The Tiger of Faluja
Cairo had never seemed a friendly place to me. Though the Egyptian Armed Forces had accepted me as a friend, the civilians were not so welcoming. I had few friends outside the army, and one evening, feeling at a loose end, I decided to take a stroll through the city in the hope of stumbling across some excitement. A little further past the cinema I heard music playing, so I wandered over and found myself standing outside a club. Its name, ‘The Heliopolis Sporting Club’, was written in blue letters above the door, and on the wall a notice said ‘private’ in Arabic. I was just about to walk away when a smart young Egyptian stepped out of the doorway and greeted me.
‘Masaa el-kheer,’ he bid me, which meant ‘good evening’. ‘Hal beemkani mosa’adatuk?’ (‘Can I help you at all?’)
‘I was just looking for somewhere I could buy a drink,’ I explained.
‘I am sorry but this is a private club and it is out of bounds to troops,’ he told me.
I thanked the chap and continued on my way. I hadn’t gone far when I was hailed by another tall, smartly dressed man about my age who was walking towards the club. He must have overheard my conversation because he kindly invited me for a drink as his guest. Upon entering, I was made most welcome by everyone I was introduced to. There was a gathering of men and women, both Egyptian and European, seated on the veranda of the clubhouse. Inside people were dancing to live music played by a resident jazz band and at the far end of the brightly lit room was a long, impressive looking bar, serving every kind of beverage imaginable.
I learned my host’s name was Abdel Moneim Ragheb Bey and that he was on the Egyptian Council of Ministers. He introduced me to his good friend, the treasurer of the club and a lieutenant in the Egyptian Army. Like Abdel he was a tall and handsome chap with a quick, warm smile. I liked him on sight, for there was something indefinable about him that made him stand out from all the other Egyptian officers I’d met. He was introduced to me as Gamal Abdel Nasser, and he’d just returned to Cairo after serving in Mankabad and Sudan. I soon learned he was a bright and disciplined soldier, who became known within certain circles as the ‘Tiger of Faluja’, owing to his fearless heroism on the battlefield.
Nasser and I clicked at once. Over a few drinks we shared our life stories, and discovered we had much in common. He told me he was originally from Alexandria. His father, Abdu-Nasser Hussein, was a humble employee of the Egyptian Post Office, and upon promotion to sub-postmaster, moved his family to a small town called Khatatba, between Alexandria and Cairo. It was just a place of mud-baked sand. The houses were roofless and the inhabitants – who mostly comprised flies, cattle, dogs and urchins – all lived together in harmony. At night when the sun had gone down, the people of the town would come out of their homes and sit in the open air, smoking their hookah pipes and listening, enraptured, to the tales of the local storytellers. Few people in the village could read, so this was how they learned their information, however distorted the tale may have become.
Returning home from school one day, young Nasser fell foul of the local police and ended up in jail with a rather sore head. It was this incident that helped to secure a large chip on his little shoulders, which stayed with him as he grew into adulthood. Abdu-Nasser didn’t want his son to end up on the slippery slope to self-destruction, so he packed his eldest child off to Cairo to stay with an uncle. The poor boy was passed around from pillar to post for pretty much the rest of his childhood, and never really had what one might call a stable upbringing.
‘I spent many years living in Cairo,’ he told me, ‘and in that time my parents always kept their distance, never once sending for me, or coming to visit. I was lonely, so one day decided I should go home.’ There was a brief pause as the flame that had been burning in his brown eyes throughout our conversation seemed to fade. ‘When I arrived, it was too late. I learned my mother had died in childbirth a long time ago, and nobody had thought to tell me.’
Full of rage and despair, the youth plunged himself into his hate campaigns and joined the military. He felt it was here where he could meet other like-minded souls and stir up trouble for the authorities, in a conscious effort to put right all the wrongs in his land.
Nasser and his friends were cool and well organized. In fact, he was exactly the type of leader with whom the British should have negotiated to help establish a bright future for Egypt; but Nasser was from a poor family and was thus considered of little importance.
I was interested to learn that my new friend was residing not far from my flat in Heliopolis, with his charming wife and children whom I had the pleasure of getting to know. Though most of Nasser’s spare time was taken up with his revolutionary writings, he invited me to return to the club to join him for a drink and a game of tennis. This I did, and from then on we met every week to play a few matches under the floodlights, and between us we’d put the world to rights. We shared long, deep discussions about the social issues in Egypt. Over time, as we got to know and respect one another, I learned all about the underground organizations that were dedicated to fighting against anything that kept the Egyptian fellaheen, like Nasser’s own family, in poverty and ignorance. In many peoples’ eyes, this was the fault of the British, for we were throwing money at the country but most, if not all, was landing in the wrong pockets.
