East of Gaza

Broome? Yes, of course I know him. Served under him in Palestine from early 1917 until the end of the war. Ian Broome was one of Meinertzhagen’s subs during the East African campaign. Can’t recall the exact details; but, if I’m not mistaken, at some point in 1916, Meinertzhagen had a bout of fever and was sent home to recuperate. That’s when Broome took his place, coordinating intelligence for the East African Field Force. Meinertzhagen didn’t take long to recover, but when he did, rather than send him back into the East African fly belts, the War Office shipped him out to Palestine with a promotion; and, as soon as he took up his duties, he called for Broome, so Broome once more found himself serving as one of Meinertzhagen’s chief subordinates. Eventually, working that close to Meinertzhagen and Allenby, he must have caught Allenby’s eye, and that, I think, gave his career a boost. I read last week in the Times that he has been promoted to major general. Good man, Broome. Well done. Sent him a note of congratulation.

Tall? Oh, yes, very. Six feet, four inches at least. High forehead, receding hairline that bristled along the back of his scalp, piercing, close-set blue eyes, and a sharp nose that protruded like a beak. That was Broome. The men, well out of his hearing, called him The Heron; and, in more ways than one, the description was apt. In the first place, setting aside mere appearance, he had the patience of Job; but, when he was on the hunt, he exhibited all of the determination of a heron stalking a trout, and then, when he did strike, he struck both fast and sure. And, if a man made the mistake of crossing him or not coming up to the mark in doing his duty, Broome had no hesitation about putting that beak right into the offender’s face with the implied threat that he might peck the man to death in half a second. Jolly unnerving, that. On the other side, and this, I think, is something that appealed to Meinertzhagen, Broome was a man of swift apprehension and ready wit. He was in no way a joker, you will understand, but from time to time he would let something fall so dry and incisive as to cause me to double up until I could regain possession of myself.

Me? Why I was the lowest of the low, the most junior second lieutenant in the section. I’d done my schooling at Winchester and then gone straight to Sandhurst, and when I passed out in March of 1917, someone at the War Office seems to have culled from my records a suggestion that I had been good at maths. How one automatically connects that discovery with intelligence work, I really can’t say; but, all at once, rather than joining my regiment as a platoon leader, and much against my will, I found myself shipped out to Cairo, and as soon as I landed, I found myself stuck in a tiny sweltering office correcting maps. It was mind-numbing, that work, the sort of thing that a well-trained ape might have been able to do, and I hated it; but, when Meinertzhagen showed up in June, he somehow found me out.

“You’re wasted here,” he said to me, at the conclusion of our interview. “Pack your kit, and report to Advanced G.H.Q. at Dayr-al-Balah. That’s about two hundred miles up the coast from here, in case you haven’t already seen it on one of your maps. Report specifically to Captain Broome; he will have work for you.”

That was a reprieve, I don’t mind telling you; and, as quickly as I could, I packed up and made the move.

Sir Archibald Murray had been commanding on the Palestine front, but after two failed attacks on Gaza, he was on his way out, and the Bull, General Sir Edmund Allenby, was on the way in, already in transit somewhere between Italy and...