Chapter 12 Lessons from Lebanon; A matter of prestige

LESSONS FROM LEBANON

THE mountain valleys of the Lebanon hold a lesson of importance for the Australian troops there, if they will take the trouble to learn it. They come from a land whose extraordinary natural wealth has been largely exploited, leaving for those who may wish to seek a new rural living after this war a country that is comparable in many ways to the semi-arid, inhospitable slopes of the Lebanon.

Men sufficiently conscious of the deep satisfaction of owning their own land, and of forcing it to produce food, must have been stimulated by the sight of some of the sculptured farmlets hung on these mountain sides. Half their productiveness is in timber, grown on little islands of soil chipped out of the rocks. The forests help to make more soil for fruit and cereals.

In Australia there are great stretches of hill lands that would respond to a treatment similar but adapted to our conditions. Timber will give a living; and timber and the land that it covers improve in quality together. Even in our desolate marginal lands, the lesson can be applied-the lesson that only through devotion to the soil can profit be won. And there, where the natural scrub has been most ruthlessly wasted and its conservation purpose defeated, timber again is the only means by which the salvation of the land and its return to productiveness may be effected.

The Lebanon certainly is no paragon of forest virtues. Most of it is bare; but where any real effort has been made at reforestation on hills which everyone has stripped, from Solomon to the quite recently occupying Turks, one can see the rewards in increased fertility of the valleys.

A fairly revealing cross-section is opened up by the road to Jezzine which loops and winds across the brown back of the Lebanon from Sidon - 15 to 20 miles of it. It is nothing much as roads go in these parts. In f act, it is like the country it traverses, smooth in very small sections and jagged for the rest. But it is the scenes which it explores that count. These are magnificent. Primitively bare on the heights, except for great grey masses of broken rock, the hills gather, as they descend, a thin coat of scrub which merges, on the lower, inland slopes, into forests of great pines. The trees reach right down, taking water with them from the springs which they shelter, into the most unsuspectedly fertile of valleys, locked away in the heart of the province.

I drove into this country one evening soon after the Syrian campaign had ended. From Sidon on the flat Mediterranean shore, the road lifts suddenly out of a landscape of orange and olive groves into the bareness of the coastal range, grey and dusty where it is cultivated, grey and rocky above all. These hills are and in the summer time and the rough efforts at cultivation are pathetic. A few wilted fig trees, some shreds of crop, seem not worth the trouble of planting and care. Only the olive trees flourish here. They seem to thrive in any soil.

Colour comes into the picture as the road climbs towards the watershed. Locust trees are the first to break the monotony of the landscape, and where locusts grow, apparently vines will. The strips of terraced soil become wider and their loam, richer and browner, replaces the marl of the outer fringe.

There has been a bitter struggle here, to win the soil from the defiant rock and to make it productive. 'Me fertility of the whole country, in its varying degrees, has been developed slowly from the determination of generations of peasants to live and to produce. Precipices have been chipped away to build a terrace or two-perhaps an acre of arable land at a time. Everywhere over the forbidding faces of these hills the same memorial to centuries of labour is carved.

The richer rewards of husbandry are revealed dramatically as the road climbs to the outer crest of the central range. At Roum-a village perched astride a great saddle in the hills-a wide square-cut gateway of rock opens on to the first of a series of forest and-farm panoramas. On the western side there are comfortable little holdings; on the other there is wealth in the land. The change is so marked that the scene has almost a story-book impact, as of some forgotten, land-locked community.

A narrow slip of a track creeps round the face of a great escarpment for hundreds of yards. The wall is almost sheer above, yet below, terraces again make steep garden plots. Forest takes over from them as the slopes plunge hundreds of feet to the valley bottom; and above it all the road winds on, over saddles and ridges, searching through the ranges until it reaches the next vast basin in the Lebanon chain, that which shelters Jezzine.

One side of this cup is steep and gaunt, reaching up to the bare snow mountains, but the other, gradual and green, is covered thickly with pines rooted in warm brown soil. There are luxuriant semi-tropical gardens in the valley. Bananas grow there almost as richly as on the hot coastal plain.

