 Ports of Call. Far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands beckon us. Bittus revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Ports of Call. On the eastern shore of the Blue Mediterranean lies an age-old land. Its mountains are worn with the march of centuries. Its golden sands gleam under the desert sky. The names of its ancient cities ring like the chime of bells. Baghdad, Mecca, Damascus, Jerusalem. Come with us to Arabia, our port of call. Slowly our boat navigates the dangerous reef that guards the port of Jaffa. There is but one narrow entrance and we may thank our lucky star for clear weather in the calm sea. No one lands at Jaffa when it is storming. At last, we pass through the reef and anchored in the crowded harbor. Come on, Helen, now we won't have time to look around Jaffa before our train leaves for Jerusalem. I'm coming, but where's Ralph? Right there by the rail, I'll get him. Ralph, come on, man. Do you know what I just heard? This harbor is where they landed the cedars of Lebanon for the building of Solomon's Temple. They actually floated them all the way down the coast from Syria. You two don't hurry, we'll have to go ashore on one of those brutes. I'm ready to go. Bison orange is from him gone. Not much. I'm not going to explore the Phoenician ruins of Jaffa with a bag of oranges under my arm. It doesn't seem possible that we're only 35 miles from Jerusalem. No, I can hardly wait to see it. Jerusalem. Today, the meeting place for people of every race of a hundred creeds. In the narrow twisting streets, gaunt Arabs and ragged billowing robes, jostle American and European tourists. Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Syrians, Jewish patriarchs pass in an unending and colorful throng. The bazaars and coffee houses are crowded, and from the confusion of voices come snatches of a dozen tongues in as many minutes. Small donkeys bear enormous burdens, their tiny feet clicking sharply on the cobbles, their drivers roaring curses in every dialect of the Near East. The ancient walls of the city have fallen into ruins, and the palaces of the kings are mounds of earth and rubble. Among which archaeologists toil with endless patience, seeking to reconstruct from the fragments they unearth a picture of the grandeur and glory of the days before recorded history. Where once Solomon's temple lifted its golden jewel pillars, now stands the glittering mosque of Omar, from whose slender minaret the voice of the Muazans summons the faithful to prayer. Arabia, strange tortured land, conquered by countless rulers yet outliving them one by one, waiting through the slow centuries for the fulfillment of her destiny. 950 years before Christ. In her palace garden in the midst of her rich and fruitful country, the Queen of Sheba talks with an advisor. I should like to consult him if he is so wise. Your Majesty does not believe the stories of the wisdom of King Solomon? I wonder whether it is better for people to bow before a ruler because they respect wisdom, or to love her because, being beautiful, she treats each man as a man. Your Majesty is strange today. When I worshipped in the temple of the stars last night, they seemed faint and far away. I believe that it is ordained that I should travel to Jerusalem. I cannot believe any man can possess the wisdom of King Solomon. What is this? What does this mean? Silence! I ask Your Majesty's pardon. One of the guards found this man asleep inside the wall. I think he is a runaway slave from a passing caravan on its way to the north. We will take him out and have him killed. Wait, Harus. I will speak to him. Your Majesty. I have heard nothing from you this afternoon but objections, Haditha. So you have escaped from a caravan going to the north. It was not a caravan, Your Majesty, but a ship, sailing north with a cargo for Ophir, for Solomon of Jerusalem. In the night I sprang overboard and swam ashore. You see, Haditha, I told you the stars had spoken. Speak, slave. Tell me more. For weeks, Your Majesty, the port of Ophir on the Red Sea has been crowded with men, bearing treasures bought for Solomon of Jerusalem. What sort of treasures? First, there is a great store of gold and precious stones. Then there are certain rare trees which it is said Solomon has used for in the building of a great temple. There is a great quantity of ivory and many chattering apes and bright peacocks. Haditha, this is an omen. I shall go to Jerusalem. I will make up a great caravan the like of which has never been seen. Nowhere in the world are horses like those of Sheba. I'll take a hundred of the finest and wipe racing camels and other camels loaded with gold and precious stones and the rare spices of Sheba. But Your Majesty, Solomon... Solomon, I will test his wisdom. I will see whether he knows better than I how to govern the country. Yes, I will test him, Haditha, and you will witness our meeting. I, Your Majesty... I have spoken. How much time has given me to assemble the caravan? Lay your plans carefully, for we shall be many weeks on the way. On the day the moon is again cool, we shall set out for Jerusalem. Your Majesty. What is it, Suriya? Haditha is waiting to see Your Majesty. He may enter. Your Majesty. What is the message from Solomon? Not only does he honor Your Majesty by providing these