The soldiers definition of "Mespot" is miles and miles of nothing at all, with two blooming great rivers running down the middle. That is not true, it is a country packed with interest. Except for the trip up river, I rode hundreds of miles through the country on horseback. A good way of seeing the country.

The port of Basra is a dirty little town, with a murky canal running through it. In those days the supply of water and also the town sewer. Ships load boxes of dates at the wharves end. The town is surrounded by plantations of date palms. The dates lay in heaps on the dusty ground, used by the locals as a public latrine. So it is as well to wash your dates before eating them.

Going up the Shatt el Arab, which is the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates, the date palms give way to banks of reeds. These mask the homes of the Marsh Arabs, who appear to be a different breed of men to the desert Arab, living in huts of bundles of reeds, and darting about among the reeds in slim canoes. I never had the chance to penetrate their reedy fastness and know little about them, except that they art renowned as thieves.

At the head of the Shatt el Arab the Tigris and Euphrates meet, the right hand river being the Tigris, the highway to Baghdad and the north. The land at the junction of the two rivers is the reputed site of the Garden of Eden. It does not look like that now! Good sized paddle boats run up as far as Baghdad. Going up the river to Baghdad is a long journey, but one can have a good view of the country on each side. It is obvious how the story of the Flood originated. The land is flat and hardly above sea level. The river rises twenty feet or more when the snow in the hills melts. And falls as quickly.

At one point a steam boat was left high and. dry on a bank, like the old pictures of Noah’s Ark, caught there on a falling river. It was said that he was made to stay on board the rest of the summer for being so silly. Normally, barges are lashed to the side of a steamboat so that they run aground first. A lascar, sounding with a long pole, sits on the bow of the barge, shouting out the depth. Na Mela (no bottom). Then Art Feet, Do feet and bump! We’re on the bottom. On one of the Hospital Boats a very thin nurse couldn’t understand why she was nicknamed "Na Mela".

Going on up the Tigris one comes to Kut, which withstood the long siege. How they did it I can’ t think, because there were very indifferent trenches, full of date stones. Dates must have been the staple diet of the besieged force. The tide of war had rolled on when I saw it.

Then one comes to Amara, at that time the base of operations. A curious tribe lives along the river bank there. They claim to be followers of John the Baptist and certainly look like old pictures of him, great bushy black beards and a round head and face, quite unlike the Arab. By tradition they must live near water. They are silversmiths by trade, making small articles and engraving little local scenes. The scratches are then filled with antimony and fired, fusing the antimony into the silver. They will make any piece one may design. In my case a belt buckle. Not for my girl friend, I hadn’t one in those days but for my Mother.

Going on up river from Amara, one passes Ctesiphon. the remains of a huge brick arch in the middle of a howling wilderness. It is said to be the largest span built of brick in the world. Constructed I don’ t know how many years ago by a long gone civilisation.

The country is now becoming more cultivated and numerous water wheels of differing types can be seen. The most ingenious, I think, was a huge leather bucket with a long leather spout, normally held with the end of the spout level with the top of the bucket. A rope led from the bucket over a pulley to the harness of a buffalo. Another rope led to the driver from the spout. With the bucket in the water, the, bullock turned round and paced down an incline away from the river bank, the driver with him.

When they were at the bottom of the incline, the bucket, of course, was at the top of the supports holding the pulley. All the driver had to do now was to take a few steps backwards, lowering the spout and out came eighty gallons of water into the chute leading to the irrigation channels. The water is very cleverly run about -through the crops in little channels, opened and closed by the gardeners’ toes.

To make a garden that will grow almost anything, a high mud wall is built, to keep off the scorching desert winds. Then date palms to give shade. By running water about in little channels a moist atmosphere is obtained and all sorts of fruit and vegetables can be grown. Now perhaps power pumps are used.
We are now nearing Baghdad, sitting astride the main caravan route from the Mediterranean to Persia and India. A city born and-maintained by trade. Peopled by town Arabs, Armenians, Jews, Turks and stray people from many other countries too. I say town Arabs , for they are very different people to the desert Arab.

Sometimes one sees a true desert Arab, looking the master of all around, striding through the bazaars fully armed, although after our occupation Baghdadees were not allowed to carry arms. Each alley had its own particular trade, such as copper water pots, clothing, leather and saddlery, etc. The quality was not very good, except, perhaps the water pots and copper goods. The shops were just open recesses, except the shop where precious stones were cut. This was in a fairly well built house and one went up a flight of steps to get into it. There the stones were set in lumps of bitumen on the end of a stick and held against a disc covered with some abrasive material.

