played various instruments and were active participants in the parties. He also relates that young Armenian girls used to appear as musicians or dancers and young Russian girls also participated actively. According to him, Arabic music was well received by all, but Turkish, Russian, and Armenian music and songs were also acceptable at times in this circle. He noted that the Jerusalem notables were forced to maintain more than one house. They had a family home which was usually closed to strangers, and another house used for social activities that were outside the bounds of traditional custom, such as parties and encounters with offices or even encounters with their girlfriends. Jawharieh rightfully calls these ‘pleasure houses’, Dar al-Surur in Arabic.28

Conclusion With reference to the three points raised at the beginning, we may conclude that, with regard to the reactions of the Arab residents towards the decision of the Ottoman state to join the war, the memoirs make it clear that most of them were afraid of this measure. Yet in spite of this the Arabs of Jerusalem stood by the state and took an active part in the war effort, either by enlisting in the army or providing all sorts of logistical assistance. Despite the suspicious attitude, bordering on hostility, of Cemal Pas
a, the Arab residents under the leadership of the Husseini family continued to be loyal to the state until the very end and rejected all the calls of the activists in the national associations to join the

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anti-Ottoman camp. It is no coincidence that Jawharieh does not make any mention of the Arab Revolt. The memoirs also show that the local officers were much closer to the residents than members of the higher echelons of command, giving them assistance and forming strong social ties with them. They portray an interesting picture of the difference between the attitude of the Turkish officers who had served in the city before the war and those who arrived in the city when war broke out. It appears that the relations with officers of middle rank were usually better than those with Cemal Pas
a, who showed increasing suspicion towards the Arab position even before the outbreak of Sharif Hussein’s rebellion in 1916. With regard to the parties that were conducted in the city, we see that the memoirs are the only sources that mention this subject. In addition to the interesting information about all that occurred at these parties and the system of social relationships that transcended religious and ethnic borderlines upon which the celebrations were premised, the importance of the memoirs lies in the different picture it gives us of the atmosphere in the city. This is unlike other sources which mostly describe Jerusalem at that time as a city in distress, suffering from hunger, persecution and political tension. Even if we say that Jawharieh the musician was too optimistic, too privileged and saw things from a narrow perspective, recounting much about the atmosphere of pleasure and enjoyment of life in the city, in my opinion his memoirs greatly moderate the dark and gloomy picture left to us by others about the state of affairs in the city. Perhaps a combination of various types of memoirs, and of course official documents, may help us to better understand the situation in Jerusalem during that time of war.

Notes 1 Some of the memoirs of fighters in World War I can be read at Edward Lengel’s website: http:/wsrv.clas.virginia.edu/,egle2r/wwi.htm1 2 Tamari, S., Nassar, I. (eds.) al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh fi al-Mudhakarat al-Jawharieh 1904– 1917, Vol. I (Muassat al-Dirasat al-Filasteniya: Beirut, 2003). 3 Among the memoirs that have been published we wish to note the following book: Tamari, S. Year of the Locust: The Great War and the Erasure of Palestine’s

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4 5 6 7 8

9 10 11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23

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Ottoman Past Including the Diary of an Ottoman Soldier: Jerusalem 1915– 1916 (Institute for Palestine Studies: Jerusalem, 2008). Tamari, S. Year of the Locust: A Soldier’s Diary and the Erasure of Palestine’s Ottoman Past (University of California Press: Berkeley, 2011). Among the research works, we note: Nassar, I. and Tamari, S. (eds.) Pilgrims, Lepers & Stuffed Cabbage: Essays on Jerusalem Cultural History (Institute of Jerusalem History: Jerusalem, 2005). Nimir, I. Tarikh Jabal Nablus Walbalkaa (Mtba’t jamayat al-A’mal: Nablus, 1975). Darwaza, M. Miat A’am Filastiniya: Mudhakarat watasjeelat (al Jama’iya a-Falitenia Samid: Damascus, 1986). Sakakeni, K. Yawmiyyat Khalil Sakakeni 1914– 1918 (Muassat al- Dirasat alMakdisya, al- Kuds, 2004). Qawakji, F., Mudhakarat Fuzi Kawakji (Dar al-Numer: Damascus, 1975). Beshara, D., Rediscovering Palestine, Merchants and Peasants in Jabal Nablus, 1700– 1900 (Berkeley, ca, University of California, 1995); Abu-Manneh, B., ‘The establishment and dismantling of the Province of Syria. 1865– 1888’, in Spagnolo, J. (ed.), Problems of the Modern Middle East in Historical Perspective (Ithaca Press, 1992). Johann, B., Hamidian Palestine: Politics and Society in the District of Jerusalem 1872– 1908 (Leiden: Brill, 2011). Nassar, I., ‘The Wasif Jawharieh photographic collection’, Jerusalem Quarterly File 18 (2003), pp. 36 – 43. Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, p. 13. Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, pp. 20 – 2, 126– 7. Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, p. 160. Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, pp. 161– 3. Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, p. 163. For more details about the relations between the pro-Ottomans Arabs and the leaders of the Committee of Union and Progress see Abu-Manneh, B., ‘ArabOttomans’ reactions to the Young Turk revolution’ in Ben-Basat, Y., Ginio, E. (eds.) Late Ottoman Palestine: The Period of Young Turk Rule (London & New-York: Tauris, 2011). Tamari: al-Kuds al-otmaniyeh, p. 167. Porat, Y., The Growth of the Arab Palestinian National Movement, 1918– 1929 (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1976), pp. 171– 2. For further details about Sheikh As’ad and the Shuqeiry family, see Abbasi, Mustafa, ‘The families of Arab notables at the end of the Ottoman regime and during the Mandate period: continuation or change?’, Cathedra 130 (2009), pp. 51 – 74. Pappe, I., Aristocracy of the Land: the Husayni Family Political Biography (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2002), p. 161. Ibid., p. 178. Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, pp. 180– 98. Tamari: Year of the Locust: A Soldier’s Diary, p. 4 Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, pp. 190– 2.

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24 Tamari: al-Kuds al-othmaniyeh, pp. 232– 3. 25 See also Jacobson, A. ‘Alternative voices in late Ottoman Palestine: a historical note’, Jerusalem Quarterly File, pp. 41 – 8. 26 Tamari: al-Kuds al-otmaniyeh, pp. 200– 1. 27 Tamari: al-Kuds al-otmaniyeh, p. 201. 28 Tamari: al-Kuds al-otmaniyeh, pp. 204– 5.

CHAPTER 13 THE HAIFA COMMUNITY COMMITTEE DURING WORLD WAR I:LAYING THE FOUNDATIONS FOR MULTI-ETHNIC PUBLIC LEADERSHIP IN THE CITY Anat Kidron

Introduction The twilight years of the Ottoman Empire in Palestine, which came to its end in World War I, were also the dawning years of the Zionist enterprise therein. One of the goals, perhaps the central one that the Zionist movement set for itself, was the construction of a JewishNationalist community that would see itself as a political body, having a unifying institutional organization striving for autonomy. These ideas did not grow just in the Zionist movement, but were part of the process of change that modernization brought to the traditional diaspora of the Jewish community.1 The nationalist definitions relate primarily to the overall community view, in an attempt to redefine the Jewish community as a non-divided

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organization. The central difference between these changes and Zionist goals touches first on the differences between the concepts of local and national communities, which are indeed based on local communities, and second on national aspiration, which sees itself as the basis for a state, and not as a pattern for existence in another society. In Palestine, the attempt to change the concept of community had to deal with the reality of multiple ethnic groups. Until the end of the Ottoman period, the lives of the Jews were managed in a framework of ethnic communities and according to the ‘Mileth’ law.2 Any attempt to blur these distinctions on the national level had to be built on nationalist local communities, several of which had a new demographic composition.3 The new definition was mostly required for communities that were built in mixed cities where there were already established communities. Throughout this chapter, I will attempt to explain the formation of a nationalist community in Haifa during the course of World War I. This examination aims to determine whether it is possible to see in the emergency formation of the Jewish yishuv (settlement) the beginnings of a modern-nationalist perception, combining inclusion of all ethnic groups and self-sufficiency with a productive outlook and full utilization of resources. In other words, this essay will examine the civilian self-organization of the yishuv during wartime to determine whether it can be seen as one of the fresh pillars upon which the Haifa Jewish community was built in the later years during the Mandate period. Viewing World War I as the central pinnacle in the national yishuv formation is not a new concept. This research examines many different aspects of this issue, especially from the viewpoint of overall Jewish settlement. Nevertheless, until now there has not been enough focus on the local community aspect during the war.4 Elucidation of the processes of constructing communities first as a civilian organization, and second as the first self-organization with a nationalist character, can contribute to the general understanding of this period.

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Haifa and its Jewish community before World War I On the eve of World War I, Haifa was the main city in northern Palestine. It enjoyed a steady increase in population, commerce and traffic.5 The city was growing rapidly, and improvements were made to state infrastructure, public hygiene and so on. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the estimated population of the city was 11,000– 12,000 people, growing to 20,000 in 19116; more growth than any other city in the country at that time. The city’s population was divided into four major groups: Muslims, Christian Arabs, Jews and Germans. The majority of the Jews in Haifa had arrived from northern Africa from the beginning of the nineteenth century onwards. As of the middle of the century, an Ashkenazi-Haredi (religious orthodox) community started to establish itself in the city, a community that until the beginning of the twentieth century stayed a demographic minority among the Jewish population; however, it was largely better organized and more stable financially.7 At the beginning of the twentieth century, a new immigrant community arrived in the city, mainly Ashkenazi, who preferred a more active approach to their way of life. The Haredi character that had been prominent in the older Ashkenazi community was now given a Nationalist-Zionist and blue-collar slant. The demographic growth was rapid: according to Vilnai, the percentage of Jews in the general population grew from 3 per cent in 1830, to 10 per cent by the end of the century.8 According to Ottoman records, the Jewish population before the World War stood at almost 3,000, which (based on the Ottoman estimate of 23,000) is 13 per cent of the total population.9 For details of the change in the number of Jews over time, see Table 1. The Jews living in Haifa made a living from trade and handiwork. With the arrival of the Second Aliyah (immigration) to the city came a change in the source of livelihood: on one hand, the middle and lower-middle class turned to industry and founded the first factory of its kind in Haifa, a soap manufactory called Atid (Future) in 1907; on the other hand, many people of a working-class background were also settling in the city. These years were the beginning of the community

THE HAIFA COMMUNITY COMMITTEE Table 1.

Official source

Number of Jews in Haifa over time.

Total Year population

Number of Jews

1868 3,500 – 4,000 100 families Officer 1886 7,165 Schumacher 1890 8,500 1902 11,000 – 12,000 1905 15,000 1909 18,000 1911 20,000 Ottoman 1914 23,000 3,000 estimate Delegates 1917 1,406 committee British command

245

1922

24,634

6,234

Percentage of Jews from total population Comments

13%

25.3%

Apparently only in the Lower City

formation in Haifa. The first modern educational institutions opened: in 1881, the Kiach (‘Alliance Israelite Universelle’) school opened; Ezra (Aid) opened a kindergarten in 1907 and in 1908, a branch of the Anglo-Palestine Bank was founded and the first hospital was established. These years also marked the formation of the first neighbourhoods as people were starting to leave the downtown area. In 1909 the Herzliya neighbourhood was built, the first neighbourhood on the steps of the area known as Hadar Hacarmel. A year later, the Technion building was built, becoming one of the central institutions in the city. An outcome of this organization was the beginning of the segregation between the Jewish and Arab population in the city. The above findings point us towards the fact that many demographic and cultural changes were taking place in the period before the war. These in turn, among other factors, led to geographical, organizational and institutional changes. These

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developments were similar in their essence to nationwide developments that were occurring due to the beginning of the ‘new’ settlement in Palestine. What sets Haifa apart was the combination of the changes among the Jewish community with the changes in the actual city’s status, geographic and demographic size. Although this chapter focuses only on the Jewish community’s formation, it would be impossible to separate the Jewish development from the city’s general development, although we are able to see the differences.

The organization of the community The first Community Committee in Haifa, a joint venture of Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews, was founded in 1906. This equal body integrated representatives from both of the ethnic groups. This was a traditional body, following both Jewish communities’ cultures in Palestine and in the diaspora. Despite this fact, it is important to point out that the initiative to unite the committees was due to a nationwide process that started with the arrival of the New Yishuv at the beginning of the 1880s and included, among others, attempts to create joint institutions for the general Jewish community in the country.10 Unifying the ethnic groups was presented as a national value, similar to the use of the Modern Hebrew language, but also came from a need for cooperation between the veterans and the people of the New Yishuv. At the beginning of the twentieth century, there were a growing number of attempts to form general self-government organizations and to define the Jewish community anew as an undivided multi-ethnic group.11 These attempts to unite failed utterly. Only during times of emergency, for instance World War I, did general settlement bodies enjoying a high level of authority manage to form. The bodies mentioned refer to relief groups like the ‘Committee to Ease the Crisis’ or the ‘Political Committee’.12 The idea of local independent leadership, encompassing all communities, started to coalesce mainly after 1908, because of the temporary relaxation in the political environment following the

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‘Young Turks’ revolution. Despite that, while the newly-formed communities were extremely homogeneous and autonomic,13 there were more complicated cases involving the mixed urban communities in the city. They couldn’t be closed or autonomic due to the fact that they operated according to majority rule in a municipal area that included both Jews and Arabs. The urban communities needed a bridge between the national ideal, a unifying approach, and local realities. The interaction between conservative principles mainly coming from the Old Yishuv, mostly Sephardi and the AshkenaziHaredi, and modern Zionist principles coming from the New Yishuv and a minority of young Sephardic Jews who chose to follow in their path (like the young members of the Tehiya (Revival) organization) raised complicated issues requiring changes in organization and public awareness. There was also an aspiration to move from an organization that preserved a specifically ethnic character and revolved around providing religious services towards a nationalist community that offered a broader range of services. A Community Committee common to both the Ashkenazi and Sephardi communities was founded in Jaffa in 1891. This committee did not manage to survive due to disagreements between the ethnic groups. It was not until 1909 that Rabbi Cooke re-founded the mutual committee.14 The ethnic complexity in Jerusalem also made forming a common political leadership problematic.15 A joint mutual committee was formed in Haifa in 1906. This was the first mutual committee in the country since the short-lived attempt in Jaffa. The committee acted under the Ottoman Empire without any legal rights to collect taxes or enforce policies, but it tried to act as a representative body for all the Jews in Haifa. The mutual committee continued work until September 1913, when it announced its dismantling because of ethnic tensions. The official separation continued during the World War I. The committees were separate in managing the ethnic groups’ internal affairs, although they carried on working together in affairs concerning all the Jews in the city.16 With the outbreak of World War I, the ethnic committees were the only bodies that could run a civil government through the days of crisis that shook the city.

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The days of the First World War Haifa did not have a specific role in the battle between the empires during World War I.17 With the outbreak of war, the Turks closed off its port to circumvent the enemy arriving by sea and to prevent British or French fleets from attacking merchant ships. The Turks even laid landmines along and around the bay, effectively causing a naval blockade on the city. The branch of the Hejaz railway that terminated in Haifa was also left deserted. The main supply and traffic artery of the Ottoman’s army passed through Genin, leaving Haifa far away from the eye of the storm. Haifa was left in the shade, with no significant army forces or political importance. The deliberate blockade that the Turks imposed upon the city caused trade to decrease, resulting in hunger and a dwindling population. Despite this, Haifa’s inhabitants enjoyed relatively little pressure by the Ottoman government. The fact that Haifa was not considered a part of the New Yishuv also contributed towards a more lenient approach towards the Jewish population by the government.

The public leadership’s areas of activity during World War I As was true of all the Jewish settlements in Palestine, however, the community in Haifa was also put to the test for the period of the war. This was both a political and economic trial that placed the very survival of the Jewish yishuv or even Zionism in question. In light of the Old Yishuv’s weakening in the city and the Sephardi committee’s weakness, this was very much the ‘new’ leadership’s trial to face, especially since, due to the committees’ separation before the war, they were identified with the pre-war Ashkenazi-Haredi leadership. Haifa’s situation was better than Jerusalem’s or Tel Aviv’s: the relationship it held with the government was generally agreeable. The city was not thought of as one of the main Zionist settlements, therefore easing Cemal Pasa’s harsh rulings. The economic crisis in Haifa was felt later than in Jaffa and Jerusalem: unlike some of the people in Jerusalem, the community in Haifa was not dependent on

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the Halukah (outside financial support) fund and therefore was less affected by the severing of economic ties with overseas communities. Unlike Jaffa, Haifa did not have a large amount of new immigrants at the beginning of the war still dependent on their community’s institutions. Moreover, the number of labourers left unemployed seems to have been less than in other cities, though those that remained worked under poor conditions and it seems likely that the lower unemployment numbers reflect the fact that many labourers left the city following the worsening situation.18 In its wake, the war brought numerous problems to Haifa. The closing of trade routes worsened the population’s economic standing. The Turks’ tax burden caused poverty and hunger. Many men were called up to the Ottoman army, and others ran away to avoid being drafted. Several families freed their sons from service using all that remained of their money. The tough economic situation also caused the Anglo-Palestine Bank to close, resulting in credit foreclosures and checks losing their value. In October 1915, the Haifa branch of the bank was closed. The following day all the stores and trade houses belonging to foreign citizens in the city were closed.19 Widows and orphans increased in number in the city: the average size of Jewish families in the city stood at 3.5 people during the war. At the head of 27.7 per cent of the families stood a woman – a factor that points to a high percentage of widows or deserted women. The percentage of the whole of Jewish women in the city stood at 51.8 per cent.20 As the war progressed, a large number of refugees arrived in the city, mainly those expelled from Jaffa, which added to the terrible economic situation. Against the background of these calamities, the joint acts of public leadership were gathering speed. The amount of cooperation is not entirely clear, but it seems as though the Ashkenazi leadership led the actions while striving for togetherness. The Ashkenazi Community Committee destroyed many official documents from the time to avoid them falling into the Turks’ hands.21 Documents concerning the Sephardi community were not kept at all; the Sephardi Archives in Haifa were lost; and the Ashkenazi committee’s protocols stop between 1915 and 1918. The Ashkenazi committee’s protocols point to a general separation between the committees, although there was

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cooperation in areas concerning food supplies, health and welfare.22 From publications of the time it appears that the Sephardi community was less organized, a fact that emphasizes the advantages of the New Yishuv. The separation was pronounced relating to religious affairs. This led to a separate Ashkenazi Kadisha (burial) group during the war, whereas up until the war the Ashkenazi Jews had used the Sephardi Kadisha group.

Relief and aid During the war the Ashkenazi committee, being the only functioning one, was known as the “community committee”, constructing the national identity over the ethnic one. The growing number of requirements and the need to expand the Community Committee’s public base led to the founding of sub-committees. They tried to start a ‘Committee to Support the Poor’ but they found it difficult to enlist people for this kind of work.23 The traditional charity organizations remained centered around the synagogues and women’s charity work. In contrast, most of the members of the Community Committee and other committees founded at the time were men associated with the New Yishuv, a relatively small group. As the war progressed, the community committee managed to expand its work and entrench its public status in the city. The Support Sub Committee (Va’ad hatmicha) dealt with welfare, encouraged mutual help between the city’s inhabitants, raised funds and managed the community’s money. Until August 1914, this was a cooperative body (committee) for all of the Jewish community but afterwards split up for unknown reasons.24 The Support Sub Committee tried to focus on and raise awareness for its aid work in the city and to supplement the Community Committee’s general work. The Support Committee dealt with the Baron Rothschild’s donations for the poor and collecting donations from the local Jewish community. Aiming to base the committee work on modern rolls, they tried not to give charity money but constructive loans, and to fight the growing profiteering by buying and grinding wheat and selling flour, rice and sugar at low prices.25 It also tried to recruit the Ashkenazi ‘Women’s Aid Committee’ to help

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with handing out food and with support. One of the support and overseeing activities concerned the Bait Tavshil (‘cooking house’, or soup kitchen) that was run inside the Worker’s Club through donations. The Bait Tavshil did not have a kosher kitchen, mainly due to financial considerations, and the support it received caused opposition from religious groups inside the Support Sub Committee. The support that the Committee gave this labour body, despite the opposition that arose, shows the public-minded, multi-ethnic, and even nationalist viewpoints that were beginning to define its actions.26 In the summer of 1917, when the lack of income could be felt and with that an increase in prices, businesspersons in the city joined and formed a produce syndicate called the ‘Wheat Committee’. Members of this committee were representatives from the Community committee, representatives from the Immigration Sub Committee (also see below), and representatives from the Worker’s Club.27 The Support Sub Committee tried to base its actions on productive foundations and avoided taking charity. Despite the fact that not all members of the committee were from the New Yishuv, it is evident that it influenced the modernization philosophy which the leadership tried to follow. However, as the war continued the committee realized that it was in dire straits. Initially, it discussed handing out food on credit. It tried to institute loans in cash, while recruiting money from the Anglo-Palestine Bank, but these attempts dwindled. The lack of cash and credit reduced the Support Committee’s’ abilities, and as of the middle of 1915, with the arrival of American aid, almost all of its independent activities stopped. Between the years 1915 and 1919 the Community Committee’s protocols were switched to protocols belonging to the ‘Aid Committee’, the ‘Committee to Ease the Crisis’ and the ‘Relief Committee’ – all of which saw themselves as connected to the Community Committee but kept independent accounts. This fact does not necessarily mean that there was no central activity during these years, but it definitely raises questions as to the status of the central body, especially since there was normally a steady stream of protocols. We can learn about the rest of the Community Committee’s existence mainly from letters between it, the American Committee and other bodies. It could be that because

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some people belonged to more than one committee, external entities that could not differentiate between the local committees and their hierarchic status were not always exact when using the name of the committee concerned.

The American Committee The ‘American Relief Committee’ was a branch of the ‘Joint’ organization. Its financial aid started to arrive in Palestine at the beginning of 1914.28 In order to hand out the money, a central help committee was set up in Jerusalem. At the head of the committee stood three men: Arthur Rupin, head of the Palestine Bureau (also known as the ‘Eretz Yisraeli Office’), who was in charge of support in Jaffa and the Judean settlements and general supervision of the committee’s work; Ephraim Cohen, a representative from Ezra and from the non-Zionist community active in Jerusalem and Hebron; and Aharon Aharonson, an Ottoman citizen, who was in charge of Samaria and the Galilee including Haifa. As of the middle of 1915, the American Relief Committee started to take action in Haifa. At the head of the Haifa branch stood Natan Keizerman, who was also head of the Anglo-Palestine Bank branch in Haifa and the head of the joint Community committee in its first years. Similar to the local leadership, the American Committee members made a point of basing the aid on productive elements, and tried to avoid the stigma of handouts. It gave out loans, supplied stores with basic products at low prices and helped people find employment. The aid made ideological differences amongst the groups in the city evident. It seemed that among the Old Yishuv the practice of traditional Jewish charity was growing, while the organized labourers in Haifa were opposed to any handing-out of money. Aharonson said that this strengthened the Haifa Relief Committee against the ‘inclinations of our brothers the Sephardim’ to use the relief money for charity only and to distribute it as donations.29 The labourers, on the other hand, held long negotiations with the company Hachsharat HaYishuv (Settlement Training) regarding paving a road on the

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Carmel, financed by the Palestine Bureau and by American aid.30 Labourers worked in rotating shifts to avoid unemployment. Despite the best efforts for productivity, it was necessary to assign money for direct support (see Table 2). Avraham Elimalich mentioned in his memoirs that the 8,000 francs that were given to Haifa were distributed in the following way: 20 per cent to store produce, 20 per cent towards loans, 30 per cent for employment and 30 per cent for support, of which a third went to the Ashkenazim and the rest to the Sephardim.31 A similar proportion was mentioned in the Relief Committee’s report, which pointed out that most of the support was given in Jerusalem and Safed. Haifa was highly commended for the low percentage of support payments that was required there: it is noticeable compared to Jaffa, Tiberias and the lower Galilee. The lowest percentages of support payments given were in settlements of the New Yishuv.32 Table 2.

