The Three Cracks
Colonel Nasser once told me the Egyptians had never been more roused with anger than in February 1942, when Britain pressed Egypt’s back to the wall and demanded a regime change. Farouk had given in, but his actions brought nothing but fury to the people. No matter what others said about them, the Egyptians were a proud race, and for another country to be allowed to interfere with their political leadership was just about the greatest insult possible.
This caused the first of three cracks to appear in Farouk’s throne. Up until then he’d been popular with his subjects. He was young and eccentric, and had in recent years married the beautiful Queen Farida, whom the people worshipped and adored. The royal couple had two pretty little girls who were equally loved, and the family could often be spotted driving around the streets. The gathering crowds would cheer and wave like lunatics baying at the moon as the royal fleet of red Fiat cars passed by. The queen’s radiant face never betrayed any sign that she was growing weary of her husband’s sordid lifestyle of gluttony and debauchery, but behind the elegant façade the dynasty was crumbling.
One of the palace officials told me about a scandalous rumour that was circulating: Farouk was planning to divorce his lovely queen, who hadn’t borne him a male heir.
‘He’ll rue the day he leaves her,’ the official said with a trembling lip. ‘The people of Egypt will be outraged.’
It was true that Farida was a hundred times more popular than her husband, who never seemed to understand what an asset she was. She had all the grace of a Hollywood starlet and the fact she was knee-tremblingly beautiful meant that she attracted interest wherever she went, particularly from the press. The second crack appeared when Farouk finally divorced his adorable queen after she gave birth to yet another girl, and just as predicted, the people were incensed. Rumour had it the king was looking for some fresh blood to inject some vitality into the Royal Family. He’d set his sights on a fair-skinned young maiden called Narriman, and she caused quite a stir among the nation, for many deemed her wholly unsuitable to be a royal bride. For a start she was just a commoner from a middle-class background, and worse, she was still only a schoolgirl, aged fourteen. When the news of their engagement was announced, with all the usual honeyed words, an angry silence descended. Though Narriman produced an heir, just eight months after the lavish wedding, public opinion remained unswayed.
The final crack appeared when the king fell out with the younger officers in both the army and the police force. It was now just a matter of time before the country’s boot met with the king’s very large backside. He must have feared his days were numbered, for he began trying anything he could to win the people’s favour once more.
One day two English officers were leaving a club on the Pyramids Road at Giza. There was a transport strike underway and they couldn’t find any means of returning home so they set off walking. During their journey, they were overtaken by a large, shiny car, driven by a young man of the effendi (upper) class. The driver pulled up just ahead of them.
‘Would you care for a lift?’ he asked, through a gap in his tinted window. ‘I’m heading into Cairo. You’re welcome to travel with me.’
The two officers gratefully accepted, for it was a long walk and the sun was cooking them. They clambered into the back of the darkened car and took their seats. Conversation was light during the journey, until it suddenly turned to the hot topic of the day: King Farouk.
‘What do you two think about him?’ the young driver asked.
Their reply was rather damning and the language choice, but their chauffer laughed gaily; and when they arrived in Cairo he dropped them off outside the Shepheard’s Hotel, on the banks of the Nile.
‘To whom do we owe this kindness?’ one of the officers asked, turning to thank the driver.
The young chauffeur wound down his tinted window and the two Englishmen saw his face for the first time. ‘King Farouk of Egypt,’ he said.
With a hearty laugh he sped away into the distance, leaving the two mortified officers standing by the side of the road, mouths agape.
With the monarchy in disrepute, Colonel Nasser’s Free Officers were beginning to fancy their chances. They were trotting around the place looking for other dejected officers to swell their ranks. The Misr al-Fatat Party, the Muslim Brotherhood and other similar movements became allied. Poised in the streets, and anywhere else that suited them, they were watching, waiting and preparing for action.
British troops were enjoying taking leave in Cairo and Alexandria, and this was when the troubles flared. Grenades were thrown into cafés and cinemas where the soldiers were sitting. Chaps were knifed in their backs; several service girls were killed, and many more were wounded. Nowhere was safe. A black Buick car regularly toured the streets looking for British soldiers, and whenever one was spotted, the occupants lobbed hand grenades at them as they passed. I had the misfortune to be in the way one evening as I was crossing Qasr el-Nil Street. Fortunately, I moved quicker than the black-hearted young passenger anticipated, and the grenade missed me by inches, hitting a wall behind me. Except for deaf ears for a couple of hours, I escaped unharmed. There were others less lucky than me, and the majority of them were just young lads.
It wasn’t just the British who were targeted. The Egyptian prime minister, Ahmad Mahir Pasha, was assassinated in 1945. He’d only been installed as leader of the country four months earlier, following King Farouk’s removal of his archenemy, Mustafa el-Nahas Pasha. The new prime minster was walking out of the council chambers when a young man approached him with an outstretched hand.