splendid quarters in his own palace for all your retinue, but he has sent word he will receive Your Majesty at once. I think less of your compliments when I see how easily you are dazzled, Haditha. I regret Your Majesty is displeased. Where are your women? Who will accompany you? If I took a thousand women, there would be more in the court of King Solomon. Come, let us go. As Your Majesty says. The audience chamber which he calls his judgment court is at the end of the corridor. I have heard much of the King since we have been in Jerusalem, Your Majesty. It is said he has 40,000 horses for his chariots and 12,000 horsemen. Is this the door to the audience room? Yes, Your Majesty. Command the slaves to open the door. Open the doors. Her Majesty, ruler of the south, the Queen of Sheba. Your Majesty. I bid Your Majesty welcome to the court of Jerusalem. I am greatly honored. I ask that you honor me by seating yourself beside me. Your Majesty is most gracious. Is no more than your due. Rumors of your beauty have spread across the land like the south wind laden with incense. Yet now that I look upon you, you put them all to shame. Your Majesty is kind. Your wisdom, O King of Jerusalem, has led me from my country to seek your counsel. Whatever wisdom I may possess is at your command. I have three questions to ask you. The first, how should a wise ruler govern his people? Before a ruler can govern his people wisely, he must ensure their peace. By my own marriages and those of my family, I have allied myself with neighboring rulers. My ships have brought from the ends of the earth materials to keep busy the workers. Finally, I believe that it is the way of wisdom to judge the misdeeds of my people with justice tempered with mercy. Yes, I agree. This is the way of wisdom. It is said by many that without having seen it, you can describe any country in the world. Tell me of mine. O Sheba, it is a lovely fruitful land with high places filled with the singing of rivers and the sound of the wind through forests of great trees. In the valleys of fragrant plants that yield rare spices. Out of the earth of Sheba come precious stones of great fineness and beauty. The warm, level plains are the homes of men whose horses are among the finest in the world. Shall I tell you of your soldiers? What men say of you is true. This is the day of judgment in my court. Would it please you to listen to a case that is to be brought before me? Oh, Your Majesty is most kind. Perhaps I shall learn the way of wisdom. For beauty such as yours, wisdom is a wasted attribute. Let the two women and the child be brought before me. The two women and the child. What is the case, Your Majesty? Both these women claim to be the mother of the small child. But how can that be? That I do not know. I am asked to sit in judgment. Here are the women, Your Majesty. Let the woman who has the child in her arms speak first. My Lord, this woman and I, with our husbands, dwell in one house. Sons were born to both of us, only three days apart. In the night, her son died. She came to my bed while I slept. She took my son and laid her dead son beside me. But when I awoke in the morning, I knew it was not my son, but hers. No, Your Majesty. The living child is mine. The dead one is hers. No, no. Yours is the dead child. This is my son. This will indeed call for all Your Majesty's wisdom. And yet I think I know a way. Bring me a sword. Here's my sword, Your Majesty. Cut the child in two and give half to each woman. Oh, it is well. Divide the child and let it be neither hers nor mine. No, no. Give her my son. Let him be hers forever rather than that your sword should take his life. Take him. No. Put away the sword. The living child is yours. Mine, Your Majesty. Yes. It is easy to see that truly you are his mother. You are pale. I ask your pardon, my Lord. I thought you had planned an act of cruelty to impress me with your power. Now I see I was wrong. You are indeed as wise as all the world has said. I came to mock your wisdom. But I will be turned to Sheba. Marvellous. You need Your Majesty return at once to Sheba? I have been too long away from my people. But before I go, it is my wish to make you a gift. I have brought a hundred fine horses and camels laden with rare spices and precious jewels and stone. I beg Your Majesty, will accept them. Only on condition that you accept gifts of equal value from me. But Your Majesty... I could not accept tribute from you. I beg you will stay in Jerusalem as long as you will. And when you are ready to return, I myself will ride with you to the borders of the coming. Centuries passed over the face of Arabia. Dynasties rose and fell. In the ruins of the once magnificent palaces and temples, jackals prowled and nested. But other desert villages became cities and grew to pomp and splendor. Such a one was Baghdad, on the eastern bank of the Tigris River. To the year 765, the gold vein of the good Caliph Harun al-Rashad. Baghdad has become the meeting place for great caravans from all parts of Arabia. Harun has made his lovely city the most brilliant in the civilized world. In his splendid private rooms in the palace, Harun is awaiting his trusted wasir. He is dressed in the clothing of a poor Arab. Who knocks? Hassan, the wasir. Enter, Hassan. Why are you late? You know I had received the