Percentage of loans and support received by different cities/areas.

Haifa Jaffa Shomron Tiberias Lower Galilee Upper Galilee Judean Settlements Jerusalem Safed

Percentage of loans

Percentage of support

69.30 59.33 75.75 58.80 63.89 80.25 82.06 36.06 30.99

30.45 39.42 24.27 38.55 36.11 17.35 16.48 61.96 61.44

The wavering between giving charity and constructive aid was also associated with the ‘Lenders’ Fund’ founded in the city in August 1915. The sources of the fund’s money were the Relief Committee, a loan from the Anglo-Palestine Bank, and support from private people and institutions. The hardship of the time forced this body to take donations, although protocols show that as of 1917 a return to giving loans was called for. The Lenders’ Fund continued to exist even after

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the British occupation, and it was used to transfer part of the Delegates’ Committee aid.

The relationship between the public leadership and the American Committee The Haifa public leadership had a complex relationship with the American Relief Committee. The decrease in local resources and the continuation of the war reduced the public leadership’s economic ability and therefore reduced its public influence. From this perspective, all relief work as of the middle of 1915 was dependent on American aid. This dependency relationship sharpened even more since the Relief Committee was thought of as an ‘outside body’: it was founded due to the American donors’ demands, as opposed to other committees that were founded by local initiatives. The Relief Committee also worked with the Palestine Bureau, meaning the Zionist administration. From the local point of view, the Zionist administration was also thought of as an outside body during these years, which was certainly not accepted by all of the Jews in the city. This attitude was also prevalent among people from the New Yishuv who were financially and publicly dominant in the city, who thought of the Zionist administration as outsiders who were not part of the local community they were trying to form. The financial dependency caused the need to unite relief bodies. The Support Committee approached the American Relief Committee in 1915 looking to unite forces and efforts. The result of this was the halting the Support Committee’s work. ‘The work was done very well up until the American aid came and stopped the committee’s self-help work,’ was how Almaliyech criticized the people of the yishuv and especially the people of Haifa.33 A reporter for Beyn Hazmanim (‘Between the Times’) commented as well on the American aid: ‘Everywhere that the American money reaches – the devil celebrates,’ and referred to the fact that the city’s inhabitants had stopped paying property taxes due to the outside support.34 Almaliyech no doubt tried to embellish and enlarge the local Support Committee’s real abilities, while Beyn Hazmanim mainly referred in its writings to the

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actual community’s strengths and weaknesses. Mordechai Ben Hillel Cohen’s diary similarly criticized the people of Tel Aviv. His writings state that in the winter of 1914, the ‘city people’ abstained from giving support due to the crisis but also due to large sums of money arriving from America, meaning that they saw no need to contribute.35 The Haifa Community Committee opposed the existence of an appointed body, such as the American one. The members of the committee saw themselves as an elected leadership and wanted the funds to be distributed by them and not via an appointee from Jerusalem. This demand was raised even though members of the American committee were also members of the Community committee. The motives for this objection are not clear. It may be that the basis for this objection came from the desire to keep the Jewish yishuv’s management autonomous, despite the public leadership’s financial weakening. However, it may be that behind the objection stood political and personal rivalries inside the public leadership in the city. The city’s Community committee refused to recognize the American committee, mainly because among their members was Dr Finkelstein, the head of the Tecknikom, who was written about in Itamar Ben Avi’s newspaper Doar Hayom (‘The Daily Mail’) – ‘The community has not entered into negotiations with him since The War of the Languages’36 – and who was known also for his antagonistic views towards Jewish labourers. It is not clear for how long the Ashkenazi Community Committee continued to run. The reporter for Beyn Hazmanim mentioned in 1915 that it ceased its actions after Nathan Keizerman ‘and two other people from the committee’ that were members of two committees – the city Community committee and the American committee – refused to resign from the American committee. From a later account in Doar Hayom it seems that the city’s committee carried on functioning and the demand it be responsible for the distribution of money was at least partially accepted. The newspaper stated: ‘. . . recently Dr Finkelstein left Haifa and the rest of the American Relief members were tired and agreed that the aid money be put in the city’s committee’s fund for them to distribute.’37 In addition, the American Relief Committee’s reports stated that the support in Haifa

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was according to ethnic groups and not according to an institutional distribution, as was mentioned in reference to Jaffa and Jerusalem. This illustrates the Community Committee’s high public status in Haifa in comparison to other cities, and definitely the Community Committee’s continuation.38 In one way or the other, the objection to an outside-appointed committee distinguished the Haifa leadership through to the days of British military rule. The city’s committee, by then shared by both ethnic groups, tried to stand its ground where the indepence of its own management was concerned despite the total financial dependence on the Delegates’ Committee. When the demand to have the money distributed by the city’s committee returned, so did the objection to appointees forced upon them by the outsiders.

Handling of refugees One of the factors that aggravated the distress in the city was the increasing presence of refugees that arrived mainly from the Galilee who were not members of the community. Some of them were from the Old Yishuv. Many of them were labourers from the Second Aliyah whose livelihood had been wiped out by the war. The community’s attitude towards the refugees was ambivalent: in the summer of 1914, at the general Ashkenazi assembly, it was noted that many poor people had moved to Haifa from Tiberias, Safed and other places: ‘. . . and these poor people are a great nuisance, many of whom are talented beggars.’39 The Ashkenazi Community Committee proposed that a special committee be set up to deal with these refugees which would be allowed to collect donations and charity separate from the community’s property tax. At a debate that was held, the tension was apparent between those who opposed supporting all transients due to the community’s poor economic situation under the plea of ‘charity begins in the home’, and between those who opposed this because ‘. . . it’s impossible [. . .] they are also being supported in Jaffa and Jerusalem – why should we be like Sodom and Gomorra?’ The protocol noted the decision to allocate resources to support the refugees, although no known documents

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describe the amount or type of help. Similarly, no mention in the Ashkenazi Committee notes was found that differentiated between the treatment of Old Yishuv refugees that arrived in the city and the workers that assembled there. It is to be assumed that most of the workers were absorbed by the labour support groups that included, as noted, a soup kitchen, worker’s club, lenders’ fund, and aid in finding employment. The Support Committee’s notes show that with the paving of the Carmel road, no workers were left unemployed. In the second half of 1917, refugees expelled from Jaffa and Tel Aviv started to arrive in the city despite the fact that in the expulsion order given on 28 March 1917, Jews were forbidden to migrate to Jerusalem and Haifa. However, in the summer of the same year the Lower Galilee deportees’ condition worsened. At an Immigration Committee assembly in Tiberias, it was decided to pressure the government into moving the deportees to Haifa.40 Ben Hillel wrote in his diary that in July Cemal Pasa gave his permission for Jaffa deportees to move to Haifa.41 About 300 Sephardi and 130 Ashkenazi refugee families came to the city. From an Immigration Committee report, it is apparent that all migrants were given a place to live and a job.42 Another report shows that it was possible to find employment for all the migrants, ‘. . .but most of them don’t want to go to work’.43 Despite the report, the migrants’ situation was dire. The Haifa Relief Committee44 housed the refugees in great congestion, encouraging the spread of diseases. Housing prices rose due to the growing demand. Many of the refugees contracted malaria.45 The difficult situation brought Dr Sherman, a representative from the Immigration Committee from Jerusalem, who started a medical centre to treat the migrants after similar centres had already been created in Tiberias and Yamma. The Relief Committee’s members requested that wheat be sent from the Lower Galilee.46 Local donations funded the immigrant absorption, along with American Aid funds and loans from the Anglo-Palestine Bank. The Ottoman government helped by providing wheat.47 The Immigration Committee indeed held a separate bank account from the Community Committees’ accounts, although financial reports show that the Community Committees

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were involved with absorption and relief work and that they received some of the money meant for relief work. In a report from August 1917 a money transfer to ‘the City Committee, the Ottoman Committee’ was mentioned.48 It was not noted whether the intended recipient was the Ashkenazi or Sephardi Committee or an alleged mutual body. It may be that the mutual committee that was started before the war was listed as an Ottoman association, and for this reason, money was transferred to this official body. In any event, the registration of the immigrants and the aid given to them was divided according to ethnic group and organization.49 Despite the discrepancy between community institution reports stating a good absorption, and the many malaria cases, increasing housing prices and high population density, it is evident that the refugees in Haifa were better off than deportees who arrived in the Lower Galilee, Zichron Yaakov and Hadera. In memoirs of the times, a harsh picture is painted of exploitation and estrangement, accompanied by trepidation on the part of the population that had absorbed the Jaffa and Tel Aviv deportees. While farmers from the lower Galilee tended to cooperate with the Immigration Committee, the people of the Old Yishuv in Safed and Tiberias and farmers from the agricultural settlements in Judea and Samaria tended to reject the refugees. The depiction of the hard absorption in Hadera found its way into Brenner’s ‘Hamoza’ story describing the deportees’ hardships,50 yet Haifa’s name did not appear in the list of harsh memories. After the war, Doar Hayom stated that ‘. . .the people of Haifa were extremely hospitable towards guests’.51 It is hard to say whether we can credit this hospitality to the nature of the Jewish settlement in Haifa or to the success of the city committee. The difference between the public leadership’s dealing with those ‘passing through’, who mainly belonged to the Old Yishuv, and the Jaffa and Tel Aviv refugees who mainly belonged to the New Yishuv, stands out. However, there is no doubt that the general absorption of the refugees shows not only the goodwill of the inhabitants but also the thorough and influential organization in the city.

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Organization of health programmes Traditionally, in the time before the war, the Community Committees were not involved with health programmes. This activity, especially the handling of poor patients, was left to philanthropic organizations and private initiatives, and there was no organized health service or institute to help the needy. The Ottoman authority also did not have a health system, and the municipality’s official responsibilities ended with getting rid of the garbage in the streets to avoid plagues – an initiative that met with only partial success. Before the war, the Jewish community in Haifa suffered from a lack of health services: there were no Jewish health services until the end of the Ottoman era. The first known Jewish doctor in the city was Dr Hilel Yafeh who settled there in July 1891; however, he moved to Tiberias at the end of that same year.52 In 1908 Dr Esther GintsburgKroaza (1874–1949) arrived in the city. She was Echad Ha’am’s sister and the first Hebrew-speaking doctor in the city. A year later Dr Eliyahu Orbach (1882–1972) settled in the city and he opened the first Hebrew Hospital in June 1911. Dr Orbach was also active in the public health field: he regularly visited kindergartens and schools, pronounced ‘war’ on scabies and trachoma, and sent children home who did not comply with their prescribed treatment. For a time Orbach was vice-chairperson of the community. Most of the Jews in the city used the services of the German hospital. The hospital ran until almost the end of the war when its manager Dr Hoffman, a German citizen, was forced to leave the city. Additionally there was an Italian hospital in the city founded in 1907 as a surgical institute. The distress of the war caused the health services to collapse. This situation was not exclusive to Haifa; most of the health services in Israel were dependent on outside funding and donations from other communities and bodies in Europe and America. Every delay in sending this money had an immediate impact on the ability to provide health services in the country.53 To this was added the difficulty in recruiting doctors, hospitals being confiscated in the name of the Ottoman army, and the dwindling of medicine supplies. In Haifa for instance, Dr Orbach’s hospital – the only Jewish hospital in the

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city – was closed because Orbach was a German citizen and was returning to his country to be drafted. In light of the circumstances, and with the multitude of poor and injured people, health care was one of the main fields where both Community Committees worked together. The lack of other forces and the public’s distress in such an important field, ironically brought about, despite the difficult war days, the blossoming of community organization in the city. In an attempt to confront the difficult situation, in the summer of 1915 the Ashkenazi community started a Committee to Ease the Situation that dealt mainly with medical aid for the needy in the city.54 The committee was subordinate to the Community Committee but managed a separate fund. The founding of the ‘Situation Committee’ aroused a public debate among the community leaders: as noted, public health was not one of the traditional concerns of the committee. As formerly mentioned, the committee’s funds were depleted due to the worsening economic state and the low income from the Gebeila tax,55 barely covering religious needs and definitely not covering the community’s upkeep. All these were inversely proportional to the increase in the number of poor and sick people. However, the health problem was not just a humane question whose roots lay in charity and community responsibility, but also a general question regarding contracting diseases and public sanitation. This issue had greater importance after the Tel Aviv and Jaffa refugees arrived in spring 1917, with many of them infected with malaria and the aforementioned diseases.56 The Situation Committee, similar to the Support Committee, tried to establish itself on modern foundations. It focused on the attempt to arrange organized treatment for the poor and to mobilize the remaining Jewish medical forces towards this goal. Members of the committee turned to pharmacists and doctors in the city to help with treatment and reduced prices or medicines on credit for the poor. To avoid people taking advantage, it was decided that the Situation Committee would refer patients for subsidized treatment by handing out ‘credit notes’ according to criteria determined ahead of time. This was the first time that the public leadership involved

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itself in this field, and even determined the criteria and priorities for those to receive treatment. It seems that the response to this community plea was limited. Only one pharmacist, M.G. Levin, for a time chairman of the Situation Committee, agreed to this arrangement. Out of the two doctors that were then in the city, Dr Hadar agreed to receive the community’s sick in return for a monopoly when sending patients, but was answered negatively: the situation Committee refused under any circumstances to be involved with a monopoly and kept the principle of free choice of doctors. Dr Kraoza demanded a carriage that would take her to visit the sick, but the Situation Committee could not finance this. Only when Dr Kraoza left the city could the committee consent to Dr Hadar’s demand for a monopoly as he was the only doctor left, and on the condition that no validity date was given for this arrangement. In return for the free treatments that Dr Hadar gave, the committee funded the rent for a clinic so that he would also be able to receive private fee-paying patients. The Situation Committee’s actions caused a large amount of public opposition. The need to manage its resources while looking at a longterm plan, and following the decision for providing help centrally, moved the responsibility from charitable private initiatives and from the doctors themselves to the public leadership. Together with the responsibility came criticism from those who were not satisfied. The Situation Committee’s activities were a drop in the ocean where the distress of the times was concerned, and the end of the war found the whole city in a terrible medical and sanitary state. However, we have to examine this activity in light of the harsh realities and depletion of public resources. We also have to examine these acts in relation to the definitions of the building-blocks for a modern nationalist community, as shown at the beginning of this chapter. The organization of the health programmes differed from the community’s conduct until this time. The attempt to organize, to determine criteria and to divide resources for a long period was more significant considering the unstable solidarity of the community. Managing the resources that differed from the charity mould and the community responsibility were new ideas that the people of the New

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Yishuv in the city tried to implement, and the contemporary distress sharpened the need for them. The Situation Committee’s health acts established a premise for the continuation of involvement in this area even after the war, and with its end the Situation Committee carried on in this format and saw itself in charge of health issues in the city. When the Delegates’ Committee budget did not include a special clause for medical concerns, even though it was part of the attempt to found a Jewish hospital in the city, and despite the fact that the majority of the work in this field was by Kaamtza,57 the Community Committee continued to organize medical support for the poor in the city. It included medical aid in budget clauses for supporting the poor, a budget they got from the Delegates’ Committee. In the winter of 1918 the Support Committee even invited a doctor, Dr Rappaport, and a pharmacist as public aid givers, paid for by the community. The resources indeed came from the Delegates’ Committee, and later on from the Hadassah fund; however, the Support Committee continued to see public medical services as fully within its area of responsibility.

Discussion and conclusions Before World War I, the Jewish yishuv in Haifa was scattered and organized in separate ethnic groups. The new winds that blew in the city with the arrival of the New Yishuv produced the beginnings of an inter-community (and still not multi-ethnic) committee in the form of a mutual Community Committee that indeed was active for a few years, but broke up just before the war. The hard times that came upon the city following the outbreak of war forced the ethnic groups’ leaderships to make emergency preparations, preparations that turned out to be long-term. This chapter has examined the Jewish yishuv’s emergency mobilization in an attempt to identify budding national-community perception and determine to what extent the New Yishuv of Haifa managed to influence the characteristics of the public’s organization in response to and ability to cope with the difficult conditions brought about by war. Another question that arises is the degree to which local

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mobilization during the war contributed to the premise of joint public leadership as emphasized by the Jewish yishuv in the days after the war, during the Mandate period – a leadership that deserves, in my opinion, to be credited with a pivotal role in the building of the united Jewish community in Haifa. To answer these questions, we have to examine the public leadership’s acts in light of the two main elements that the New Yishuv appealed for the Jewish community in the city to be based on: one element refers to a national community, multi-ethnic in its character. The other element refers to the attempt to base the community’s organization along modern lines, which include having a measure of autonomy in public decisions, managing the constructive resources as much as possible, distancing itself from charity and philanthropy, and at times basing itself upon the leadership’s political character. Multi-ethnicity The attempt at joint representation that was embodied in the founding of the joint committee in the days before World War I was rooted in the New Yishuv’s values, and they were also behind the initiative to set it up. Together with this, we also need to see in this attempt the diminishing of the Sephardi leadership’s power; while it constituted the official representation, it could not be counted as the sole representative of all the Jews in the city. The committee did disband before the war, mainly because the demographic power of the New Yishuv in Haifa was still less than its economic and organizational power. The war found the Jewish yishuv in Haifa polarized. Despite the deteriorating situation, they did not manage to rise above their old disagreements. The Sephardim worked separately from the Ashkenazim, and disputes over dividing responsibilities came up repeatedly. Together with this, it seems that despite the disagreements and the many bodies involved, the citizen leadership continued the tradition of Jewish mutual help on the one hand, and inter-community mobilization from before the war on the other. This was not cooperation between equals. The Sephardi community was generally less organized and poorer. The key economic positions and the accessibility to bodies like the Anglo-Palestine Bank and the

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Palestine Bureau that characterized the New Yishuv throughout the whole country also contributed towards their organizational domination in Haifa. In the Ashkenazi Committee, the people of the New Yishuv dominated in numbers and in decision-making. Their actions contributed greatly, mainly in the refugee absorption field, heightening the demographic power of the New Yishuv in the city. This domination, apparent during the war, also contributed towards the premise of the mutual leadership’s status afterwards. Constructive management of resources The Community Committee tried to avoid charity work, and to base its actions on managing the resources for long-term and constructive foundations. Although a small amount of resources were available, the Community Committee failure in collecting appraisal tax and the difficulty of building an organized economic infrastructure during the prolonged war led to a growing percentage of the relief budget being given as support. In light of the difficulties, the attempt at sustainability stands out, starting with the concentration of relief activity through to giving preference to loans rather than support, strengthening subsidized stores and helping find employment. The Committee’s involvement in health issues in the attempt to stand on management principles, for instance avoiding giving a monopoly to doctors despite the crisis and managing subsidized resources using a long-term view, was seen as an innovation. This constructive approach rested on the support of the New Yishuv’s institutions, like the Anglo-Palestine Bank and the Palestine Bureau, and the approach of Aharonson, who was an appointee of the American Relief Committee. The charity institutions did not disappear from the streets of Haifa; however, the Situation Committee’s ability to collect resources inside the city and its approach to central relief resources outside the city helped in establishing its public status during and after the war. Meeting committee standards The Community Committee was unable to collect appraisal tax as it was expected to do, and unable to base its acts on the will of the

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public it represented and led. The majority of the economic work depended on a philanthropic and Jewish charity base, and when the American support arrived in the city, the public leadership became entirely dependent on their financial sources. Despite that, the leadership strove to present its public independent status as a leading body and a representative of the Jewish community in the city. The Community Committee remained autonomous with regard to the American Committee and the Palestine Bureau. For example, it refused to become a puppet of either the philanthropists or the central Zionist body. This stance, characterizing the Haifa public leadership throughout its lifetime, points to a localized political struggle that indeed relates to the building process of the national community in Israel, although its basis was in politics and the local populace. World War I acts as a turning-point in the increase of the New Yishuv’s power in Israel. A lot has already been written about the Old Yishuv’s financial and organizational weakening, and about the importance of bodies such as the Palestine Bureau and the Committee for Easing the Crisis for dealing with hardships and managing the aid that came from outside sources. In Haifa we can see that the crisis led to an emphasis on the organizational domination of the New Yishuv, mainly among the middle-class citizens that had the means and the will to care for the entire community. At this stage, the workers’ organization in the city was still limited in its scope and was mainly involved with caring for its own members. The Community Committee and its sub-committees that were run by the people of the New Yishuv didn’t manage to bring Haifa out of the crisis. It seems that without the American relief money it would have been difficult to continue with aid work. However, despite the separation that was kept between the ethnic groups, the committee managed to create a feeling of one central body that organized the resources and co-ordinated the help, and provided an address and an access point for aid that arrived from outside. This image helped pave the way towards a joint public leadership after the end of the war. The centrality of the Community Committee during the days of crisis in Haifa also had repercussions for its future characteristics,

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which differed from the Jewish community that was built in the city. While in Jerusalem there was a great need for joint aid for both Jews and Arabs, mainly due to the municipality’s initiatives,58 in Haifa, where there were also neighbourly relationships, it seems joint help was mainly in mixed neighbourhoods and organized joint public aid was lacking. From the community’s documents, all reference to joint work with the Arab leaders, or with the municipality for that matter, is missing – though Arabs did receive medical treatment from the community’s infirmary. With the beginning of the British military rule and the acts of the Delegates’ Committee, the joint Community Committee was refounded. This was due to the outside demands of the British and of the Delegates’ Committee that requested to work with only one community body. However the relative ease with which the joint body was founded, which again did not stop its work until the founding of the State of Israel, is possible to trace back to the joint work before the war and the organizational dominance and general community view that the committee showed throughout. The new leadership’s path was not all roses. In the years that came afterwards it was forced to fight for solidarity and a united front in the Haifa community, and experienced fluctuations in its public standing and its ability to influence the course of affairs. However, its central position as a unifying body and its influence in all fields of public life in the city gave it a prime position, especially with the establishment process of the Jewish-Nationalist community in Haifa. In September 1919 after the British invasion on the city, the Doar Hayom wrote with great excitement: ‘The committee has a central part of this city, and there is no institution or firm that will not be influenced by the Community Committee or in which the committee will not take an active role.’59 If there may be some exaggeration present in these words, they also shed light on the way the Jewish community in Haifa took its first steps towards not just seeing itself, but becoming a unified body with its own nationalist and communal consciousness during the dark days of World War I.60

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Notes 1 On the communities in Israel, see for example: Bertel, Y. (ed.), (Hebrew) kehal israel: Jewish Self-Rule and Its Generations Vol. III (Zalman Shazar Center, Jerusalem, 2004). Pensler, Y. ‘Zionism as a template for Jewish societal policy’ in Shapira, A., Reinhartz, Y. and Harris, Y. (eds) (Hebrew) Idan hazionut (Zalman Shazar Center, Jerusalem, 2000). 2 For more on the Mileth Law, see for example: Zimhoni, D., ‘The mandatory government and the standing of religious denominations in Palestine’, Kathedra 80 (June 1996): pp. 150– 74. 3 By ‘new communities’, I refer to communities that were built from the 1880s onwards. 4 Jacobson, A., From Empire to Empire: Jerusalem in the Transition between Ottoman and British Rule, 1912– 1920 (PhD Dissertation, The University of Chicago, 2006), pp. 32 – 76. 5 Carmel, A. ‘Haifa at the end of the Ottoman period’, in Haifa and its Development, 1918– 1948, Idan 12, p. 2. Carmel, A., The History of Haifa in the Days of Turkish Rule (Jerusalem, 1977), pp. 161– 9. 6 Ben Artzi, Y. and Shiller, A. (eds.), ‘Haifa and its sites’, Ariel 37– 39 (March 1985), p. 24. 7 Ben Artzi: ‘Haifa and its sites’, p. 25. Halfon, A., ‘My city Haifa’in Nadava, Y. (ed.) Haifa, Oliphant, And the Zionist Vision (Haifa University Press, 1978), p. 61. 8 Vilnai, Z. Haifa Then and Now (Tel Aviv, 1932). 9 Note that Ottoman officials usually counted only the Ottoman subjects. This data comes from Carmel: ‘Haifa at the end of the Ottoman period’, pp. 12 – 13. Uziel Schmaltz reported slightly lower figures based on a different analysis of the Ottoman statistics; see Schmaltz, U., ‘The general population of Palestine’ in Mordechai, Eliav (ed.) In Blockade and In Distress – Palestine During World War I ( Jerusalem, 1991), pp. 18 – 47 (20). 10 Kolet, Y., ‘The independent Jewish government in Palestine during the Ottoman period’ in Bertel, Y. (ed.), Kehal Israel, the Jewish Self-Rule and Its Generations (Vol. III, Zalman Shazar Center: Jerusalem, 2004), pp. 293– 338 (pp. 300– 5). 11 Gil Har, Y., Independent Leadership Formation in the Settlement in Palestine from the Start of the British Mandate until the Acceptance of the Mandate 1917– 1922 (PhD. dissertation, Hebrew University, 1973), p. 16. Horowitz, D., Lisak, M., From Settlement to State – Jews in Palestine During the British Mandate as a Political Community (Tel Aviv, 1977), p. 41. 12 Ephrati, N., From Crisis to Hope, The Jewish Settlement In Palestine During World War I (YBZ Publications: Jerusalem, 1991), p. 45. 13 This refers to moshavot, agricultural collective settlements, and new urban settlements such as Tel Aviv.