Even the pines supply food, adding to their value as timber. The seeds from their big brown cones, blanched and sold by the kilo, are a valued table delicacy, filling the place that almonds take with us-and even more. One finds them in soup and savouries, as well as in cakes and as a salted appetiser. Once the pines supplied timber alone, but now a rich harvest is reaped from them every year.

Many streams water this valley. From Jezzine itself, perched between the dead and the living halves of the landscape, a spring rising in the bare rock flows through the town. Already, when I saw it, it had found a new channel round and through the ruins of buildings destroyed in an air-raid a few nights before.

That was almost the only sign remaining of the bitter fight for the whole area. It seemed incredible, in fact, that such a struggle had ever filled the valley. This was merely because of the surviving placidness. It was the knowledge that men and material of war, difficult to move at any time, had been maneuvered through the mad jumble of rocks above Jezzine that impressed. Think of a campaign fought over the summits of our Blue Mountains, and through its great gorges there. The Jezzine country is worse.

It is difficult to bring to terms the ground and the numbers of the men who conquered it. A few companies of infantry, a little artillery, scattered in this wilderness of rocky hills; and yet the many strongly fortified positions, perfect for defensive warfare, fell to us one by one. Twenty miles behind these lines, a fortnight before, I had wondered impatiently why they were so slow. That day, on the spot, I was amazed that success had come in days, instead of weeks or months.

But now the "Mad Mile" of road leading to Jezzine was free from the plaster of shells which made it the most hazardous drive in Syria; Hill 1332, every yard of its face marked by our shell-fire, was quiet again above the sunny farms of Lebanon's richest pocket.

Our men have left their mark on this country in their struggle to win it. But the hope strikes, as one sees the result of the longer, more objective struggle of the peasant, that the country has left some mark on our men; that the lesson of such devoted husbandry has been learned.

Australians are grand fighters for a cause that appeals, or even for the mere sake of a scrap; but cultivation of the soil the fight that is eternal does not nowadays stimulate them enough. Some will return, as from the last war, with a feeling that their fight overseas has entitled them to a bloodless, sweatless victory at home. They may expect ready pioneered farms, cut to an easy pattern, waiting to be harvested. That they cannot have. Nothing can be won from the soil without toil. Many Australians know that. If a few more have learned that in this little country which they have helped, they will have earned some individual reward for their future.

"VX17681"

A MATTER OF PRESTIGE

FATE decided that Blue Andersen's entrance should take place at the most dramatic moment of the day.

The 2 I.C. had just handed the battalion parade over to the C.O. when Blue staggered in from the right flank, looked the whole battalion in the face and shouted to all and sundry to do nothing to "prejice glorus pressage of Ack I Foof."

It was natural that Blue, in his advanced state, should have chosen those very apt words of advice.

The battalion had heard it so often that it was familiarly known as the "first commandment from the C.O.'s military bible."

"Men," he had said time and again, "whatever happens in this ruddy war, do nothing to prejudice the glorious prestige of the A.I.F."

There was quite a noticeable movement in all ranks and the muffled laughter reached the C.O.'s ears. He caught sight of Blue through the corner of his eye.

"Sergeant-Major, arrest that man," he ordered.

The Sergeant-Major dug his heels into the soil with unusual vigour as he strode towards the object of the C.O.'s command.

"Private Andersen, consider yourself under open arrest."

Blue's right hand moved with a smartness that suggested that he intended to throw the Sergeant-Major a salute, but his hand finished its upward motion by displacing his hat and scratching his head.

"Carn conshider," he mumbled. "In no fit condison to conshider. Give us a cuppler men so's I know I'm under arres'."

The Sergeant-Major obliged, and Blue was kindly assisted off the parade ground.

He was up before the C.O. the following morning, clear-headed and bright-eyed, and with an appearance of general neatness that he had not experienced in months.

