The Egyptian Army
In the autumn of 1942 the Allied forces, fortified by weapons and manpower, dealt a terrific blow to the enemy at El Alamein. It was one of the greatest artillery barrages ever devised, and within twelve days the Hun was rolled back and out of the Western Desert. In the evening moonlight and shadows, the roar of the guns from El Alamein could be heard over in Alexandria, some 70 miles away. Under the leadership of the brave General Montgomery, our sappers went forward, marking the minefields with white tape. The infantry, with their shiny new bayonets and tremendous guts, followed closely behind. Their victory heralded the turning of the tide; the Desert Fox’s days in Egypt were numbered.
I, too, was leaving the sands of Egypt for the first time in years, though I was headed for a training camp at Syria, along with the others from our detachment. Up until 1941 the country had been under the governance of the Vichy French, but, fearful that Hitler would attempt to use this territory as a launch pad for his assault on Egypt, the Allies had liberated the land from Nazi domination.
It was a long and tiring trek from Cairo to Syria, but when we finally arrived my first impression was of how clean everything seemed. The cleanliness of the locals, in comparison with the Egyptians, was striking. We were greeted with smiles and waves, and began to look forward to a comfortable stay.
We settled down some 30 miles west of the city of Damascus, under the shadow of Mount Hermon, the summit of which was covered with a perpetual blanket of snow. It would have made a picturesque view from our billets, but unfortunately we were provided with windowless cattle huts in which to sleep. There were no electric lights or running water, or anything even vaguely resembling a commodity. So much for the ‘abundance of everything’ we were promised; but despite this, life presented few real problems. The only shooting we had to contend with was out on the ranges where we went to practise our firing, trying out the brand new weapons that were on issue.
Our days comprised training exercises, patrols and little else. The weeks dragged by, and in 1943, with their mission in the desert complete, the 3rd Battalion of the Coldstream Guards came to join us. A harsh winter had fallen, and thick snow had settled all around. My feet were frozen and there was nothing I could do to put the warmth back into them. I had it easy, though, for the fighting troops were sent away into the icy hills on a week-long training exercise. I, of course, was left behind, along with three of my pals from the desert days. We decided this would be the perfect opportunity for a lads’ night out: a luxury we’d promised ourselves many moons back, as we lay hungry and thirsty in our scorpion-infested holes in the ground. We booked a table at The Grand Trianon in Damascus, which was an ‘officers only’ venue, but we didn’t worry about that for I’d become friends with the manager.
Money was no object that night, as we’d been putting by for this evening for a long, long time. We ordered a bottle of Scotch each before being ushered to our table by the white-gloved maître d’. The food was delicious; we ordered five courses, and after a moreish dessert of crème brûlée we settled down with our cigars to watch the after-dinner cabaret, when the drinks began to flow like water. With a cocktail of whiskey, vodka and exhilaration pumping through our veins, we lost track of time and inevitably missed the leave truck that was waiting to pick us up in the market square.
I awoke the next morning in my bunk with a thumping head, and was informed by the mess waiter that I was under open arrest, and likewise my pals. Try as I might, I just couldn’t remember anything from the moment I stood on the table and proposed the health of the Free French. How we got back to camp I’ll never know, but the three of us were duly charged with missing the leave truck – a fair charge – and we accepted our reprimands with good faith.
February came and time was called on our stay in the Land of Milk and Honey. The cunning Rommel was on the offensive once more, so our troops were called back to action. Having already suffered significant losses, our battalion was merged with other diminished forces, including the 6th Grenadiers and 2nd Scots Guards; and this new band of heroes was officially named the 201st Guards Brigade, affectionately termed Two-O-One. Together they raced some 1,500 miles into the desert to hunt down the Fox and slaughter his sly old pack once and for all.
Unable to tag along, I was sent to the Infantry Training Depot on Egypt’s Canal Zone. The sergeant major, Baggy McKinley, was from the Scots Guards, and a fine man he was. Along with a service comrade, Platoon Sergeant Major Sam Cowley, the three of us became firm friends. We got through dozens of pints during our evenings in the mess, so we’d eat orange peel the following morning to mask the smell of alcohol prior to the company commander’s inspection.