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14 Shavit, Y. and Bigger, G., The History of Tel Aviv (Tel Aviv, 2002). Ram, H., The Sephardi Settlement In Yafo – From Spanish Community to Zionist Center 1839– 1939 (Ramot; Tel Aviv univ., Tel Aviv 2002), pp. 103– 9. 15 Cohen-Hatav, K., The Influence of the Community Committee In Jerusalem On the Development of the City During The Period of British Rule, 1917– 1948 (Accredited Degree Paper, Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1994), p. 15. 16 Burstein, M., Self Government of the Jews Palestine since 1900 (Tel Aviv, 1934), p. 195. 17 On Haifa’s role during the war and the British Occupation, see: Pick, P., ‘The occupation of Haifa during World War I’ in Haifa and its Sites, Ariel 37– 39 (March 1985), pp. 75 –8. Ben Artzi, Y., ‘The battle for the conquest of Haifa: 22 – 23 September 1918’, Ma’aracot 312– 313 (1988), pp. 46 – 52. 18 This is according to the description in Beyn Hazmanim (1916), p. 68. See also Almaliyech, A., Eretz Yisrael and Syria during the World War, Volume B: Eretz Yisrael in the year 1915 (Jerusalem, 1919), p. 256. De Friz describes the difficult employment situation for Jewish labourers in the city, which worsened during the war; De Friz, D., Transit of Workers in Haifa, 1919– 1929: Study of the History of Urban Workers in Mandatory Palestine (PhD. dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 1991), pp. 41 – 2. 19 The Anglo-Palestine (‘Apek’) Bank, which acted under the sponsorship of Britain, closed all branches in Palestine; see Almaliyech, Eretz Yisrael and Syria during the World War, pp. 33 – 4. 20 Schmaltz, ‘The general population of Palestine’, p. 41. 21 A report on the destruction of documents is taken from Doar Hayom (‘The Daily Mail’), Edition 41, 24 September 1919, no author cited. 22 Protocols of the Hebrew Community Committee 1914– 1915, Haifa City Archives (HCA), 220/10. 23 Protocols of the Hebrew Community Committee 1914– 1915, HCA, 220/10. 24 In public notices, the Community Committee is noted as a mutual committee as before the war. Together with this, a letter from 6 September 1914 from the Anglo-Palestine Bank that dealt with purchased flour quality was passed on to the Ashkenazi Support Committee, HCA, 220/9. It appears that there were two committees operating in parallel, one for the Sephardim and the Ashkenazim. The Hebrew Community Committee, HCA, 208/4. 25 The protocols of the Support Committee are full of requests for flour on credit, with a reduction, or for free. Often public figures were approached for help, showing a deep community perception. The number of requests went up during the war. Protocol of the Support Committee, HCA, 220/9. 26 HCA, 220/9. 27 HaKohen, M. Ben Hillel, War of Nations – Diary (Jerusalem), entry for 8 August 1917, p. 687. 28 The money from the first aid package were distributed as follows: 40 per cent to Jerusalem and Hebron, 30 per cent to the agricultural settlements, 16 per cent to Yafo and 3 per cent to Haifa. See Rupin, My Life, p. 229.

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29 Aharonson wanted funds to be given as loans and not as charity. Letter from Aharonson to Rupin, 20 June 1915. In Livne, A., Aharon Aharonson – The Man and His Times (Jerusalem, 1969), p. 194. 30 From a letter on this topic signed by Y. Rozenberg to Betzalel Yafeh from the Central Support Committee, undated, HCA 208/1. 31 Almaliyech, Eretz Yisrael and Syria during the World War, p. 257. Also in Beyn Hazmanim it is noted that about 60 per cent of the American support was directed to the Sephardim. See Beyn Hazmanim, p. 69. 32 According to the distribution report of the ‘First Fund’ of the Support Committee, undated. Central Zionist Archives (CZA), L2/610. The total (which does not add up to 100 per cent) is according to the original. 33 Almaliyech, Eretz Yisrael and Syria during the World War, pp. 175, 256. 34 Beyn Hazmanim, p. 68. 35 Ben Hillel, War Diary, p. 35. Entry for 25 November 1914. 36 Doar Hayom, Edition 41, 24 September 1919. 37 Ibid. 38 Report of the American Relief Committee, 14 February 1916, CZA, L2/52. 39 Protocols of the Hebrew Community Committee meetings, 11 July 1914, HCA, 220/10. 40 Report of the Tiberias Immigration Committee, 10 June 1917, CZA, J/90. Tahoun Report, CZA, L2/610. 41 Ben Hillel, War Diary, 26 July 1917. 42 Ibid. 43 From Haifa Immigration Committee to Tiberias Immigration Committee, 19 August 1917, CZA, J90/252. 44 At first, the committee was called the ‘Relief Committee’, but in summer 1917 the names ‘Relief Committee’ and ‘Immigration Committee’ appeared alternately. In some documents, it appears as ‘Immigration and Relief Committee’. The changing of names is apparently to connect to the Central Immigration Committee in Tiberias. In winter of the same year, the Central Immigration Committee also sat in Damascus, to which Dizengoff moved. The Centre moved to Haifa in August 1918. With the British occupation of the Judean settlements, the Immigration Committee continued to operate in Haifa, until the establishment of the British Mandate in Palestine. 45 Levi, N., Chapters on the History of Medicine in Palestine, 1799– 1948 (Kibbutz Hameu’had, Tel Aviv 1998), p. 367. Gur, A., ‘ Refugees in their own country, the tale of the Tel Avive evacuees in the Lower Galilee 1917– 1918’, Kathedra 141, pp. 139– 69. 46 Letter from Haifa Immigration Committee, signed by Natan Keiserman and Natan Natanzon to Dizengoff in Tiberias, 14 August 1917, CZA, J90/252. 47 Haifa Immigration Committee Accounts from 8 August 1918: Haifa donors for immigrants total 41,006, American Fund 10,900, Ango-Palestine Bank Loans 207,400. The Immigration Committee also funded immigrant burial expenses. CZA, J90/369.

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48 19 August 1918: Payments to Haifa City Committee: 1,078 Francs for storage, flour and transport, and for the Ottoman Committee budget, CZA, J90/369. 49 In a letter from the Haifa Committee to the Tiberias Committee it was mentioned that attached is a breakdown of the city’s immigrants into Ashkenazi, Separdi, Yemenite and Women’s Association. Tiberias Committee Incoming Letters, 19 September 1917, CZA, J90/252. 50 Brenner, Y. Y., ‘Hamoza’ in All of Brener’s Writings (Tel Aviv, 1951). 51 Doar Hayom, Edition 41, 24 September 1919. 52 Levi, N. and Barel, Y., ‘To the annals of medicine in Haifa’in The Book of Ze’ev Vilnai, pp. 225– 30. See also Levi, Chapters of the History of Medicine in Palestine, pp. 361– 62. See also pp. 362– 4 for the development of the non-Jewish medical services in the city. 53 Schwartz, S., ‘ Who will care for the people of Palestine? The activities of the American Zionist medical unit in setting up a public health system at the start of the British Mandate, 1918– 1921’, Iyunim Betkumat Israel (Vol. 8, the Center for the Legacy of Ben-Gurion, 1998), p. 325. 54 The committee was formed on 19 August 1915. In Tel Aviv at the same time a Committee to Ease the Crisis was formed, which was a body exclusively for the New Yishuv and joined representatives from Jaffa and the Agricultural Settlements. There is no mention of Haifa sending representatives to the committee in Tel Aviv, but both committees conducted similar affairs. The Tel Aviv committee had a new philosophy that utilized an all-settlement organization. 55 Gebeila tax was a levy on kosher ritual slaughtering. 56 About two-thirds of the refugees had malaria. Among the rest, eye diseases were also common. 57 Kaamtza: Medical Aid mission from the American Communities, the Joint, American Zionist Union, and Hadassah Zionist Women’s Union. As the head of the mission, the American Zionist Medical Support Group, Kevuzat Ezra Meditzinit Tzionit Amerikait, abbreviated Kaamtza, stood Henrietta Szold, President of Hadassah, and Dr Robinov. 58 See also Jacobson, Jerusalem, pp. 32 – 76. 59 Doar HaYom, Edition 41, 24 September 1919.

CHAPTER 14 THE JEWISH COLONIZATION ASSOCIATION IN THE GALILEE — THE DAY AFTER Yair Seltenreich

The Jewish Colonization Association Jewish philanthropic activities flourished at the end of the nineteenth century, especially those directed at meeting the needs of the huge wave of Jewish emigration from Eastern Europe. One such organization was the Jewish Colonization Association (JCA), set up by the Jewish Baron Maurice de Hirsch in 1891. Similarly to other philanthropic organizations at that period, the JCA was infiltrated by paternalistic notions. Its managing board aspired to introduce moral values such as thriftiness, diligence or forethought to East European Jewish immigrants. Much like the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle, the JCA philanthropists viewed themselves as disseminators of the French principles of liberty, equality and fraternity for Jewish communities, an approach steeped in subconscious elitism. In particular, they developed a monopolistic view, according to which the power of decision-making in every domain was left solely to them, leading to permanent control of every minor activity. Their rationale was that the very fact that the East

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European Jews needed help proved their inability to control their own lives beyond.1 The aim of the JCA was to bring those Jews to ‘maturation’. This term was conceived by the French Jews of JCA in its belle e´poque sense of economic combined with cultural – that is, ethical – support. The optimal method was considered to be agricultural settlements. Agriculture, or so JCA’s administrators believed, demanded ‘correct’ personal values, but on the other hand did not require much sophistication. Therefore, the Association purchased extensive fertile lands, mainly in Argentina and in Canada, where it created and managed Jewish settlements. The JCA policy involved leasing land or agricultural equipment to poverty-stricken Jews so that they could achieve economic independence. They would then purchase the means of production from the Association and contact would be broken off. Sole ‘responsibility’, another key word, for planning and management was left to the administration. In 1896, shortly before Baron de Hirsch’s death, the JCA began to operate in Palestine as well.2 This mode of activity was different from that of the Baron Edmond de Rothschild, who had preceded the JCA in Palestine.3 Indeed, as early as 1882, Rothschild had set out to assist the settlers of the First Aliyah (wave of immigration) but his administrators became no more than providers of financial support, and their relations with the settlers developed into mutual disdain and even hatred.4 In 1900, Rothschild transferred the responsibility for his moshavot (settlements) to the JCA. A particular ‘Commission Palestinienne’ was created, presided over by Rothschild himself and financed by the yield of a 15,000,000-franc fund (equivalent to £600,000). True to its principles, the JCA took a different approach, rejecting assistance based on direct charity. In the Upper Galilee, the JCA managed four moshavot: Rosh Pina, Yesud Hama’ala, Mishmar HaYarden and finally Metulla, established in 1896.5 In the Lower Galilee, the JCA undertook a vast and impressive project, establishing seven moshavot between 1901 and 1908 on 8,000 hectares which it had purchased in 1898. The project had a prestigious aim as well as a practical one. Indeed, management of these moshavot was based on two principles involving work

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methods and means of production.6 The system left responsibility for managing labour in the hands of the settlers, while the administrators managed only matters concerning the moshava as a whole, such as financing of education or medical services. The means of production defined the method, the type of crop, and the type of irrigation. This was the root of the tension that developed between the JCA and the settlers, as the inflexibility of the means of production made the independence given to the peasant meaningless. As time went on, it became clear that the fundamental estimates of the JCA had been mistaken: water was insufficient and plot size made it impossible to balance the budget. Working alone, the peasant could manage to till only a part of his land, but if he hired workers, he had to pay their salaries.7 When World War I broke out, the JCA, registered as a British association – and thus designated an enemy – was forced to suspend its activities in Palestine. When it returned, after 4 years, many pre-war aspects had significantly changed. This chapter will try to examine how astutely the JCA analysed and re-evaluated the multiple problems affecting its position in postwar Palestine. A still more important question involves the extent to which the JCA succeeded in adopting newly-necessary policies, and how it adapted to the ever-increasing difficulties facing its activity, particularly a perceptibly hostile mood from large sectors of the Jewish population. The answers to these issues involve four aspects of JCA dynamics: conceptual, economic, national and diplomatic. The well-documented case of the Lower Galilee moshavot facilitates clarification of these dynamics, while complementary documentation from Upper Galilee reflects similar problems and attitudes. Test cases span from the early 1920s to the late 1930s. The conceptual aspect was probably the most important. It was reflected in the way the JCA adapted its philanthropic philosophy and activity to the new circumstances in Palestine. The economic aspect was derived from the conceptual aspect. It concerned both the budgetary and the managerial scope. The former dealt with expectations for survival of the moshavot. The latter raised questions of the feasibility of intervention in the settlers’ lives.

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The third aspect was national. Although the JCA had no nationalist aspirations of any kind, it had to function in an environment where Zionist ideas took the lead. As Zionist views in Palestine were linked more and more to Jewish settlement activities, Zionists necessarily came into contact with the JCA Palestinian presence. These contacts provided the potential for certain friction. Finally, strange as it seems, we should consider a diplomatic aspect as well. The JCA had control of large areas owned by Rothschild in Syria and in Lebanon. After the war, the preservation of these lands necessitated complicated contacts with mandatory as well as local governments, whereas before the war all of these territories had been under the control of a sole government: the Ottoman Empire.8

The conceptual asset On 27 June 1914, on the eve of the war, the JCA published its 1913 annual report.9 After several disappointing years of stagnation, achievements throughout the country were considered excellent. Profits rose by 16 per cent in comparison to 1912. In the previous few months there had even been growing pressure on the JCA by potential new settlers. All this was soon to change. When the war broke out, the JCA had to suspend its activities and most of its administrators were forced to leave Palestine. Most documentation concerning the effects of the war on the moshavot has remained as postwar descriptions.10 Through the prism of settlers’ memories, the moshavot suffered blow after blow. The fear of army mobilization haunted them throughout the war. The Turks instituted the sukhara, requisitioning wagons and mules for hauling, and mobilizing men for forced labour. This dealt a serious blow to agricultural labour. Typhus was also a constant danger. Other difficulties included an especially severe attack of locusts in 1916, and violent and humiliating investigations in the moshavot in 1917 as the Turks tried to find Joseph Lishansky, a native of Metulla, who was a dominant figure in the Jewish pro-British spying underground NILI. Some of the Jews who were expelled from Tel Aviv fled to the moshavot, putting an added strain on the local economy.11 In addition,

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some families were broken up due to the lengthy absence of the head of the family. In fact, the real situation was more complex. While the situation described by the settlers was common to the whole population of the Galilee, Jewish and non-Jewish, rural and urban alike, many other factors operated in favour of the moshavot in particular. Aaron Ever Hadani, who, as an engineer, worked closely with the JCA and the moshavot, blatantly stated that ‘the war reinforced the Galilee [moshavot ] while the liberation [by the British] enfeebled them’.12 Prior to the war, settlers had suffered constantly from regular robbery of agricultural products and cattle by Arabs. During wartime, these practices practically disappeared as most Arab youngsters had left the region in order to avoid military recruitment. The absence of JCA administrators for the first time encouraged internal organization of the settlers on a regional level, which led to the creation of the Lower Galilee Farmers Association (hereafter LGFA). The LGFA played a key role in the moshavot after the war, and eventually became the sole organ able to resist JCA authoritative tendencies. On the economic level, as we shall see later, shortages of agricultural products led to price rises which greatly profited the settlers. Indeed, 1916 was a terrible year due to the locust attack, but during the other three war years heavy precipitation benefited crop yields. The JCA renewed its activities in Palestine in 1919. Prior to the war, the JCA had treated the moshavot with marked disdain13 for two main reasons. One was anchored in the patronizing way Jewish communities in Western Europe considered their co-religionists in Russia, Poland or Romania. The second was the conception of rural societies as underdeveloped by urban circles.14 Accordingly, most administrators considered the moshavot settlers as potential manipulators. This also explains why the war did not cause a significant change of this mood. To the extent that the settlers needed JCA support, that was proof of their (hopefully temporary) inferiority. The settlers in veteran Galilee moshavot felt, for their part, that they deserved a revised and more positive attitude as they had managed to survive throughout the war without a JCA presence, and thus had proved their worthiness. This claim, though not

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directly expressed, is reflected in the tone of dozens of letters addressed to the JCA in the 1920s. In fact, on the part of JCA, some fresh thinking about relations between the JCA and the settlers did occur at the beginning of the 1920s. Twenty years after the establishment of the Lower Galilee moshavot, which had failed to symbolize the effectiveness of the JCA ideas, the Association could not ignore the basic problems which had prevented the moshavot from advancing towards economic independence and had to admit its own responsibility for some of them. Practically, it should now have been easier for the JCA to deal with the settlers. There were two reasons for this. First, Emile Meyerson, and to a lesser extent, Haim Kalvarisky, who had formulated the original conception of management, were not involved in Lower Galilee moshavot matters after the war.15 Second, the JCA could manipulatively present any changes in conception as repairing the damage caused by the war, and any revision as an attempt to suit the system to life under the British Mandate. Proof that the JCA had internalized its conceptual mistakes was the way in which the Association established a new moshava, Binyamina, in 1922, where ‘the plot assigned to each settler was limited by what he could till by himself, without the need for hired labor’. In addition, the infrastructure of Binyamina had been completed before the land was given to the peasant, and not during the first few years, as in the Lower Galilee.16

The economic aspect Only after the war could the JCA’s directorate in Paris receive accurate accounts of the effects of the war on the moshavot. Kantor, one of the engineers of the Association who had remained in Palestine thanks to his Ottoman passport, described the pressure on the moshavot: ‘For four years of war, our moshavot have suffered from demands and from all kinds of taxes which have caused great damage to agricultural work.’ He explained further: ‘On Jewish settlements it was especially easy to find [. . .] grain and cattle to feed the army. [. . .] The government preferred to take [. . .] from the moshavot in particular, causing them heavy losses.’17 Nevertheless, the good

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harvests in 1917 and 1918, and the very high prices of grain ‘have enabled the settlers to deal with the situation. [. . .] So the settlers earned good profits despite the very high cost of living.’18 He then came to the conclusion that: An estimated 10% of our settlers [Kantor is referring to Palestine in general] have succeeded in saving money, another 50% have improved their status in contrast to the beginning of the war and the remaining 40% can be rehabilitated if we supply them with the means to obtain the equipment and the seeds which they lack.19 Indeed, as Wechsler, another local administrator, claimed, it was the JCA itself and not the peasants which had been economically harmed in the absence of its administrators. He described how the Turks and the Germans had cut down trees in forests owned by the JCA: ‘We begged the army authorities in vain to let us cut them down ourselves and to supply the wood at no charge so that we could save the trunks at ground level, [but] The soldiers uprooted them.’20 But the actual situation in 1919 was not excellent, however, because ‘approximately 25% have no income and they are renting their land out. During the past four years, ten settlers have died [which is about 8 per cent]; in some cases they were replaced by their sons, and in the others, by their widows.’21 One reason for the slow recovery of the moshavot was four consecutive years of drought (1919– 23) immediately after the war, followed by a sharp drop in grain prices that destroyed new hopes. Wechsler described the poor yields of 1919, while the Ousher, the harvest tax, was calculated in such a way that it represented 30– 50 per cent of the yield, rather than the required 10 per cent.22 Concurrently, the British offered the settlers a loan of 60 Egyptian pounds at 6.5 per cent interest, with the option of payment distribution over 8 years. Such long-term loans contradicted JCA policy; the association feared the settlers’ possible financial entanglement. The discussions at moshavot assemblies reflected the confusion of the settlers who, on the one hand, needed money, and on

