Chapter XXIII: The End of Hostilities

Types of Empire defenders--Local feeling--Dealing with Kurdish raiders--An embarrassing offer of marriage--Prestige by aeroplane--Anniversary of Hossain the Martyr--News of the Armistice--Local waverers come down on our side of the fence--Releasing civil prisoners--Farewell of Bijar--Down country to the sea and home.

I have often wondered if the British who stayed at home, through force of circumstances rather than any reluctance to participate in the Great War, can have had any conception of the varying types of men who helped to uphold British interests in this remote and little-known corner of the Asiatic Continent. Here, then, are a few of them taken at random!

There was Hooper, an Australian Captain, who in civil life was a farmer on a rock-girt island off the Tasmanian coast, and had been through more than one big push in France. Williams, also an Australian officer, was a Rhodes Scholar from the University of Adelaide. He commanded Persian levies, made a hobby of dialects, and was always eager to try his growing wisdom teeth on such abstruse problems as "How the camel got his hump," or, "Why Jonah gave the whale indigestion." But he was a good {237} lad, was this youthful pedant, a fearless soldier, and an untiring worker who, in a few months, gained a surprising knowledge of colloquial Persian. Then there was Seddon, a Government land surveyor from New Zealand, who also had looked on Red War in Flanders. In cold weather, of all times, he was always shedding surplus garments, until there was a positive danger of his arriving at the stage of the "altogether." Seddon was fiercely intractable on the subject of hygiene as applied to clothing, and would hear of no compromise where his cherished principles were concerned. It was said that he was wont to lie awake at night planning new curtailments in his winter kit. Still, there must have been some wisdom in his methods, for, although thinly clad during the early winter months, he was always in perfect health, and escaped the pulmonary maladies which proved fatal to so many others who looked askance at him and his hygienic, minimum-clothing theory.

We had Gordon Wilson who came from the Argentine to enlist at the outbreak of the War and attempted to leap the age-limit barrier. His ardour was somewhat damped on being refused by the Home Authorities. But, nothing daunted, he went to France, joined the Foreign Legion, and saw a good deal of fighting. He was afterwards transferred to a British Field Battery and given a commission, and lost no time in winning the M.C.

In the 14th Hussars was a lieutenant named Voigt, {238} an Afrikander born, who had gone through the South African campaign. One day, riding with Voigt and his troop of Hussars in a "punitive" expedition against raiding Kurds, I asked him casually--and quite forgetful of the momentous past--with whom he had served in South Africa. He replied with the flicker of a smile on his broad, sun-tanned face, "I was with Louis Botha's commando." And such is the material out of which has been woven our thrilling island story!

Up to the moment of the Turkish collapse, towards the end of October, many of the notables of Bijar were inclined to be dubious concerning our possibility of success. These cautious individuals shaped their conduct accordingly. They "hedged" very carefully, to use a sporting phrase, and, in order to avoid all risks, backed both sides. One wealthy Persian resident whom I particularly remember was lavish of lip-service. He would call round to the Mission Headquarters at least twice a week to assure us of his ever-enduring devotion, and of his hopes of success for British arms. About the same time he would be sending off a courier to the Turkish commander in our front telling him that he was his devoted servitor and that it would be a blessed day for all True Believers when the Infidel British were driven out of Persian Kurdistan. So much for Persian duplicity. Our "friend" was a confirmed "pulophile," which is an impromptu Perso-Greek expression for "money-lover," and, while awaiting {239} our military downfall, he had no conscientious objections to seeking to rob us right and left in wheat transactions.

On the whole the various Kurdish chiefs kept their peace pact with the British, and for a time strove hard to walk in the path of honesty and to cease from annexing their neighbours' flocks and herds. But occasionally temptation proved too strong to be resisted, and there would come a recrudescence of pillaging and violence. The Mandumis and the Galbaghis were the chief offenders. Their subtle imagination was never at a loss for a plausible pretext to condone their lawlessness. Once, when Mandumi tribesmen attacked a British post at an outlying village called Nadari, a certain Mustafa Khan, the chief of the guilty raiders, sent a very apologetic letter pleading for forgiveness, and pointing out that the regrettable occurrence arose through a "misunderstanding" on the part of his tribesmen who possessed an inordinate love of well-conditioned sheep. Times were hard, and if the poor Kurds were not to be allowed to replenish their larders by the time-honoured method of pilfering, then, in the name of Allah, he asked, what was to become of them? This curious and essentially Kurdish plea of "extenuating circumstances" was backed up by a letter from the tribal Mujtahid, or priest, who wrote that he was a simple man of God saying his prayers regularly and knowing little of secular affairs. His tribesmen had evidently been maligned by their {240} enemies--"May the Evil One pluck their beards!" He had always exhorted his people to remain friendly with the British, and would continue to do so.