I’d been promoted to company sergeant major, and though I didn’t get the pay of the rank, I received an extra four shillings per day. There was little out here to spend it on anyway, and apart from drinking there wasn’t much for us to do. The Canal Zone was a bleak part of the world, and I sometimes wondered why we were even bothering to defend it. After a few months I began to feel restless, wishing there was something more useful for me to occupy my time with. Utterly fed up, I got in touch with a friend, Charlie Youner, whom I’d met through the Buffaloes before the war. He was the chief engineer of Prince Mohammed Ali’s private yacht, and as the craft wasn’t currently in operation, he said I could go down to Lake Timsah and make use of it any time I liked. Not wanting to pass up this chance, I invited my two sergeant major friends to lunch on board, and they were greatly impressed when we arrived. They teased me something rotten, claiming I’d made it all up about being friends with the engineer and was nothing more than a stowaway, but we had a grand time that day and many other days that followed. I made full use of the yacht before I left the Infantry Training Depot.
I soon learned that rumours circulated at the depot just as quickly as they did in other divisions in the army, and one morning, having heard I was feeling blue, the company commander sent for me.
‘I understand you’re up for a new challenge, CSM Rochford,’ he said. I braced myself for a lecture, thinking he was about to accuse me of being ungrateful of my current situation, or of failing to pull my weight, but then I noticed a smile in the corner of his lips. ‘How do you feel about taking a commission with the British Military Mission?
I looked at him in surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘The Egyptian Army requires a military adviser at the Small Arms Training School at a place called Almaza just outside Cairo, and I’ve recommended you for the job.’
I was staggered. I hadn’t seen that coming. The position sounded appealing and I accepted the offer without hesitation, but it was with some sadness that I left. I wondered if I’d miss the Guards’ way of life; the only one I’d ever known. Would I fit in with this new unit? I knew there was no point dwelling on this now, for I’d cast my die, and it was time to begin a new life with the Egyptian Army.
I reported to the British Military Mission Headquarters, which was situated between Heliopolis – the great ‘City of the Sun’ – and the garrison town of Abbassia. I was greeted by a man called Captain Franklin, who welcomed me to the Mission and gave me an address in Heliopolis where I was to live. My flat was pleasant and came with all the home comforts one could wish for. I shared the building with a handful of other soldiers who also worked as military advisers, and I settled in quickly to life on a bustling street.
Major General Aziz el-Masri Pasha was once the chief of staff of the Egyptian Army, but he’d been dismissed at the request of the British Ambassador, Sir Miles Lampson, owing to his anti-British tendencies. One of his worst offences was passing our plans on to the enemy, yet for whatever reason, General Masri wasn’t placed under arrest. I for one was amazed that somebody like that was allowed to remain at large. As was to be expected, the deceptive general took full advantage of his freedom by trying to cause as much trouble for Britain as possible, and he wasn’t alone.
Over in Iraq, an Arab nationalist officer named Rashid Ali al-Gailani formed an alliance with the Nazis and began a bloody revolution to attempt to overthrow the pro-British government. General Masri, upon learning of the coup d’état, tried to flee Egypt and join forces with Gailani. With the help of two Egyptian wing commanders, Hassan Zulfiqar Sabri and his brother, Ali Sabri, Masri attempted to fly to Iraq in a stolen Egyptian Air Force aeroplane, but the British got word of this conspiracy and the plane was forced down over Heliopolis Airport, where the trio were arrested. The two air force officers faced a court martial. One was transferred to the regular army as a captain with loss of promotion for five years, whilst the younger brother was allowed to remain in the air force, but also faced a five-year loss of promotion.
General Masri, who’d once again wormed his way out of jail, began mixing with the junior officers in the army. There was a social venue known as the Egyptian Officers’ Club in Zamalek, an affluent suburb in the west end of Cairo, where he’d spend many an evening boasting that one way or another he’d oust Britain from Egypt once and for all, and then boot the king out after them.