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the other feared that they would be operating against their patrons. In the end, the JCA arranged alternative loans for the settlers from the Anglo-Palestine Company in return for its own guarantee.23 Yet the situation was not desperate. The LGFA estimated the average debt of a settler to the JCA in 1923 as equivalent to 30 per cent of his tenure value. In other words, 70 per cent of the leasing contract had already been already paid in 22 years.24 Nevertheless, the moshavot were in need of a leap forward. The LGFA decided to turn tobacco into the main crop in Lower Galilee moshavot. The decision was influenced by a similar initiative, though less wellorganized, carried out in the Upper Galilee moshavot and in Arab villages, as well. In fact, small quantities of tobacco had been raised for many years. Now, all of a sudden, this crop was viewed as an attractive alternative to conservative and deficient agricultural branches, because it suited a method of farming based on rainwater only, and it was thought to bring in a high percentage of income on yields. In addition, the monopoly that the Turkish government had maintained on the sale of tobacco had been eliminated as the Ottomans left Palestine. The area of tobacco cultivation in the Lower Galilee alone, which was 5 hectares in 1922, rose to 23.8 hectares in 1923 and 222 hectares in 1924, an increase of about 4,500 per cent in two years.25 It should be noted that the JCA did not initiate the project, nor did the Association participate in it; but neither did it try to prevent the implementation of the project and so it seemed to be conducted under JCA auspices. JCA economists and agronomists foresaw possible problems but they did not raise a finger to prevent them. The JCA report of 1923 pointed out that although the tobacco yield in all of the JCA moshavot had reached 500 tons, the local demand in Palestine was no more than 200 tons and the rest had to be exported, but without the surplus enjoying local customs protection. The report also cited the high production costs that the settlers seemed to have ignored (about 65 per cent of the income in 1923). Indeed, by 1924, the quick decline had begun. The yield per hectare fell by 25 per cent, and fell by another 20 per cent the following year. The only purchaser pulled out. The areas of cultivation shrank and within

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2 years, tobacco growing had ceased, leaving the moshavot in a more difficult situation than they had been to begin with.26 There were also complex social aspects to the project, such as the employment of Arab and Jewish workers who during the harvesting season outnumbered the settlers themselves. This sharpened the tension regarding the issue of Hebrew or Arab labour, a tension which reflected upon the relations between the settlers and the collectivist population for years to come, and not to the benefit of the moshavot.27 Here too, when the JCA intervened, it was in order to prevent Arabs from inadvertently gaining potential rights to its lands. The JCA did not try in any way to comply with the Zionist ethos supporting Hebrew labour, as it felt estranged from Zionist goals in Palestine. This attitude is clearly reflected in the next chapter. The behaviour of the JCA should be considered in a broader perspective. World War I had strengthened the sense of loss of control among the members of the JCA directorate. After the war, a strategic decision had been taken in Paris to reduce or even to completely end settlement activity in areas considered economically problematic. Thus, at the beginning of the 1920s, JCA settlements in Turkey were dismantled. In 1922, the JCA decided to end management of its settlements in Cyprus.28 The decision regarding Palestine was more complex and therefore the JCA decided on an intermediate solution: it transferred the settlements in Palestine to a subsidiary, the Palestine Jewish Colonization Association (PJCA).29 In the Upper Galilee it is difficult to distinguish any real initiatives undertaken by the PJCA, while in Lower Galilee, in practice, it preferred to rely increasingly on the farmers’ organization, the LGFA. Significantly, there were alternating periods of proximity and tension between the two associations, although both tacitly understood how great their mutual interest was. Through the intermediary of the LGFA, the PJCA could informally intervene in the world of the settlers and influence their decisions or activities. For example, we have seen how in 1924 the PJCA chose to remain indifferent to the tobacco experience, but that same year, it supported the setting up of the marketing co-operative ‘The Ossem’ (The Granary) by the LGFA. PJCA was anxious to see the new co-operative

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functioning properly, but was careful to undertake no responsibility for the future economic consequences of its decisions or obligations. At the end of the 1920s, the PJCA supported the LGFA decision to institute a new method of cultivation. The PJCA believed that unless the settlers tried to implement this revision, the future of their moshavot was doomed, but on the other hand it did not want to be considered responsible by the settlers for a possible failure (which, in fact, did occur. . .).30 The JCA’s economic views before the war had been based on financial and technical assistance at the starting point, with no empathy, minimal follow-up, and supervision rather than advice. It is difficult to find any change in this attitude after the war.

The national aspect Before the war, the JCA had avoided referring to Jewish national issues in the moshavot. Thus, when guards from the Hashomer (‘Watchtower’) Jewish defence organization demanded employment of Jewish workers as a condition for their presence in Kfar Tavor, the JCA considered it a technical problem, related to the internal circle of the settlers, and neither favoured nor opposed it.31 Similarly, when schoolteachers treated national issues in their classes, the JCA saw this as part of the teaching programme, in which it never interfered.32 After the war, two factors marked a change of mood in yishuv society towards Jewish nationalism: the strengthening of Zionist sentiments and a higher level of political organization. Simultaneously, during the initial postwar years, the JCA, being a philanthropic association, succeeded in maintaining a policy of deliberate indifference. The intensification of Zionist feelings resulted from a number of factors, of which the most important was the British Balfour Declaration of 1917, favouring the creation of a Jewish national home in Palestine. The JCA was definitely neither political nor Zionist in its aims (although some of its higher administrators, Henri Franck and later Robert Gottlieb, did favour Zionism). Fortunately for the

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JCA, its moshavot settlers adopted rather a passive form of Zionism, without taking any significant part in the important events that took place in the Jewish political arena after the war, thus enabling the JCA not to take any position in this somewhat embarrassing context. The political organization of the period was reflected in the Galilee through the tense encounters of moshavot settlers with Hebrew workers. Not only were the workers much more organized, but they enjoyed the support of strong political organs on the national level. This support bore political and administrative as well as ideological implications. Here too the issue concerned only the settlers, vehemently attacked by syndical organizations for preferring Arab workers to Jewish ones. Again the JCA had the privilege of standing aside.33 This strategy of estrangement from practical Zionism did not last long. One reason was the fact that even Baron Rothschild, president of the JCA, who had treated Herzl with some distance at the time, now moved closer to the Zionist project as it became a reality. Another reason was the intensifying contacts with the Jewish National Fund (JNF), a Zionist organ that was now becoming dominant in the purchase of lands and in agricultural settlement in Palestine.34 The unwanted competition between the JCA and the JNF began a process of erosion in the JCA’s symbolic representation, ignoring its contribution in the pre-war and immediate postwar years. One such JCA contribution concerned Metulla, at the northern tip of the Upper Galilee, in 1920. The moshava had been caught in the middle of military activities involving French forces and various local Arab nationalists from Lebanon and Syria. In March, the settlers had to leave their possessions and flee. Soon after, local Arab fighters raided Metulla and destroyed it. That same month, Reuven Trifon, the local JCA administrator, travelling several times on the insecure roads from Beirut and Saida in Lebanon to Metulla and back, initiated intensified activity to enable the inhabitants to return.35 Another contribution concerned the robbery on 29 May 1920 of 180 head of cattle, worth 10,000 Egyptian pounds, from Kfar Tavor. Jules Rosenheck, Galilee administrator for JCA, did all he could to

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help the settlers, even involving the British High Commissioner for Palestine, Herbert Samuel. At last, about a quarter of the stolen cattle were discovered in Transjordan and returned to the settlers, who received financial compensation from the JCA for the remaining loss.36 Despite its unique efforts, the JCA’s image remained negative in many yishuv circles. Settlement activists who were associated with the JNF scornfully related the JCA attitude in both of these cases. They claimed that the Association solely considered its own narrow interests when helping the settlers. This was a superficial view. Both in Metulla and in Kfar Tavor, the JCA’s presence and persistent activity, in effect, maintained continuous Jewish holdings in sensitive regions at critical moments. The existence of Metulla was a factor in the ultimate allocation of the northern Hula valley to British Mandatory Palestine, while the JCA moshavot in Lower Galilee served as a Jewish buffer between the Arab population in Central Galilee and Transjordan. The inconsiderate JNF view of the JCA and PJCA continued into the next decades. Shaul Avigur, a central personality in yishuv circles, wrote of ‘the inertia, the stupidity, the lack of desire to achieve, and the futile cynicism of the PJCA administrators’. Even sharper was the criticism of Yosef Nahmani, the purchasing representative for the JNF in the Upper Galilee. He described Amatzia Eisenberg, a PJCA high administrator, as a ‘coward’ and Wolfson, the head of the PJCA in the 1930s, as ‘having narrow opinions’. Nahmani maintained that ‘in the PJCA, there are empty brains and empty offices’. Yosef Weitz, the head of the settlement department of the JNF, complained that the PJCA ‘saw itself as the ruler of the Upper Galilee where no one else had the right to operate’.37 Some of this criticism was due indeed to the facts mentioned by Weitz. The JCA preceded JNF activity in Upper and Lower Galilee by decades. The later JNF activity in land purchases only completed JCA initiatives in the area. The JNF considered the JCA as a rival rather than as an assistant. It also ignored the fact that, as the Association was not a Zionist organization, it was legitimate for it not to pursue a Zionist policy. Moreover, the JCA could not have

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ethically chosen to favour Zionism even if it had theoretically so desired, as any political commitment was alien to its declared philanthropic aims. Indeed, the PJCA came as close to practical Zionism as it could, perhaps with the encouragement of old Baron Rothschild.38 After the war, much of the PJCA’s new activity was conducted in collectivist settlements, thus conforming to the mainstream ethos of yishuv society, while simultaneously neglecting the settlers of the veteran moshavot. Close inspection of PJCA dynamics may explain the reason for its unpopularity. The protocols of the collective settlement Mishmar HaShlosha, in Lower Galilee at the end of the 1930s, describe an association which on the one hand allocated land, supplied an infrastructure for irrigation and gave professional instructions for advanced agriculture. On the other hand, the PJCA appears as overly punctilious concerning even the smallest payments due to it, not hesitating to apply pressure until its requirements were satisfied.39 Another example was the use of PJCA land by Kibbutz Ginosar, north of Tiberias. Although the young kibbutz took advantage of PJCA fallow lands in its vicinity, the PJCA, despite its persistent objections, had to give in to hostile public opinion and let the kibbutz use the lands.40 Public opinion in the yishuv after the war believed that the unique position of the JCA and the PJCA, as holders of extensive areas in crucial regions, morally obliged them to actively contribute to Jewish national efforts.

The diplomatic aspect This aspect was a direct consequence of the war which had caused the disintegration of the Ottoman Empire and the partition of the Eastern Mediterranean coast between two distinct Mandatory powers. It now included Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate and Palestine under British Mandate. Baron Rothschild had purchased wide areas of lands in future Syria and Lebanon towards the end of the nineteenth century, and

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transferred them to the JCA in 1900. After the war, Rothschild made it clear that he was determined to preserve JCA rights to the Syrian and Lebanese lands. Meanwhile, JCA directors pondered over the practical possibility of fulfilling that wish, as French mandatory authorities in Syria and Lebanon viewed any Jewish possession of lands in their territories unfavourably. The French were convinced that long-term British policy was to gain control over their territories and considered the Jews as pro-British.41 They believed that growing Jewish immigration to Palestine combined with British antisettlement policies would cause forcible Jewish infiltration into their territories, while in the future, a potential Jewish state in Palestine could claim the annexation of those areas. They suspected that the JCA might be a Zionist agent for that purpose.42 Thus, they anxiously followed any activity connected even indirectly to the JCA in the region. They believed that the transfer of responsibility for those lands in 1924 from the JCA to the PJCA, nominally a Palestinian association, was a meaningless act. Therefore at the beginning of 1933 the Comte d’Aumale, French consul in Jerusalem, advised his foreign affairs minister that the JCA cunningly intended to make Palestine a basis for its penetration into Syria.43 Yet the French attitude towards Jewish immigration into their mandatory lands remained ambivalent. High Commissioners Henri de Jouvenel and later Henri de Martel considered it seriously. Though they were sensitive to nationalist Arab protests, they knew that massive Jewish financing might give Syria and Lebanon a vital economic stimulus.44 From 1934, a new phase developed with the increasing efforts of the PJCA to register their Lebanese possessions.45 Concurrently, a Syrian notable, the Amir Faour, was selling large territories in Palestine to the JNF, near Syrian borders. The French feared that act might initiate an extensive sale of lands to Jews in Syria and Lebanon proper by other impoverished Arab notables, a process they would not be able to prevent.46 On 14 February 1938 the sophisticated and intensive activity of the PJCA, which had hired the legal services of Elias Namour, brother of Lebanese Minister of Finance Mussa Namour, achieved success. Emile Edde´, the Lebanese president,

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authorized renewed land registration in the PJCA’s name. Unprecedented French pressure followed, obliging the president to reverse his decision.47 Serious problems also occurred concerning the 12,000 hectares in the Hauran region in Syria that Rothschild had ceded to the JCA in 1900. Practical possession of the lands had proved to be difficult even before the war,48 and became even more difficult after the war. In 1929, the PJCA had to deal with the religious Muslim authorities of the Wakf in Damascus, who claimed possession of a third of their Hauran lands. The PJCA had to compensate the Wakf for its dubious claims in order to avoid a lengthy legal battle in Syria, where the integrity of tribunals was known to be doubtful.49 Until 1939, the PJCA succeeded in maintaining a Jewish representative in the Hauran itself. When World War II broke out, local residents took actual possession of the areas in question. The PJCA conducted a desperate legal battle in Damascus until 1947, trying to maintain its ownership rights, but lost.50 This episode again reflects the main characteristics of the Association. Although some administrators doubted that the initial policy aimed at conserving the lands, once a decision was taken, they complied totally with the directorate’s decisions. The PJCA proved that it could adapt itself completely to a new situation when necessary. PJCA administrators maintained the long and difficult battle against hostile foreign authorities, during which they proved their sophistication although they knew well how mediocre their chances were.

Conclusion This chapter has examined JCA activity in Palestine after the war through four aspects, all of which point to its dwindling position. This change was partly due to the ways in which the JCA conducted its affairs, as the Association clearly had difficulties in evaluating and adapting to the changing reality. It also depended on the general context, either conceptual, economic, national or diplomatic, in which the JCA became less and less significant as a settlement actor.

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This analysis leads to three main conclusions, where the symbolic factor has a dominant influence. 1) The symbolic weakening of the JCA’s authority. Not only did the war cause the disappearance of the JCA from the Galilee at a critical moment, but at the same time Jewish national institutions became much more effectively involved in decision-making concerning the fate of the Jewish population in Palestine in general and in Galilee in particular. Thus, Zionist organizations cultivated stable effective relations with the new British rulers. As a consequence, the moshavot settlers, though still dependent on the JCA, felt the proximity of alternative potential support. Simultaneously, in the view of the JCA, the settlers symbolically changed from a source of hopefulness before the war to a source of trouble and nuisance after the war. 2) The symbolic responsibility of the JCA. On the personal as well as on the moshava level, the war left profound imprints, which had deep subconscious consequences. One of their expressions was the growing estrangement of the settlers from the JCA, which was conceived as being responsible for the miseries of the war, absurd though that sentiment was. That feeling might be rooted in the fact that the JCA, when it returned, claimed the old patterns of obedience and preserved its disdainful attitudes towards the settlers. In the settlers’ minds, that situation unconsciously legitimated a sentiment of imaginary continuity between pre- and postwar periods, as though mentally the JCA never had left. The result was a tense dialogue between the JCA and the settlers, with mutual accusations of ungratefulness.51 3) The symbolic non-national position of the JCA. After the war, important Jewish circles put constant pressure on the JCA, although not directly or explicitly, in order to ‘loosen’ the ethical component of its philanthropic activity, in favour of a more nationalist attitude. Zionist organs saw themselves not only as righteous formulators of values, but as the sole contributors for their fulfillment. In their

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conception, the JCA was obliged to cooperate with the Palestinian Zionist ethos, because it was there and because it was Jewish. In other words, the very dominant presence of the JCA in the Galilee, the extent and the strategic position of its lands or the number of its moshavot should have left it no other practical possibility. The persistent and simplistic commitment towards ideological goals, very common at the time, could not tolerate ‘deviances’.52 Two remarks must be added here: many of the PJCA administrators, particularly from the 1930s, were fervent Zionists in their hearts but could not combine their ideological positions with the dictates of their employer.53 In addition, Jewish public opinion, including the Galilee moshavot themselves, clearly distinguished between the attitudes of the Barons Edmond and, from 1934, James de Rothschild, both considered as warmly open to Zionist aspirations, and the aloof position of the PJCA, even though the Baron was the PJCA’s president! Real as the failings of the JCA and its successor organizations were in their inability or unwillingness to adapt to the changing realities of wartime and Mandatory Palestine, ultimately it was the failure of the organization to embrace Zionism and a nationalist consciousness which sealed its estrangement from the settlers and citizens it had in the past worked so hard for.

Notes 1 Seltenreich, Yair, ‘Cultural aspects of philanthropy: belle epoque administration and Jewish peasants in the Galilee’, Mediterranean Historical Review 23/1 (June 2008): pp. 35 – 51. 2 Schama, Simon, Two Rothschilds and the Land of Israel (Random House, 1978). Norman, Theodore, An Outstretched Arm: A History of the Jewish Colonization Association (Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1985). Penslar, Derek J., Zionism and Technocracy: The Engineering of the Jewish Settlement in Palestine, 1870– 1918 (Indiana University Press, 1991). 3 Aaronsohn, Ran, Baron Rothschild and the Colonies. The Beginnings of Jewish Colonization in Eretz Israel, 1882– 1890 (Yad Ben Zvi, 1990).

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4 Scheid, E., Memories from Jewish Colonies, 1883– 1889 (Yad Ben Zvi, 1983). 5 Peiglin, S., Memories of a Metulla Settler (Family Private Publication, 1954). 6 Ever Hadani, Aaron, Settlement in Lower Galilee: Fifty Years of History (Massada, 1956). 7 Seltenreich: ‘Cultural aspects of philanthropy’. 8 Seltenreich, Yair, ‘Efforts by the Palestine Jewish Colonization Association to retain its lands in Syria and Lebanon’, Cathedra 127 (2008): pp. 65 – 88. 9 ‘Rapport au conseil d’administration pour l’anne´e 1913’, pp. 87 –91. 10 See particularly Ever Hadani: Settlement in Lower Galilee, pp. 354– 99. 11 Alroey, Gur, ‘Exiles in their own land? The expelled from Tel Aviv and Jaffa in the Lower Galilee, 1917– 1918’, Cathedra 120 (June 2006): pp. 135– 60. 12 Ever Hadani: Settlement in Lower Galilee, p. 412. 13 Seltenreich, Yair and Orit Manor, ‘Assembly, Committee and Mukhtar in Kfar Tavor: a case study in social history’, Cathedra 95 (April 2000): pp. 72 – 4; Seltenreich: ‘Cultural aspects of philanthropy’. 14 Ransel, David L., ‘Introduction’ In Ransel, David L. (ed.) Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia (University of Indiana Press, 1993), pp. XI– XXX; Weber, Eugen, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France (Chatto and Windus, 1981). 15 Mayorek, Yoram, ‘Emile Meyerson and the initial involvement of the Jewish Colonization Association in Eretz Israel’, Cathedra 62 (1991): pp. 67 –79; Amit, I., ‘Chaim Margolis-Kalvarisky’ In Tzachor, Z. (ed.) Haaliya Hashnia (Yad Ben Zvi, 1997); Seltrenreich, Yair and Yossi Katz, ‘Between the Galilee and its neighboring isle: Jules Rosenheck and the JCA settlements in Cyprus, 1897– 1928’, Middle Eastern Studies 45/1 ( January 2009), pp. 87 – 109. 16 JCA. ‘Rapport au Conseil d’Administration pour l’anne´e 1923’: pp. 139– 40. 17 26 September 1919. Central Zionist Archives (hereafter: CZA), J 15 6654. 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid. 20 10 June 1919. CZA J15 6654. 21 Ibid. 22 1 September 1919. CZA, J15 6654. 23 18 September 1919. Kfar Tavor Archives (hereafter: KTA), file 39/2. 24 Ever Hadani: Settlement in Lower Galilee, pp. 460– 1. 25 Bitan, A., Changes in Settlements in the Eastern Lower Galilee (1800 – 1978) (Yad Ben Zvi, 1982), pp. 179– 81. JCA, ‘Rapport au Conseil d’Administration pour l’anne´e 1924’, pp. 127, 142. 26 Ibid., 1924, pp. 128– 9; 1925, pp. 117, 120; 1926, p. 169. 27 Seltenreich, Yair, ‘Jewish or Arab hired workers? Inner tensions in a Jewish settlement in pre-state Israel’, International Review of Social History 49/2 (August 2004): p. 233. 28 Ben Artzi, Yossi, ‘Jewish rural settlements in Cyprus, 1882 – 1935: a springboard or a destiny?’, Jewish History 21 (September 2007), pp. 361– 83. Seltenreich and Katz: ‘Between the Galilee and its neighboring isle’.

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29 Goldstein, Yaacov and BatSheva Stern, ‘The organization and purpose of PICA’, Cathedra 59 (March 1991): pp. 103– 25. When referring to continuous activity before and after 1924, we shall use ‘JCA’. 30 Seltenreich: ‘Cultural aspects of philanthropy’, pp. 119– 23. 31 Hashomer Book, HaAvoda Archives Edition, 1938: 519. 32 Caron, A., ‘Schools in JCA’s Moshavot’ In Kimche, D. (ed.) Jubilee Book of Teachers’ Association 1903– 1928 (Merkaz Histadrut HaMorim, 1929), pp. 169– 74. 33 Seltenreich: ‘Jewish or Arab hired workers?’, pp. 225– 47. 34 Katz, Yossi, The Battle for the Land. The Jewish National Fund before the Establishment of the State of Israel (Magnes, 2001), pp. 32 – 56. 35 CZA, J15 6499. Letters from Trifon to Kalvarisky and Segal in Rosh Pina: 27 March 1920, 22 May 1920, 3 June 1920, 29 June 1920, 27 July 1920, 11 September 1920 and 15 September 1920. 36 CZA, J15 6654. Rosenheck reports to JCA Paris. Correspondence from 17 June 1920, 20 September 1920 and 16 October 1920. 37 Ilan, Zvi, Attempts at Jewish Settlement in Trans-Jordan, 1871– 1947 (Yad Ben Zvi, 1984), p. 292; Nachmani, Y., Diaries (Beth HaShomer Archives in Kfar Giladi), entries from 7 February 1937, 8 February 1939 and 20 February 1939; Weitz, Joseph, Our Settlement in a Stormy Period (Merhavia Publications, 1947), pp. 30 – 1. 38 See for example the personal memoirs of Avraham Hadas (Hamburg), a highly placed agronomist of PJCA. Manuscript [Hebrew], December 1981, 76 Folios. Private collection. Courtesy of Mrs Ilse Hadas. 39 Mishmar HaShlosha Protocols, Yavne’el Archives. Protocols from 25 May 1935, 12 May 1940, February March 1936 and 31 January 1938. 40 Shapira, Anita, Yigal Alon: Spring of his Life (HaKibbutz HaMeuchad, 2004), pp. 109– 121. 41 Macmillan, Margaret, Peacemakers. Six Months that Changed the World (John Murray, 2002), pp. 400– 2. Laurens, Henri, Orientales (CNRS Editions, 2007): II, pp. 177– 206. 42 Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires Etrange`res (hereafter: AMAE), Paris, Palestine 68 File, Folios 26– 29. 43 18 January 1933. AMAE, Paris, Palestine 64 file, folio 238. 44 Seltenreich, Yair and Yossi Katz, ‘Fire from the ashes: Jewish settlement efforts in Syria and Lebanon in the 1930s’, Zion LXXI-4 (2006), pp. 473– 99. 45 28 January 1934. Letter from Reuven Trifon to French High Commissioner in Beirut. AMAE, Nantes, File 64. 46 August March 1935. Intelligence Report. Id., File 617, Folios 35 – 36. 47 Ibid., Folios 44 – 45. 48 19 June 1913, CZA, J15 5510. 49 14 April 1929, 7 May 1929 and 21 June 1929. In Davar. 50 Salomon, J., In My Own Way (Idanim, 1980), pp. 59 – 68. 51 Seltenreich: ‘Cultural aspects of philanthrophy’.