I became a fully fledged member of the club and paid fifty piastres (about ten shillings) a month; it was well worth it, for it was here where I made many good friends. I’d already met a few members of the extended Nasser family, including Gamal’s first cousins, Ali Sabri of the Royal Egyptian Air Force, and Captain Hassan Zulfiqar Sabri, who were colleagues of mine at the school. All three were quiet, unassuming types of men, but as the old proverb warns: still waters run deep.
The controversial Major General Aziz el-Masri Pasha had founded the Egyptian Army University Officer Training Corps where Nasser and his friends regularly gave lectures. Firearms were secretly stacked away and hidden, and I believe it was here where the whole structure of armed resistance in Egypt was formed. Some of the instructors at my school who were either jealous of the great Tiger’s reputation, or were simply against his ideals, tipped me off about secret plans that the group was hatching. I tried informing the military authorities of this, but wasn’t believed and was simply told to mind my own business. Not one to give in, I made another attempt one morning when I visited Mission HQ to let them know what was going on under their very noses. Captain Franklin listened to me quietly and intently until I’d finished.
‘I’m not at all surprised by this,’ he sighed, ‘but there are people in high places in Cairo who … well, let’s just say, I’d advise you not to get involved.’
Life was rather cushy for some in Cairo, and they wanted it to stay that way. However, with persistence I was allowed to voice my concerns to a higher-ranking officer who actually laughed at me.
‘Don’t talk such bollocks,’ he said, lighting a cigarette and returning to his paperwork. ‘Go back to your training school and get on with the job we’re paying you to do.’
All too soon we began to witness the whole movement unfolding before us. Bombs were thrown into crowded streets; places of entertainment were destroyed, but still Britain closed her eyes, hoping it would all quieten down soon. I stood alone, believing that the sands of time were fast running out for the British in Egypt.
The year was 1944 and the war was nearing its end. News was coming through of great victories. Battles were being won. Rommel was finished; victory in Italy was in sight, and the whole picture was indicating triumph. I was in Colonel Khalifa’s office having a cup of qahwa with him and some other officers when he told me he thought the Allies would soon attack with every means at their disposal. He pointed to a large map on his wall that he’d been keeping up to date with small coloured flags denoting the positions of the troops.
‘Churchill will attack through the Normandy beaches,’ he told me, quite casually, ‘and nothing will stop him.’
It all happened just as the colonel had said. In June the Allies landed on the beaches and were once again fighting side by side on French soil. Victory was all but ours and our enemies were practically defeated.
‘What do you think will happen in Egypt after the war?’ I asked. I took a great deal of interest in this country and its people, but Colonel Khalifa studied me hard before answering.
‘If you British are wise, you will leave Egypt,’ he said. ‘If you stay, it will be a mistake. Our people will go mad. We must be allowed to rule our own country, but it will be detrimental for both of us if we remove the British by force. We have a strong ally in you; the best we could ever have. A lot of my people think they wish to see the back of Britain, but Allah help us if the Russians ever get a foothold in this country.’
It was true that the Russian Embassy was working overtime in Cairo. Their lights blazed brightly throughout the night, and scores of people could be seen coming and going through its doors. During the many public disturbances that were a daily happening, it was sometimes said that Russian officials with wooden spoons could be seen mingling in the streets with the barefoot boys.
‘It is about time Britain returned to Britain,’ said a voice from the corner of the office. It was Hassan Sabri, who’d been listening intently to our conversation. ‘Each and every man who dares to call himself Egyptian despises the very parchment the Treaty is written upon.’
‘I’m not in a position to give an opinion on that,’ I said, ‘but I know there are people in this country who’ll help in any way they can.’
‘Oh yes,’ he agreed, ‘I know you are helping us – teaching us how to use our firearms – but there are other, more important ways in which we could be helped. We are quite capable of running our own show.’
