26 
LAND &• WATER 
December 19, 1918 
How the News came to Barbary 
By A. P. Herbert , 
I WAS at Tlemcen on the great Monday ; Tlemcen, the 
ancient capital of Western Barbar>', a hundred miles 
from Oran and scores of miles from the nearest English- 
man. At eleven a.m. the train from Oran halted 
lazily at a small station, where oranges glowed in the 
station garden as the wall-flowers do at home, and from the 
eucalyptus trees great breaths of the scent came in. Here 
we had the news, and told each other how curious it was to 
have heard it at the very moment when the fighting ceased ; 
this pleased us more than anything, though I am not sure 
that it was true. 
Tlemcen is a little walled town towards the Moroccan 
frontier, perched on a small plateau extravagantly covered 
•with fruit trees, with a steep, serrated battlement of a ridge 
behind it and an impossibly good view over woodedundulations 
in front. 
Normally, I should say, its life is one long siesta, and as I 
■drove hrough the narrow cobbled streets the place was still 
struggling out of sleep, sitting at cafes under the plane trees, 
assimilating the news. Only the cabman expected a com- 
memorative " benefice," and the first few flags were climbing 
about the pink and white houses among the jasmine. The 
Tricolour and Stars and Stripes held tl e field. The Union 
Jack was a rarity, the Empire, being mainly represented 
by a kind of bastard Red Ensign, a vast expanse of red with 
a minute Jack lurking shamefully in the comer. 
The dramatic sense demanded that this lonely Englishman, 
herald of a great Allied victorious Empire, should have been 
met at the Porte de Sidi-Bou-Medine and carried in triumphal 
procession to a banquet, or at least a substantial dejeuner. 
This did not occur. Few persons recognised the lonely 
Englishman as an Englishman at all. This was disappointing, 
for along the Barbary coast from Tunis to Oran I had been 
•enjoying the experience of being a curiosity, a rare spectacle, 
as an English officer, after being as common as dirt in England 
and Egypt and France. It had been refreshing to see men 
nudge each other and say respectfully — " Anglais." Here, 
though, on this day of days, they rather whispered behind 
me that I was a Russian, or Portuguese, or, haply, an 
American. And so I went into the Hotel des Voyageurs, full 
of fiies and the smell of garlic, and stout Frenchmen, obviously 
not voyageurs, except perhaps in the commercial sense. 
They did not rise, and cheer as I entered, but continued to 
eat, as men say, " with relish." They were eating couss- 
couss, a romantic but nasty dish, and it was all strangely 
disappointing. One wanted to sing, to become obviously 
■elated ; above all, to have company. One thought of Picca- 
dilly, of crowds in the Mall, of English drinks. . . . 
Sodales, tlTat was what was missing. So in despair I turned to 
the next table, a fat civilian and two poilus (O dignity ! 
O discipline !) and said with a knowing air, " Ah-ha — c'est 
fini, n'est ce pas ? " At which they all gulped furiously, and 
one said " AJi, oui^ — Americain ? " and another " Ah, oui — ■ 
Portugais ? " and the other said nothing, but picked his teeth. 
Then I went out into the Place de la Victoire in a great wave 
of garlic and sadness. I took a cab and drove out mournfully 
to the old Roman ruins of Mansoura, where the towers of the 
old wall are a lovely russet, standing peacefully among vine- 
yards and olives, and orange and pistachio-trees. In the 
middle stands the remnant of the minaret, golden-brown in 
the warm sun, and from its base you look for many miles over 
the orchards and the cypresses and the vineyards, in all 
shades ■ f green and gold and yellow, and russet and brown, 
to the blue Atlas Mountains. 
I sat there in the absolute stillness, under a stage African 
sky, and thought appropriate things about Peace. In par- 
ticular I thought, ' In this far comer, reeking of history, 
and battle and sieges, of Romans and Berbers, Almohades 
and Merinides and all their strifes, men have long since had 
their 1 11 of war : why should they worry about this one ? 
why should they bother about this Peace ? " And I was 
■comforted. 
But when I drove back into the white town, prepared to 
postpone my joy, the streets were astir. They had digested 
the news, they were excited. On the muezzin gallery of the 
Grande Mosquee there were clusters of Tricolours looking 
strangely out of place ; and in the Place de la Mairie were 
bodies of Arab youths, marching about in a brilliant con- 
fusion of dirty white breeches and red tarbooshes, carrying 
gaudy banners and chanting on one note a* triumphant 
refrain, to the metre of " Left — right — left, right, left." (This 
was^explained t© ms later as a song of victory, and itjseemed 
fo me that " Land of Hope and Glory " had its points after 
all.) 