architect who was to design the new bridge across the Tigris. Yes? When will the sketches be ready? One week from today. Oh, it is well. I dream of Baghdad spread out like the carpet of our lau on both sides of the Tigris. Your vision is great, sir. And the fulfillment will be greater still. But now let us go. Sire, once more I beg you to give up this dangerous practice of going about the streets with presses of gold for the poor. Is it not enough that you have raised Baghdad to such a position that all the world knows of a music, a painting, or architecture? Is it not enough? Hassan, the only way I can know how my people fare is to see for myself. But it would be fatally easy for a man to stab you, Sire, as you pass through a darkened street. I've heard all your protests a thousand times. And I like them as little now as when you first made them. Here are the keys to the chest. Put on the clothing you're to wear and let us be off. I must obey you, sir, but I like it not enough of your cackling. Let us conceal the gold about us and go by the small door that opens on the courtyard. Your presses of gold will do no good in this dark street, Sire. Let us take a brighter way. It is in these streets where the gold will... No, no. Listen. I will not be silent a dollar. Haruna Rashid is blind to all say his musicians and painters and dancing girls. Wait here, Sire. I will have her thrown into prison. It is not the fault of Haruna Rashid that I... It is. Why does he not reward you for your poetry? There they are in the shadows of the Magnolia tree. Go softly, Hassan. Why can you not see Nazira? Poetry is its own reward. Well, I'll try to tell you. Tonight I went to the river and watched it turn blood red with the sunset. My very veins flamed with desire to find a way to express the union of the fiery light with the cool blue water. I stood spellbound as the day faded and a great bird alighted on the branch of a slender green tree. I saw its black reflection waver in the ripples and fade away as the light dimmed. What could Haruna Rashid offer me more than such a moment? Poetry can neither be eaten nor worn nor will it serve as a price to pay my father for my hand. And I must creep out to meet you like a cheap woman. And you talk of poetry. No, zero, my love. I did not mean to anger you. Listen, beloved. I came tonight with a poem for you. Abdullah, you have written a poem for me alone. I had no need to write it. My heart sings when I think of you. Listen, I bring my love a caravan. Mark how it sweetens all the air like scented silk and incense warm. My caravan is rich and fair. I bring my love the thin young moon. I bring her silver stars to wear. The fragrance of the desert night is precious atonement for her hair. The music of my camo bells repeats the music of my heart. I am my beloved. I will speak to this man myself. What? Who is there? Not for nothing have you read your verses to your beloved in the street. I come from the palace of Harun. Harun? You will not be afraid, Maiden. You have given Baghdad a new poet. Here's a purse of gold, Abdullah. Buy yourself fitting raiment for one The colleague. I have spoken. Present yourself at the palace tomorrow. Slowly the centuries pass. The glories of Baghdad fade. In a dozen desert cities the drifting sand lies deep. Arabia falls into the hands of the Turks. But the fierce desert men cannot endure bondage. Impatiently they wait for a moment to strike back. At last it comes. 1915. The British intelligence office in Cairo, Egypt. Thomas Lawrence. Young intelligence officer reports to his superior. Well, Lawrence, the Arab revolt has a reality at last. Yes, sir. And who seems more like a king than anyone who's tried to rally the tribes for years, I think? How does he stand? He sees the Allies as powerful friends. He urged me to send British soldiers to help them fight the Turks. Of course he doesn't mean to take the field himself. Oh, no. His son Faisal is our man. The tribesmen will follow him anywhere. But what about these Arabs? They're wild and undisciplined. They're mercs, but they're reckless to the point of madness. And they're very keen on booting. They could be stirred up to plunder caravans, tear up railways, steal camels, more sorts of things. And if we could give them automatic guns of the Lewis type so they could defend the hills, I believe they could be organized into a raiding force that might do extraordinary things. Rather keen about them, aren't you? Well, you know, I've spent a long time out here in the East. How soon can you be ready to return to Arabia? Return? Exactly. You're the man to organize the Arabs. Build them up into a fighting unit. But I'm not a soldier, sir. Besides, I understood officers would come out from London to take charge of the Arabs. They may be months arriving. You speak Arab dialects like a native. You understand them. You say Faisal is the man to lead them. You're the man to show Faisal what to do. Could you leave today? Yes, sir, but... Good. The War Department will do everything it can for you in the way of furnishing supplies. Goodbye. Good luck. You have returned, my friend. Faisal, they have sent me back to you. The Turks have been giving you a bad time of it down here. Yes, they have captured Bersaid. Our spy system is breaking down completely. Now, you are here. We must work