War in the Garden of Eden | Page 4

marked when one beheld a great bearded Sikh with his
turbaned head bent over the steering-wheel of a Ford.
Modern Busra stands on the banks of Ashar Creek. The ancient city
whence Sinbad the sailor set forth is now seven or eight miles inland,
buried under the shifting sands of the desert. Busra was a seaport not so
many hundreds of years ago. Before that again, Kurna was a seaport,
and the two rivers probably only joined in the ocean, but they have
gradually enlarged the continent and forced back the sea. The present
rate of encroachment amounts, I was told, to nearly twelve feet a year.
The modern town has increased many fold with the advent of the

Expeditionary Force, and much of the improvement is of a necessarily
permanent nature; in particular the wharfs and roads. Indeed, one of the
most striking features of the Mesopotamian campaign is the
permanency of the improvements made by the British. In order to
conquer the country it was necessary to develop it,--build railways and
bridges and roads and telegraph systems,--and it has all been done in a
substantial manner. It is impossible to contemplate with equanimity the
possibility of the country reverting to a rule where all this progress
would soon disappear and the former stagnancy and injustice again
hold sway.
[Illustration: Ashar Creek at Busra]
As soon as we landed I wandered off to the bazaar--"suq" is what the
Arab calls it. In Busra there are a number of excellent ones. By that I
don't mean that there are art treasures of the East to be found in them,
for almost everything could be duplicated at a better price in New York.
It is the grouping of wares, the mode of sale, and, above all, the
salesmen and buyers that make a bazaar--the old bearded Persian sitting
cross-legged in his booth, the motley crowd jostling through the narrow,
vaulted passageway, the veiled women, the hawk-featured, turbaned
men, the Jews, the Chaldeans, the Arabs, the Armenians, the stalwart
Kurds, and through it all a leaven of khaki-clad Indians, purchasing for
the regimental mess. All these and an ever-present exotic, intangible
something are what the bazaar means. Close by the entrance stood a
booth festooned with lamps and lanterns of every sort, with above it
scrawled "Aladdin-Ibn-Said." My Arabic was not at that time sufficient
to enable me to discover from the owner whether he claimed illustrious
ancestry or had merely been named after a patron saint.
A few days after landing at Busra we embarked on a paddle-wheel boat
to pursue our way up-stream the five hundred intervening miles to
Baghdad. Along the banks of the river stretched endless miles of
date-palms. We watched the Arabs at their work of fertilizing them, for
in this country these palms have to depend on human agency to transfer
the pollen. At Kurna we entered the Garden of Eden, and one could
quite appreciate the feelings of the disgusted Tommy who exclaimed:

"If this is the Garden, it wouldn't take no bloody angel with a flaming
sword to turn me back." The direct descendant of the Tree is pointed
out; whether its properties are inherited I never heard, but certainly the
native would have little to learn by eating the fruit.
Above Kurna the river is no longer lined with continuous palm-groves;
desert and swamps take their place--the abode of the amphibious,
nomadic, marsh Arab. An unruly customer he is apt to prove himself,
and when he is "wanted" by the officials, he retires to his watery
fastnesses, where he can remain in complete safety unless betrayed by
his comrades. On the banks of the Tigris stands Ezra's tomb. It is kept
in good repair through every vicissitude of rule, for it is a holy place to
Moslem and Jew and Christian alike.
The third night brought us to Amara. The evening was cool and
pleasant after the scorching heat of the day, and Finch Hatton and I
thought that we would go ashore for a stroll through the town. As we
proceeded down the bank toward the bridge, I caught sight of a sentry
walking his post. His appearance was so very important and efficient
that I slipped behind my companion to give him a chance to explain us.
"Halt! Who goes there?" "Friend," replied Finch Hatton. "Advance,
friend, and give the countersign." F.H. started to advance, followed by
a still suspicious me, and rightly so, for the Tommy, evidently member
of a recent draft, came forward to meet us with lowered bayonet,
remarking in a businesslike manner: "There isn't any countersign."
Except for the gunboats and monitors, all river traffic is controlled by
the Inland Water Transport Service. The officers are recruited from all
the world over. I firmly believe that no river of