Part 6
One ride I remember more vividly than all others. We started at sunrise from Belah, rode through a village, and came to a place of little hills whose slopes were bare of trees. Here the Bedouins had pitched their tents, some on the hills and some in the valleys, singly or in groups. When we cantered past men came from the tents to look at us, and children followed after, wailing for backsheesh. The women remained at their tasks. Dogs barked at our horses’ hoofs till their masters cursed them, when they slunk back snarling. We travelled on, with Fara on our left—a great grey bulk against the sky—coming at length to old pasture-lands that War had restored to Nature. Where dust had lain deep, and all plant life had perished under the feet of an army, Nature had won loveliness, healing earth’s wounds with grasses and flowers. It seemed an idle dream that the red tide of war had surged where poppies flamed in the sun and the little speedwell’s eyes of blue shone amid the grass.
Far as our vision ranged the land was bright with flowers—tulips, blue salvias, scarlet pimpernels, asphodels, white daisies, anemones, and lilies swaying on tall stems; hollows brimming with sunshine and pink with cyclamens; acres of red poppies set in emerald; sky-coloured lupines; a green knoll fringed with “pheasant’s eye”; and away to the west a long, brown field flaked with white convolvulus flowers.
For a mile we rode along the wady, seeking vainly an easy descent for the horses. Every cleft was starred with flowers; over the ledges melon plants trailed, making caves of tiny crevices haunted by lizards and spiders. Down a steep track we rode carelessly, letting our eyes dwell on blossoms and giving the horses free rein. We won to the other side safely, then on again through flower-land, with the white tents of the Camel Corps gleaming afar at Shellal. A long, glad ride from dawn till dusk across the plains in spring.
When we carried war to the Judean hills we found wild beauty there; flowers among the terraced hills and olive trees in the valleys. Pink hollyhocks grew on the heights along the Jerusalem road. The valleys were gardens. Gehenna’s goat-tracks, winding among old tombs, were bordered with scarlet poppies.
Wild flowers are Palestine’s glory. No one has named them all. From Dan to Beersheba, among the hills of Moab and Judea, on the wide plain of Esdraelon, on Hermon and Tabor, in Gilead and Bashan; everywhere in Palestine Spring casts down her kindling buds. We have seen them all in our long campaign, and out of the shining company have chosen two for remembrance: the little red poppy (symbol of sleep), and the lily that grows by the sea.
CHARLES BARRETT.
Farming in Arcady
Up in fanatical, uncorrupted old Hebron, where, happily, the cheap tourists are afraid to venture, you see the rude but expert craftsman making the plough. Seated in his gloomy little recess, hewn out of the stone of the hillside, he works swiftly with toes and fingers. Seizing a rough bent branch of an olive tree, he stands it up and grasps the lower end firmly with his deft and supple toes. The pieces fly. Slashing and turning, he lops the smaller limbs, hacks it here and prunes it there, and, in a few minutes, flings it aside complete, except for the steel tip which plays the part of the share.
For a few shillings the plough is bought by the Bedouin. The selection of the land for cultivation is equally simple. Over most of the Palestine we covered, there is little regularity in the tenure of the small holder. The Sheik of the village has a loose control over a wide area, for which he pays tribute and taxes in grain to the Turk. The Bedouin is granted a plot the size of which is according to his capacity to cultivate and his inclination to work. He is rarely ambitious, and always lazy. If he has more than one wife, or has children of a working and a hungry age, he will extend his area. But, like the piece of glass bottle in Grimm’s fairy tale, he loves best just to lie about and glitter in the sun. That is better than any exceptional success as a farmer.