out a better plan. Yes. The men are anxious to strike back at the Turks, are they? By Allah, yes. Then why not let them know that as soon as the supplies reach us, they'll have their chance? Sit here and tell me what you mean. I mean this. You can't attack the Turks in force. There are too many for you. But by dividing them up into raiding parties, you can harry the Turkish garrisons, cut the railway lines, do what damage you can, and be off into the hills before they know what's happened. Blow up bridges. By Jove, there's one about ten miles from here that would make a beautiful explosion. But we need not wait for the English to send those supplies for that. What do you mean? An Englishman named Garland brought down a great quantity of supplies for this purpose. But before he could show my men the use of them, he died. Where are these things now? I will have them brought. But first, will you be offended, my friend, while you are with us, you wear Arab clothing? Certainly not. The tribesmen will understand you better if you dress as we do, and they will more readily obey you. Yes, I see. Then I will give you clothing. I was very kind of you. You are my friend. You have ridden far today, and already it is late. Let us sleep, and tomorrow I will go with you to see you destroy your first trainload of Turks, upon whom be the curse of the Prophet. Ten kilometers from Damascus, Lawrence and his Arabs blow up the railway, destroy nine carloads of supplies, kill a trainload of Turks. Circassia, Lawrence and his Arabs blow up three bridges, capture 20,000 pounds in gold. Four kilometers from Medina, Lawrence and his Arabs cut the railway in three places. Three locomotives, 20 carloads of supplies are destroyed. Lawrence drills his fanatic and devoted Arabs until their name inspires terror throughout Arabia. As General Alan V advances toward Jerusalem in the north, Lawrence and his Arabs make the railway useless for Turkish retreat. Cheered with countless victories, they return one hot afternoon to Faisal's camp. Lawrence is summoned to the tent to Faisal. I'm glad you have returned, Lawrence. What's happened? You have ridden with us as well as any Arab could. You have risked your life many times to save my men. I ask you now to speak the truth. I have never lied to you, Faisal. It has come to my ears that France, England and Russia plan to see Syria and Mesopotamia. What? I ask you to say whether the British government will keep the promises it has made to set Arabia free, not only from the Turks, but from the European countries. My word is the word of one man, Faisal. But you may believe that what the Allies promise they will do. Your word is enough. In your name we put our trust in the Allied governments. The war drags on. Two years pass. For the tribesmen, Lawrence has become a symbol of their powerful allies beyond the seas. To more than a score of fierce desert tribes, his word is supreme law. Whole companies of Arabs desert from the Turkish army and present themselves to his command. The famous outlaw chief, Talal el-Hareddin, comes to Lawrence and says... For years I have lived in a hidden place in the high mountains. I have killed so many Turks they are beyond counting. There is a price on my head, but I offer myself and my men. Your help is very welcome. And months later, Lawrence, dressed in his Arabian clothes, sits with Faisal before his tent. He has just read a message from Paris. Well, my friend... It's true. I can hardly believe it. Even after the months I spent in Paris at that dog fight they call a peace conference. I am humiliated and ashamed of what I have to tell you, Faisal. Tell me, Lawrence. Two years ago I pledged you my word. The Allies would keep their promise to set Arabia free. They have broken their word. They mean to divide your country among themselves. And you and I thought that you would be king of a united Arabia. Even a united Arabia could not free herself from the Allied powers. They chose to send their armies against her. What must be must be. There is nothing for me to do but say goodbye. You and I will not be together again. My fault is not yours, my friend. I beg you to forget the country that has used you so shamefully and remain with me and my men. You are like a brother to us all. Willingly or not, I have betrayed your trust. I can never eat salt with you again. Nor hold my head high in the presence of my Arab friends. Goodbye, Faisal. Today, glory and splendor have departed from Arabia. The seaboard provinces feel again the iron hand of a foreign ruler. In London, obscure, alone, almost forgotten, Lawrence of Arabia has died. While in the untamed country he fought for, the wild nomadic tribesmen plunder and fight as they have done since the beginning of history. And now our steamer awaits us in the swarming harbor of Arden at the southwestern tip of Arabia. This polyglot crossroads of the world has been fortified by Great Britain and in its throng streets where the heat presses down like a great weight the sick, pretty soldiers look with longing eyes at the great P&O liners, homeward bound from India. The tender is sputtering at the dock. We are homeward bound once more from another journey to Port Sub-Call. Invite you to join us again next week in this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating Port Sub-Call.