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52 Reflected, for example, in a letter of the National Jewish Committee, 31 December 1923, KTA, File 8/2, 54. 53 ‘Under the star of my activity in the Land [of Israel]’, personal memoirs of Avraham Hadas (Hamburg).

CHAPTER 15 HEBREW LITERATURE OF WORLD WAR I IN PALESTINE Glenda Abramson

Comparatively little Hebrew literature has been devoted to the Jewish experience in the Great War, and only a very small group of Hebrew writers wrote about the Palestine Front, despite the presence of many of them in the country at the time. Yet there is a small body of work about which little is known to this day that includes fiction, poetry, memoirs, plays and diaries by Hebrew writers who served in the trenches of the Eastern Front and in the Ottoman army in Palestine, and by civilian authors on both fronts who were victimized by the war one way or another. The literature of World War I stands midway between a historical document and a subjective rendering of a largely unbearable ordeal. A previously unknown link emerged between war and literature, with thousands of established and potential writers directly engaged in fighting. Writers attempted to formulate a representation of real events in a manner suited to the uniqueness of the events themselves, using aspects of reality as the raw material for many linguistic and stylistic experiments. To a certain extent, therefore, we are able to gauge the Jewish war experience on the Eastern Front and in Palestine through Hebrew writing that not only serves to illustrate history but that also contributes

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to Jewish historiography. As the war receded from memory into history, the historical aspects of war fiction assumed growing importance. Because of the need not to forget, in the inter-war period all war books were primarily considered as documents, regardless of their genre.1 There is an obvious conceptual danger in this characterization, relating to the matter of truth. Indeed, the question is the provenance of fiction among these documents, whether the debate about metahistory has putatively given belles lettres a privileged place beside the historiographical narrative. Many theorists and philosophers of history seem to worry about history being represented as fiction. Surely, we also have to worry about fiction being represented as history. Most of the Hebrew war writing is neither entirely fiction nor historiography but fictionalized memoir, or ‘literary non-fiction’: that is, stories closely based on the authors’ lived experience, which involve real persons and sometimes even the authors’ own names. The consideration of these hybrid texts as quasi-historical documents invites further theoretical reflection. Is the ‘truth’ of the literature distinct from the ‘facts’ of the war? Is it important for purposes of historical knowledge that the writings of these authors should be deemed autobiographical? Is the goal of war literature belief, as in Holocaust writing? If so, the danger of this generic hybridity is magnified. How are the categories of autobiography and autobiographical fiction disentangled? We have to accept that what is termed ‘fiction’ is the means whereby the Great War writers have been able to describe life in wartime most vividly and in minute detail. Each of the Hebrew war writers functions somewhere within the limits of all these definitions. Three central topics have emerged from my study of Hebrew writers of the Great War. First, the question, still unresolved, about the exact genres of texts that are presumed to be fictional. Second, Jewish nationalism, whether or not manifested by the writers at the outset of the war, became a crucial element within their war experience. Third, where Hebrew writing about the war in Palestine is concerned, those war authors who were members of the Second Aliyah almost without exception debated the nature and potential of the Jewish settlement in Eretz Yisrael.

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Aharon Reuveni and documentary The question of the extent of historical truth arises with Aharon Reuveni’s romantic epic, the trilogy Ad Yerushalayim (‘To Jerusalem’, first published 1919–25 in installments). In his short introductory note to the 1954 edition of the complete trilogy, Reuveni writes: ‘From that time [of the novels’ first publication] almost forty years have passed and a contemporary novel has of itself become a realistic historical novel of past times.’ Concerning the passage of time, he was right. Despite the fact that Ad Yerushalayim is based largely on experience and recent memory, Dan Miron argues that despite the narrative’s closeness in time to the events it describes, Reuveni’s tone can be defined as ‘historical’.2 This may be so, but Ad Yerushalayim is not a historical novel, that is, a work normally classified as relating events that have taken place well before the time of writing, at least 50 years, sometimes centuries.3 Generally, historical novels are not written by authors who have experienced the circumstances they are describing. The events with which Reuveni was concerned had occurred only 2 or 3 years before the first novel’s publication. Reuveni himself refers to it as ‘a contemporary novel’. Also, Ad Yerushalayim is not a novel of character or social process set against the background of a historical period: the history, in this case the war, transcends the characters and determines their actions and responses: the war creates the fiction. Since the author does not instil himself into the text in a first-person narrative, and has lived through the events he is describing, Ad Yerushalayim is technically neither a fictionalized memoir nor a historical novel but a documentary novel, which aspires to tell a certain historical or social truth and may or may not promote a particular ideology. Within the documentary factuality there is a manipulable fictional world with its own characters and archetypes, and it is the author’s purpose that cuts and shapes the fiction, however much it is based on fact. Ad Yerushalayim involves a form of narrative construction within its documentary rendition. The veracity of a documentary text determines the possibilities of fictiveness; in other words, the more historically accurate it is, the less leeway for fiction it has. The first novel in Reuveni’s trilogy, Bereshit hamevokha (At the Outset of the

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Confusion) is perhaps the least successful for this reason: the historiography overwhelms the fictional narrative: the ‘insistence upon factuality impedes imagination’.4 The second and third novels develop the characters within the frame of historical events, the third novel, Shamot (‘Devastation’) offering details about conscription into the Ottoman army that read like first-hand accounts. Still, Reuveni maintains a balance between the detailed historical conception and the fiction’s inner logic, that is, the development of the characters.5 It can be assumed that Reuveni’s contemporary readership outside Palestine would have known little about the war theatre there, having experienced the war in entirely different ways. The novels would therefore have been both entertaining and factually informative. The trilogy presents historical characters, including David BenGurion and Yitzhak Ben-Zevi (the author’s brother) who have been given fictitious names to avoid recognition, yet their personal histories, characterizations and activities clearly identify them. Two characters in the novel, Ram and Giv’oni, wholly mimic the activities of Ben-Gurion and Ben-Zvi on the yishuv. Others, such as Cemal Pasa, retain their historical names and roles, yet in keeping with the principles of the documentary novel they function within both the fictional and the historical worlds. The Russian immigrants are working at a weekly newspaper, Haderekh, modelled on the Po’ale tsiyon paper Ha’ahdut, of which Ben-Gurion was one of the editors.6 There are many other examples throughout the three novels. In the first complete edition (1954) of Ad Yerushalayim Reuveni added the following declaration: The characters and events in this novel are all inventions. However, the invention is built up of bricks that were taken from the environment of those days. If there are lines of similarity, a little here and a little there, between what is told and the events that really happened, their source is in part by chance and in part from the material from which they were constructed.7 The ambiguity of this statement indicates that Reuveni himself was unsure of the boundaries between history and fiction.

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Reuveni was conscripted into the Ottoman army but almost immediately ransomed himself out of it and continued to reside in Jerusalem during the war. He was politically active on the yishuv during the period described in the novel. For example, with BenGurion, Brenner and others he served as a member of the Va’ad haganah shel po’ale tsiyon, established to explore the possibility of building a Jewish militia in Palestine. The events Reuveni depicts in detail in the trilogy are verified by authentic histories. In fact, his novel is explicitly cited in a historical essay about education on the yishuv during the war.8 This seems to refute the principle that the mixture of accurate detail and creative invention in documentary novels may lead the reader to draw inaccurate historical conclusions. At the same time, of course, the reader cannot always discount the author’s subjective view of real events.9 But surely this is the case with historiography as well. The first book of Ad Yerushalayim, Bereshit hamevokha, takes place in Jerusalem from the first year of the war, and tells the story of a disparate group of Russian Jewish immigrants, now working at a printing press. The dilemma is whether to become Ottomanized and remain in the country with the corollary of conscription into the Turkish army, or return to Russia once again to be fodder for pogroms or be forced to serve in the Tsar’s army. Almost the entire novel is concerned with the dialectics of loyalty to the Zionist enterprise on the one hand, and self-interest on the other. The characters with the most secure faith in the national endeavour rush to become Ottoman citizens, others hesitate and some leave. Reuveni explores the choices faced by the Russian Jews in every detail from the time of the revocation of the ‘Capitulations’, between the two emotional poles of the maladjusted immigrants’ discontent and the idealism of the Zionist leadership. One of its members, Haim Ram, insists that there is no danger for the Jews in Palestine despite the altered political circumstances, and that the enterprise is endangered by each defection: ‘To leave? What?’ [Ram] cried angrily. ‘Where shall we go? To Russia – to fight for Russia? What does Russia mean to us? To escape to America? What does America mean to us? . . . Our

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place is here! We won’t leave here! Our cities and our settlements are here, our four years of work are here!. . . Our last hope is here!. . . We won’t move from this place!’10 Contrast this with the equally fervent outburst by one of the immigrants: Why have I come, really? Ask me, what devil forced me to come here? What is preventing me from going to America? I could have lived there. I have two brothers and an uncle in New York. How many times have they written to me, begging me to come. And see, I did a ridiculous thing: I chose to go to Eretz Israel. . . how stupid can one be!11 The first novel deals not only with these cross-spectrum arguments but with the agonizing transformation of Jerusalem in wartime, a focal symbol of the war’s physical and moral devastation and, according to Miron, a symbol of the country as a whole.12 Jerusalem houses both the newcomers who have lived there for only a few years and the ancient community, each affected by the other. Once the Ottomans join the war each day brings a new trial: decrees, imprisonment, growing poverty, the closure of the post offices and the banks, travel restrictions – each of these carefully documented – and the novel emphasizes the characters’ responses to them. Above all this hangs the grey cloud of Ottomanization, which troubles them no less. In addition, the modern world encroaches on Jerusalem’s traditional character. One of the immigrants describes someone’s purchase – from a Christian store – of a sandwich composed of a sausage and butter; of someone else who smokes in public on the Sabbath; of another who lives with a woman without the benefit of a huppah; and of one of the Zionists who writes his speeches on Shabbat. ‘What value can there be in such writing?’ he complains.13 Like Brenner in his war stories, Reuveni does not hesitate to present the anti-genre14 anti-heroes: intellectuals, printers, bookkeepers, many of whom retain their characteristics of the diaspora Jew, an urban individual, sickly, sexually inadequate, cowardly,

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indecisive and lacking in ideology, terrified of Turkish oppression and functionally pessimistic. They fear and resent the Zionist ideologues as threats to their safety, certain that the Turks will annihilate them all. Reuveni is uncompromising in his presentation of the selfabsorbed, vacillating immigrants and those, inflexible in their convictions, like Ram and Giv’oni whom one of the characters, Solodochin, likens to Savonarola. Solodochin mocks their prophetic fervour, ironically quoting Jeremiah 42.16: ‘Then it shall come to pass, that the sword, which ye feared, shall overtake you there in the land of Egypt, and the famine, whereof ye were afraid, shall follow close after you there in Egypt; and there ye shall die.’ He parodies the Zionists’ certainty, their dangerous obsession and cites the ‘ancient Jewish weaponry’, the justification for all argument in biblical verses: ‘The verse! So stay, repeat your verses, make sacrifices!’ He detests the Zionists and their propaganda to the extent that he would prefer Cemal Pasa to Giv’oni.15 These Russians see the Turks as animals, the wild children of Asia while, in their desperation, even the detested Russia signifies culture to them. In the face of pioneering idealism, Reuveni shows the conceptual fluidity of the yishuv, where the terms of halutz and halutziut inhabit different ideological universes. In this sense alone are Reuveni’s own ideological convictions, or lack of conviction, prominent. The characters of Ad Yerushalayim have escaped the Russian pogroms rather than having willingly sought aliyah as a positive solution to their lives. They spend their time discussing international politics (an interesting documentary feature of the novel exposing contemporary views about the political alignments) interlaced with Zionist propaganda from the camp of Ram and Giv’oni. They are almost comical in their unvarying helplessness: ‘In Europe – they know how to distinguish [. . .] whom to take and whom not to take [into the army]. In Russia they let me go because of my physical weakness, my chest is narrower than normal and here, among the Turks [. . .] a short while ago in the street I met a soldier who is lame in one leg and blind in one eye. . ..’16 The yishuv, suggests Reuveni, is constituted of the weak and uncommitted in addition to the strong, rhetorical stereotypes of Ram and Giv’oni.

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All the historical elements of the period – the war, the Turkish administration, the yishuv hierarchy, the process of conscription in particular, army service, Turkish labour camps in the desert and more – are documented in careful detail in the trilogy and provide not only its framework but the narrative’s incentive. For example, from March to October 1915, a series of locust plagues stripped areas throughout Palestine of almost all their crops. This biblical affliction seriously increased the already severe food shortages. Although devastating to the yishuv, the locust plague was fortuitous in providing Reuveni with an array of symbols. The microcosmic plague is the shadow of the World War, the terminology of the battle against the locusts drawn from the global conflict. War on locusts is declared; trenches are dug and the locusts fill the ridges of the fields, like teeming armies. Every man is ordered to bring in a bucket of eggs for which he will obtain a receipt and one Turkish lira. Policemen are placed at certain points to ensure obedience to the decree. They enter the hadarim and force their teachers and pupils into the fields. Within a short while deals are done, buckets of eggs change hands for a price. Baranchuk and Meir Funk, two of the trilogy’s main protagonists, meet on a moshava where they have been sent as warriors in the war on the insects in this time of apocalypse and combat between the creatures and the humans who are ill-equipped to deal with them. Baranchuk, a writer and thought to be a portrait of the author himself, questions the future, with locusts multiplying generation after generation, yet he still finds a wellspring of compassion for the creatures who are mercilessly put to death. ‘How many can we squash and bury? The devastation (shoah) will grow, there’s no way out. How will it all end? Will it end?. . .’17 The real object of Baranchuk’s dread is uncertain: the war, persecution, the Jewish future or further disastrous plagues. In one of the many parallel structures of the novel, Funk and Baranchuk are ordered to dig holes around the trees, presaging the fate of Funk who is later forced to dig waterholes in one of the most fearful of the Turkish army labour camps, the Amaliyah (Turkish: tawabeer alamale), in the desert. The locust war is, therefore, a crucible for him and for Baranchuk who realizes, in the face of his misgivings about the future of the Jewish settlement in Palestine, that ‘in spite of it all,

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we still have roots in the land. . . not like other nations, but in spite of everything we do! If not for this we would already have passed from the world!’18 Reuveni’s own view of settlement and Zionism is carefully hidden among his characters’ contradictory arguments, allowing us only meagre hints of his political stance; yet even considering his distrust of Jewish nationalism, the statement he has given Baranchuk is probably closest to his own ideological conviction. The second novel, Ha’oniot ha’aharonot (The Last Ships), which is the most autobiographical of the three, explores the difficulties of remaining in Eretz Yisrael. Shamot, the third novel, a tragic tale of bildung, demonstrates the disintegration of a Jerusalem family as a consequence of the war. It presents, quite uniquely in the Hebrew literature up to this time, a portrait of the collapse of the moral and traditional order among the Jerusalem Jews: the older daughter of the family is both a prostitute and a counterfeiter; the son is a homosexual pimp for Turkish officers. A pious grandfather – the only amiable character apart from the novel’s impossibly romantic hero, Meir Funk – slowly starves to death through his family’s neglect. This is as much a comment about the death of the old world of piety and traditional values, in favour of a brash world of amoral modernity, as of the dire wartime situation in Jerusalem. The novel presents a bleak view of the yishuv during the Second Aliyah, with the war as a bloody catalyst of division between the traditional Jewish home and family, and the advance of modernity, the old Yishuv and the new. Reuveni proposes a clean break between the traditional Jewish world and the one born both of global and of Jewish crisis. The hero’s son, whom his father has never seen, signifies the possibilities of a better future, while his parents’ generation, apart from its few visionaries and activists, is lost, too contradictory, too European. Redemption will be accomplished by the generation born on the land. If Reuveni has a Zionist viewpoint at all, it is this.

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Lev Arieli Orloff The same question of genre can be applied to L.A. Arieli Orloff’s novel Yeshimon (‘Wilderness’), a quasi-fiction set in the Palestinian war theatre. Written a short time (1920– 2) after the events it describes, it is not technically a historical novel but, like Reuveni’s, a documentary account of a small corner of the war, embellished by fiction and a few political deliberations. In 1916 Lev Aryeh Arieli Orloff, born in Shishak, Ukraine in 1886, took Ottoman citizenship in order to remain in Palestine, and without much hesitation joined the Turkish army. As an accomplished woodwind player, he was admitted into an Ottoman army band by its conductor who was a Jew, and he served in Jerusalem, Beersheba and Damascus. He deserted in 1917 and moved to Tiberias. His most famous novel, Yeshimon, based on his experience in the army, is a modernist work about an idealistic Jewish youth, David Ostrowsky, in the rough-andtumble of an Ottoman band unit, the Mehteraˆn. Apart from one veteran Jewish soldier, Shmuel (Shmil) Nepomiaschy, David’s military comrades are Turks and Arabs. Arieli Orloff depicts them with apparent fidelity as a group of men with varying characteristics, good and bad, sophisticated and primitive, spending much of their time in idleness and revealing a deep sensitivity to the beauty of their own culture. In an earlier work for which Arieli Orloff is better known, the play Allah Karim (1913), he appraised contemporary Zionism with greater ferocity than in Yeshimon, constructing the characters as representatives of the debates of the time, not unlike Reuveni in Bereshit hamevokha, and exposing the ‘dire conditions of yishuv life’.19 Without the global upheaval that conditions the process of Yeshimon’s narrative, in the play Arieli Orloff was able to concentrate with greater intensity on local issues and evaluate the relationship between the Jewish settlers and the native population of Palestine. To a large extent, he set out the problems he was to deal with over a decade later in Yeshimon in a vastly different fashion, yet with the same outcome: a pessimistic certainty that there is no peaceful future for the Arabs and Jews in Palestine.

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As Yeshimon begins, David, a musical prodigy from Russia who has been living in Jerusalem, is seconded to the band unit to replace an Armenian flautist who has deserted.20 He arrives at the camp near Beersheba, filled with enthusiasm for the defence of the homeland. A knowledgeable musician, his talent arouses jealousy in his new comrades – who are also his rivals. Nonetheless he is excited at the prospect of living and working among his fellow musicians. At first he feels blessed to have been sent to this place of strange beauty, far from the cannon fire: ‘His eyes [. . .] thirstily drank in the burning colours of the sunset and the mists of the distant mountains and the entire strange and new play of desert life. His heart filled with joy and gratitude to fate that it had brought him to this place.’21 An elderly Arab emerges from his tent and looks up at the sky, praising God for the beauty of the night. Within his fictional narrative Arieli supplies details of the band’s life which could presumably only have been appreciated by one who knew it from the inside. In this unusual and little-known military setting even the most trivial factual details become important as historical records. His almost diaristic accounts cover the daily order of work, the band’s practice and its music,22 the soldiers’ clothing, the desert’s sand and dust and its effect on the musical instruments, the treatment of deserters, the appearance of the camp, and the various ceremonies for which the band was required to perform. Despite its seriousness of intention, Yeshimon includes an element lacking in every other one of the Hebrew war narratives, both those set on the Eastern Front and in Palestine: the element of humour. Within the story of the misery of David’s desert posting, where he sees little to divert him, the narrator intersperses a series of amusing set pieces and anecdotes that illuminate life in the band unit. For example, he describes a scene in which the young pupil-recruits have been laden with music stands, heavy musical scores, lamps and also an officer’s personal possessions: If the officer had only one pupil and if this pupil hadn’t managed to pay someone to help him he was so weighed down from head to foot that if the fleas that were so plentiful in this

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place had begun to vex him along the way, he would have to break the Nizam’s rules, stop behind the entire marching camp, set down his complete load and scratch to his heart’s content, and only afterwards continue on his way.23 An anecdote that enlivens the otherwise very sombre narrative tells of a group of 30 deserters, shackled together and under guard, who are brought to the camp. During the night one of the guards begins to count the prisoners’ feet to make sure than none had escaped. Suddenly the alarm-filled voice of the soldier was heard, calling out to his companions, the other guards: ‘Allah, Allah! Come and see! I’ve counted. . .only fifty-nine feet.’ ‘Is this possible? The others shouted back. ‘What a tragedy!’ They also counted. According to the arithmetic of one them, there were indeed sixty feet, but the second one’s count revealed fifty-eight. This caused a real panic in the mens’ hearts, and they woke one of the sleeping soldiers, apparently a senior officer, to tell him of the tragedy, and he, too, with curses and threats, began to count. He counted sixty feet. . . Shocked and frightened, they began beating the prisoners’ feet in order to wake them and count again. . .24 Another of many such anecdotes concerns an elderly pasha who objects to the band’s circular formation that allows some of the player’s backs to be towards him. At his insistence they turn to face outwards, with the conductor marooned inside the circle, conducting their backs. In another incident a Turkish officer insists on the band’s playing a certain march, despite its lack of scores. The band’s life consists of hours of frenzied activity, subservient to the demands of irritable officers, and long days of idleness and boredom spent in the desert winds. As the story progresses, David and his single Jewish companion suffer the taunts and vilification of his army comrades, one of whom likens the Jews to fleas, and particularly of a young Turkish musician

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called Hamdi who both despises and desires David. Later, when the war encroaches and army discipline limits his movements, David’s disillusionment becomes acute. In the face of the war and the Turks’ relentless disparagement his initial joy turns to despair not so much from external circumstances as from his own introspective enlightenment. Arieli Orloff imposes on him a profound misgiving about the Jewish condition which he realizes in meditations about the Jewish national future and the meaning of the Hebrew tehiya. In Allah Karim the Hebrew renaissance was seen as ‘a theatrical act of self-invention’ according to Yaron Peleg25 and it is no less fabricated in Yeshimon, where Arieli Orloff mocks the bourgeois preoccupations of the yishuv’s elite. The author’s placing these considerations in the mind of a naive idealist stresses the novel’s teleological sense of disillusionment. Eventually, after a few unpleasant experiences, including being caught in a desert battle, David deserts and returns to Jerusalem to seek out his fiance´e, only to suffer a further blow. The novel ends with a quotation from Canto 3 of Dante’s Purgatorio: ‘Through me pass into the city of pain, through me pass into eternal grief, through me pass among the lost people.’26 This is not only an overwrought ending but an ambiguous one because it is unclear whether it applies to the future of mankind, to the future of the Jews or to David himself. It could be assumed that the deteriorating relationship between the Jews and the Arabs and Turks in the band encampment would be the central topic of a novel of this kind, presenting a microcosmic view of the realpolitik of the Jewish settlement during the Second Aliyah. Indeed it is, yet the novel defies predictability and that topic is only one among many: the passage from innocence to disillusionment; the conflict between East and West, between the educated European intellectual and the primitive folk; the perceived corruption of the Jewish woman, global politics and, of course, the war whose sounds David constantly hears in the background. It gradually encroaches on the encampment and towards the end of the novel its distant echo becomes a lived event and David is caught in a

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ferocious battle between mounted British troops and a unit of Turkish guardsmen. David is a romanticized figure of sublime internal and external beauty whom Arieli Orloff has set up to knock down, the idealistic youth who becomes a bitter man. There is little mutual understanding between him and his companions, the representatives of the Ottoman Empire, Arabs and Turks who glory in their profound contempt for all Jews. Shmuel Nepomiaschy expresses the equally unpalatable Jewish view of the detested ‘other’, and the internal animosity, like a fragment of the global conflict, fuels the general sense of adversity. Arieli reproduces the mockery and insults the two Jews constantly suffer, directed not least of all at their women whom the Turks contemptuously dismiss as whores. Within the deteriorating relationships between the two Jewish soldiers and the Arabs and Turks in their unit, as in much of the literature of the Second and Third Aliyot, the immigrant Jews recognize, sometimes with resentment, the natural relationship between the Arabs and the land, the true ‘nativeness’ to which the Jews aspire. At one point in the story David is attracted to a young Bedouin boy whose caravan passes the camp. As is common in this literature, and even later, in Israeli literature,27 the native representative of the land, which Arieli Orloff depicts in almost loving detail, becomes the object of the newcomer’s desire. Jerusalem, however, is the Jews’ city, David’s aspiration, ‘a vision and a revelation expressed without words of love for the holiness and glory of God’s city’.28 Jerusalem is a central feature of both Arieli Orloff’s and Reuveni’s war writing. Reuveni’s Jerusalem is without glory, the city sunken in the wartime muck both physically and metaphorically, the scene of every character’s despair. David’s Jerusalem, his locus amenus, is both a myth and an indication of his character which later becomes tempered in the locus horridus of the real desert. While the band in the story is undoubtedly based on the one in which Arieli himself served, it is an effective metaphor for unity or its breakdown. It could signify the ideal not only of the yishuv, which as we see throughout the literature of this period was only superficially united, but also of the Jewish nation, the sum of its disparate parts.

