We are a relatively few miles from the un-guarded border with Iran, a border that existed even in 1916 when Amara or Kut as it was called was one of many provincial cities in Mesopotamia, a far-flung component of the Ottoman Empire. There was no Iraq.
Mesopotamia, a Greek word interpreted as the land between two rivers is exactly that; the rivers in question being the Tigris and Euphrates. This is ancient Sumeria, where the bronze age was born; where language and alphabets developed; where the first cities arose. In a way, where history began to be recorded.
Ur, birthplace of Abraham and thus of the three great monotheistic religions lies to the west; to the north, Babylon and biblical Nineveh; to the East the natural border between Arabs and Persians, the Zagros Mountains; and to the south, a few scant miles, the sacred meeting of the great rivers, forming the southern boundary of the fittingly termed “cradle of civilization.”
Armies have fought here throughout the millennia, history only remembering some. Now America and its allies had come to this primordial land. In the “Great War” it had been British troops from her homeland and her empire. In the 1916 siege of Kut, the British lost more men, 23,000, than in any other battle except on the European mainland.
Like most, I had never heard of that battle and yet here I was, in Amara, to coordinate UN efforts to repatriate refugees from Iran back to Iraq. One afternoon I was asked by Iraqi staff to come see “some graves.” Thinking I was about to see additional mass graves from Saadam Hussein, I accompanied them. What I was shown staggered me: the memorialized remnants of that battle from almost a century ago, names and regiments carved in stone.
I wrote the missive that night literally by candle light because, as always, there was no power. I gave it to the British Garrison Commander in Amara and he asked if I would permit him sending it on to London.
There is an epilogue or afterword at its completion.
Ther Names Live Forever More
The white crosses that once marked their resting place have long since been carried away for “storage”. Possibly their Christian symbolism offended Muslim sensibility; perhaps it was a political decision. The reasons matter not.
It has been such a long time.
For the thousands of men who forever rest in the sandy sun-baked ground of Amara, Iraq it has been almost ninety years. Their names, still clearly readable are inscribed on a stonewall, listed as they always are by regiment and by rank. Their proud regimental crests precede the tally of their names; in the din of battle they did not but in this their final rest Colonels pave the way for Corporals and Privates. The Brigade remains formed: all present or accounted for. Certainly the Almighty does not abide by these protocols but nevertheless here it seems fitting.
The came from the empire: Aussies and Kiwis; Sikhs and Punjabis; West Indians and Africans; but mostly they were and are forever British. The tally of regiments includes many long gone: the quaintness of the East Kent Cycling Corps: they lost men. Did they bring their bicycles all the way from the green pastures of Southern England to the hell-like temperatures of Iraq? The Royal Flying Corps is here, names testimony to the flimsy planes of the day but so is the Chaplain Corps; how did they die?
Is it important?
The Black Watch lost so many men as they have in so many battles. Did the pipes play one final dirge for them? Did they beat the drums slowly?
And what of the lads from Wales and Ireland; from the heartlands of Yorkshire and Lancashire and oh so many counties and towns in Blake’s green and verdant land? Who said farewells to them, those young men who died for King and Country in a place not long remembered except by those left behind. Does anyone think of John or Nigel or James or Patrick on Remembrance Sunday or are they all part of the honored dead on the empty tomb on Whitehall we call the Cenotaph.
It has been such a long time.
Come you back you British Soldier! cries Kipling, and in truth the British Army has come back, back to Amara. For the King’s Own Scottish Borderers now occupy the Governor’s House; their armored tanks and cars traversing the streets and fields where once their olden comrades fought; fought and died; died by the thousand; died and were buried; their granite carved names forever to remain their testimony.
But these are not Flanders’s Fields; no poppies grow here. There is a grounds keeper but this is the Iraq of today and he like so many others is poor. He tries to grow something where crosses once stood but fails. Perhaps there is meaning in that but it would be lost on a hungry man.
He shows the maps of the graves and the books with their names and he reveals a gesture from today’s British forces: new roses, resting beneath each of the panels that hold the impressed names. The broken stone tablets that once proudly graced the archway now rest on the dirt, the honoured dirt that holds these heroes. The British have returned to Amara. Their dead comrades welcome them.
It has been such a long time.
Listen…..Listen to the dirt speaking….Remember them…..Lest we forget.
Let their names live forever more here where they fought and died. Let their memories live in the hearts of their countrymen and of free men everywhere.
Dr Thomas I Hayes Jr
Amara, Iraq
August 2003
Epilogue:
I left Amara and Iraq in the autumn of 2003 and after a short respite home in St Petersburg was posted to Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania, East Africa. In November, and shortly before Remembrance Sunday, I received an e-mail from the then Officer-in-Charge in Amara. He asked if I would let my missive be read to the troops during their remembrance ceremonies. I agreed immediately.
For myself, I attended services at the British and Commonwealth Cemetery in Dar. I don’t remember much of what was said that sunny day though I was pleased the German Ambassador stood next to his British counterpart. I felt that was fitting.
It has been such a long time.
TIH