On this occasion Mustafa Khan escaped with a fine and a reprimand, but he was obviously looking for trouble, and it soon overtook him. He became very insolent. Some of his men stopped and robbed the British native courier, and the Chief sent a message that he would soon come and raid Bijar itself. There was nothing to do except to teach Mustafa Khan a much-needed lesson. However, before the salutary drubbing could be administered, Mustafa and his men, throwing discretion to the winds, and forgetful of their oft-repeated promises to be of good behaviour, got completely out of hand, cleaned out several Persian villages, and indulged in a veritable orgy of lawlessness.

Then Mustafa, with consummate skill, having no case of his own, set about abusing the other side. He blamed the hapless villagers, and accused them of having killed two of his Sowars who had gone into the Persian village to "purchase" corn. The villagers in question, he remarked, were liars, and the sons of the Father of Lies--"May perdition be their lot!" But this time his defence of provocation was found to be unjustifiable; a richly deserved punishment was meted out to him, and for long afterwards he led an exemplary life.

Nabi Khan was another Kurdish freebooter who gave considerable trouble before he was finally {241} subdued and made to see the error of his ways. From the point of view of stature and general physique he was one of the finest looking men I have ever seen. He stood a good 6 feet 4 inches in his socks, belying the prevailing idea that the Kurds are of small stature. In an evil moment for himself, he threw in his lot with the Turks, and for a brief period made things right merry for the British. He fought like an enraged tiger in defence of his village stronghold, but was put to flight after suffering severe loss. He thought the thing out for a couple of weeks, and then, like the old sportsman that he was, came in and surrendered, saying that he had lost, and was ready to pay the full price. It is easy to be generous to a chivalrous foe, and Nabi had been all that, so he found that he had not thrown himself upon our mercy in vain.

I well remember the morning that Nabi surrendered. His name and his fame had preceded him to Bijar, and, as he strode down the Bazaar with a belt full of lethal weapons, his very appearance inspired terror in the breasts of the pusillanimous Persian traders, and they bolted for cover like so many scared animals. In addition to his stature, Nabi was a man of handsome appearance. He had a bold, open countenance, and was brief and blunt of speech. Brushing past the startled Persian janitor, whom he disdained to notice, he made a dramatic entry into the Political Office at Bijar. Flinging his weapons on the table, he exclaimed, "I have been {242} foolish; aye, misguided by evil counsellors; I have lost, and am here to pay the price. Do with me what you will. But you may tell your Shah that I regret the past and am willing to make amends." Peace was arranged with Nabi Khan, and the pact he kept very faithfully, becoming one of our most ardent partisans in the difficult country and amongst the turbulent folk over whom he held sway. He policed his district, and did it very thoroughly, proving a veritable terror to evildoers; and he suppressed Turkish propaganda with a vigour that demonstrated his real earnestness in the British cause.

After the manner of his kind, as a further evidence of his good faith, and in order to set a time-enduring seal upon his treaty of friendship, he was anxious to negotiate a Kurdish-British matrimonial alliance. After a good deal of preliminary verbal manoeuvring, he definitely broached the project, and suggested the giving in marriage of his daughter, a very comely damsel, to the Political Officer. The latter was completely taken aback and, not being a Moslem, had visions of all sorts of unpleasant legal complications should he ever set foot in England with a supplementary wife. However, he faced the trying situation with commendable fortitude, and cast about for a means whereby he might be enabled to retreat with honour, and without offending Kurdish susceptibilities. Nabi was tactfully informed that, while the offer was much appreciated, the acceptance {243} of a Kurdish bride would entail no end of complications for at least one of the parties concerned, as an unsympathetic British law had long set its face against bigamy. In fact, isolated enthusiasts in khaki who, as a relief from the tedium of trench life, had sought to popularize plural marriages in England had been rewarded by a term of imprisonment. This was news indeed for the benevolent-minded Nabi, but he did not insist further, and the incident terminated happily.