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Disharmony, both personal and social – an ironic comment on the supposed harmony of a musical ensemble – is central to the novel as a political element in which the story of the relationship between Hamdi and David is fundamental. Within the realistic narrative, it is a portrait of the strong sexual attraction between the two youths and their subsequent quarrel and antagonism, which contributes greatly to David’s disenchantment. Homoeroticism in Hebrew fiction had never previously been as explicitly realized as in this novel, and even there it is modified – or perhaps accentuated – by David’s chaste love for his fiance´e Rachel. He sees her as an embodiment of holy Jerusalem, Beatrice to his Dante, the essence of the ‘Hebrew’ grace. Nonetheless, the boy Hamdi is the object in David’s erotic dreams. On the novel’s symbolic level David’s initial affection for Hamdi is not sexual; rather, Hamdi, like the Bedouin boy, is a symbol of the land which, shortly after the scene of the dream, David apostrophises almost in ecstasy. ‘Without realising it verses hummed and sang of their own accord in his mind: This land will be ours, and you will be among the builders.’29 The friendship of Hamdi and David therefore functions on two levels: the personal and the political. Their initial mutual attraction and afterwards their mutual rejection reflect the promise and the problem inherent in the relationship between the embryonic Jewish nation and the Ottoman Empire. Each of them is drawn to the culture of the other: Hamdi seeks David’s Western musical knowledge and David is attracted by the untamed nobility of the Arab. Furthermore, according to David’s vision of appropriation, the rivalry between the two youths involves national eschatology as well as personal love. Through his naive protagonist, Arieli Orloff asks a number of pointed political questions, some informed by hindsight: What is the fate of this nation? What is it really? Is it a giant girded with power, rousing terror among the nations by its strength and courage? Or is it emptily proud and arrogant. . .? Or simply a trampled doorstep, on which everyone spits as he wishes, and deposits the rubbish that has stuck to his boots?30

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Yeshimon, therefore, conforms with the conclusions of all these Second Aliyah war stories that share an anxiety about Jewish fate and the viability of the yishuv at a time of extreme crisis. David is a flawed character, weak, romantic, dreamy, artistic – scarcely the Zionists’ ideal of the New Jew. Instead of tempering him in the forge of the war – symbolized by the desert, yeshimon – he is destroyed by it, contradicting the New Jew stereotype. Is Arieli therefore suggesting (inter alia) that the yishuv should be constituted not only of the strong and muscular, but also of the weak – in other words, that Zionist ideology is itself flawed? David, still conflating Rachel, the hen . ivri, and the nation, judges them both to be hopeless. The pure Rachel has betrayed him by becoming the mistress of a German, a prophetic metaphorical betrayal in the novel’s framework. At the very end of the narrative David repeats the final words of Dante’s lines, ‘a lost nation’, to a skull he has found in an abandoned Arab village, and it seems to him that the skull is reflecting back to him his own ‘terrifying smile’: ‘The skull grinned at him from the table. In their grin and in the expression in the eyes of both of them the desert froze. . .’31 At the end of the story he associates the Hebrew Yen with Jerusalem, Dante’s lines and Hamdi’s judgement on Jewish women: Hamdi knew what to say about Jewish women, he was right, he was right, and David had been angry with him for no reason during that walk. . . now, all of them. . . they come running at the first whistle of any bastard with shiny buttons, every rotten foreigner. To put all the glory of their youth and their nation at their feet.32 In the story’s allegorical ending, the emphatic combination of Rachel’s betrayal, the citation of goy avud, and a dead Arab’s remains leads to a serious and pessimistic conclusion regarding the political future of Palestine. Rachel, the spirit of the nation, has betrayed it for a German. The question to be asked is whether this is an indication of Arieli Orloff’s disapproval of the Zionists’ alliance with the Ottomans and Germany, that the yishuv will ‘go running at the first

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whistle’ to anyone whom it believes can offer it a future. Arieli Orloff asks what, in fact, will the Jews gain from the war? He describes the battle in detail: the whinnying of the horses, cries in English, Arabic and Turkish, shots, the clashing of swords and groans of the dying. David takes to his feet and runs away: he has no part in it.

Ya‘akov Hurgin Historical veracity provides the frame for most of Ya’akov Hurgin’s war stories. Within the frame there are narratives about Arab and Sephardi Jewish families, and a variety of emotional tangles and activities in the lives of the local folk. As literary objects, these stories,33 told in the first person by a nameless narrator, are of little significance except for what they tell us about the conditions of the war in the rocky wilderness of Judah, on the edge of the Sinai Peninsula, and in central Palestine. The setting is, clearly, autobiographical. Born and raised in Jaffa and therefore a member of the Old Yishuv, Hurgin (1898 –1990) chose to portray, with humour and pathos, the life and colour of the Levant: Eretz Yisrael is depicted, with unusual authenticity, as a kind of ‘Eastern market’,34 composed of an assortment of nationalities and communities. Hurgin was raised in a Zionist home in Jaffa and, while still very young, he served as an interpreter on the Syrian–Lebanese front, moving with his unit throughout Palestine to the Egyptian border, and in 1918 he was employed as a military clerk in the British Army’s medical service. According to Yaron Peleg, he portrayed Zionism ‘rarely, if ever, as a positive development’.35 He dedicated his work to the community of the Old Yishuv and to the local Arabs and Palestinians. His stories contextualize another significant historical element, that of the Armenian catastrophe. Hurgin’s war stories grew from incidents that occurred in fraught situations, such as those set in a prisoner-of-war hospital near El Arish which had been secured by the British in 1916. The narrator of some of the stories is a military interpreter who lives in a tent with three other interpreters of various nationalities. In Ben harre Efraim (Among Ephraim’s Mountains, 1944) the narrator is employed by the

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British as an overseer of workers building roads and railway lines. The tale itself, about a beautiful young Arab woman and quarrelling tribal families, is enclosed in a factual account of desert war. Its geographical location is specific: around Hebron and Khan al Luban on the front line under heavy aerial bombardment. Hurgin was able to present the Middle Eastern landscape without the sense either of strangeness or wonder characteristic of the East European writers, and without what Gershon Shaked calls the mannerism of the 1948 generation. For Hurgin the landscape is his natural locus rather than an imagined or learned environment superimposed on a previous one. His Jewish characters’ immersion in the landscape is as natural as their relationships – not always harmonious – with the various tribal peoples living in it. Other war writers, Brenner, Reuveni and Arieli Orloff in particular, are urban writers, seconded, in a sense, to the country areas as a consequence of the war; Brenner exiled to the Lower Galilee from Jaffa in 1917– 18, Reuveni living in Jerusalem and Arieli Orloff’s protagonist sent from Jerusalem to an army unit near Beersheba. For Hurgin’s characters the land is perceived not as Reuveni’s Baranchuk perceives it, ideologically, as the source of Jewish renewal, but as a natural locus for the people who dwell in it, including the Jews. Not too far from the battlefield, with its sounds ringing in his ears, Hurgin’s unnamed protagonist wanders through the desert on his recalcitrant donkey ‘alone behind the front lines at a time when, not a great distance away, death was active’.36 His sense of topographical continuity is acute: he links the area of his patrol with the ancient cult of Astarte and, hearing the sounds of the war, he muses that it is not the first time that the fear of annihilation has infused this particular landscape. My wandering brought to mind verses of the Bible about the drunkards of Ephraim37 and scenes of ancient days appear in my imagination, and the trembling head of a frightened hare suddenly peeks into this romantic mood, and a grey porcupine bursts out in terror from its hiding placed in the bushes, its quills flattened backwards, like a bird with strange feathers,

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and silent birds circle above. Sometimes a pair of broad-winged vultures hastily turn northwards, probably hurrying to what they know is waiting for them at the front. Here is an ancient goddess, covered in dust, and in her shadow the remains of heaps of carved stones, perhaps an old sanctuary. A fig tree, its trunk a mass of folds, ripens with a joyful rustle and spreads its special perfume far and wide.38 Despite the persistent presence of the war throughout the story and the frequent bombardments, these leisurely descriptions, which sometimes continue for pages, not only embellish the text, suspending the narrative, but they reinforce the sense of the war as yet another interruption in the eternality of the land. Various peoples populate Hurgin’s stories: Arab and Turkish foot soldiers; the tribal elders who sit comfortably under their trees, threatening the workers with whips if they fail to obey their orders; primitive men terrified to remain in the desert at night when no light or sound is permitted; the malicious sergeant who plays tricks on them and the narrator’s uncompromising superior officer. As in Hurgin’s shorter stories, the men represent a number of countries and cultures: ‘most of them are Egyptians, those who came with the army; those who are thin and light-footed, brown-skinned to the black of the Sudanese.’39 There were Christian farmhands from the nearby farms, wearing different keffiyot from those of the Muslims and more resentful of the Jew sent to oversee them. Despite the pathos of its central story, the novella is an invaluable guide to the experience of a single Jew, conscripted to play his part in the war, and perhaps it even serves as a means of fleshing out the historical accounts of the time and place. It is neither documentary nor memoir, but a piece of fiction framed by a factual sketch of daily life in a particular region in the harsh circumstances of the war, exacerbated by the tribal rivalries of the workers brought to the region by the demands of the military authorities. Yet the story’s outcome would be unchanged even in peacetime: the universal problems of love, jealousy, dishonour and internecine hatreds fit into any framework. The tale ends in the death in an air raid of the Arab woman whom the Jewish protagonist loves,

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but her death is formulaic and inevitable and the air raid, in this case, merely an instrument. The central difference between this work and that of the immigrant writers, Brenner, Reuveni and Arieli Orloff (who is the closest in spirit to Hurgin), is that it avoids ideology: whatever Hurgin’s views in his later fiction, in Ben harre Efraim he is not making points about Zionism or settlement other than to chart the hostility of the local tribesmen to his protagonist (but this may be due to his being their supervisor as much as his being a Jew). These ominous encounters do, however, hint at larger political confrontations. Nonetheless, his protagonist, the only Jew in the story, is not a foreigner; he belongs in the landscape as the others do, he speaks the tribal languages and is not obliged to struggle with the idea of Ottomanization. He does not employ discourse about the ‘builders of the land’ nor does he see himself as appropriating or redeeming it. In these stories, Hurgin illustrates the great chasm between the outlook of the Old and New Yishuv.

Conclusion The war experience in Palestine was expressed through a variety of themes and styles, some modernist, like Arieli Orloff’s and Brenner’s, some epic, like Reuveni’s, and some traditional, like Hurgin’s. There is sufficient historical merit in their works to provide an insight into their experiences of the war and to regard their texts as testimony. Works that described the suffering of civilians, such as Brenner’s about the expulsion from Jaffa to the north, with the enormous loss of life, or Reuveni’s documentary accounts of Meir Funk in the military barracks and the Turkish labour camp in the desert, or even Arieli Orloff’s view of the army unit in a remote area of southern Palestine, strove to convey the significance of the collective experience for the individual. Despite their fictions, these authors are preoccupied with the truth. Furthermore, in spite of their uncertainty and pessimism, conditioned largely by the times and by modernism, by which most of them were influenced, many of the Second Aliyah writers sought to

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transcend the nightmare of the war by means of an ideological and political identification with the Jewish national future, if not specifically the Zionist movement, particularly after the Balfour Declaration. Unlike the most popular war writers in the Western tradition, most of the Hebrew writers took historical conditions into account, together with the particular circumstances of their regions. Their writing transcended the single, or singular, experience of the war to incorporate its only perceived solution for Jews having to fight in foreign wars for the benefit of those who were persecuting them. Writing about the war, John Stallworthy points to ‘the tragedy of educating a generation to face not the future but the past’40 – referring to the heroic models of warfare. In Hebrew writing, however, one finds, together with descriptions of individual experience in wartime, a glance backwards to Jewish history and the collective experience, of which the Great War became one component, and forwards to finding a resolution for the collective fate. The war literature reflects a further stage in the encounter with the eternal problems of Jewish history, and the Great War as yet another event reinforcing the need to establish a national home. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Vallentine Mitchell for allowing me to use a small amount of material from my book Hebrew Literature of the First World War, published in 2008.

Notes 1 Klein, Holger (ed.) The First World War in Fiction (London and Basingstoke: Macmillan Press Ltd., 1976), p. 7. 2 Miron, Dan, Kivun orot: tahanot basipporet ha’ivrit hamodernit. (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1979), p. 399. 3 See Baldick, Chris, The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms (Oxford/ New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), p. 99. 4 Hughes, Catherine, Plays, Politics and Polemics (New York: Drama Book Specialists, 1973), p. xiii. 5 See Miron: Kivun orot, pp. 403–6. 6 Hebrew newspapers, such as Ha’ahdut and Hapo‘el hatza‘ir, were accused by the Ottoman authorities of Zionist propaganda and publishing anti-Ottoman articles, and were shut down, Ha’ahdut in December 1914 and Hapo‘el hatza‘ir in November 1915. See Jacobson, Abigal, ‘A city living through crisis: Jerusalem

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9 10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17 18 19

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during World War I’, www.historyschool.tau.ac.il/2006-7%20Events/Forum Baer.JacobsonReading.pdf, p. 8. Schwarz, Yigal, Lihyot Kide Lihyot. Aharon Reuveni, Monografiyah (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zevi/Magnes, 1993), p. 202. ‘From day to day new orders were given, important ones and less important ones as if they were spilling out of a torn sack.’ Ad Yerushalayim, p. 57. Quoted in Elboim-Dror, Rachel, ‘Hamilhamah kehizdamnut lakibush hahegemoniyah bahinukh’, in Eliav, Mordechai (ed.). Bematsor uvematsok (Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zevi, 1991), p. 59. With his usual elegance of phrase, Miron calls this ‘a subjective correlative of objective historical being [mahut ]’. Miron: Kivun orot, p. 406. Revueni, Aharon, Ad Yerushalayim. Roman miyme milhemet ha’olam harishonah (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad/Keter, 1987), p. 47. Reuveni: Ad Yerushalayim, p. 49. Miron: Kivun orot, p. 410. Reuveni: Ad Yerushalayim, p. 41. Brenner strongly opposed the popular tendency to portray life in Eretz Yisrael as an unwarranted utopia in what he termed ‘generic’ literature. This portrayal, in his view, is only a pretence of normality springing from mendacity, ‘arrogance and counterfeit’, since the reality was far from idyllic. See Brenner, Y.H., ‘Hagenre ha’eretz yisraeli ve’avizerehu’, Kol kitve Y H Brenner. Vol. II (Jerusalem: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1967), p. 268. See Reuveni: Ad Yerushalayim, p. 79. Reuveni: Ad Yerushalayim, p. 58. Reuveni: Ad Yerushalayim, p. 189. Reuveni: Ad Yerushalayim, p. 193. Peleg, Yaron, Orientalism and the Hebrew Imagination (Ithaca; London: Cornell University Press, 2005), p. 113. The composite portrait of the Jewish settlers fashioned by Brenner, Reuveni and Arieli Orloff is not a flattering one. Although there undoubtedly is some truth in this portrait, Brenner’s insistence on the naturalism of anti-genre writing pushed it to the other extreme and, perhaps unfairly, distorted the nature and quality of the settlers. In Arieli Orloff’s Allah Karim, as in Bereshit hamevokha (as, indeed, in Brenner’s ‘Hamotza’), the characters represent the very ‘diasporic elements that Eretz Yisrael Jewish life was supposed to correct’. Peleg: Orientalism and the Hebrew Imagination, p. 122. The Ottoman military band, Mehter, is considered to be the oldest type of military marching band in the world, used for official, municipal and military purposes. Traditionally it was played continuously during battle and provided various battle signals. It was outlawed in 1826. The Mehter usually performed in a circular formation. During World War I an attempt was made to revive a version of the Mehter in accordance with the needs of the modern Turkish army. See Enclyclopaedia of Islam, vol 6. New edition. Ed. by editorial committee including H. A. R. Gibb. (Leiden: Brill, 1960), pp. 1007– 8. Arieli Orloff, L.A., Yeshimon (Tel Aviv: Devir, 1990), pp. 111, 120.

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22 The march, which Arieli Orloff mentions in his band’s repertoire, was not a traditional Mehter genre, but was included in its revived and modernized version in which Arieli Orloff – and his character, David – would have played. While Arieli Orloff does not list the instruments, he includes a lyrical passage in Yeshimon that likens them to the musical instruments used in the Temple. See Arieli Orloff: Yeshimon, p. 118. 23 Arieli Orloff: Yeshimon, p. 121. 24 Arieli Orloff: Yeshimon, p. 156. 25 Peleg: Orientalism and the Hebrew Imagination, p. 125. 26 Dante: Purgatorio, III, 1 – 3. ‘Per me si va ne la citta` dolente, per me si va ne l’’etterno dolore, per me si va tra la perduta gente.’

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

Arieli has manipulated Dante’s lines to suit his ideological purpose and in accordance with Jewish literary tradition. The object of the last phrase in the tercet (‘la perduta gente’) is ambiguous: either the plural ‘people’ (gente) or ‘nation’ (gente). Arieli has chosen to translate it as ‘Through me you pass into a lost nation’ (goy avud). See, for example, S. Yizhar’s ‘Hashavui’ and Benjamin Tammuz’s ‘Taharut haseyiha’. Arieli Orloff: Yeshimon, p. 141. Arieli Orloff: Yeshimon, p. 131. Lines from a poem by Saul Tchernichowsky, ‘Shir eres’ (‘Lullaby’), set to traditional music became one of the earliest of the Zionist songs. Arieli Orloff: Yeshimon, p. 150. Arieli Orloff: Yeshimon, p. 175. Ibid. Hurgin, Ya’akov, Balahat kedem: Sippurim (Tel Aviv: Leiman Publications, 1944). Bar-Yosef, Hamutal, ‘Mavo’ [Introduction] in Ya’akov Hurgin: Yalkut sippurim (Tel Aviv: Yahdav, 1981), p. 16. Peleg: Orientalism and the Hebrew Imagination, p. 38. Hurgin: Balahat kedem, p. 119. Isaiah 28:1 – 4. Hurgin: Balahat kedem, p. 119. Hurgin: Balahat kedem, p. 192. Stallworthy, John, The Oxford Book of War Poetry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), p. xxvii.

CHAPTER 16 `

ON THE ROCK-STREWN HILLS I HEARD/THE ANGER OF GUNS':1 SIEGFRIED SASSOON IN PALESTINE Nancy Rosenfeld

Poet and fox-hunter, a combat officer both decorated for his bravery in the trenches of France and hospitalized as a putative case of shell shock following his public attack upon the continuation of the bloodbath that was the Great War, Siegfried Sassoon (1886– 1967) arrived in Palestine on 12 March 1918, some 3 months after Jerusalem had surrendered to Allenby. Sassoon’s unit, the 25th Battalion of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, was stationed north of Ramalleh, near the Jerusalem– Nablus road; by the time Sassoon reached Palestine the unit was engaged in holding the recentlysecured line. Having been raised in the English countryside, Sassoon was alive to the springtime beauty of the local flora and fauna; as the son of an Indian-Jewish father and British Protestant mother, he would have been expected to sense the religious and historical weight of his surroundings. Sassoon’s observations of the Holy Land are reflected in his diary entries, as well as in his later prose writing; it is worth noting that he wrote few poems during his tour of duty in the Near East.