As a cultivator he has complete confidence in Allah. He has never heard of artificial manures, or of the rotation of crops; he rarely troubles to irrigate even when water is available. Here, as all over the Eastern Turkish Empire, there is fertile land for every inhabitant, and to spare. So the Bedouin roams wide with his plough. He crops here this year, and next year tries a patch a few miles away, which has been resting for a season or two under the thin native grasses. His selection made, he appears at dawn one morning, riding on his mournful ass and carrying his plough in front of him. Or perhaps he rides one of his little black oxen and leads the ass; or he may ride either the ass or the oxen and lead a horse or camel. The point is, that he always rides and carries the plough, and that his wife, if she is in attendance, always walks and carries half-a-hundred-weight of something on her head. It is a significant commentary upon his neighbours that he always brings his plough home at night.
In his team he seldom drives two of a kind. It is a cow and a donkey, or a scabby, bony ghost of a pony and a camel. You can yoke them as you please. Palestine is a land that knows no shame, and so the horse does not rebel at being harnessed with a cow. Lazy as he is, the Bedouin is always up at dawn. At dusk he goes to his mat to sleep; he cannot read, and the villages burn no night-lights.
Cleverly holding his simple plough upright with one hand, he pelts clods at the team or wields a long goad with the other. Up and down he scratches little gutters a few inches apart, his camel towering ludicrously above his ass. Usually, he sows his seeds in strips before the plough. He rarely harrows and never rolls, but sometimes he shows a sense of the value of fallow by ploughing twice. The rest he leaves to Allah.
Sometimes, in the spring, he will pluck the wild turnip and radish and other tares from the growing corn. As a rule he prefers to sit in his coloured rags in the pleasant sunshine. Or he may go off to Jaffa with his asses and his women, and traffic in oranges. Then you see him, with both asses and women brutally overloaded, goading the donkey, or perhaps astride behind the burden of fruit, as the little long-eared slave totters along the tracks. The women, like the asses, never protest. The man is master. It is the way of the East.
The beautiful lilies and poppies vanish as summer comes upon the rolling, treeless plain. The corn ripens and harvesting begins. Machinery plays as little part here to-day as it did among the “alien corn” near Bethlehem long ago, when pretty Ruth worked for Boaz. In Palestine the world has stood still for a thousand years or more, or when it moved it moved backward. Much of the barley and wheat is pulled up, roots and all, but some is cut with sickles. In each village there is a harvest floor—a patch of clean, hard ground, where each man builds his little stack and sees about the threshing.
Occasionally you see the flail at work, but it is not popular. To wield the flail is hard work. So the Bedouin employs his cattle, his wives and his children. He spreads the loose crop in a little circle about two feet deep. Donkeys and oxen and ponies are then tied together, from two to four abreast, and goaded round and round upon the straw. Sometimes the threshing is done by their hoofs alone; but often a rude wooden sledge is drawn after them. Time is of no concern. The cattle barely move; the owner sits with his friends under the shade of an olive tree, smoking many cigarettes and occasionally dreaming luxuriously over his hubble-bubble; pleasant breezes blow across from the gleaming Mediterranean. The season has been generous: Allah is good. Why hurry?
The threshing finished, rough wooden forks are used to remove the coarsest straw, and then the winnowing begins. Day after day the harvest is thrown high into the air, and, slowly but surely, the chaff and dross are separated from the grain by the Mediterranean breezes.
Then the Turk comes—or he did before the war—and takes from thirty to sixty bushels out of every hundred! That is why the Bedouin is so fond of glinting in the sunshine, like the piece of glass bottle in the old fairy tale.
H. S. G.
“Standing to.”
While the sleep-drunk world behind lies still abed, And the dawn breath chills the smoking mists before, Down the lines between in commune of the Dead, There are eyes, that world of slumber watching o’er; There are trenches darkly sheening readied steel, There are orbs aglint, the darkness peering through; And the shades of Night, the shades of Death scarce veil, For the millions, to the Day, who’re “Standing to”
“Standing to”—in grim attesting to a Thought, By the scars that weal Earth’s Face from sea to sea In the pride to set the need of Life at naught For the will to live a fancied Destiny; Waiting, watching, till the hour of dree be gone, Or muezzin-guns roar forth their hate anew— O! Well may the world of Slumber slumber on, For those watchers of the Dawn, who’re “Standing to.”
BRENTOMMAN.