The Kurds are in many respects as simple as European children of tender age. They had heard much about the wonderful flying machines of Faringistan, and, never having seen an aeroplane, were inclined to be sceptical, and to treat reputed aerial adventures as so many "travellers' tales." A Kurdish chief came to call on me one day seeking enlightenment. He had seen automobiles, and admitted that they puzzled his primitive brain. "Why," he asked honestly enough, "is the horse put inside the box, and why does this strange creature prefer petrol to barley by way of food?" It took a long time to knock into his head some primitive notion of motor traction. Then he inquired, "Is it true that in Faringistan, as currently reported, men make themselves into birds and soar in the air like eagles?" The reply, as they say in Parliament, was in the affirmative, but the Kurdish seeker for knowledge remained frankly incredulous. A few days after the conversation, a youthful Scottish aviator, who was {244} familiarly known as "Little Willie McKay," arrived by air from Hamadan in order to give Bijar and the Kurdistan hill-folk a taste of his quality. It was a day of days, and inaugurated a new era in the local Mohammedan calendar, for it marked the flight of the terror-stricken Faithful towards a place of safety away from the aerial monster that, appearing from out of a clear sunlight sky, swooped down on the town. The youthful McKay was a noted aerial stunt artist, and he executed an extensive and varied programme for the edification of those of the astonished onlookers who had steeled their courage to the point of sticking it out. The houses are flat-roofed, and here the spectators assembled to watch the show. As the aviator nose-dived occasionally, it was amusing to see the celerity with which they dropped flat on their faces, fearing lest they should be caught by the talons of the "man-bird" and carried off heaven knew where. Later on, at the local aerodrome, the people came, timidly enough at first, to peep at the monster; but they did their sightseeing cautiously from a respectful distance, and it was only necessary for the engine to throb once or twice fretfully, and for the propeller to revolve, to bring about an instantaneous stampede. Thenceforth no one ever doubted that the British were miracle workers, and had at their disposal an unlimited supply of magic to assist in the overthrowing of their enemies.

The Moharran, or anniversary of the death of {245} Hossain the Martyr, is an occasion for the display of great religious fervour by the Shi'ite Moslems. It fell on October 17th, and the Bijar Bazaar was closed and the houses draped in mourning. It is perhaps the only day in the year when the average Persian looks in deadly earnest, and when his fanaticism is aroused to such a pitch as to make him at all dangerous to persons of other creeds. There was a procession through the streets, and the chief incidents of the martyrdom were re-enacted by a devoted band of Shias. The "body" of the Sainted One was carried on a bier and, in order that the finishing touch of realism should not be lacking, the covering of the bier was plentifully bedaubed with blood, while the head of the "corpse" was enveloped in gory bandages. The _mise en scène_ was completed by the addition of a local troupe representing Hossain's wives and adherents who, according to legend, were also put to death by the hated rival sect, the Sunnis. The followers in the procession, in a burst of religious frenzy, gashed their faces or bodies with swords or knives, and, with blood streaming from the self-inflicted wounds, were not exactly a pleasant spectacle to look upon. A Persian youth employed at the British Headquarters was one of those who achieved religious merit and local distinction on the occasion. Having volunteered for the role of follower, he had his head cut open by a local barber, and off he went to join in the quasi-religious ceremony. In the afternoon he was back at his job {246} with his poor damaged head swathed in bandages and feeling very proud indeed of his exploit.

Bijar was very excited by the intelligence that arrived on November 1st. We received an official notification that an armistice had been concluded with Turkey, at the request of the latter Power, and that hostilities were to cease at once. The Governor made an official call to offer his felicitations, and to congratulate the British on their triumph over another of their enemies. He dissimulated his real feelings with great artfulness, for while openly professing joy at our victory he was sorrowing in secret that a Moslem Power should have been overthrown by an Infidel. Still, he made the best of it, and candidly told some of his intimates who were inclined to be tearful because their religious pride had been wounded by the success of our arms, that the British, after all, had shown more real humanity and compassion in dealing with the oppressed Persians than ever had their coreligionists, the Turks.

The Governor having set the example in offering his congratulations, all the local notables were quick to follow, and they told us what, curiously enough we had never realized before--that throughout the long-drawn-out War they had always ardently wished for the complete triumph of the British. We accepted their assurances, although finding it difficult to reconcile them with many of their actions when our military fortunes were not of the brightest.

An official communication was sent off by messenger {247} to the Turkish commander, informing him of the armistice, and inquiring if he were prepared to abide by its conditions and order a cessation of hostilities on his side. But the enemy had evidently had the news as soon as we had, and decided to end the war then and there. When our messenger reached the Turkish position, it was only to find the place abandoned, the commander and every man having gone, leaving no address. The messenger trekked after them for a day, but their haste was so great that he was unable even to come up with their rearguard, so he returned to Bijar with the letter undelivered. And that was the last we heard of the Turk in the region of Southern Kurdistan.

