  I shall remember him best pushing open the door. He always came in in the same way. A gentle tap, a slight fumbling with the handle, and the door would open and he would be there, slightly bent, because of his great height, a smile of welcome on his fine face, the collar of his inside coat sticking out above his outer coat. He would pause for just a moment as if to take in the occupants of the room, and then he would come quickly forward to shake hands, and at once his rapid, witty, bubbling conversation would flow. His conversation was brilliant. You listened amazed. Barely had you caught one choice bit of wisdom before he was off on another. It was bewildering. When he was gone you sometimes tried to recall them. Impossible! He seemed to await with you his next effort. As it shaped itself in his mind and fell almost at once from his lips he would sometimes look at you, hold you with his eyes for a second as if to say, “Are you getting that?—I’m getting it,” and then when he saw you had, you would both break into laughter. He stood, it almost seemed, on one side and enjoyed with you his other self. It would be vain to attempt to reconstruct his conversation. His gestures, the moods which passed across his face as he spoke, the play with his enormous pipe—all these are essential to a true appreciation of his talk. He would be talking. The pipe is out. Out comes a box of matches. He strikes one and applies it to his pipe. As the flame touches the bowl, a thought strikes him. The thought will not keep. Off he goes into conversation, holding the match until he is reminded of its presence when it burns down to his fingers. He strikes another and the same thing happens again. After he had sat smoking and talking in the office for a morning, the grate would be full of charred match-ends, silent, derelict victims of his bubbling thoughts. He might want to illustrate his anecdotes. Before one realized the fact he was off up and down the room in martial stride showing his idea of the goose step, or else he would dive for his hat to show a type of headgear that his wife considered to be inadequate to the dignity of a professor about to visit Egypt. Through his eyes one could understand most things. His vision, his judgment, his sympathy and his experience were all at your service. He touched all the emotions and left you bewildered but infinitely grateful for his company. He loved his visits to London because he got talk with all kinds of people. This he could not get at Oxford, where, he jokingly remarked, he saw the War in the Air from a bottle. Some time in January on one of his visits to London we fell to discussing the lay-out for the second volume. Our conversation ranged over all the various theatres of war. We lingered on the East, because it attracted him. We mutually regretted that the signing of the armistice had stopped a visit which he was to have made to the flying fronts of the Middle East. He felt he ought to see it. The first volume was out of the way. The Easter vacation was coming. Why not go then? I told him I thought there would be every service help for him once he got there. The thing was tentatively fixed. I telephoned the steamship company and retained a passage in the S.S. Egypt—ill-fated vessel. We discussed the itinerary and then passed to other subjects. I had misgivings. Not that I thought he was too old to undertake the journey, but because I knew how tireless and conscientious he was. I felt that he might be too vigorous, that it might take too much out of him and so leave him weak for disease. But I knew also that his visit would be enormously useful because it would make all the difference to the spirit of the history of the Middle East. The journey to France had supplied the cream of his first volume. The journey East would do the same for the rest of the work. Not that it was any good pointing out the difficulties and drawbacks of the journey. I did try something of that sort. “Adventures must be done, my boy,” was his reply. He had gone to India soon after leaving Cambridge. In India he had been attracted to Baghdad. He tried to get there by caravan. He had to wait until he could get there by aeroplane. Every facility was given him by the Air Ministry (although he paid for the journey himself). He wrote to tell me that the thing was fixed. “I had a letter from the General, enclosing a copy of a letter he has sent to W. G. Salmond, asking for every facility for me—beyond anything I should have asked or hoped. “So I wired you for the bunk—a complete room at the extra charge (of £18 I think).... “When I come up I hope you may be able to fit me out with maps to use from the air, and with some things to read preparatory. “It’s a good (mild) adventure. Thank you immensely for the dates, etc. “The General has sent them all over to Salmond, for his successor. “So there I am, and it’s me for Baghdad, ‘Orace, my boy. (I am thinking of what Robertson said