Bitumen was used for all sorts of jobs. A favourite weapon was a length of cane with a lump of bitumen on the end of it. The boats used for crossing the Tigris were made like a round basket of palm leaf ribs, covered with bitumen to make-them water tight. They were propelled. by one paddle, wielded by a man facing in the direction he wished to go. I have seen the larger ones carrying the family donkey, besides the women and. children and many bundles. Further up country, where the Tigris is more shallow in places and swifter, people cross the river on inflated goat skins.

I have heard stories of oppression in Baghdad. They are partly true, but not basically religious. The Arab is quite tolerant normally. The trouble is that the Jews and Armenians are better traders. When the Germans went from Baghdad and we took over, all the little Jewish boys and Armenians promptly learnt English. The only decent hotel in the town became "The Maude Hotel". If an Arab wanted to sell us carpets, he had to hire a Jewish boy to act as interpreter, who of course, took his cut.

After the war we were billeted in empty houses along the bund or river bank. One evening I was walking along the bund on the river bank, from the Mess to my billet, when I heard a curious shuffling noise-on the other side of the mud wall. There were a lot of Arab girls doing a sort of square dance, in perfect silence. I did not stay to watch. The Arabs are very jealous for their womenfolk, though they had a very contemptuous word for British soldiers because we left their women alone.

Almost as soon as I joined my unit at Baghdad, we were sent off on a punitive expedition to an area on the Euphrates, where there was trouble. On the way we passed Babylon and our C.O. allowed some of we young officers to canter over to have a look at the ruins, while the column rested in the noonday heat. There was a surprising lot of it left, although I was told that old Baghdad was large built of bricks from Babylon, as were the little towns along the river.

I remember standing on ancient paving, looking down on a vast hall with walls about thirty feet high, decorated in bold relief with rampant bulls. In those days bits of inscribed bricks lay everywhere. I expect they have all been cleared up by now. In one place there was a whole heap of little clay figures. I found out afterwards that it was the site of an altar of fertility. When a woman wanted a child, she prayed at the altar and slipped a little figure of a child through a slot in the top of the altar. Another interesting find was a letter, with an envelope of mud, on which was the address in cuneiform writing. I broke open a corner to discover the letter, a small mud brick. I managed to bring samples of all these things home, but unfortunately loaned them to a school master and never had them back.

Outside what was left of the walls and hangings gardens, no flowers in them now, there was a little house which was the abode of a German professor, who was engaged in excavating the ruins. He fled before our advance guard, leaving behind two large crates of his finds. These were sent to the British Museum, who, after the war returned one of the crates to Germany. Our advance guard, an Indian Cavalry Regiment, also found the old chaps top hat. They kept it as a trophy of war and on Guest Nights in their Mess always had it in the centre of the table.
Finally we arrived at Kufa, on the Euphrates, which was the port, as it were of Nujuf, the holy town that was causing all the trouble. Nujuf is the town where Ali, Mahomet’s brother was buried. The tale is that when Mahomet died, Ali was disgusted by the way in which he was proclaimed a Prophet, people making pilgrimage to Mecca. Even in those days the cult of the prophet was commercialised. Ali died at Kufa and left instructions that his body was to be put on a camel and the camel be driven out into the desert. This his people did but followed the camel. The camel came to a bit of green and stopped to graze. Ha! said the people, this is where he wished to be buried. And promptly it was holy ground.

A magnificent tomb was built, enriched later by a golden dome and the usual minarets. The Political Officer whose law we were supposed to uphold, told me that one of his spies brought him a piece of brick that had blown down from the golden dome. It was covered by a thin sheet of solid gold. The whole dome was built of these bricks. The townspeople made a good thing out of the pilgrims and relied entirely on pilgrims for a living.

Nujuf was a perfect example of a medieval walled town with huge gates, shut at night,. Persians and most people on that side of Mesopotamia belong to the sect of Shias, followers of Ali. The Turks and those in North Africa are mostly Sunnies, followers of Mahomet. Good Shias like to be buried at Nujuf, believing they have a better chance of getting to Heaven from there. The bodies are brought to Kufa where they are disembowelled and partially mummified, if that has not already been done. The innards are thrown into the river, the bodies loaded on donkeys and carried into the holy city of Nujuf. There were huge fish, like carp six foot long, for sale in the bazaar, but I shouldn’t care to eat them. I should he thinking of those innards thrown into the river.

So the holy city of Nujuf was supposed to be under siege. My job was to help maintain a guard on the road with my machine guns, stopping all traffic, while the political side of the operation took a toll on all bodies, known to the soldiers as stiffs. The idea being that by levying a toll on stiffs, we robbed the priests and townspeople of their perks. I think it worked to some extent, for I was riding round the town one day, at a respectful distance from the walls (they pooped off at one if one went too close) and found several stiffs partially eaten by jackals. There were also some enormous pads which I think could only have been made by an Asiatic lion. Finally, having made ourselves a bit of a nuisance to the townsmen, they pretended to give in.

