Скачать книгу

href="#ulink_c78bc1f1-7b96-5a03-8368-50c239441156">Chapter XCVII

       Book Nine. Balancing for a Last Effort

       Chapter XCVIII

       Chapter XCIX

       Chapter C

       Chapter CI

       Chapter CII

       Chapter CIII

       Chapter CIV

       Chapter CV

       Chapter CVI

       Book Ten. The House is Perfected

       Chapter CVII

       Chapter CVIII

       Chapter CIX

       Chapter CX

       Chapter CXI

       Chapter CXII

       Chapter CXIII

       Chapter CXIV

       Chapter CXV

       Chapter CXVI

       Chapter CXVII

       Chapter CXVIII

       Chapter CXIX

       Chapter CXX

       Chapter CXXI

       Chapter CXXII

       Epilogue

       To S.A.

       I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands

       and wrote my will across the sky in stars

       To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,

       that your eyes might be shining for me

      When we came.

      Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near

       and saw you waiting:

       When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me

       and took you apart:

      Into his quietness.

      Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage

       ours for the moment

       Before earth's soft hand explored your shape, and the blind

       worms grew fat upon

      Your substance.

      Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house,

       as a menory of you.

       But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now

       The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels

       in the marred shadow

      Of your gift.

       Mr Geoffrey Dawson persuaded All Souls College to give me leisure, in 1919-1920, to write about the Arab Revolt. Sir Herbert Baker let me live and work in his Westminster houses.

      The book so written passed in 1921 into proof; where it was fortunate in the friends who criticized it. Particularly it owes its thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Shaw for countless suggestions of great value and diversity: and for all the present semicolons.

      It does not pretend to be impartial. I was fighting for my hand, upon my own midden. Please take it as a personal narrative piece out of memory. I could not make proper notes: indeed it would have been a breach of my duty to the Arabs if I had picked such flowers while they fought. My superior officers, Wilson, Joyce, Dawnay, Newcombe and Davenport could each tell a like tale. The same is true of Stirling, Young, Lloyd and Maynard: of Buxton and Winterton: of Ross, Stent and Siddons: of Peake, Homby, Scott-Higgins and Garland: of Wordie, Bennett and MacIndoe: of Bassett, Scott, Goslett, Wood and Gray: of Hinde, Spence and Bright: of Brodie and Pascoe, Gilman and Grisenthwaite, Greenhill, Dowsett and Wade: of Henderson, Leeson, Makins and Nunan.

      And there were many other leaders or lonely fighters to whom this self-regardant picture is not fair. It is still less fair, of course, like all war-stories, to the un-named rank and file: who miss their share of credit, as they must do, until they can write the despatches.

      T. E. S.

       Cranwell, 15.8.26

      Introductory Chapter

       Table of Contents

      The story which follows was first written out in Paris during the Peace Conference, from notes jotted daily on the march, strengthened by some reports sent to my chiefs in Cairo. Afterwards, in the autumn of 1919, this first draft and some of the notes were lost. It seemed to me historically needful to reproduce the tale, as perhaps no one but myself in Feisal's army had thought of writing down at the time what we felt, what we hoped, what we tried. So it was built again with heavy repugnance in London in the winter of 1919-20 from memory and my surviving notes. The record of events was not dulled in me and perhaps few actual mistakes crept in--except in details of dates or numbers--but the outlines and significance of things had lost edge in the haze of new interests.

      Dates and places are correct, so far as my notes preserved them: but the personal names are not. Since the adventure some of those who worked with me have buried themselves in the shallow grave of public duty. Free use has been made of their names. Others still possess themselves, and here keep their secrecy. Sometimes one man carried various names. This may hide individuality and make the book a scatter of featureless puppets, rather than a group of living people: but once good is told of a man, and again evil, and some would not thank me for either blame or praise.

      This isolated picture

Скачать книгу