to Smith-Dorrien.) “It seems they will try to take me to anything it is important I should see, so I depend on your advice. “You shall have a cheque as soon as I get the bill. “I owe all this suggestion to you. Bacon says there are things a man can’t decently do or claim for himself, and then a friend comes in.” In reply I sent him a passport form. “Many thanks for the passport form,” he wrote. (“A lot of notice the Arabs will take of it if I come among them!”) Sir Walter left London on March the 16th to take the Egypt at Marseilles. He stayed in London for a couple of days before he left and worked hard at the office putting in page headings on the latest proofs which had just come in from the Clarendon Press. We had to take a hurried lunch. Sir Walter liked a good meal to the accompaniment of beer. I suggested a tavern near Oxford Circus identified with the male domestic fowl. There is an excellent dining-room over the main bar. The food is as good as is procurable anywhere in London. The Scotch ale has a bite in it. Sir Walter looked round the assembled business men when we were seated and remarked that he had no doubts as to the quality of the cooking. The best advertisement for the cut off the joint was in the faces of the diners. He asked me what they all did (I could only guess). He was soon in conversation with the gentleman next him, whom he congratulated on the excellent portion of Shepherds Pie which was placed before him. Did Sir Walter know Mr. —— (the proprietor) when he had the Swinging Anchor round the corner (or words to that effect). Sir Walter regretted he did not. His neighbour then became reminiscent on the history of lunches enjoyed under Mr. ——’s direction over a period of twenty years; his reminiscences were punctuated by witty remarks from Sir Walter, which sent him off again into new channels. Sir Walter enjoyed the lunch so much that on the following day he looked forward to going again. On this occasion, when he was paying the waitress—a shrewd Cockney girl—he was asked whether he found it cold up there—this being by way of a joke on his height as he towered above her waiting for his bill. He was just like that. Every one felt at home with him. His great charm of manner, his dignity, his delightful old-world courtesy, especially with ladies, made him at home but also conspicuous in any assembly. His human qualities earned him the friendliness, even the banter, of people who came into contact with him, but he never in any way lost either dignity or distinction as a result. He went off to Egypt like a schoolboy going for his holidays. He carried with him an unbound copy of his first volume. From Marseilles I received a typical letter. “P. & O. S.S. Egypt. “Marseilles, March the 27th. “Cabin passage. Punctual. Good night. French on the make. Train table d’hÔte twenty-five francs, everything extra. Few passengers on boat. This is the Alfred Jingle style, but it contains all I have to say. It won’t be easy to work or read, for every one is on the prowl looking for some one else to talk to or to play Bridge with. I must be strong and refuse Bridge at first. Or at least so as not to be grumpy, I shall say, ‘Bridge—delighted.’ I love to play Bridge. Let me see—I always forget—are there four suits or five? Of course I know there are twelve cards in each suit. “Talk is not so easily dealt with. But there are some decent people on board. I have talked with two sad, efficient, disgruntled Indian Colonels, going back to earn their pension. And of course there are social ladies. When I was a lean gawky youth, they were not kind enough to me. I don’t blame them, but when they are kind now, I wish they had come earlier. “Book is all right. Small corrections occur to me. Can’t make ’em now. Doesn’t matter. God be with the office and all that therein are!” A few days later he arrived at Port Said and sent me the last letter I ever received from him. “Here I am at Port Said after a calm and easy voyage.... I am to go by train to Jerusalem to-night (it takes some seventeen or eighteen hours). There I am to meet Ellington and to be his fellow-guest at the house of the High Commissioner. He is to drive me to the Nablus road. Then to Cairo by aeroplane and from Cairo direct to Baghdad.... “It’s going to be tiresome to-night, but once I get to the R.A.F. I think things will be very easy.... “Baghdad seems to be a gay centre. I came on the boat with Major Lord Gough, a one-armed Irish officer, who has left home to escape the tax-collector, and is going to command Arab levies at Baghdad. He will do well, I am sure; he is cool, pleasant, practical, ready-witted and original. Indeed he shocked the Anglo-Indian officers on board, but the Arabs, I think, will take to him. “It has all been absurdly easy up to now, thanks to you. I will write again.” He never did. The next time I saw him was at Victoria Station on his return on April the 25th. He had been due to arrive the