‘Mabrouk Sath el-Bey,’ he said, which meant ‘congratulations Your Excellency’, and pumped two bullets into the prime minister’s stomach.
The executions didn’t end there, and another prime minister, Mahmoud Fahmi an-Nukrashi Pasha, was shot dead by a member of the Muslim Brotherhood in revenge for his outlawing of the movement just days earlier. There’d been so many assassinations of prime ministers in recent years that a special mausoleum was erected in which to lay them all to rest. The wily old Nahas Pasha must have spent some sleepless nights, fearing he’d be next. He lived in Heliopolis, not far from this vault of death, and many were the attempts on his life. None were successful, however, and he lived well into his eighties.
Being privy to many conversations at the Sporting Club, I had a clear picture of everything that was going on. An Egyptian could never keep a secret; in fact, in my experience he couldn’t share it quickly enough. As much as I continued trying to pass on these precious gems of knowledge to the British Army, nobody wanted to believe me. So, here we were in a simmering pot of hatred, and the British Army, who could have sorted everything out, refused to quench the flames. The Muslim Brotherhood had everyone running scared, so in the end I gave up trying and did my best not to get involved. It was best that way: you were nobody’s enemy.
I’d enjoyed my short return to duty with the British Army but now I was required to return to my role training the Egyptians. I was eager to get back to work, for I felt there was much I could do to help encourage good relations between the two forces. As I entered the gate to the Small Arms Training School, I felt a chill run down my spine even though I was standing directly under the mid-morning sun. The school appeared empty and deserted. There wasn’t even a sentry at the gate, and I wondered what on earth could have happened to the place since I was last there.
I made my way over to Colonel Khalifa’s old office and stood outside his door. A plaque was engraved with a flamboyant inscription, and though I still wasn’t fluent in reading the Arabic scripture, I could tell it didn’t bear the name of my old friend. As I knocked and entered, I saw a new person sitting in the colonel’s chair. He was a little man with a thin and sour-looking face. I smiled politely and introduced myself, but this new colonel didn’t look the slightest bit pleased to see me.
‘Have a seat,’ he said, gesturing to the rickety old chair in front of his desk, ‘but do excuse me for a moment while I attend to my important business.’
He fixed his gaze on a blank sheet of paper on his desk and commenced to write. I knew he wasn’t really up to anything ‘important’, so I sat in complete silence and waited for him to finish toying with me. After a while he put down his pen, looked up at me and summoned the ghost of a smile.
‘So, why have you been sent here, exactly?’
It was tempting to say something sarcastic in reply, but I’d been warned not to rub this chap up the wrong way.
‘Your commander-in-chief personally requests that I continue the work I started here during the war.’
The colonel clearly hadn’t been expecting that, for he looked as though he’d been smacked across the face with a wet dishcloth. He mumbled some apology about not being informed, and then showed me to my desk.
It didn’t take me long to find out that this new chap, Colonel Fawzi, was clueless when it came to anything military related, but as has always been the case throughout history, it wasn’t so much what you knew but who. This chap’s sister was the country’s chief Girl Guide, and as such, had the ear of the king, who held the rank of First Scout of Egypt. Colonel Fawzi took full advantage of this association whenever he found himself in trouble. This didn’t go down too well with his fellow officers, who knew just how much of a slippery character he was. Try as I might, I found it impossible to get to like the chap. The feeling was clearly mutual, for he went out of his way to make my job as difficult as he could.
After several miserable weeks at the school, the British Military Mission sent out some new military advisers to join us, including an acting company sergeant major called Horace Robertshaw. He was a decent sort of chap but was fresh from England and lacked even a basic knowledge of Egypt. He had a quick temper and used to call the Egyptians ‘wogs’ to their faces, which wasn’t liked. What was more, he hated Colonel Fawzi even more than I did, and every time he saw him he felt an overwhelming urge to punch him on the nose, so I had to keep a watchful eye on him at all times.
It was nearing the end of one particularly long and difficult day at the school. Colonel Fawzi, no doubt in the mood for some mischief, sent our truck out on a job just minutes before he knew we needed it to take us home. Upon discovering his dirty trick, Horace and I marched straight to his office and requested an explanation. The colonel simply looked at us as if we were dirt under his boots and blustered something about the truck having other purposes besides taking mere military advisers home.
I felt the blood beginning to simmer in my veins but remained as calm and collected as I could. ‘Thank you, colonel,’ I said. ‘You’ll be hearing more about this matter later.’
I turned to leave the office with all the dignity I could muster, and had to virtually drag Horace along with me. I think he’d have gladly stayed behind to have it out with the colonel.
‘Don’t be an idiot!’ I hissed, closing the door behind us. ‘That’s just what our friend is wanting – a scene – and if that happens, he’ll get rid of us both.’
I decided the best course of action was to call Fawzi’s bluff, so I led my pal towards the school gates and we began to walk home across the desert. It was a long, blistering road but we soldiered onwards. After a while we heard a car approaching from behind us.
Honk, honk, went the hooter.