An alliance was formed that became known as the Free Officers’ Movement. These defiant young officers, with plenty of spare time on their hands, used to gather together and dream of an independent country led by a strong army. Much older men than they held all the senior ranks and there was no retiring age. It was the same old story: it wasn’t so much what you knew but who you knew, and many of the junior officers felt they were being overlooked. Disillusioned, and sick and tired of all the ‘bull shine’ parades, these chaps were eager to seek out the company of the sympathetic ex-chief of staff.
Colonel Gamal Abdel Nasser was a prominent player in this underground movement. Unlike many other Egyptians, Nasser was one of the few men who actually began to put his ideas and daydreams in motion. It was because of his influence that the movement grew from strength to strength.
I first heard of the Free Officers in 1943 when I was posted to the Egyptian Army and began mixing with its officers; but who was I to voice my concern about them, and who would choose to listen if I did?
I arrived at the entrance to the Small Arms Training School on my first day, full of apprehension. Unfortunately, no transport had been arranged for me so I had to make my own way on foot. I’d seen the school from a long way away, resting on top of the high ground. From the road it had seemed like a short distance to walk. How deceptive that turned out to be. It was a long, hard slog over the sand, with the Eastern sun blazing down upon me; and when I finally reached the gate I must have looked like a dishevelled wreck.
I always took my first impression of a unit by the sentry at the gate. In this case, he was the shortest and scruffiest soldier I’d ever seen in all my life. He looked like a pile of rubbish that had been dumped in a heap, ready for the corporation dustman to sweep away. His rifle was casually propped up by the side of a sentry box that hadn’t seen a paintbrush in many a year. He was dressed in a threadbare uniform that fitted where it touched, and his boots were down at heel. The only thing neat and shiny about him was the dazzling smile he flashed me.
‘Marhaba, Johnny,’ he said, which meant, ‘Welcome, English soldier.’
I passed through the gate and ahead of me I saw a long line of what appeared to be offices; opposite these were rows of wooden huts. Further to the rear were miles and miles of sandy wasteland, a perfect place for weapon training. In search of the commander, I made my way towards the central office. I received a few curious stares from passing soldiers, sporting their fez headdresses. A handful saluted, if you could call it that, and I wasn’t at all impressed by their slipshod approach to discipline.
On a board outside one of the offices was written something in Arabic. Though I had a fair knowledge of the language, like many Europeans I couldn’t understand the written word. Assuming I was in the correct place, I knocked on the door and was invited to enter.
Sitting at a table in the centre of the room was an Egyptian red-tabbed lieutenant colonel. He stood up when he saw me, shook me warmly by the hand and offered me a seat. I couldn’t help notice the man was strikingly handsome. He had dark and chiselled features, and, unlike a lot of senior officers I’d known, his smile extended to his eyes. He introduced himself as Seif el-Yasin Khalifa, and expressed his surprise when I told him I was his new infantry adviser. He told me their previous adviser had also been an Englishman, who’d apparently caused a fair bit of trouble for the school, resulting in a court martial. Thereafter the Egyptians requested for the Military Mission not to appoint another English adviser under any circumstance. I didn’t want to be fired before I’d even started, so I decided to put things straight.
‘Actually, I’m Irish,’ I said, and the colonel’s face lit up.
‘Well, this is very different,’ he said, leaping to his feet and shaking me by the hand for a second time. ‘We love the Irish people, for you, like us, are still fighting for your ideals.’
I smiled back, but couldn’t help commenting: ‘You don’t like the English much, do you?’
The colonel returned to his seat and lit a couple of cigars.
‘In a way, no,’ he replied, and I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. ‘They have been in my country for a long time and yet they have never learnt to understand us, or even try to help us. Not really; not where it matters.’