previous day. Lady Raleigh had spent the day meeting continental trains. She had to return to Oxford on the Tuesday afternoon, so I went down that evening to watch the trains in to see if he would arrive. The likeliest one was the train timed to arrive at 7.30. Actually it came in, in two portions, an hour later. Sir Walter was on the second train. He stepped out of the saloon loaded like a Christmas tree. He had all his own luggage packed for convenience of travelling in suit-cases. He carried a topee and wore a waterproof cap, with many flaps and folds, slightly tilted. Under one arm packed in straw and canvas was a thigh boot which some one had given to him in the desert with a request that he bring it to London and have it delivered to the address marked on it, where, presumably, it was to be half-soled and heeled or otherwise reconstructed. Under the other arm was a large round bundle, similarly addressed for delivery to a lady in London. This parcel, he supposed, contained Turkish Delight. This fugitive gift to a lady was carried a few thousand miles from the desert by Sir Walter Raleigh, already in the grip of a fatal fever. The many stories of his great forbear hardly approach this for sheer charm and gallantry! It was raining in torrents and a bit chilly. I got a taxi and Sir Walter directed the driver to the Waldorf. He was unwilling to disturb his club as he had not wired for a room. The Waldorf was full and we went on to the Cecil. Not a room in the place, so on to the Metropole. He himself jumped out here a little impatiently, but was received, as he said, somewhat coldly by the office staff who, after keeping him waiting, spoke to him almost with astonishment that he should have the temerity to ask for accommodation. At the Victoria, the same story. We then tried a small hotel in one of the side streets off Charing Cross—Craven Street, I think. They had nothing. Yes, if he did not mind there was a small room through the office and connected with it. He took it gladly. It was small. But as he washed he carried on a conversation with the proprietress, a woman of friendly manners. We could get nothing to eat there, and he had had no dinner. He looked very tired and a bit faraway. We went, through the driving rain, to a near-by restaurant. He chose something, but when it came, although it looked very good, he complained after eating a little that it was not nice. It was so unlike him. However, he ordered some soft roes on toast and we sat on till near midnight whilst he talked of his tour. He was full of it. Full of stories and impressions. I asked him if he had made notes of the more interesting things that had struck him. He had not. He had them all in his head. He told how at the aerodrome at Amman an Arab Sheikh had appeared with his followers, all heavily armed with service rifles and bristling with ammunition. Sir Walter and the Sheikh were introduced and sat together awhile at a corner of the aerodrome. The Sheikh occasionally stroking Sir Walter’s cheek apparently as a mark of friendliness. The followers formed a large circle round them and squatted. This went on for a bit and then the conversation being rather one-sided Sir Walter got bored and walked away to sit at another part of the aerodrome. He was deep in thought. He looked up and there silently squatting around again were the Arabs with the sun gleaming on their rifles. He talked a bit with the Sheikh and then tiring got up and sought the officer in charge of the aerodrome. “What do you do when you want to get rid of these fellows?” he asked. “Do?” was the reply. “What do we do? Why, we take a big stick and tell them to hop it.” The big stick was produced, the order was given, the rifles were quietly slung and the Arabs went. They were like children, said Sir Walter, and knew what you meant when you told them that you didn’t want to play with them any more. He spoke of his stay with the High Commissioner at Jerusalem. How he had gone over the road on which the Turkish 7th Army had been bombed from the air until it had become a rabble. The havoc of that day—September the 21st, 1918—was made clear to him. The Turkish armies were in retreat. Soon after dawn on the 21st a reconnaissance machine landed with the information that dense masses of men and transport were on the road running north-east from Nablus. This was the Turkish 7th Army making for the Jordan, hoping to cross at Jisr-ed-Damieh. The enemy retreat via Beisan had already been blocked by the cavalry, but it was out of the question that ground troops could guard the Jordan crossings for some hours. If the road could not be blocked from the air, the army would escape. All available aeroplanes were got together and there began the most awful disaster which has ever been suffered from the air by an army. To strike from the air you must strike quick and strike ceaselessly. The attack was arranged so that two machines should arrive over the retreating