We said they must give up their arms. The political people knew that they had good modern rifles, for a little previously the Turks had sent a company of soldiers to collect long overdue taxes. The townspeople crept out at night and scuppered the lot, pinching their rifles. These were not given up, but a collection of antique guns, flintlocks and. such like, utterly useless, arrived. The political pundits pretended that honour was satisfied and we marched away. Some of us went to say goodbye to Marshall before we went. He said - Goodbye chaps. They’ll get me now. And they did. Marshall and his Shabanas (Native police) fought it out on their roof top and all were killed.

This is not strictly a description of the country, but I have mentioned it to show how things were at that time. And still are according to the newspapers.
So we marched back to Baghdad. Later a whole Division had. to be sent to pacify Nujuf and the surrounding country. We did not stay long in Baghdad and soon started on a long trek which finished just short of Mosul, right in the North, bordering on Turkey.

One speaks of the desert because nothing much grows there but it is not really a desert, it only needs water. After the rains which come in March and April, anyhow above Baghdad , I have seen wonderful ears of barley on old horse lines. Corn comes up in a matter of a week or so and quickly matures. Mesopotamia has supported huge civilisations in the past, as the Bible testifies. Only neglect and apathy and the way of life of the wandering Arabs who scorn agriculture and require vast areas grazing, moving from place to place. Often we heard fierce battles going on between tribes, fighting over the grazing grounds. It was no business of ours and our small force kept clear.

Once I had the opportunity of seeing a large tribe move camp. It would have been rude to go among them. I sat on my horse on a knoll some distance away and watched. The whole camp was packed up and on the move in half an hour. Everyone had their job. The big black and brown tents came down in no time, the women and children rolled them up while the men brought up the camels and horses. The camels were made to kneel, apparently by spitting in their face and the tents loaded up, Granny and Grandpa on top of the baggage. The women led the camels, while the men acted as guards, with their rifles at the ready across their saddle bows.
Later on, in a more settled part of the country, I had the opportunity of visiting an Arab encampment. We sat on cushions in the open part of the tent drinking tiny cups of black coffee. No Arab ladies in sight, but behind the dividing curtains there were whisperings and giggles and bright brown eyes applied to slits in the curtains.
Our next lengthy stop was at Al Ajik on the right bank of the Tigris, opposite Samarra. It was a gentlemanly war, summer was approaching; and nobody was expected to fight in hot weather. Although I was often sent with my little lot forward on reconnaissance and outpost duty, which gave me a further opportunity to see the country. We camped almost under the shadow of an ancient fortified town, much of the defensive walls and towers still standing. These our engineers patched up and turned them into their original use, lookout posts.

The Arabs tell an interesting story about this place, A princess, in the days of it’s might, had a lover who at night swam the Tigris and crept into Al Ajik to visit his princess. One cold night, having got into the castle, he was too cold and wet to do his loving duty. The princess flew into a rage and had his head chopped off. A typical Arab tale.

In the way of the Army, we dug trenches round about and I remember at one place we dug up lots of little glass bottles, obviously very old. I kept some and was told later that when people were buried, in those far off days, the mourners threw into the grave these little bottles, full of tears. I should imagine that onions were in great request, in preparation for a funeral.
Across the river at Samarra, there was a conical tower with an unguarded path spiralling up round the outside. This was also used as a lookout post and I have seen the Gurka sentries running up with abandon. One false step and that would be it.
A large canal ended at Al Ajik, dry this last thousand years or more. It started from somewhere up river and. ended on an embankment about thirty feet high. This gave a good head of water, which was fed into smaller canals, all dry now, which criss-crossed over the flat land. Evidence of a large population in bygone times. I could find nothing much else of interest in Samarra.

Further up the Tigris one comes to Tekrit, a curious old town, not much more than a village, and unfortified. Here the river has cut through the hills, leaving high cliffs. It is the beginning of the hills and below the river widens out and is quite shallow in places. I t was full of big fish about the size of a salmon.
I was determined to catch some of them and bought a long cane in the village and. some hooks. With a line made of strong thread ("Housewives, soldiers, for the use of") and spinners made from cigarette tins, I sallied forth. I hooked several, but they broke up my tackle in the strong current. Finally I hooked one in a quiet pool and managed to get his head up, landing it with some trouble. We had it for dinner that night.

From there on the serious business began. We chased the Turks up into the hills and. followed them. At Ain Dibs in the hills we could see crude oil seeping out of the rocks. I see on the map that there are oil wells there now.

Another big battle and the Turks surrendered. I went back to Baghdad in an ambulance.