A WALER’S STORY
Of my early life I remember but little. I have a dim recollection of golden sunlight, of wide-sweeping plains, of a huge dam down by a homestead, of tall trees like some I have seen around Jaffa, and others with golden blossom, and of a long trip in a railway truck to Homebush—ah! you know the place?—where I was sold.
Since I have been in the Army my comrades have often taunted me with not knowing on what station I was born, and have called me a town-bred scrub; but I cannot help that. I will not bore you with details of my early career at Surry Hills as a “week-end” horse (I was then owned by a prosperous butcher), nor will I inflict upon you my first impressions of Army life at Moore Park; but I must say that I was at Broadmeadows, learning “Sections right,” “Form troop,” and “Walk march,” before they would put me in a unit.
On the 20th November, 1914, our troop was taken down to a big dock and put on board what our masters called a transport. (I have heard them call it a ship, a tub—and other names as occasion demanded). We horses had a rough time all the way across; and judging by the manner in which our masters cursed when they came to feed us and perform their stable duties, or to lead us about the decks for exercise, I think they had a rough time, too. I remember a remarkable incident on our deck when we were somewhere in the tropics. (If you know anything about the tropics and about ships, you will know how we and our masters existed). Ginger, who never wore anything to speak of except a pair of shorts, shoes, and a grin, looked after the horses on my off side; he also used to hitch baskets on to a long rope, which disappeared through the deck above. “Haul away!” was all he ever said, and the basket disappeared. Later, a voice would echo from above: “Under below!” and Ginger would stand well back until it landed again. One day when the rope slipped, the chap up above forgot to say “Under below,” and the big basket fell down on Ginger and extinguished him. When he got clear, his conversation with the chap on top was so unrestrained and vivid that three horses broke out of their stalls and tried to climb up on deck. I did not mind—I had often heard the expressions Ginger used.
We reached Alexandria at last and were taken ashore. At first I thought that a peculiarity existed in the ground of Egypt, for it kept rocking and swaying under my feet like the movement of the ship; but this feeling went away in two or three days. We were taken to Gabbari, put into trucks, and rattled to Ma’adi, a pretty little suburb of Cairo. At Ma’adi we had plenty of feed, good stables which kept the sun off us during the day, and very little work while the boys were away at the Peninsula. Sometimes we went out on route marches and dummy stunts, and always on Sundays our masters used to take us out on to the desert behind the camp, to gallop us until we were tired. Those gallops were great sport. There would be horses all over the desert, some of them with riders clinging affectionately to their necks, others without riders, and all of them thoroughly enjoying the fun, and kicking their heels playfully into the air. We were at Ma’adi right up till February, 1916, and then we were pushed off to Serapeum and dumped in a camp close to the Canal. After the delights of Ma’adi, Serapeum came as a shock to me; and in a few days I was feeling very ill on account of the sand I had swallowed with my food. I could not stand, so I rolled about in agony. Up till then I had never had a day’s sickness, so this experience was quite a new one. The farrier-sergeant visited me on the evening of my collapse, administered a “ball” to me, and told Bill (my boss) that I would be all right in the morning. A lot he knew about horses! He ought never to have left that boot factory. He also told Bill to give me a bit more _berseem_. Bill stopped with me for a while, talking; then a whistle blew and he cleared out. “Good-night, Baldy” (that is the name I always got) he said as he departed, “you’ll be O.K. at reveille.” In the morning I was almost better, and by lunch time, when Bill gave me a big feed of _berseem_ that he had pinched from somewhere, I was as good as ever again.
We had been at Serapeum only a few weeks when I was taken up to Salhia, where I was promoted on the strength (I think that is the term) of a new Squadron. Bill came with me, so I had no complaints to make—not even about the _tibbin_. Bill always was a good master, and he was never tired of looking after me. In heat, in dust, in mud; across the desert, over the plains, amongst the hills—anywhere at all—Bill always groomed me and saw that I got my full issue of tucker. We used to have long talks together; and I really think he understood what I had to say to him. He was always considerate in the way he loaded my saddle, and rather than sacrifice my bag of grain, he would dump his own gear. He could not do enough for me; and, believe me, I could not do enough for him. Unfortunately, all masters are not like Bill, or (pardon my vanity) all horses like Baldy.