enemy every three minutes. In addition a formation of six machines was sent over every half-hour. The attack started at 8 o’clock in the morning. At noon it was all over. The road is bordered by steep ravines. No cover for a rabbit. There was no escaping the pitiless rain of machine-gun bullets poured on to the enemy from a low height, or the bombs which soon reduced the head of the column to chaos. The road was blocked, but there was panic pressure from the rear. Dead were piled on dead. Drivers jumped from their motor-lorries. Motor-lorries ran amok. Horses stampeded, tramping soldiers to death beneath their hoofs. Guns were overturned. Every three minutes and every half-hour with demoniacal precision the aeroplanes appeared, did their job, and went. Every three minutes and every half-hour on the ground confusion worse confounded. The Turkish 7th Army a few hours before in orderly retreat, soon ceased to exist. Sir Walter inspected the road on a Scots Grey charger. He confessed that he was brought somewhat into sympathy with the panic of the retreat because he was not at home on a charger. On one occasion, and at a precipitous and dangerous piece of road, with a slope to doom on one side and an oppressive gaunt height on the other, Sir Walter coughed. The charger taking this as a sign of encouragement, went off at a gallop. Happily Sir Walter recovered his nerve and the reins without much loss of time. He talked of this trip, telling how the point where the bombing started is marked by the stone on which Christ sat and talked to the woman of Samaria. The soft roes on toast arrived and he ordered another beer. And then on to the desert. The aeroplane on which he was making the journey to Baghdad had a mishap and landed in the desert. For four or five days no relief arrived. The little party soon exhausted their stock of sandwiches and had to fall back on bully-beef and biscuits. They made tea in petrol tins. A wise friend had insisted on giving Sir Walter a present of a bottle of whisky just before he left for the East. At the time he thought the present superfluous. But during the stay in the desert, it was invaluable. It made him most popular. He found it difficult to get on with the hard food. He was sixty-one. But it was another adventure and he loved it. He must have been the life of the little party. He invented a game. They chased paper boats to a given point on the sand, made a bet and then each ran after his fancy. They organized sweepstakes as to the time and hour and direction from which relief would come. Sir Walter never won. Relief came with Sir Edward Ellington on his way to Baghdad. The journey was resumed. At Baghdad Sir Walter sickened. But he flew to Mosul. At Mosul he fell sick of a fever. But his adventure was not over, so he shook off his fever and flew back to Baghdad. He saw and talked with everybody he could. He was delighted with Baghdad. The dream of years had come true and the truth was finer than the dream. That is how he found life. He recalled the taste of Baghdad. How an apparent mist was hanging over the city when they came to it from the air. How it was found to be not a mist, but the mud of centuries. He still had the curious taste of it, he said, as he gulped a little beer, as if to wash it away. The following morning he came to the office before leaving for Oxford. He made a few additional corrections to his book. The next news we had told us of his illness. But he was still light-hearted and we never knew how ill he was. In a letter to Colonel Daniel, written on May the 4th in reply to an invitation to dinner, he says: “It can’t be done. They work away at my temperature but without much success. They are of course tyrannical and refuse me beer, which I pine for. When I can get up to London we will have some beer. They also fill me with things the taste of which to any reverent natural theologian is sufficient proof that God never intended these things for human consumption. I hope it won’t be very long, but I am sure it can’t be next week.” The next week his fever had been diagnosed as typhoid, and on May the 13th he was dead. His last adventure was over. At the height of his powers he was touched and taken by the long arm of war. He loved the wide, wide world. He loved dearly his fellow-men. The world is a better place for his having passed through it. He left behind him books that will live, but he was not chiefly a writer. More than anything else he leaves behind his example. He touched and made brighter with his genius all who came into contact with him. To be with him was to lose pettiness. His personal influence has gone out quietly to a thousand different corners of the Empire. We may lament his death and the possibilities which died with him. There is no unmixed good on earth. We can rejoice at his life and be humbly grateful for his example. He was a great Englishman.
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