"Two charges," commented the C.O. "While on active service, drunkenness; and while on active service, absent without leave." He read the charges in his usual clear tone and then asked: "What have you to say for yourself, Private Andersen?"

"Well, Sir, it was this way. I was walking down the road last night . .

The C.O. interrupted him. "Be concise. What road and at what time?"

"Well, Sir, I left the Good sort at . . ."

Again the C.O. interrupted the story. "Look, my man, tell your story in a straightforward way. Leave out anything that does not concern the case."

Blue began again. "It was about 2200 hours, Sir, and I was on my way down the street to catch the leave bus for camp. Passing a rubberdy - a pub - an hotel, Sir, in which there was a band playing I ran into the arms of a colonel, a full colonel, Sir, with all his frills.

"Yes, a colonel in full dress," the CO. suggested.

"He was as full as - he was shot- -drunk, Sir, very drunk. I passed him by and then I thought it was up to me-that it was my duty, Sir, to look after him, see that he did nothing to prejudice . . ."

"Yes, I know. Go on."

"Well, Sir, I called a taxi and took the colonel home. Up the big hill and to the right, Sir. Posh house, big lawns, wide paths and all trimmings. I intended to leave him there, Sir, but he insisted-ordered me to come inside, Sir, and sent the taxi man for a case of pig's--beer, Sir. It was Melbourne . . ."

"Does that matter? Is that necessary to the story?"

Blue admitted that it was not. "We sat in the lounge for hours, Sir, talking and drinking the beer, under orders. The colonel asked me what I belonged to, and complimented me on my smart appearance, Sir, and we had just started to talk of home, Sir, when in walked his missus-his wife, Sir.

"She was dressed like the pictures you see of Cleopatra, Sir. Nothing much above the waist except a pair of dixie lids, gold dixie lids, Sir

"Yes, yes. Go on, man. Don't waste time."

"And below, a pair of Wog pants-silk Wog trousers, Sir-with a white covering sort of skirt draped round the front like a pair of curtains. She had slippers on, too, Sir, blue slippers to match the blue sash round her waist. She looked quois-kateer." Blue paused, as if to give the C.O. another opportunity to tell him to stick to relevant facts. No comment came.

"I don't know what held those dixie lids up, Sir. There were no straps supporting, Sir. Yet they did not even slip, Sir.

"The lady spoke to the colonel, Sir, asking where he had been all night, and she was stink-annoyed because she hadn't seen him since the third dance. She said she had won the prize for the best-dressed lady, Sir, and the colonel hadn't been there to escort her to the dais to receive it. She said, too, that the colonel was 'disgustingly drunk.'

"I began to think, Sir, that perhaps the colonel was not a real colonel, so I asked him where his battalion was, and he said that he was a bogus colonel all dressed up for the fancy dress ball. I was stink-angry, Sir, that I should have wasted my leave on him, Sir, and I should have left straight away, but I thought that I couldn't get a taxi at that time, Sir, and anyhow there were still half a dozen . . .

"It was dawn when I stood up to go, Sir, but the colonel said he had another dozen in the refrig. and asked-ordered me to stay and help him put them away. When he opened the refrig., Sir, and I saw all the bottles lined up in threes, Sir, I thought of the morning parade and hurried away. I caught a taxi, and was only ten minutes late for parade, Sir."

"Yes, I saw that." The C.O. had a kindly look in his eye as he turned to the Sergeant-Major.

"Sergeant-Major, was there a fancy dress affair in town night before last?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir. A big ball in aid of the local Red Cross."

Turning to Blue the C.O. asked: "What was the name of your bogus colonel?"

"Have no idea, Sir, but I could take you to his house - I think."

"Never mind."

The C.O. cleared his throat. "Private Andersen, next time you do anything to protect the glorious prestige of the A.I.F. see that the object of your protection is a member of the A.I.F. Admonished on both charges."

Outside, the Sergeant-Major, before he dismissed the accused, asked:

"Private Andersen, are you connected with the famous Hans Andersen?"

"Yes, Sir. He was my great-grandfather."

"QX943465"