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If Sassoon’s body was in the Holy Land, however, his heart remained in France with his comrades who continued to fight and die in the last futile campaigns of the Great War. After his first night in Palestine he notes: ‘Soft, warm air, like English summer. Early this morning, rumble of gunfire miles away, for about ten minutes. Nothing grim about this Front so far. France was grim.’2 Many of Sassoon’s Palestine diary entries contain observations of plants and animals, of which he had extensive knowledge, as well as of scenes involving the local population. Yet France is never far from his mind: sitting among ‘ramparts of rock tufted with clematis and honeysuckle and briar’, he describes ‘my sense of peace and freedom. And as I finish writing, someone comes excitedly into the tent with the latest news from France. The bulletins are getting steadily worse. Names which mean nothing to the others make me aware that the Germans have recaptured all the ground gained in the Somme battles.’ In Palestine, on the other hand, ‘the War is quite subsidiary to the landscape; not a sprawling destructive monster like it is in France’.3 This article examines Sassoon’s responses to his service in Palestine, both from the viewpoint of the son of a Jewish father, and from that of a soldier who had experienced the worst of trench warfare in France and for whom service in Palestine constituted a period of ‘Rest and Relaxation’, not as comfortable as a Blighty leave, perhaps, but with better weather. It has long been conventional wisdom that no view of the British experience of World War I is complete without a discussion of the writings of the great British poets such as Rupert Brooke, Isaac Rosenberg and Wilfred Owen, who died in action, and of those who, like Sassoon and Robert Graves, Ivor Gurney, Edmund Blunden and David Jones, suffered in the trenches, fought bravely and returned home wounded in body and mind. Siegfried Sassoon was one of legions of young men who volunteered for military service out of the conviction that by fighting in France he would be doing his best to protect not only his homeland, but also the very way of life – that of a country gentleman and sportsman – which he so loved. Sassoon was the son of Alfred Sassoon, scion of the fabulously wealthy Indian-Jewish merchant

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dynasty, and Theresa, daughter of the Thornycrofts, a family of gentleman-farmers and sculptors. It must be noted that Theresa’s and Alfred’s marriage did not last for many years, and in 1895 Alfred died of tuberculosis. Sassoon was thence raised as a believing Protestant by his mother in the family home of Weirleigh. His childhood and youth, described in idealized form in Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man, were spent in the country, where he enjoyed hunting and cricket as well as writing poetry. As was the case for most of his generation, the Great War was to be a watershed experience.4 Jay Winter notes: ‘What many soldier-poets could not stomach were the loftier versions of civilian romance about war. Those too old to fight had created an imaginary war, filled with medieval knights, noble warriors, and sacred moments of sacrifice.’5 While best remembered for his poems written during and about the war as well as for his prose memoirs, in 1917 Sassoon became a public figure, outspoken in his opposition to the way in which the war was conducted, and especially to what he saw as the wrong-headed refusal on the part of the British government to respond to German peacefeelers in 1917. Believing that a hard-hitting public statement was necessary, Sassoon decided to compose a manifesto – a direct attack on the political leadership of his country for allowing the conflict, which had presumably begun as ‘a war of defense and liberation’, to become ‘a war of aggression and conquest’ as well as for ignoring the ‘evil and unjust’ sufferings of the troops.6 When his statement was printed in the press and read in the House of Commons in July 1917 by anti-war MP H.B. Lees-Smith, Sassoon expected to be court-martialed and imprisoned; his close friend and fellow poet Robert Graves, an officer in the same unit (RWF), arranged for Sassoon to be hospitalized for shell shock.7 Sassoon thus escaped doing time in a military prison, and the military and civilian authorities were saved the embarrassment of seeming to turn a heroic combat officer into a martyr.8 After some 4 months in the military hospital at Craiglockhart, Scotland, Sassoon was posted to the Near East.9 There is a tendency in recent scholarship to view Sassoon as having indeed suffered from shell shock.10 Sassoon willingly cooperated with

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the treatment regimen at Craiglockhart, and became an admirer of Dr W.H.R. Rivers, the hospital’s head and an expert – perhaps the first – in treating what is now seen as a form of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Robert Hemmings notes that ‘Sassoon referred dismissively to Craiglockhart as Dottyville and insisted publicly that there was no psychological basis for his confinement in “the truly awful atmosphere of this place of wash-outs and shattered heroes”. Sassoon would recall in the mid-1930s how he and Rivers had joked about the “anti-war complex” from which he was reputedly suffering.’11 Sassoon respected Rivers and enjoyed his company, as did other patients, and mourned him upon his untimely death in 1922. Hemmings suggests that: By elevating the physician to quasi-spiritual mentor, Sassoon covers over his own complicity in the harsh materiality of war experience that initiated the therapeutic encounter in the first place. Thus Sassoon’s hagiographic portrayal of Rivers is at once a compensatory and diversionary gesture: it compensates for the untimely loss of his physician-cum-mentor and friend by creating an homage, and it diverts, in the grandness of the transformation, both Sassoon and his reader from his traumatizing experience. Accordingly, I argue that his surnarratives allow Sassoon to focus on the transcendent potential of human experience, which surmounts the trauma and the therapeutic procedures of material existence. But fissures of pain disrupt these sur-narratives and reveal the poet-patient unable to escape his past and unable to accept the spiritual future into which he projects his physician, safely beyond the harsh material conditions of the war-torn modern world.12 Sassoon’s acceptance of Rivers as a spiritual mentor (the ‘quasi’ in the above may not be necessary) probably resulted from his view of the doctor as one who respected the patients under his care; who listened to them and who was sensitive to their spiritual, as well as emotional, struggles. Indeed, Rupert Hart-Davis, editor of Sassoon’s War Poems,

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suggests that Rivers may have taken the place of the father whom Sassoon had hardly known.13 In other words, Sassoon’s respect for Rivers does not in itself indicate that the poet suffered from shell shock; all in all there seems to be no reason to assume that Sassoon would have been hospitalized for shell shock if he had not published his attack on the conduct of the war.14 Many soldiers were shocked – in the general sense of the term – by their first view of the destruction of northern France. The battles on the Western Front in which Sassoon took part were fought with modern methods: machine guns, motor vehicles, tanks and aeroplanes. The technology led to widespread damage to civilian installations – whole villages and towns were effectively destroyed – and of course to nature: the meadows, hedgerows and forests of northeastern France and Belgium were simply erased. In a letter sent from Palestine to his friend and literary mentor Edmund Gosse, Sassoon describes the countryside: We are on the rugged hills looking towards Samaria. These hilllandscapes are magnificent. Our present camp is pitched among fig-trees. The narrow terraces are natural rock-gardens, rich with all kinds of flowers; the wild iris has appeared in great profusion lately – also scarlet tulips. – The red and purple anemones are disappearing after making a great demonstration among the rocks – Cyclamen is still going strong. Now I’ve given you all the local colour I can muster for the present.15 For Sassoon, the contrast of the above with the destruction which he had witnessed in the French countryside was poignant. Before enlisting, Sassoon would not have imagined that the fighting was to destroy large areas of the lands which he believed were to be saved by his own and his fellow-soldiers’ brave efforts. Like most of the young men who enlisted in 1914, he had expected to take part in wars reminiscent of past conflicts: Sassoon was an expert horseman and surely imagined cavalry to refer to troops who fought on horseback. As a hunting man he was used to hunting rifles which ejected one bullet at a time, rather than to machine-guns. As an

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officer he was expected to train his soldiers in the use of the bayonet in hand-to-hand combat at a time when the men’s closest physical contact with the enemy was often via clouds of poison gas sent in their direction. Whether in France or in Palestine, the veteran combat officer would not have pictured his service as pertaining to an endeavour of religious salvation. As Eitan Bar-Yosef notes: Notwithstanding its genuine strategic objectives or its complex historical consequences, the Palestine campaign was consciously staged by the British government as an exercise in propaganda, shaped, filtered and capitalized on in order to enhance the nation’s morale. Palestine, after all, was unlike any other imperial catch. It was the Holy Land, steeped in religious and historical memories: few seemed more germane than Richard Coeur de Lion’s failure to win Jerusalem. [. . . Yet for] the majority of the British people, Jerusalem and the Holy Land evoked first and foremost not memories of medieval conquests and European expansion, but rather the sacred memories of the Old and the New Testaments.16 The ‘Crusading theme’, Bar-Yosef suggests, ‘far from being ubiquitously available’ was ‘socially and culturally confined’;17 it does not seem to have appealed to Sassoon, despite his pride in, and loyalty to, his unit. In The Romance of the Last Crusade Vivian Gilbert makes unabashed use of the crusading theme as a figure for the conquest of the Holy Land. He does not allow his admiration for Allenby, however, to draw attention away from the suffering undergone both by soldiers and civilians.18 Neither do Allenby’s biographers downplay the undoubted suffering undergone by the troops in Palestine. Viscount Archibald P. Wavell, who took part in the campaign, stresses that the general’s divisions fought and marched for weeks ‘in extremes of heat and cold, over dusty plains and in harsh, stony hills, often on short rations of food and of water’.19 To these difficulties were added malaria, as Brian Gardner notes, which plagued the soldiers during

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summer months.20 Yet despite the grave hardships undoubtedly endured by the troops, the fighting in Palestine, while making use of new technologies, was more technologically ‘traditional’ than that characterizing the Western Front. As such, it resembled what young men like Sassoon had originally expected, a lifetime ago, back in 1914 or early 1915 when they signed on ‘for the duration’. Much has been written about British wartime journalism and its figuring of the Palestine campaign as a crusade. Such a trope was, of course, countered by that which developed during the war’s later years, according to which the soldier was neither a hero nor a crusader, but rather a victim, a martyr. Or in Hynes’s words: Clearly a profound change was occurring, in some minds at least, as to the essential nature of war. What had changed most was the sense of the difference in scale and in power between the individual soldier and the war in which he was caught. The war itself had come to seem the only source of energy in its world: guns roared, bullets flew, armies moved; but individual men could only suffer. [. . .] Once the soldier was seen as a victim, the idea of a hero became unimaginable: there would be no more heroic actions in the art of this war. And if entire armies could be imagined composed of such victims – if indeed every army was an army of martyrs – then Victory too must fade from the story.21 Indeed, the title of Gilbert’s autobiographical The Romance of the Last Crusade: with Allenby to Jerusalem foregrounds this trope. Yet as DeBell has noted: ‘The image of soldierly sacrifice is one that anticipates the growing helplessness of English political and intellectual life in the twentieth century.’22 Sassoon’s responses to his views of the Holy Land do not even bear a hint of the crusading spirit; he does not see himself either as walking in the footsteps of Richard the Lion-hearted or as a pilgrim to the holy sites of his mother’s, and his own, religion. This may, again, be a function of Sassoon’s state of mind at the time, in which ‘reality’ was the trenches of France, while everything else, including the holy sites of Christianity and Judaism, was less than real.

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World War I, as Paul Fussell argues, ‘occurred at a special historical moment when two “liberal” forces were powerfully coinciding in England. On the one hand, the belief in the educative powers of classical and English literature was still extremely strong. On the other, the appeal of popular education and “self-improvement” was at its peak, and such education was still conceived largely in humanistic terms.’23 Respect for literature as well as a commonly accepted literary canon combined with the sense, for English people, that the greatest of modern literatures was the English. This guaranteed that soldier-poets such as Brooke, Graves, Sassoon, Owen, Rosenberg, would not lack for a serious readership, and this was the case, for the most part, even during the fighting itself. Yet soldier-author and civilian-reader alike faced what Fussell calls: the collision between events and the language available – or thought appropriate – to describe them. [. . .] Logically there is no reason why the English language could not perfectly well render the actuality of trench warfare: it is rich in terms like blood, terror, agony, madness, shit, cruelty, murder, sell-out, pain and hoax [. . .]. Logically, one supposes, there’s no reason why a language devised by man should be inadequate to describe any of man’s works. The difficulty was in admitting that the war had been made by men and was being continued ad infinitum by them.24 Sassoon would certainly have agreed with Fussell that poems written during and about the war represented an attempt at expressing the inexpressible. Sassoon wrote ‘Concert Party (Egyptian Base Camp)’ in April 1918 at Kantara, while on his way to Palestine: Drawn by a lamp, [the soldiers] come, Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand. O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land, You warbling ladies in white.25

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Although ‘O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land’ is reminiscent of Psalm 137 (‘They that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, sing us one of the songs of Zion. How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?’)26 the songs of the men’s own land are, undoubtedly, English songs. Moreover in examining Sassoon’s writings on his service in Palestine one looks in vain for reflections of his Jewish ancestry. As the son of a Jewish father and gentile mother, Sassoon would not have been considered Jewish according to the strictures of orthodox Jewish rabbinical law (Halakha), which views ethnicity as being passed down on the maternal side. Indeed, Sassoon was raised by his mother as a communicant of the Church of England; in the 1950s he was drawn to Roman Catholicism and eventually received into the Catholic Church. While Sassoon was clearly not a believing Jew, Avi Matalon notes that as a member of the Sassoon family he was considered Jewish by the society of which he was part.27 It should be noted that his contact with the Sassoon family was limited, since his paternal grandmother had been violently opposed to her son’s decision to marry outside the faith. As an adult Sassoon expressed resentment of his father’s family for its chilly reception of himself and his brothers:28 as biographer John Stuart Roberts notes, for Siegfried the Sassoon family were ‘the great-uncles who never so much as gave him a “chuck under the chin”’.29 Indeed, according to Wilson, family member Jacques Sassoon recalled that upon receiving the Military Cross for his bravery under fire, Siegfried was honored by the Sassoon family in London with an invitation to tea – but not to dinner. The Sassoons, who had no small responsibility for their ongoing feud with Siegfried’s mother, were still suspicious of their half-gentile relative, despite his proven heroism.30 The suspicion was mutual, if Sassoon’s poem ‘Ancestors’, written before 1915, is any indication: Behold these jewelled, merchant Ancestors, Foregathered in some chancellery of death; Calm, provident, discreet, they stroke their beards And move their faces slowly in the gloom,

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And barter monstrous wealth with speech subdued, Lustreless eyes and acquiescent lids.31 Sassoon does not seem to have been exposed to the kind of social antiSemitism which would have increased his consciousness of his Jewish side. Certainly bearing the name of Sassoon rather than, say, Rosenberg, must have been helpful: during the Edwardian period the Sassoons’ vast wealth was put at the disposal of the Prince of Wales and his social circle. This in turn led to family members receiving royal honours such as knighthoods. Sassoon certainly does not seem to have been uncomfortably sensitive about his Jewishness. If, as Roberts suggests, he had known that Lady Ottoline Morrell referred to him and Mark Gertler, member of the Bloomsbury literary – artistic circle and another of her protege´s, as ‘the two Jews’, he almost surely would have taken it in good spirits.32 Although Patrick Campbell suggests that Sassoon ‘was at pains to repress in both notebooks and poems’ the ‘traditional association of Jews with usury’,33 he was able to joke with friends about the common belief that Jews were both rich and miserly. Due to the ongoing ‘bad blood’ between the Sassoons and the Thornycrofts, Siegfried’s share in the former’s wealth was not large. The poet was not fabulously wealthy by any definition; he did, however, have an income which enabled him to live fairly comfortably, especially since for most of his adult life he did not have a family to support. Siegfried was always generous in helping out needier friends. In his ‘Letter to Robert Graves’, which he wrote while recovering from a head wound in the American Red Cross Hospital, Sassoon famously joked: ‘Yes, you can touch my Banker when you need him./ Why keep a Jewish friend unless you bleed him?’34 In 1936, as noted by Paul Moeyes, the editors of The Collected Works of Isaac Rosenberg asked Sassoon to compose the introduction; Sassoon immediately agreed: Sassoon felt especially strongly for Rosenberg’s poetry because he believed they had something in common: in his ‘foreword’ he wrote that he recognized in Rosenberg ‘a fruitful fusion

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between English and Hebrew culture. Behind all his poetry there is a racial quality – biblical and prophetic’. An element of identification is immediately recognizable: what Sassoon found in Rosenberg is what he had also found in himself: a prophetic and religious urge, and he believed these to derive from the same source: their Jewishness.35 Yet as biographer Roberts notes, Sassoon made few references to his Jewish ancestry ‘and even fewer acknowledgments of his indebtedness to it. Indeed it was only in his last years and in response to a questioning friend that he recognised how his paternal side had given him religious, poetic and prophetic insights.’ Or in his oft-quoted words: ‘I sometimes surmise that my eastern ancestry is stronger in me than the Thornycrofts [. . .]. The daemon [attendant spirit, genius] in me is Jewish.’36 In his correspondence with Dame Felicitas Corrigan the poet notes: ‘You have got it right about my Jewish blood. As a poetic spirit, I have always felt myself – or wanted to be – a kind of minor prophet. I suppose most poets aim at being prophetic communicators. But the idea has always been very strong in my mind. And found utterance in the war poems of course.’37 Sassoon’s writings from or about the period of his service in Palestine admittedly contain few references to his Jewishness. Yet when searching for hints of the influence of Sassoon’s ethnicity, we cannot but note that in Sassoon’s responses to treading the sacred earth of the Holy Land we do not sense the excitement which might be expected of the believing Christian, either. By 1917 many soldiers – religious or nonbelivers, Christian or Jew – deeply resented the noncombatants, the older generation of government leaders, clergymen, even parents, who did not do enough to bring the fighting and the troops’ concomitant suffering to an end. On 4 February 1917, while home on leave, Sassoon went to a revue at the Hippodrome in Liverpool. As he was later to note in Siegfried’s Journey, the show ‘provided me with a bit of material for satire [. . .]. I wrote the afterwards well-known lines called “Blighters” in which I asserted that I’d like to see a tank come down the stalls at a music hall performance where – in my opinion the jingoism of the jokes and

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songs appeared to “mock the fiddled corpses round Bapaume”.’38 As Patrick Campbell suggests: This world of the Hippodrome mirrors [. . .] the values of a blighted nation; a place where, in Sassoon’s words, ‘the jingoism of the songs and jokes’ appears to ‘mock’ the victims of war. It is left to the soldier-poet (here identified by the personal pronoun) and not the music-hall chorus to remind his readers of the carnage of ‘fiddled corpses’. Bapaume, the site of a bloody offensive, may rhyme with home, but the name, remote and echoic, sounds a death knell at the poem’s conclusion.39 The shortness of the journey between the trenches of France and the music halls of London, or even Liverpool, was confusing for many soldiers. One could be up to his waist in mud one day and taking in a vaudeville show the next. Sensitive young men on leave were angered by the view of civilians enjoying themselves; the very nearness of England and France forced them to contrast the suffering of the combat troops with the dissipation of those who stayed at home and profited from the war. The length of the journey from England to Palestine, however, meant that the transition from home-front to battlefront was gentler, more gradual. Winter suggests that ‘far from ushering in modernism, the Great War reinforced romantic tendencies in poetic expression about war’. In this sense: The soldier-poet was in the end a romantic figure. He was the upholder of moral values, the truth-teller par excellence, the man who faced fear and death and spoke about them to the yet unknowing world. He ventured into the domain of the sacred, the no man’s land between the living and the dead, and acted as interlocutor between communities in mourning: soldiers and civilians, men and women, young and old.40 Sassoon’s devotion to the common soldiers whom he commanded and his care for their wellbeing were legendary. Indeed, his decision to go

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public with his opposition to the continuation of the fighting originated in his belief that he must serve as their mouthpiece. It is not surprising, therefore, that on 25 February 1918, at a rest camp near the Adriatic, shortly before boarding the ocean liner Kashgar on the way to Palestine, he took note of: members of a Jewish battalion [rehearsing for a camp show] behind the camp’s tent-lines. What he took to be two wellknown London comedians were being admired by other members of the battalion. He particularly noted the ‘curved Hebrew beak’ of one comedian and the fact that ‘another little Jew’ whispered something to him.41 These comments are clearly facetious, and it may not be to the point to make more of them than they deserve. Yet the reference to Sassoon’s meeting with a Jewish battalion on its way to fight in Palestine is, or should be, of interest to historians.42 The Jewish soldiers would most probably have belonged to one of three Jewish battalions: the 38th, 39th and 40th Royal Fusiliers, which, as Gardner notes, ‘were sent to Allenby as the first practical result of the Balfour Declaration. Serving in them was David Ben Gurion.’43 In order to summarize Sassoon’s interpretation of his service in France in the light of his service in Palestine, we cannot do better than to compare ‘They’, one of his best-known and most often anthologized war poems, with ‘In Palestine’. ‘They’ (31 October 1916) The Bishop tells us: ‘When the boys come back They will not be the same; for they’ll have fought In a just cause: they lead the attack On Anti-Christ; their comrades’ blood has bought New right to breed an honourable race, They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.’

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‘We’re none of us the same!’ the boys reply. ‘For George lost both his legs; and Bill’s stone blind; Poor Jim’s shot through the lungs and like to die; And Bert’s gone syphilitic: you’ll not find A chap who’s served that hasn’t found some change.’ And the Bishop said: ‘The ways of God are strange!’44 ‘In Palestine’ (Spring 1918) On the thyme-scented hills In the morning and freshness of day I heard the voices of rills Quickly going their way. Warm from the west was the breeze; There were wandering bees in the clover; Grey were the olive trees; And a flight of finches went over. On the rock-strewn hills I heard The anger of guns that shook Echoes along the glen. In my heart was the song of a bird, And the sorrowless tale of the brook, And scorn for the deeds of men. The thematic structure of the two poems is identical: the opening stanza presents what at the beginning of the Great War would have been accepted wisdom. Of course the clergyman encourages the young men to enlist in the military; the experience of fighting for their country and the civilization of which it is part will enrich and change the already heroic soldiers, make them into even better men. It is only in the second stanza that we learn of the ways in which the men are changed. Similarly, the beauties of ‘the thyme-scented hills’ of Palestine in springtime are described in loving detail in the opening stanza. In the second stanza the poet notes the ‘anger of guns’, which in turn reminds him of that ‘scorn for the deeds of men’

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which memories of the war cannot help but reawaken. The level of irony reached differs, however: even when confronted with apodictic proof that the soldiers have indeed been changed by the war, though not in the way in which he presumably expected, the Bishop continues to spout platitudes. In contrast, the speaker of ‘In Palestine’ expresses ‘scorn for the deeds of men’; yet the latter provides a mere tinge of irony, a gentle reminder that the freshness of the morning and the sweet birdsong do not tell the whole story. Both ‘In Palestine’ and the depiction of the magnificent landscapes of ‘the rugged hills looking towards Samaria’ in Sassoon’s diaries and in Sherston’s Progress suggest a central difficulty facing those poets and artists whose work is a response to their wartime experiences: grasping the sheer vastness of the war. Ford Maddox Hueffer (later known as Ford Maddox Ford) describes standing at an observation point in France, overlooking the fighting along the Somme: And it came into my head to think that here was the most amazing fact of history. For in the territory beneath the eye, or hidden by folds in the ground, there must have been – on the two sides – a million men, moving one against the other and impelled by an invisible moral force into a Hell of fear that surely cannot have had a parallel in this world. It was an extraordinary feeling to have in a wide landscape.45 The stance of the soldier on the hill, overlooking the scene of a battle, parallels the stance of the soldier in the trenches of France at the daily ‘stand-to’, looking a few hundred meters forward at the nearest enemy outpost. Certainly Sassoon would have agreed with Bar-Yosef that ‘[t]he Western Front Armageddon overshadowed the literal Armageddon in Palestine; the Holy War in Palestine was never more than a side-show of the Holy War in Europe; and the real Promised Land remained Blighty.’46 Standing on ‘rock-strewn’ hills where one could see ‘a great deal of Palestine’, Sassoon compared his prospect with the vast, unimaginable scope of the war in France.

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Certainly the prospect seen from the hills of Judea was much more imaginable. In the late spring of 1918 Sassoon and his unit returned from the Near East. Sassoon was posted to France; while crawling in no man’s land seeking to locate a German machine-gun nest, he was wounded by ‘friendly fire’ and on 18 July was evacuated to England, where he spent the last few months of the war. A few months after the Armistice, Sassoon was to write ‘Everyone Sang’, one of his most often anthologized works. Everyone Sang (April 1919) Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight. Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away. . . O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.47 The above is assumed to express the poet’s feelings at the war’s end. Having repeatedly risked his life as a soldier on the line, and then risked his freedom in order to call attention to the folly of continuing the bloodletting, he both rejoices that it is all over and mourns those who did not live to see the day. The speaker is, of course, out of doors. The landscape – white orchards, dark green fields, bathed in the light of the setting sun – is not specified. It is unlikely that the poet was imagining France, since his memories of the French countryside were of almost total destruction. It could, of course, be England, though the sunlight might be a counter-indication. Perhaps Palestine? It may be that Sassoon’s months of rest and relaxation in the East did,

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after all, leave their mark on his ‘wordless singing’ of the Great War and its aftermath.