Everybody in Bijar was now our sincere friend and well-wisher. The Bazaar was beflagged in honour of our victory. Ours was the winning side, of that there could be no doubt. The Governor was more assiduous than ever in his professions of undying devotion, and he was always planning fresh schemes for manifesting his goodwill and friendship. He even hit upon the expedient of declaring an amnesty for Persians incarcerated in the local gaol. At his urgent solicitation, I visited the prison to decide upon the offenders who were to benefit by this generosity. It was a filthy, evil-smelling hole. Lying upon a stone floor were about a dozen offenders, all huddled together and chained like so many wild beasts. There was a Jew who had been arrested for debt. He wore round his neck a heavy iron collar {248} like the joug of the Scottish pillory. He speedily divined my mission, and was clamorously insistent that he should be the first to be set free. Chained to him were two Persians, one of whom had been arrested for manslaughter and the other for petty larceny.

In this foetid den, and near the trio already mentioned, was a young Persian girl of attractive appearance--an unregenerate Magdalene, as it turned out, who had been put in chains for a breach of the somewhat elastic Persian law governing public morality. She alone made no protestation of innocence and no appeal for release. Perhaps that was why I suggested she should be the first to have her fetters struck off and be set free. She seemed dumbfounded at first, but on realizing that liberty awaited her, she burst into tears, and showed her gratitude by kissing my hand. It seemed a pity to leave the other poor wretches, however guilty they might have been, to rot in this terrible dungeon; so I availed myself to the full of the privilege of the amnesty and asked that all should be liberated, including the loquacious Jew debtor. This was done, and the poor, dazed creatures walked out of the prison doors and once more breathed the purer air of freedom.

With the granting of the armistice to Austria came the welcome orders for the British force to evacuate Bijar and retire to Hamadan. On news of Austria's defection from the side of her German ally becoming known, the Governor arrived to offer fresh felicitations. {249} But a shadow clouded his beaming self-satisfied countenance when he learned that the British were to withdraw immediately. He became greatly perturbed at the news, for he feared the ever-present menace of Kurdish incursions, and trembled for the safety of Bijar and the wealth of its Bazaar. "What will become of us all?" he asked in despair. "When the British go, the Kurds will come, and then----" He made a significant gesture across his throat.

The Governor returned next day with a deputation of the inhabitants to ask that a British garrison might be left behind to carry out the duty which really devolved upon the Persian Government, that of protecting its subjects against acts of lawlessness. He pleaded hard and earnestly. They would find fuel, food, and quarters free for the soldiers who were to remain. First he suggested twenty, then a dozen, and finally he said, "Take pity on us, and send a message by the lightning-flash (wireless) to the British King asking him to permit three of his soldiers to remain here to protect the people. Then the Kurds will never bother us at all." It was certainly a tribute to our worth and fighting value. Gently but firmly the Governor had to be led to understand that it was impossible. The soldiers had homes and wives in far-off Faringistan across the Black Water; their duty was done, and home they must go.

The deputation set off with bowed heads and {250} sorrowing hearts. It was kismet, and the decree of Destiny could not be set aside.

The wealthier inhabitants, however, made every effort to save themselves and their worldly possessions. All available transport was bought up at enhanced prices, and an exodus from Bijar preceded the British evacuation.

On November 7th Colonel Bridges and his column bade farewell to Bijar. The inhabitants, or at least those of them who were too poor to take flight, turned out _en masse_ to speed the parting troops. They had got to know and to admire the splendid British soldier who is always a gentleman, who had fought the battle of the Persian people against Kurdish brigand and Turkish regular, and whose ofttimes scanty ration he was always ready to share with any roadside starveling who crossed his path. The Governor and a numerous retinue rode for two miles with the head of the column. On a bare plateau, exposed to a keen, biting wind, and under a lowering sky, the last farewells were cordially exchanged. The Governor told us that the British had left behind an ineffaceable record for justice and generosity. I think it was sincerely meant and devoid of any exaggeration.

It took seven days to reach Hamadan. The snow overtook us on the second day out, and the bitter Kurdistan winter set in with extreme severity. The Indian transport camels, unaccustomed to extreme cold, and not possessing the thick fur coating of their {251} Afghan brother, died in numbers, and the Indian Charvadars followed their example.

From Hamadan there was the long trek down-country and over the snow-clad Asadabad Pass. But the weather grew milder and brighter as we steadily dropped down from the high altitudes, neared the warmer plains of Mesopotamia, and left Persia behind us. At last came the day when our long overland journey was to end, and Xenophon's war-worn soldiers never cried more exultingly "Thalatta!" "Thalatta!" at the sight of the sea, than we did on reaching the shores of the Persian Gulf.

{252}