My first real stunt was from Salhia to Kantara across the desert; and I think that it will live as long in my memory as that Amman show. We travelled all night by short stages—Bill would ride for ten minutes, then walk beside me during the next ten, and then we rested for ten minutes. I had a fair load on the saddle, but this was Bill’s first desert stunt, too, and he had not realized exactly how severe desert stunts can be. After that he always let someone else have the heavy gear, while he looked after the light stuff. That was in April, 1916. The long months from then until March, 1917, were one nightmare of bombs and sand, out of which our stunts—Romani, Bir el Abd, Mazar, Magdhaba, Rafa, and many minor ones—stood like the milestones I have seen along the roads at home. At the commencement of things in Sinai tucker was plentiful, and we waxed fat in the land and thrived on brackish water; now we no longer get the same amount—or so it seems—but the water is good. I did not notice the change until yesterday, when I had recourse to chew through my headrope so that I could visit the feed-heap while the piquet slept. Yet the change has been very gradual, and it has not been severe on me. I am still pretty sound in wind and limb, although I have seen old Bill look sorrowfully at me, and say, “Baldy, ten pounds of grain without fixings isn’t much to offer a man’s best cobber, is it? Never mind, old chap, we’re coping very well—very well, you and I.”
Once Bill was away for seven days; and when he came back I noticed that he was stable-guard for a whole fortnight. I thought it rather good of Bill to look after the horses for such a long time without a break. I heard all about it afterwards. Bill and the sergeant—a big, ugly bloke like a Gyppo—were talking near me, and I overheard Bill’s final remark. “Yes,” he said, “I’d be a stableman for a month if I could get those three days in Cairo again.” Ah, Bill! what were you doing? While he was away in Cairo we had a little stunt to blow up a railway line; and because I was a good worker, the big Gyppo bloke passed me on for the occasion. The chap who rode me was a dopey kind of individual, and, although the stunt was only to occupy thirty hours, he loaded me up with all sorts of gear, and forgot my lunch-bag. We came home in the night time in a fog, tried to find Tel el Fara, and circled about all over the place until I got tired of it, and wanted to make for home and a feed; but my dopey rider kept with the column, refusing to be guided by me. On another stunt, I just side-stepped the “Killed in Action” return by a hair. Jacko sent across a few shells in our direction, and one of them landed right underneath a horse next to me and sent him West. Two others were as full of holes as a colander, but we got them home. Strangely, the horses on my side of the burst were untouched, and merely suffered from slight shock.
The summer of 1917 was what Bill called a “snifter”—he also called it other things. Day after day, on those wind-swept, dust-covered plains of Southern Palestine, we stood in the heat and sweated from sunrise to sunset; during the night we shivered with the cold, and were wet with the dew and mist. Then there came rumours of a big stunt. It was good to hear that a big stunt was at last spoken about, not only because we got more attention prior to it, but because we would be leaving these sun-baked plains behind, and doing something towards earning our _tibbin_. It was on 28th October that Bill loaded my saddle, and rode me away towards Beersheba with the Squadron. From there onwards to Jaffa we dodged shells and planes, and existed on a very scanty ration. (Even Bill complained now and again.) We went without water on more than one occasion for sixty hours on end; and we had many weary night marches. Just after we left Beersheba I lost a good pal. She was following the General’s car, and had a despatch-rider in the saddle; and while doing a stiff gallop she stumbled, fell, and rolled over—dead. I think her death was due to lack of water, since she had had none for three days. She was a dear old thing, and I have yarned away many an hour with her. She died as I would like to die—a soldier.