Notes 1 ‘In Palestine’, ll. 9 – 10. Siegfried Sassoon Diaries 1915– 1918 (London: Faber, 1983) pp. 226– 7; full text rpt. Wilson, Jean Moorcroft, Siegfried Sassoon: The Making of a War Poet—A Biography 1886– 1918 (London: Duckworth, 1999), p. 452. 2 Sassoon, Siegfried, The Memoirs of George Sherston (New York: Literary Guild, 1937), p. 137. 3 Ibid., pp. 143, 145. 4 In the words of Diane DeBell: ‘It is by now a cliche´ to speak of the war as a “turning-point” for the modern world. Nevertheless, it recurs in the literature in such a repetitious way as to make the idea take on an imaginative validity that must be recognised as affecting all later thinking about the war and so, if for that reason alone, it must be considered “true”.’ DeBell, Diane, ‘Strategies of survival: David Jones, In Parenthesis, and Robert Graves, Goodbye To All That.’ In Klein, Holger (ed.) The First World War in Fiction: A Collection of Critical Essays (London: Macmillan, 1976), pp. 160– 73, p. 169. 5 Winter, Jay, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), p. 204. 6 See text of statement: Moorcroft Wilson: Siegfried Sassoon: The Making of a War Poet, p. 373ff. See also Samuel Hynes’s chapter ‘Dottyville’ in A War Imagined: The First World War and English Culture (London: Bodley Head, 1990), p. 171ff. 7 Graves’s biographer Seymour notes that when Sassoon’s statement received a great deal of public attention, thus leading Sassoon’s name to be ‘firmly attached to the pacifist cause’, Graves ‘decided to transfer the dedication of [his poetry collection] Fairies and Fusiliers from his friend to the regiment. He himself had never publicly opposed the war and he had no wish to be suspected of doing so, although he shared Sassoon’s belief that it was being unjustifiably prolonged.’ Seymour, Miranda, Robert Graves: Life on the Edge (London: Doubleday, 1995), pp. 66 – 7. 8 Sassoon was indeed noted for his personal courage while serving in the trenches; what appeared to be a complete lack of fear and concomitant willingness to take extreme risks earned him the nickname of Mad Jack in his unit. See Moorcroft Wilson: Siegfried Sassoon: The Making of a War Poet, pp. 244– 5. 9 During the 1920s and 1930s Sassoon continued to campaign against war. In 1933, sensing that another terrible war was in the offing, he published a short collection of poems whose title – The Road to Ruin – expresses the poet’s sense of despair at being unable to prevent the renewed bloodshed which seemed inevitable (London: Faber & Faber, 1933).

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10 See Hipp, Daniel, The Poetry of Shell Shock: Wartime Trauma and Healing in Wilfred Owen, Ivor Gurney and Siegfried Sassoon (London: McFarland, 2005). 11 Hemmings, Robert, ‘“The blameless physician”: narrative and pain, Sassoon and Rivers’, Literature and Medicine 24/1 (2005), pp 109– 26, p. 112. 12 Hemmings: ‘The blameless physician’, p. 111. 13 Hart-Davis, Rupert (ed.), Siegfried Sassoon: The War Poems (London: Faber & Faber, 1983), p. 131n. 14 See Robert Graves’s harrowing outline of what he saw as the inevitable decline in an officer’s health as his service in the trenches dragged on: ‘Between three or four weeks he was at his best, unless he happened to have any particular bad shock or sequence of shocks. Then his usefulness gradually declined as neurasthenia developed. At six months he was still more or less all right; but by nine or ten months, unless he had been given a few weeks’ rest on a technical course, or in hospital, he usually became a drag on the other company officers. After a year or fifteen months he was often worse than useless.’ Good-bye to All That [1929, 1957] (New York: Anchor, 1998), p. 171. 15 Letter from Siegfried Sassoon to Edmund Gosse, 25 March 1918, Rutgers University Library. 16 Bar-Yosef, Eitan, ‘The last crusade: British propaganda and the Palestine campaign, 1917– 1918’, Journal of Contemporary History 36/1 (2001), pp. 87 – 109 (pp. 88 – 9). 17 Bar-Yosef, ‘The last crusade’, p. 89. 18 Gilbert, Vivian, The Romance of the Last Crusade (London: Appleton, 1927), pp. 198– 9, 200ff. 19 Wavell, Archibald Percival, Allenby: Soldier and Statesman (London: Harrap, 1946), p. 190. 20 Gardner, Brian, Allenby (London: Cassell, 1965), p. 176. 21 Hynes: A War Imagined, pp. 208, 215. 22 DeBell: ‘Strategies of survival’, p. 162. 23 Fussell, Paul, The Great War and Modern Memory [1975] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 157. 24 Fussell: The Great War and Modern Memory, pp. 169, 170. 25 Hart-Davis, War Poems, p. 120. 26 Ps. 137:3 – 4. 27 Matalon, Avi, ‘Difference at war: Siegfried Sassoon, Isaac Rosenberg, U.Z. Grinberg, and poetry of the First World War’, Shofar 21/1 (Autumn 2002), pp. 25 – 43 (pp. 26, 27). 28 Siegfried was the middle of three brothers. His youngest brother, Hamo, was killed in the fighting in 1915. 29 Roberts, John Stuart, Siegfried Sassoon (London: Richard Cohen Books, 2000), p. 3. 30 Wilson: Siegfried Sassoon: The Making of a War Poet, p. 301. 31 Ibid., p. 14. 32 Roberts: Siegfried Sassoon, p. 226.

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33 Campbell, Patrick, Siegfried Sassoon: A Study of the War Poetry (Jefferson and London: McFarland, 1999), p. 193. 34 Hart-Davis, War Poems, p. 131. 35 Moeyes, Paul, Siegfried Sassoon: Scorched Glory (New York: St. Martin’s Publishing, 1997), pp. 263, 264. 36 Roberts: Siegfried Sassoon, p. 3. 37 Corrigan, Dame Felicitas, Siegfried Sassoon: Poet’s Pilgrimage (London: Gollancz, 1973), p. 21. 38 Sassoon, Siegfried, Siegfried’s Journey, 1916– 1920 (London: Faber & Faber, 1945), p. 45. 39 Patrick, Campbell, ‘Sassoon’s “Blighters”’. The Explicator 53/3 (Spring 1995), P. 170(2). GeneralOneFile, Gale, Haifa University. Accessed 24 September 2007 at http://find.galegroup. com/itx/start.do?prodId¼ITOF. 40 Winter: Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning, p. 221. 41 See Wilson: The Making of a War Poet, p. 446; also Sherston’s Progress, p. 131. 42 Joseph Cohen – Isaac Rosenberg’s biographer – suggests that shortly before his death Rosenberg hoped to be transferred to the Jewish Battalion in the Near East. Instead, Rosenberg (together with those few of his fellow soldiers of the 11th King’s Own Lancasters still alive) was transferred to the First King’s Own Lancasters. Journey to the Trenches: The Life of Isaac Rosenberg 1890– 1918 (London: Robson, 1975), p. 173. 43 Gardner: Allenby, p. 176. 44 Hart-Davis, War Poems, p. 57. 45 Ford (Hueffer), Ford Maddox, ‘Arms and the mind’, rpt. Hynes: A War Imagined, p. 106. 46 Bar-Yosef: ‘The last crusade’, p. 109. 47 Hart-Davis, War Poems, p. 144.

INDEX (With abbreviated military ranks)

Aaronsohn, Aaron, 84, 88, 90 – 91, 96 – 7, 99 Aaronsohn, Alexander, 93, 100 Abdallah, Ibn Husayn, 76 Abdu¨lhamid (Abd al-Hamid) II, 77, 235 Akarli, Engin (author), 77 Alexander the Great, 115 Allenby, Gen. Sir Edmund, xi, 8 – 9, 48 – 9, 55, 59, 101– 120, 122, 127– 132, 135– 6, 146, 168, 173, 175– 7, 196, 207, 223, 321, 328 Ali, Amir, 88 – 9 Ali Fuad Bey, 221 Ali Riza Bey, 219 Ali Rushan Bey, 235 Amann, Louis-Philippe, 37 Antebi, Albert, 220, 236– 7 Apfler, Le´onard, 38 Arieli-Orloff, Lev, 301–8, 310–12, 314– 5 Arif Bey, 221 Arslan, Amin, 88 Atatu¨rk, see: Mustafa Kemal Atay, Falih Rıfkı (author), 73, 85 Avigur, Shaul, 282 Ba-fakih, Sheikh Ali, 233 Ballobar, Conde de, 206– 24

Barlassina, Luigi, 50 Barluzzi, Antonio, 48 Barnett, Correlli (author), 1 Barrow, Gen. Sir G. de S., 105– 6, 109 Bar-Yosef, Eitan (author), 321, 330 Becke, A.F. (author), 60 – 1 Becker, Joseph, 38 Bell, Gertrude, 52 Ben Avi, Itamar, 255 Ben Hillel ha-Cohen, Mordechai, 255, 257 Ben-Gurion, David, 296–7, 328 Benn, Wedgwood, 159 Ben-Zevi, Yitzhak, 296 Bieth, Ernest, 28, 30, 35 – 6 Bismarck, Otto von, 17 Blankenburg, Oberleutnant von, 65 – 6 Blunden, Edmund, 317 Bragg, Lawrence, 161, 170 Braudel, Fernand, 17 Brauer, E´douard, 38 Brenner, Yossef Haim, 6, 258, 297, 310–12, 314 Brode, Dr Johann, 85 – 7, 90, 93 – 4, 221 Brooke, FM Sir Alan, 119 Brooke, Rupert, 317, 323 Bols, Gen. L.J., 176

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Bush, George, 4 Byng, Gen. Sir Julian, 101– 2 Cadorna, Gen. Luigi, 46 – 7, 49 Carcaterra, Father Custos, 209 Camassei, Filippo, 217 Campbell, Patrick (author), 325, 327 Casement, Sir Roger, 8 Casares, Rafael, 209 Cemal Pas
a, Ahmet, 78, 80, 85 – 91, 95, 100, 212, 215– 17, 220– 3, 233– 9, 248, 257, 296, 299 Cevat Rifat Bey, 99 Chauvel, Charles, 150 Chauvel, Gen. Sir Harry, 60, 142, 177– 8, 196 Chaytor, Gen. Sir Edward, 60 Chetwode, Gen. Sir Philip, 104, 148 Churchill, Winston, 7, 118 Clark, Alan (author), 151 Clemenceau, Georges, 13 Cle´ment, Wendel, 35 Cockburn, Cap. J.R., 163 Cohen, Joseph (author), 334 Condor, Claude, 154 Corrigan, Dame Felicitas, 326 Corvisart, Gen. C. P. R. V., 36, 38. D’Agostino, Maj. Francesco, 46 – 8 Dalman, Gustaf, 63 –6 Dalmeny, Lord, 104 Darwaza, Izat, 229 Dawney, Gen. Guy, 164 DeBell, Diane, 322, 332 De Jouvenel, Henry, 284 De Martel, Henry, 284 De Lisle, Gen. Sir Henry, 105 d’Espe`rey, Gen. Franchet, 33– 4 Diaz, Gen. Armando, 49 Diotallevi, Federico, 50 Dizengoff, Meir, 269 Dowson, Sir Ernest, 154 D’Oyly Snow, Gen. Sir, Thomas, 105

Echad Ha’am, 259 Edde´, Emile, 284– 5 Edmonds, Sir James, 104 Eisenberg, Amatzia, 282 Elimalich, Avraham, 253– 4 Elyashar, Yitzhak, 236– 7 Enver Pas
a, 217, 223, 236–7 Ernst, Dr Robert, 27 Falkenhayn, Gen. Erich von, 116, 174, 216, 223 Falls, Cyril (author), 60, 68, 121, 139, 146 Farhi, Nissim, 216 Faour, Amir, 284 Ferro, Marc (author), 1 Finkelstein, Dr Alfons, 255 Fischer, Fritz, (author) 2 – 3 Florent-Matter, Euge`ne, 26 Foch, Gen. Ferdinand, 34 Ford, Maddox Ford, 330 Franck, Henri, 280 Franco, Francisco, 211 French, FM Sir John, 141, 143 Frey, Oberstleut. Ulrich, 188 Fuad Bey: see: Ali Fuad Bey Fussell, Paul (author), 2, 323 Gardner, Brian, 321 Garsia, Lt. Col. Clive, 111 Gasparri, Cardinal, 215 George-Picot, Franc
ois, 48 Georges, Clotilde and Philibert, 35 Gertler, Mark, 325 Gilbert, Vivian, 321– 2 Gintsburg-Kroaza, Dr Esther, see: Kroaza, Dr Esther Glazebrook, Otis, 207, 213, 216 Gottlieb, Robert, 280 Gough, Gen. Sir Hubert, 102, 105– 6 Grant, Col. Charles, 105 Grant, Gen. William, 60 – 1, 64 Graves, Robert, 317– 18, 323, 325, 332–3

INDEX Grimm, Oberleut., 37 Gullett, Henry S., 60, 102, 109, 115 Gurney, Ivor, 317 Hadar, Dr, 261 Haig, Gen. Sir Douglas, 105– 6, 108, 109, 120, 141, 143 Haldane, Gen. Sir Aylmer, 103– 4 Hamilton, Gen. Sir Ian, 7 Hamelin, French Gen., 36 Hamshaw Thomas, Hugh, 156– 7, 160, 164, 169 Hannibal, 115 Hart-Davis, Rupert, 319 Hemmings, Robert (author), 319 Hindenburg, FM, Paul von, 2, 116 Hirsch, Baron Maurice de, 271– 2 Hodgson, Gen. H.W., 179 Hodgson, Col. W.T., 179, 182, 184, 186 Hoffman, Dr, 259 Hoffmann, Gen. Max, 151 Holland, Gen. A.E.A., 120 Hollond, Col. Spencer, 104, 120 Holzhausen, Leut. Heinrich, 192 Hoofien, Eliezer, 222 Hopman, Adm., Albert, 34 Horne, John (author), 14 Hueffer, Maddox Ford, see: Ford, Maddo Ford Hughes, C.E., 159 Hughes, Matthew (author), 150 Hurgin, Ya‘akov, 309– 12 Husseini, Hussein Hashem, 231, 233– 8 Husseini, Ismail, 237– 8 Husseini, Kamil, 236 Husseini, Muhammad Amin, 233 Husseini, Salim, 234 Hynes, Samuel (author), 322 Ismet Bey, Col., 61 – 4, 69 Jacobson, Abigail (author), 209, 218

337

James, Lawrence (author), 144 Jawhariyyeh, Wasif, 217– 8, 224, 228–239 Jeudwine, Gen. Sir Hugh, 106 Jones, David, 317 Jones, Henry Albert (author), 59 – 61 Jones, Ian (author), 145, 150 Ju¨nger, Ernst (author), 18 Kalvarisky, Haim, 276 Kantor, engineer, 276–7 Karst, Joseph, 26, 28 – 9 Kasper, Nicolas, 35 Keegan, John (author), 2 Keir, Gen. Sir John, 103 Keizerman, Natan, 252, 255 Kelly, Gen. P.J.V., 173, 178– 180, 182–196 Keogh, Col. Eustace (author), 144, 151 Kessler, Maj. von, 34 Keyserlingk, Maj. Albin-Karl von, 176, 191–2 Khoury, Selim, 237 King, Yossef, 237 Kirke, Col. Walter Meryyn St George, 113 Kitchener, FM Herbert Horatio, 52, 154, 220 Kob, Miss, 237 Koo Wellington,V.K., 5 Kress von Kressenstein, Gen. Friedrich, 61, 63 –4, 69, 95 –6, 223 Kramer, Alan, 14 Kraus, Friedrich, 214 Kroaza, Dr Esther, 259, 261 Krommenacker, Xavier, 28 – 30 Kuebler, family, 219 Kuntz, Paul, 36 Larking, Col. R.L.W., 36, 38 Latscher, Baron, von, 95 Laveran, Alphonse, 129

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Lawrence, Thomas Edward, xi, 8, 52, 115, 119 Leed, Eric (author), 2 Lees-Smith, H.B., 318 Lemkin, Rafael, 18 Levi-Bianchini, Angelo, 51 – 2 Levin, M. G., 261 Lewin, Ronald (author), 118 Liddell Hart, Sir Basil, 104, 107, 141 Liman von Sanders, Gen. Otto, 26, 33 – 4, 173– 4, 176– 80, 188– 95, 197 Lindenau, Leut., 65 – 6 Lishansky, Joseph, 274 Lloyd George, David, 12, 45 – 6, 49, 53, 111– 13, 119, 141 Loytved-Hardegg, Julius, 95 Ludendorff, Gen. Erich, 2, 116, 151 Luz, Nimrod (author), 76 MacAndrew, Gen. H. J. M., 177–9, 184, 187, 193, 195 Macid (Majid/ Majd) Bey, 219, 238 Makino, Nobuaki, 12 Malamar, C., 166 Manela, Erez (author), 5, 13 Manzoni, Gaetano, 51 Marlborough, Duke, 115 Marx, Karl, 4 Massey, W.T., 138, 140– 1, 150 Matalon, Avi (author), 324 Maude, Gen. Sir Stanley, 8 Maule, Maj. W.J., 156, 158, 164, 166, 168– 9 Maunsell, Col. Francis, 155, 169 Maygar, Col. Leslie, 60 Meinertzhagen, Col. Richard, xi, 109, 156, 163– 9 Meldrum, Cap. D.R., 154, 162 Meyerson, Emile, 276 Milne, Gen. Sir George, 33 Moeyes, Paul, 325

Moltke, Helmuth von, 2. 116 Montgomery, Gen. Sir Bernard, 108, 119 Mordike, John (author), 144 Morrell, Lady Ottoline, 325 Mountbatten, Adm. Lord, 118 Moyal, Simeon, 87 Murray, Gen. Sir Archibald, 108– 10, 116, 146 Mussolini, Benito, 53 Mustafa Kemal, 53 Nahmani, Yosef, 282 Namour, Elias Mussa, 284 Napoleon Bonaparte, 115 Nemer, Ihsan, 229 Newcombe, Lt. Col. Stewart Francis, 67 Nihad Bey, 236 Nitti, Francesco, 53 Nivelle, Gen. Robert, 118 Nolte, Ernst (Author), 17 Nur al-Din Bey, 216 Nuri Bey, 235 Orbach, Dr Eliyahu, 259– 60 Orloff, Lev: see Arieli, Lev Ott, Albert, 35 Owen, Wilfred, 317, 323 Pamuk, Orhan (author), 18 Parker, Alfred C., 75 Pappe´, Ilan (author), 81 Peleg, Yaron (author), 305, 309 Perfall, 222 Pesenti, Lt. Col. Gustavo, 48, 54 Philby, St John, 54 Pierrot, Ade‘le and Camille, 35, 38 Pomiankowski, Josef, 95– 6 Porat, Yehoshua (author), 233 Powles, Lt. Col. C. Guy, 59 Preston, R.M.P., 138, 142

INDEX Primrose, Earl of Rosebery Harry, see: Dalmeny, Lord Pru¨fer, Dr Curt, 78, 82, 98 Qawakji, Fawzi, 229 Rappaport, Dr, 262 Raphae¨l, Greek consul, 219– 21 Rengstorf, Karl Heinrich, 69 Reuveni, Aharon, 295– 302, 306– 12, 314 Rivers, Dr W.H.R., 319– 20 Riza Bey, see: Ali Riza Bey Roberts, John Stuart (author), 324– 6, 328 Robertson, Gen. Sir William, 48, 55, 111– 3, 119, 122 Rogan, Eugene, 77 Rosenberg, Isaac, 317, 323, 325– 6, 334 Rosenheck, Jules, 281–2 Ross, Ronald, 129 Rothschild, Baron Edmond de, 250, 272, 274, 281, 283–5, 287 Rothschild, Baron James de, 287 Rowcroft, Lt. Col. Claude, 179 Ruppin, Dr Arthur, 87, 220, 252 Rushan Bey, see: Ali Rushan Bey Sa’adallah Bey, 238 Sadek Bey, 236 Said, Edward, 119 Sakakini, Khalil, 229, 231 Salah al-Din, 115 Salandra, Antonio, 44 Samuel, Lord Herbert, 281 Sassoon, Jacques, 324 Sassoon, Siegfried, 316– 32 Schatz, Boris, 216 Schmidt, Dr Edmund, 82 Schrecker, Maj., 216 Schreiber, Jacques, 36

339

Scully, Carl, 150 Sforza, Carlo, 50 Shaked, Gershon (author), 310 Sheffy, Yigal (author), 154, 156, 159–60, 164, Sheridan, Gen. Philip, 17 Sherman, Dr, 257 Shukeiry, Sheikh As’ad, 233 Sima, ‘the Moroccan’, 238 Slim, Gen. Sir William, 109, 116– 8 Sonnino, Sidney, 44 – 9, 51, 53 – 5 Soragna, Marquis di, 51, 52 Smuts, Gen. Jan, 113 Stein, Leon, 82 Storrs, Ronald, 76, 109, 223–4 Talat (Tala’at) Pas
a, 100, 217, 220 Tamari, Salim (author), 229–30 Tenenbaum, Lea, 217, 237 Thon, Dr Jacob, 215, 222 Ticho, Dr Abraham, 216 Tirpiz, Adm. Alfred von, 2 Tourjman, Ihsan, 209, 217– 8, 224 Townshend, Gen. Sir Charles, 8, 116 Tremaine, John (author), 1 Trumpeldor, Joseph, 6 Tuozzi, Alberto, 51 Umberto I, 50 Vaughan, Gen. John, 107 Vittorio Emmanuelle III, 50 Wangenheim, Baron Hans von, 96 Wavell, Viscount Archibald, xi, 60 – 2, 106, 144, 153– 4, 158, 167, 321 Weber Ernest and Jeanne, 34, 38 Weibel, Oberleut. Fernand, 36 Weitz, Yosef, 282 Weizmann, Chaim, 43, 51 Weldon, Captain Lewen B., 159 Wendling, Michel, 36

340

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Wilhelm, Friedrich II, 25, 63, 113 Wilson, Gen. Sir Henry, 119, 133 Wilson, Jean Moorcroft, 324 Wilson, Woodrow, 4 –6, 8, 10 – 13, 52 Winter, Jay (author), 318 Wolfson, Harry, 282 Woodfin, Edward, xii Wurtz, E´mile, 37

Wren, Christopher, 13 Yafeh, Dr Hilel, 259 Zaglul, Sa’ad, 11 Zaky Bey, 214, 216, 221 Zeysolff, Fernand, 27, 29 – 33 Zimmermann, Arthur, 8