Friday, March 31, 1916. Aden. Got up early this morning and went over to the Northbrook. The Turks at Lahej are being bombarded. The Admiral’s going part of the way to see it. Six seaplanes off. A heavy, hot, grey day. The Turks are fighting well. There is no ill-will here. They say the Turk is a member of the club, but has not been in it lately. We are feeding the Turks and they feed us. Caravans come and go as usual. There are great difficulties in the way of blockade. We can’t hit our enemies without also hitting our friends, and yet if we do nothing our prestige suffers.
A conference this morning. Fifty years ago Colonel Pelly said that the Turks were like the Thirty-nine Articles; every one accepts them, but nobody remembers them or what they are. India seems extremely apathetic about Aden. We left early this morning. Last night I saw Colonel Jacob, who has been twelve years at Aden and in the hinterland. In the evening I went with the Brigadier to the Turkish prisoners. They said they had surrendered because life was impossible in the Yemen. They had been six to seven years without pay, had had bad food and perpetual fighting. Then they had been put on a ship to go back to their families, then taken off again and sent to fight us. Human nature could not stand it, they said. They liked their Commander, Said Pasha, who was good to the soldiers, but they complained of their non-commissioned officers....
We seem to be perpetually changing our officers here. This C.O. is the fifth in a short time. Jacob is the only man who talks Arabic, and there is not a soul who talks Turkish. Wrote to Egypt to get an interpreter.
Sunday, April 2, 1916. H.M.S. “Euryalus.” We are steaming through a grey-black gloom, like an English autumn afternoon, only the thermometer is 92 and there are no rooks cawing. There are lowering skies everywhere. Talked about Arabia yesterday with the Admiral.
Have been re-reading Whigan’s Persia and other Gulf books. Wish that I had George Lloyd’s memoranda. The present position is unsatisfactory. We have policed and lighted and pacified this Gulf for a hundred years, and we are entitled to a more definite status. We ought to have Bunder Abbas. Otherwise, if the Russians come down the Gulf to Bunder Abbas, they hold the neck of the bottle of the Persian Gulf and we shall be corked in our own bottle; they would be on the flank of India; they would be fed by a railway, while our large naval station would be cooking away in Elphinstone’s Inlet (which is only another name for a slow process of frying), where we should have battle casualties in peace-time from the heat. Elphinstone’s Inlet to Bushire is a poor Wei-hai-wei to a first-rate Port Arthur. Then, if the Russians come down, any defensive measures which we may be forced into taking will appear aggressive when the Russians are on the spot. They would not appear aggressive now. We have a prescriptive right to Bunder Abbas, which we ought to strengthen. It doesn’t involve territorial annexations.
Monday, April 3, 1916. H.M.S. “Euryalus.” Last night I had a long and rather acrimonious argument with —— and —— on the question of Arab policy. They said: “You must punish the Arabs if they don’t come in on our side.” I said: “You have no means of punishing them. All you can do is to antagonize them.”
There is news of a Zeppelin raid on London. Everybody is anxious.
Tuesday, April 4, 1916. H.M.S. “Euryalus.” Muskat. Last night I had my fourth Hindustani lesson, a very easy one. Jack Marriott is extraordinarily quick at languages. My teacher said that his affianced wife is fourteen and that he kept her in a cage at Bushire. Talked with the Admiral and Captain Burmester....
To-day is a wild day, Arabia crouching, yellow like a lion, in a sand-storm, and spray and sand flying in layers on the ship. All the land is lurid and the sea foaming and the sky black. If only there had been some sharks at sea and lions on shore, it would have been a perfect picture. This afternoon it cleared and became beautiful. We passed a desolate coast with no sign of life, where it looked as if a man would fry in half an hour in summer. A few dhows on the sea were all we saw. My last journey here came back vividly and the time at Bahrein after we were wrecked in the Africa.
Wireless came into Basrah to say the spring offensive was beginning. We put into Muskat. I found that the Resident, Colonel Ducat, was a neighbour. There has been a row at Chahbar, and the Philomel, which we expected to find here, has left, telegraphed for this morning. The news here is that the tribes intend to attack Muskat, but it’s not believed. We went ashore this evening, and a Beluchi boy took the Admiral and all of us round. The people who had not been to the East before were enchanted by the quiet, the scent of musk, and the evening behind the Sultan’s Palace. Last time I was here was on Christmas Day, with Leland Buxton. I was very sick, carrying a huge bag of Maria Teresa dollars. The Portuguese forts and the names of the ships that come here, painted in huge white letters on the cliffs, are the remarkable things about the place. There is a sort of a silent roll-call of the ships. The men like writing their names up in white letters. Matrah is round the corner, and looks bigger than Muskat. You have got to get to it by boat. Muskat itself is completely cut off. I saw a straight-looking Arab from Asir who had been with the Turks and had information, and asked the Agent to send him on to Aden.