It is a narrative of daily life, mean happenings, little people.
In these pages the history is not of the Arab movement, but of me in it.
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It seemed to me historically needful to reproduce the tale, as perhaps no one but myself in Feisal's army had thought of writing down at the time what we felt, what we hoped, what we tried.
Afterwards, in the autumn of 1919, this first draft and some of the notes were lost.
From left to right: An unknown tribesman, Mohamed el Dheilan, Auda abu Tayi, an unknown with a moustache, Auda's young son Mohamed, aged eleven, two unknown tribesmen 08. In reality I never had any office among the Arabs: was never in charge of the British mission with them.
My proper share was a minor one, but because of a fluent pen, a free speech, and a certain adroitess of brain, I took upon myself, as I describe it, a mock primacy.
The others have liberty some day to put on record their story, one parallel to mine but not mentioning more of me than I of them, for each of us did his job by himself and as he pleased, hardly seeing his friends.
We did what we set out to do, and have the satisfaction of that knowledge.
It was an Arab war waged and led by Arabs for an Arab aim in Arabia.
It is intended to rationalize the campaign, that everyone may see how natural the success was and how inevitable, how little dependent on direction or brain, how much less on the outside assistance of the few British.
The record of events was not dulled in me and perhaps few actual mistakes crept in--except in details of dates or numbers--but the outlines and significance of things had lost edge in the haze of new interests.
So it was built again with heavy repugnance in London in the winter of 1919-20 from memory and my surviving notes.
Especially I am most sorry that I have not told what the non-commissioned of us did.