Over another steaming mug of Arabic coffee, Hassan began opening up to me, and I was surprised when he revealed the ‘truth’ – or, at least, his version of it – behind the incident that led to the court-martial of him and his brother. He told me he was the duty officer at the aerodrome just outside Cairo. One evening in 1941 he received a message to say that ‘a very important person’ was to be flown away, and that further instructions would be given when the plane was airborne. He duly checked the aircraft before take-off and it appeared in good order, so he flicked the switch that started the petrol supply. He went inside the aerodrome to phone the gate and told them that when a certain car arrived, the occupants were to be taken straight to the waiting plane, and he was to be informed. The call came, and on returning to the plane, Hassan saw his brother, Ali, standing with another person who turned out to be none other than Major General el-Masri. Before he could question the men, Hassan was told to enter the aircraft as quickly as possible. Trusting his brother’s judgement, he obeyed without hesitation.
Shortly after take-off, the plane began to splutter, and it wasn’t long before two British fighter planes were on their tail. They had no chance of escape and were forced to make an emergency landing, when the trio were placed under arrest. It transpired that Ali, who was piloting the plane, had turned the petrol supply off by mistake. He’d not realized his brother had already turned it on, so he too had flicked the switch.
At the court martial it had come out that the major general was attempting to fly to Iraq to lead the uprising, and Hassan was sentenced to loss of seniority for five years and transferred to the army. Though Hassan had sworn on the Qur’an, nobody would believe his version of events, not even the British, in whom he’d always put his trust for fair play; but no longer.
At the Small Arms Training School, things were looking up. King Farouk paid a visit, and during an inspection of the weapon training stores he pointed to an open 2-inch mortar chest. Inside he’d spotted a cleaning brush, and as it was not in use, it was in two parts. The king asked the school commander what it was.
‘I do not know, Your Majesty,’ the commander replied, scratching his head and going rather red. ‘I will ask my second-in-command.’
This officer in turn scratched his head and passed the query on to somebody else, who didn’t have the faintest idea either, but decided to have a go at solving the mystery himself.
‘They are drumsticks, Your Majesty.’
Being partial to a good ditty, the enthusiastic young monarch asked the commander to send for the embarrassed bandmaster, who was ordered to demonstrate. With sweat pouring from his brow and plenty of creative improvisation, he managed to drum out some sort of tune that was convincing enough for the king to believe the two halves of the dirty old cleaning brush were in fact army drumsticks.
This wasn’t the only military cover-up. Shortly after the 2-inch mortar gun was introduced to the army, an Egyptian major received a report on the firing of the weapon. It was 100 per cent successful: all the bombs had been discharged without any trouble.
Several months later, some fishermen from Upper Egypt approached the major with a story that they’d seen some soldiers dumping unidentified black objects from a boat into the water. The major duly reported this to the army authorities, who in turn scoured the bottom of the lake and found the 2-inch mortar bombs that had, on paper, at least, been fired with great effect.
One afternoon I went out for a few drinks with one of the school instructors and was surprised to find he was in possession of a seemingly unlimited supply of Craven A cigarettes. I asked him why it was he had no difficulty in obtaining these when it was almost impossible for us British soldiers.
‘Ah, Paddy Pasha,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose, ‘in Egypt we can find anything if we have money and know the right folk to ask.’
He revealed that a roaring trade of stolen NAAFI goods was being carried out down the alleyways and backstreets of Cairo. Abject poverty had made theft a common crime, and one of our military camps at the village of Tel el-Kebir had resorted to installing searchlights and barbed wire all around the perimeter. Things became so dire that sentries were ordered to shoot on sight. Many were the heartbreaking tales of the discovery of dead bodies, laden with the spoils of their crimes. This angered the local population, and by November bombs and bullets were again rattling through the streets, daubing the sandy coloured buildings blood red.
Lord Moyne, the British minister of state, was the next unfortunate target; he was shot down dead along with his driver, Corporal Fuller, of the Royal Army Service Corps. Incensed by Britain’s unwanted interference in Palestine, members of the militant Jewish Zionist group, Lehi, stopped Lord Moyne’s car. Fuller was given the chance to surrender, as the killers only wanted the life of Moyne, but Fuller was a loyal and faithful soldier, and refused to leave his commander’s side. He gave his life in the old traditions of courage and duty.
The murderers were caught and sentenced to death. They were led to the gallows singing the Jewish freedom fighters’ national anthem and were only silenced when their final breath was drawn.