The more we chatted the more I got to like my new colonel. He was young and enthusiastic; and after a few cigars and several cups of strong black coffee, he offered to show me round. I saw things that day that may well have made others laugh, but I was more inclined to cry. I couldn’t believe what a ramshackle state this place was in and was disappointed to find I was going to have to start my work from scratch.
The Egyptians’ method of training was years out of date and the instructors couldn’t even read. I passed a squad of men who were practising firing their weapons from the ground. One chap actually had a handkerchief tied around his left eye, and on closer examination, I found that not one man could ever hope to hit a target, as none of their guns were properly sighted. There were no weapon pits, battle courses, or, for that matter, anything suitable at all.
Colonel Khalifa explained to me that the trainee soldiers were currently preparing for an annual appraisal, during which their skills would be assessed. This sounded worrying.
‘Do all the trainees fire weapons as part of this test?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no,’ he replied, waving a dismissive hand. ‘We have a shortage of live ammunition, so only one selected man actually fires, and if he passes, then all of the squad passes too.’
I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing, and my shock must have shown on my face.
‘The government gives the army 250,000 Egyptian pounds per year,’ he explained. ‘This does not go very far.’
After the tour, the colonel showed me to the office where I’d be working. I’d never had my own office before and was excited by the prospect. Inside I found several other Egyptian officers who, on introduction, stood up and shook hands with me.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan,’ they bade me, which meant: ‘You are welcome with us.’
One of the officers clapped his hands twice and into the office, at the double, came an Egyptian soldier, grinning from ear to ear. After a few quick words in Arabic, which I didn’t understand, the soldier took up a crouching position at my feet. Feeling slightly uneasy, I asked the officer what this was all about.
‘This soldier is your servant,’ he told me. ‘Should you want anything – a coffee, your shoes cleaned – this man is at your disposal.’
It took me a while to get used to having this man around, following me about like a playful puppy, but we got on well and I found him to be an enthusiastic worker.
I learned a lot about the Egyptian Army over the coming weeks. Conscription was compulsory for all the fit and healthy Egyptian men. After their eighteenth birthday they were compelled to serve in the army for anything up to three years, unless they could find the sum of E£25. If so, they could pay their way out of military service. If not, they were apprehended and taken from their village under police escort to the nearest town, where they were handed over to the military. The fittest and tallest men were earmarked for the Royal Bodyguard, and the remainder, however small and feeble, were drafted to the infantry.
The Royal Bodyguard was the king’s private army. This elite force of men was equipped with all the modern weapons of warfare, while the regular Egyptian Army was still training with obsolete weapons. Farouk remained deaf to the pleas of his officers. As long as his Bodyguards were suitably equipped, what did it matter about the rest of the army?
One day I spotted a crowd of new recruits in rags and tatters, their hands tied together with string, being escorted along the Abbassia Road. They were surrounded by Egyptian soldiers who were armed with rifles to keep the unfortunates in line. I wished there was something I could do to help, and decided the only chance I had of making any difference at all would be to enrol on the next military training course that was held each year in Palestine. I went to the British Military Mission headquarters to speak to Captain Franklin. He listened intently to what I had to say, and at the end of my pitch he told me he wouldn’t stand in my way.
‘But remember,’ he said, ‘if I agree to pay for you go to Palestine, I expect to see dividends on your return.’
With a shining bright kit that would have been a credit to my former regiment, I departed from Cairo Station in full marching order and soon found myself back in the biblical land of Palestine. I arrived at the training camp shortly after dawn and was directed to the dining hut, if you could even call it that, where I was served a small portion of cold breakfast.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Paddy Rochford,’ said a voice behind me.
I turned around and found myself face to face with one of our ex-sergeants, Chick Bryant, with whom I’d served in Palestine before the war. He joined me at my table and we had a good old chinwag. He too was working with the Arab forces, and neither of us could believe what a state the country’s army was in. We made a pact there and then to put up with all the little discomforts during the course, knuckle down and learn all we could. We worked seven days a week, from early morning until late at night, then after a couple of drinks we’d retire to our tent and spend the remaining hours swotting. We’d get a few hours’ shut-eye before rising the following morning to do it all over again.