Winter caught us at Jaffa, and the rain came down unceasingly day and night. Here I had a lot of trouble with our labour corps—the mules. They were a hungry lot of cannibals, and, not being satisfied with a ration of grain, they used to break away from their lines at night and eat our rugs. Some of them even gnawed the hair and tail off a sick pal of mine—he did look a wreck in the morning! Another inconvenience was that I shivered so much that I always shook the rug off, no matter how careful Bill was about putting it on. The early part of 1918 was a time of wind, cold, rain, rocks and mud, and stunts amongst tremendous hills. We had a most exciting time then, and I often wonder how it was I kept out of hospital. Later on, when we stopped in the Valley, I tried to “swing it” a bit, and succeeded in bluffing the sergeant; but the vet knew too much for me, and so I remained. Fortunately, we moved back to Bethlehem, where the bracing hill air, and the sight of the olive trees, made a new horse of me.
Our last big stunt was rather pleasant, as well as most profitable. (Bill agreed with me in that.) We again went to Amman, and this time captured all the Jackos in that part of the world; it was quite a different affair from that first Amman stunt, when I slipped on the muddy track and almost went overboard into a wady some hundreds of feet below. After we had collected all the gear which Jacko had left behind, we turned our heads west, came through Jericho, and passed up into the hills. We stopped for a day at Jerusalem, and then travelled down to the coastal plains near Jaffa. We returned to Richon to recuperate, and to await further developments.
Now our masters are talking of going home, and I hear them whisper in the lines—“Yes, they’ll remain behind”—“Ah! They’ve done their work bravely and well”—“I wonder what will happen to them?” Bill is going home; to-day he came to me and told me so. “Good-bye, Baldy, old comrade. You’ve been a good pal to me,” he said; and then he was gone. Here at Richon I would like to stay with Bill, and end my days. Richon, with its trees, its vines, its orchards, recalls my early life in some strange way; its fertile fields and pleasant surroundings make the desert days seem but a bad dream of long ago; and in its shady lanes, the toilsome hills and the rain, and the dust of the Valley, are forgotten. But Bill is gone! I must stay behind! Let them shoot me—and quickly—for I would go to that land of eternal sunlight, there to wait until Bill calls to me.... Then together we shall gallop for ever over the plains.
E. L. D. HUSBAND.
THE HORSES STAY BEHIND
In days to come we’ll wander west and cross the range again; We’ll hear the bush birds singing in the green trees after rain; We’ll canter through the Mitchell grass and breast the bracing wind: But we’ll have other horses. Our chargers stay behind.
Around the fire at night we’ll yarn about old Sinai; We’ll fight our battles o’er again; and as the days go by There’ll be old mates to greet us. The bush girls will be kind Still our thoughts will often wander to the horses left behind.
I don’t think I could stand the thought of my old fancy hack Just crawling round old Cairo with a ’Gyppo on his back. Perhaps some English tourist out in Palestine may find My broken-hearted waler with a wooden plough behind.
No; I think I’d better shoot him and tell a little lie:— “He floundered in a wombat hole and then lay down to die.” May be I’ll get court-martialled; but I’m damned if I’m inclined To go back to Australia and leave my horse behind.
_Trooper Bluegum._
One Too Many
It was a hell of a night. Thunder enough to wake the “Jacko” dead, and raining fit to swamp old Solomon’s Pool. I was a good ten miles from camp, and it was with a dinkum bullocky’s curse that I swung into the saddle again and turned the pony’s nose for home. For about an hour we battled along, and then the supply dump at S—— hove in sight. Glad of a brief respite, I guided him toward it, and for a few minutes we rested in the shelter of a huge stack of _tibbin_.
The rain had eased off, and for a brief second a sickly-looking moon gazed down on things earthly. That was what started the trouble.
An Algerian guard was on duty, and, to the initiated, there is no need to say more than that. You might trick a Tommy or induce a Billjim to look the other way, but the man who beats an Algerian is going some.
But, as I was saying, it was the moon that caused the trouble. When she took that peep from behind her cloud bank she gazed fair on to four shadowy figures, each surmounted by a bag of barley and a felt hat.