The joint funeral of Lord Moyne and Corporal Fuller was a sombre affair. The streets and the cathedral were packed with people, and at 3.00 pm not a sound could be heard, except for the strains of Chopin’s Funeral March, which floated over the hushed city. I took a special interest in the service as Lord Moyne was from Chapelizod. I remember as a young child admiring the beautiful Farmleigh House in Phoenix Park, the residence of the Guinness family, into which Lord Moyne was born.
Back at the school, as things were progressing so well, I suggested to Colonel Khalifa that we put on a five-day long shooting competition, open for all units of the Armed Forces to enter. He thought this was a splendid idea and permission was granted. King Farouk himself agreed to attend on the final day. The Egyptians were most excited and invited a huge number of teams to participate, including the elite Mohammed Ali Club – a society for the rich and famous – and the British Army, as well as teams from Switzerland, South Africa, New Zealand and America. Even the Royal Bodyguard decided to enter.
Life became busy for us at the Small Arms School, but the time flew by and soon the great day dawned. The Abbassia Ranges were transformed into a great fairground. Nobody could ever lay on bunting and frills like the Egyptians could. Among the officials in attendance were Colonel Nasser, the Sabri brothers, and a friend of mine from the army, Major Mohammed Naguib. He was an honest and sincere man who shared the Free Officers’ ideals for Egypt, thus making him rather unpopular with the king.
The event got off to a good start and the final day in particular was a great success. Everybody was on tenterhooks with excitement as the band played and the teams lined up in ranks to await the arrival of the king. An air of anticipation rippled over the ranges when the royal car came into sight and drove across to where we were all assembled. As Farouk stepped out, I was taken aback by the sycophantic way he was received. The senior officers dashed to the spot where his feet touched the ground, fell on their knees and showered the back of his hand with kisses. It turned my stomach, and I was glad things were done with dignity back home.
The king fired the two opening shots of the day, and though they were marked as bulls, I had my doubts they got anywhere near the target. The Swiss Club ended up winning the competition, with the Royal Bodyguard and the American teams sharing second place. Next came the South Africans, followed by the Egyptian Army. I’m sad to say the British Army were much further down the list, but my disappointment was soon forgotten when the king invited us all for afternoon refreshments at the Royal Pavilion. Spotting my empty glass, King Farouk came over to where I was standing and asked me what I’d like to drink. He called the barman’s attention and prompted him to fill my glass with whiskey as a gesture of thanks for my efforts in arranging the competition. I thanked him with a smile, relieved I wasn’t required to kiss him.
As the day’s events drew to a close, I was delighted to be told by Colonel Khalifa that my attendance was requested at a cocktail party that the Royal Bodyguards were throwing. Once everything at the ranges had been packed away, I dashed back to my flat, freshened up, and awaited the arrival of the car that was to take me to Abdin Palace. One or two of the other military advisers who lived in my building, and who hadn’t received invitations, appeared irritated that I was going, but that didn’t worry me one jot. I arrived at the palace feeling like an honoured guest, and was greeted by no less a person than the major general of the Royal Bodyguard. Until then he’d never shown the slightest hint of friendliness towards me, or any other British soldier, but that evening he shook me warmly by the hand.
‘Masaa el-kheer. Ahlan wa sahlan,’ he said, which meant: ‘Good evening, my friend. You are very welcome.’
I entered the palace ballroom and my jaw dropped. It was more than I could have dreamed of. Great crystal chandeliers glittered high above our heads and there were gilt chairs all around for the elegant guests, dressed in their best attire. Soft Persian carpets adorned the floors and a large, well-stocked bar was situated at the far end of the room. The band members of the Royal Bodyguard, in colourful uniforms, were seated on the stage ready to play. A throng of exotic beauties in long, flowing gowns had been invited to dance with the guests. I grinned and thought to myself that this wasn’t bad going for a company sergeant major of the British Army.
I was shown to Colonel Khalifa’s table, where I was seated with Nasser and the usual crowd. Drinks were on tap, and a shooting range was set up in the corridor. I took a few shots and ended up winning a prize, in the form of a cloth-clad Egyptian belly dancer.
The dancing and floorshows went on until past midnight, and King Farouk, who’d honoured us with his company, retired at around 1.00 am. Up until then the Egyptian officers had been quietly enjoying themselves, but with the departure of the king, things livened up. After an hour or two the colonial troops were becoming rather too boisterous for my liking, so I thanked the major general for his hospitality, and took my leave.
I’d enjoyed myself that evening and was impressed by the efforts of the Egyptian Army. They really knew how to put on a show. Perhaps Egypt’s luck was finally starting to change.