The mmour of " un Anglais " had got round, and I was 
smiled upon. As we passed the principal cafe I caught the 
glitter of chamj agne, unmistakable even at 3 p.m., and 
there were loud crie; of " Descendez." Accordingly I de- 
scended. Gathered round a few tables on the pavement were 
M. le Maire, M. le Commandant, the Sous-Prefet, and various 
other anonymous notables, clearly the preliminary Peace 
Conference. Also there were oceans of champagne, the bounty 
of an enormous gentleman with an undulating bosom and no 
collar. But he paid for the champagne. 
Moist Enthusiasm 
The next half-hour remains in the memory as a confused 
period of toasts and cheers and moist enthusiasm, of continual 
gettings up and sittings down, of champagne glasses being 
for ever emptied down the right sleeve and for ever mysteri- 
ously filled again ; of the vast face of the generous brewer 
glowing distantly in the background like a Mediterranean 
sunset ; while in the street a large and motley crowd col- 
lected, pert Arab boys with almond eyes and olive com- 
plexions, grey bearded old Moors with corrugated faces, 
French officers, French women, Jews, poilus, sleek Syrians 
in rich silk robes, cross-eyed beggars, Maltese, Turks, Italians, 
Berbers, Greeks, donkeys, and, I believe, Germans. 
At intervals new celebrities arrived, and all the company 
stood up and embraced or avoided embraces and spilled 
their glasses and toasted the Allies and sank back exhausted. 
A man stood on a table and sang the "Marseillaise " with aston- 
ishing fire and emotion, and the " Madelon " and the " Chanson 
du Poilu," and afterwards the " Chant du depart " ; and 
that took me back three and a half years to Mudros Bay, 
where I first heard the French sailors sing it — as we steamed 
out for Helles — with the same unique French gift of singing 
as if they meant it. 
Through all this I sympathised with M. le Commandant, 
the CO. of the garrison, who was being conscientiously 
democratic and tolerant (as who should say " The end of a 
great war is a mere incident to me, but by all means let us be 
merry "), but clearly wondering how far he ought to go before 
all those Arabs. 
And then the crisis came. A certain general appreciation 
of the British race had already been expressed. It was 
now to crystallise into a hideous shape. Next to me was a 
man in a vague kind of khaki uniform, evidently the self- 
appointed " soul " of all local festivities, and personally 
distasteful to M. le Commandant. He had already sung 
and declaimed and recited ad nauseam. His big coup was 
to come. After confirming in a stealthy ear-tickling whisper 
his suspicion that I was indeed " un Anglais," he rose and 
spoke very favourably of the part played by England in the 
war. '' Here," he said, " is ' un Anglais.' " I " 16ve mon 
verre," but the rest was lost in what is known as " a scene of 
indescribable enthusiasm." M. le Maire and the company 
leapt to their feet with surprising agility and recklessly poured 
their champagne down their bosoms ; shouting and beaming 
and clinking glasses. Outside in the sun the young Arabs 
cheered and cast their red hats into the air, and the old Moors 
smiled silkily in their beards, and all that mob of infidels 
and true believers paid their tribute of respect to this embar- 
■ rassed subject of the Great White King. And — oh horror !— 
the " soul " of the town cast himself upon me, and clasped 
his arms about me, and kissed me hotly on both cheeks. 
Before all those Arabs. And he had not shaved. He was 
prickly. ... I went under. 
When I came up, gasping, the second time, I said to myself, 
" This is a great occasion. In this lonely corner of Africa, 
on this historic day, I am the only Englishman present. I 
am an Ambassador. I am the Empire. In the years to come 
they will tell their children how the mad Englishman bore 
himself this day. I will be worthy." A life full of incident 
and danger had yet left me iU-equipped for such a moment 
as this, but when I saw the crash coming I had hurriedly 
rehearsed a little French speech, in the best of taste. I rose — 
but, alas ! it had deserted me. What I said was something 
like this-—" Je suis enchants. . . . Je suis enchants 
. . . d'etre . . . damn . . . d'etre aujourd'hui 
. . . les braves poilus les boches . . . 
les sacres Boches . . . j'ai battu . . . Arm6e Fran- 
(jaise . . . enchants. Je Ifeve mon verre . . . je 