One morning some of our comrades awoke to find their tent had been stolen during the night. The only clues left were the tracks of camels’ feet, galloping away into the distance. The Arabs truly were grand masters in the art of stealing.
At the end of the course we’d all become experts in the use of modern weapons. We took our exams and waited outside the commanding officer’s office to be told the results. Chick and I were sent in together, and were thrilled to be informed we’d both passed with the highest marks. Our hard work had paid off!
I arrived back in Heliopolis first thing the following Sunday. After a cleanup, I reported to Mission HQ and handed my results on a slip of paper to the general service officer. I was duly promoted to paid warrant officer class II and it wasn’t long before I’d completely reorganized the syllabus at the Small Arms Training School.
We divided the school into three wings. Two wings were commanded by Major Ismail Mohammed and Major Ali Amer whilst the third went to Captain Hassan Zulfiqar Sabri, the brother of Wing Commander Ali Sabri, who’d been caught up in the Iraqi scandal a couple of years earlier. I supervised the digging of training pits, built a battle course and arranged with Egypt’s Ministry of Defence to procure some modern weapons. Patience wasn’t one of Colonel Khalifa’s virtues, and he was eager for the new weapons to arrive. To speed things up, I telephoned my good friend from the New Zealand forces, Captain Keith Collins, and asked to borrow some of theirs until ours were delivered. He agreed, so I went over to collect them.
Among the Kiwi weapons was a Sten Mark V with a bayonet attached. Being a brand new issue, it caused quite a stir in the Egyptian Army, and it vanished from sight shortly after it arrived. When I asked Colonel Khalifa if I could have it back, he turned a deep shade of crimson.
‘This I cannot do,’ he remarked, and that was the end of the matter.
I went to ask Mission HQ for their help, and after a lengthy telephone call to the Ministry of Defence, I received the same response.
‘You’ll not see it again,’ Captain Franklin began, replacing the handset, ‘because it’s with the Egyptian Army chief of staff. It seems there’s nothing much you or I can do about it.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’ I demanded. ‘The weapon isn’t mine, and I’m honour-bound to return it to its rightful owners.’
‘Let’s just say King Farouk is rather partial to anything new,’ Captain Franklin said. ‘Reading between the lines, it sounds as though he spotted the Sten and insisted he should have it. His chief of staff, not wanting to incur the king’s anger, duly obliged.’
In the end, the New Zealanders kindly agreed to make a formal presentation of the weapon to the king, although it was all done rather reluctantly.
It wasn’t long before our own weapons began arriving and I demonstrated the 2-inch mortar to the troops. The school had previously used the French 60-millimetre, until a terrible accident occurred. A bomb was dropped into the base of the barrel and struck the firing pin. The course officer forgot to remove his hand from over the end of barrel, and he lost it when the bomb came hurtling out. I also demonstrated the new projector infantry anti-tank, known as the PIAT; the 4.2-inch mortar and the Thompson machine carbine.
With the help of Colonel Khalifa, I talked the school commander, Brigadier Suleiman Bey, into joining us in a demonstration assault course run. He agreed, but unfortunately lost his hat and got stuck in a hole. This didn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm, and he even suggested putting on a demonstration for the king’s chief of staff. I wasn’t happy about this, as the man was still in my bad books, but I didn’t want to let the commander down so I set about organizing a show.
There was quite an audience when the big day arrived. I stood at the front of the display ground, and after a brief opening talk, picked up the first weapon and took aim. I pulled the trigger and the spring went forward with a rattle. The missile went hurtling forwards and exploded in the dead centre of the target. Delighted shouts rang out from the bank of spectators.
‘Mabrouk!’
Brimming with confidence, I turned to my audience and said: ‘If some of you would like to follow me, I’ll show you how to blow something up.’