Turning around I saw Colonel Fawzi pulling up by the side of the road. He got out of his car and began jogging towards us, looking rather desperate, but we carried on walking despite his calls.
‘Follow my lead,’ I whispered to my pal. ‘Let’s see if we can get this nasty little chap hot under the collar.’
‘Please get in the car, my friends,’ said Fawzi, reaching our side. ‘There has been a misunderstanding with the truck. I can run you both home. There is no need to make a fuss.’
‘No thanks, colonel,’ I said. ‘We’re enjoying the walk and the fresh air.’
Like hell we were.
‘But I have a reputation to uphold!’ he spluttered, almost dropping to his knees before us. ‘If this gets out …’
‘Be sure it will get out, colonel,’ I said. ‘I intend on telling every Egyptian and British officer I meet just how unaccommodating you’ve been towards my colleagues and me.’
We turned our backs on the snivelling colonel and continued our trek down the never-ending desert road. It was hard going, and after what seemed like hours, we finally reached Heliopolis. Though we were covered from head to toe in sand and sweat, our pride remained intact. As we passed by the cathedral, we were hailed from a window.
‘Hey, Paddy!’ a voice called out. I looked up and saw the friendly face of Father Morton, who’d conducted my marriage ceremony. ‘What are you two doing walking so quickly on a hot day like this? Call in and I’ll quench your thirst.’
The bottles of iced beer the father offered us were most welcome, and my companion was so surprised to be offered a beer by a Catholic priest he almost changed his religion.
Since that day Colonel Fawzi and I reached an unspoken understanding and found a way of rubbing along together tolerably, but soon after our ordeal in the desert I was struck down by sandfly fever. Horace was so incensed he had an almighty row with the colonel, whom he blamed for my misfortune. That was when he finally succumbed to that overwhelming urge of his and punched the little rat squarely on the nose, thus heralding the end of my pal’s career. He was shipped off to Fâyid later that day, and I’m sad to say I never heard of him again.
Many a morning passed at the school and I would greet Colonel Fawzi with a salute and the word ‘Sa’eeda’.
Though it was all very reserved, one day he suddenly began taking his time in returning my salute and would respond in Arabic ‘La, la, la’, which meant in English, ‘No, no, no’.
I got fed up with this after a while, and before I could stop myself, I asked him if the sun was getting too hot for him.
‘What do you mean?’ he snapped, looking surprised that I’d dared to question him.
‘What’s all this la, la, la business?’
He flashed me one of those disgusted looks I’d grown so used to during my time in Egypt. ‘My prime minister does not want the British in this country anymore,’ he said, ‘so we Egyptians have been instructed to refuse all Englishmen first thing in the morning in the hope they will finally get the message.’
It was a happy day when I learned Colonel Fawzi had finally been booted out of the school for being completely useless. The popular Major Ismail Mohammed took his place, and I enjoyed spending many hours in his company. One weekend some of the advisers and I took him down to Ain Helwan, a place where bubbling Eastern waters used to flow out from the rocks, making one feel truly refreshed after a frolic in the pools. Our new colonel had a dry sense of humour, and tears of laughter used to stream from our eyes at the stories he used to tell.
Though the school was a happy place to work again, outside, in the wider country, a series of barbaric events were unfolding. Students crowded the streets of Cairo, yelling, setting fire to cars and overturning a couple of trams. They got their ears well and truly boxed by the Egyptian police, who pushed them back towards the Nile. As they were crossing the river, the police let up the bridge, and the students were plunged into the muddy waters.
Over in Alexandria, thousands of demonstrators were gathering for their usual ‘hour of hate’ against the British. The city was out of bounds, and the little Military Police Reporting Centre was manned by just one sergeant and three lieutenant corporals, who had two pistols between them. No doubt they’d been forgotten about by the authorities, for they should have been withdrawn from out of harm’s way long before the trouble began. The iniquitous mobs congregated between the Cecil Hotel and this tiny outpost. The sergeant knew trouble was about to break so he telephoned the police headquarters at Kom el-Dik in Alexandria.
‘Remain fast,’ he was told, ‘and only open fire if your lives are in acute danger. We’ll send reinforcements soon.’
As the sergeant replaced the receiver, the mob attacked. Petrol bombs rained down all around and it wasn’t long before the outpost was engulfed in flames. The only thing left for this little band of men to do was to make a dash for it. Across the road they fled with the savage multitude, armed with knives and butchers’ hooks, in hot pursuit. Time had run out for the fleeing soldiers, and they were hacked down by the mob. Cut and bleeding, the four men pleaded for their lives, but the rebels showed no mercy and the British were beheaded. Their severed heads were pierced with long poles and paraded victoriously through the streets.
‘English meat, free of charge!’ the murderers cried in Arabic, much to the delight of the crowds.
The British reinforcements never arrived, for the Egyptian Army had stopped them as they tried to enter the city.
I began to wonder where all the trouble was going end.