My colleagues and I ushered the dubious crowd to a reasonable distance. One of the advisers, a chap called Dick Dodds, insisted we used about 2 yards of fuse for the demonstration. I disagreed with him, thinking it should be shorter, but Dick was as stubborn as a mule and wasn’t going to change his mind, so we compromised, but still it was far too long. We lit the fuse and retreated behind a small rise in the ground.
Nothing happened.
We waited and waited but still there was no explosion.
‘I suppose we’d better take a look to see if the fuse has gone out,’ I suggested.
Just as Dick and I rose from behind the bank there was an almighty thump that rattled the hills, and we fell to the ground, covering our heads with our arms. When the smoke cleared, I looked up and was amused to see the chief of staff galloping away at top speed, hotly pursued by the other spectators. I can’t say I was sorry.
‘Serves him right,’ I thought.
A few days later I was called into the commander’s office and was introduced to the brigadier in command of Egypt’s Infantry Division. He’d heard about my demonstrations at the school and asked if I’d take my ‘wondrous weapons’ and do the same for the 1st Infantry Brigade.
‘I promise nobody will run away this time,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
I was honoured by the invitation, and the following week Dick and I went over to the Infantry Division to put on our show. To our amazement, we found that the brigadier had turned it into a red carpet event and had invited a host of dignitaries. The chief of the British Military Mission was there, as was the major general and hundreds of senior officers from both the Mission and the Egyptian Army. They’d even brought in a military band from the Royal Bodyguard, and a fine set of musicians they were, too.
‘All of this for our measly little weapon demonstration!’ Dick muttered.
We both agreed, on second thoughts, that this should be an all-Egyptian show, and tried to disappear into the massed array of VIPs. After all, we reasoned, our appointments were to act as advisers only, and felt our Egyptian colleagues were more than capable of demonstrating the weapons themselves. Our plans were soon altered when the brigadier’s voice from a loud speaker came echoing across the arena.
‘Where is my friend, Mr Paddy Pasha? Please ask him to come to me to begin the demonstration.’
With a red face I made my way over to his side. I explained we thought it’d be best if we took a back seat, having already briefed a couple of the brigadier’s own soldiers on how to conduct the presentation. The brigadier looked at me as if I’d insulted his wife.
‘But you don’t expect those two donkeys to demonstrate a thing like this, do you? Please show us yourselves.’
All eyes fell upon Dick and me, and nervously we began the demonstrations. The booms and blasts from our weapons were followed by ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ from the assembly, and when we’d finished, we heard clapping and appreciative cheers from the crowd.
‘Jayyid jiddan!’
‘Mabrouk!’ they were shouting.
After the show, the brigadier took Dick and me by the arm and led us into an enormous marquee. The interior was decorated with multi-coloured bunting and the tables were laid for a banquet, with white-jacketed and red-fezzed waiters weaving smartly between them. We were given the seats of honour; and a spectacular feast, as only the Egyptians could offer, was served.
Several months passed at the school and our first course had come and gone. To my delight, the troops told us they’d enjoyed every minute of it. I’d scrapped the useless entrance examination, which had changed little since the Boer War days, and replaced it with a more informative opening lecture. It was drastic but fruitful, as it woke the chaps up and made them understand that even though the Second World War was not really theirs, they were still a part of it. Smoke bombs were set off around the students, and with the help of a few thunder flashes and phosphorous grenades, we achieved the desired effect. We proceeded to talk about the various weapons; and to round everything off, a few colleagues would make a surprise attack with bayonets, drawing very close to the now interested students. The course proved to be popular, and news about us travelled throughout the Egyptian Army. Even the king took a keen interest in following our progress.
When I first arrived at the school, food rations were meagre, but now we’d organized a dining room with tables and trestles, and nobody had to sit crossed-legged on the floor anymore. Food was gradually becoming more plentiful, although meat was a rarity and was still only issued twice a week. Outside we’d planted vegetables such as marrows, cucumbers, figs and other delights including sweet melons that turned to water in one’s mouth. Beautiful flowers were also in abundance, and I felt at peace in our surroundings.
Often during breaks in the training periods, I’d sit with the officers in the rest rooms, drinking delicious black coffee, or my favourite, shai-na’na, which was tea with mint. We had several young officers amongst us and I got on well with all of them, but one in particular I clicked with was called Lieutenant Kamal Henoui. Some time earlier he’d had the ill luck of commanding a firing party at the execution of a soldier who’d been sentenced to death on a murder charge. Things had gone wrong, and Henoui had to administer the coup de grâce on this unfortunate soldier as he lay bleeding to death under the shadow of the Virgin’s Breasts, two slender sand dunes behind the Abbassia Ranges. This had affected him, and almost overnight he went from a sparkling-eyed youngster to a morose outcast who shunned everyone’s company. One morning he was arrested at the school. The secret police had found piles of communist papers in his room and he was accused of being a prime mover in Nasser’s Free Officers’ Movement. Henoui was posted to the frontier at Sallum and I never saw him again.
With so much going on in my life, I hadn’t taken much notice of the different forms of punishment that prevailed in the Egyptian Army, but one day I was looking out of my office window and spotted a bayonet fighting dummy standing in the middle of the parade ground. This looked odd to me, as I always made sure any items that weren’t in use were put away in the weapon stores. I asked Colonel Khalifa what it was all about.
‘A soldier will be whipped in public at noon,’ he said, casting me a hard stare. ‘He will be strapped to the dummy to receive his punishment.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘For losing some army equipment.’
‘And you think that justifies a flogging, do you?’
‘Sorry, Paddy,’ the colonel said with a shrug, ‘but we still flog people here, as you did once in your army.’
‘But that was over a century ago. Things have changed a little since then. We treat soldiers like human beings these days.’
The colonel threw me a look that made it clear there was no more to be said on the matter.
It was a scorching hot day in 1944 and the sun was approaching twelve o’clock. To the notes of a bugle ringing out the ‘fall in’, the squads, officers and even civil servants marched onto the parade ground and gathered around the dummy. The prisoner came next, escorted by soldiers with fixed bayonets. The commander and Colonel Khalifa followed behind them.
I recognized the prisoner as one of the school’s mechanical transport drivers. He was only a little chap, and I saw him shudder as he glanced over to where the school sergeant major was standing, casually flicking his footwear with the cat o’nine tails. This was a stick approximately 16 inches long with twelve lengths of leather protruding from the handle, with many knots on each lash.
The little soldier was stripped to the waist as he stood between his escorts. A vehicle pulled up and out stepped a tall, well-groomed officer with a stethoscope resting on his breast. He waked towards the unfortunate prisoner and held the instrument lightly to his heart.
‘Tamam,’ he said in Arabic, which meant: ‘okay’.
The prisoner was pushed forward and pinned to the makeshift whipping post. There was one instructor holding each foot; two others, his arms. They made sure to hold the man at arm’s length to avoid receiving any impending blows themselves.
Colonel Khalifa read out the crime and the sentence, and then it began. The sergeant major raised the cat shoulder-high and commenced to bring it down onto the soldier’s back. He administered thirty strokes in all, moving from one side to the other after every five. Each reverberating ‘crack’ made me feel sick to my stomach. With the exception of a groan after the first stroke, the prisoner made no sound. They say that after the first lash you don’t feel the remainder. The parts of the little soldier’s flesh that were usually hidden underneath his clothes were as white and soft as mine, apart from the red wheals that blossomed on the skin after each lash. At the end of the flogging his skin was broken, and a stream of blood ran down the middle of his back. The instructors released their grip on the man’s weakened limbs, and his shirt was thrown back to him.
I was so upset by the whole debacle that I barged my way through the crowd to find my driver, and cleared off home for the rest of the day. My driver’s eyes kept meeting mine through the rear-view mirror. He could tell I was upset.
‘La taqlaq effendi,’ he said. (‘Don’t worry about it, sir.’)
I knew there was nothing I could have done. This was their own kind of justice, and it was one army practice I had no hope of reforming. No amount of training could change that.