My Final Post in Egypt
I was one of the last remaining British soldiers left in Cairo. The others had been withdrawn to the Canal Zone, and, at last, the time had come for me to follow. My role as hirings officer had ended and I was preparing to leave the capital city after six long years. I felt as though I’d spent all that time balancing on the sharp edge of a sword, never knowing if or when I’d fall; but despite the perils I’d learned much, and was quite the authority on Egypt by now. I spoke its language, had helped to train its armed forces, and knew the full strengths and weaknesses of its army. I was known by its citizens across the class divide, from the shoeshine boys on the ramshackle streets to the leaders of the Free Officers’ Movement, all the way up to the king himself. I could have been a great asset to the British authorities if they’d allowed me to stay in Cairo, but it wasn’t to be.
In some ways I was pleased to be leaving. I’d seen enough blood spilt and there was so much hatred in the air it would have been folly to remain. I had a wife and small son to think about now, and couldn’t risk putting their lives in danger too.
I left Rex in the custody of my old pal, Rusty, who was returning home to America. My faithful four-legged friend had a heart of gold and it was a wrench when I had to let him go, but he couldn’t come with me. For a long time afterwards I received regular letters from Maryland, informing me he was fit and well, and as fat as a butterball.
On our final evening in Cairo, the Sabri brothers came round to our flat to wish us well.
‘Goodbye, Paddy Pasha,’ Hassan said, shaking me warmly by the hand. ‘Come back to Cairo one day in the future, and you will be surprised at what you see.’
‘I’m only going to Moascar,’ I chuckled, ‘not the other side of the world.’
‘We will be taking over Moascar and Fâyid very soon,’ Ali promised, with a glint of malice in his eyes.
I laughed off his remark but couldn’t get the veiled threat out of my mind as I bid my friends farewell and finished packing up my belongings. I dwelt on Ali’s words for a long time afterwards, and recalled he hadn’t been the only one to voice such omens.
Cairo, circa 1947: Rex the dog on the balcony of Paddy and Marjorie’s flat.
‘When the British have built Fâyid, we will take it from them,’ I’d overheard the Egyptian chief of police boasting at the club one evening.
Why would nobody at the Mission take my concerns seriously? I sat up long into the night at my writing desk, trying to put into words everything I’d gleaned: all the overheard plots and schemes, and the little niggles and suspicions that ate away at me, keeping me awake night after night. I didn’t know what I was trying to achieve, for I knew my efforts would be thankless. The hours ticked by and I knew I had to try to get some rest. I crept under my mosquito net and closed my eyes. I lay there with the heavy smell of the East in my nostrils, but sleep refused to come. So many things were running through my mind. Each time I thought of offering myself as a spy, a vision of Marjorie and Terence flashed into my mind. What would happen to them if I was discovered? Eventually I resolved to forget the idea and accept my fate; and I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Bright and early the following morning, a car arrived to take us to Ismailia, and before I knew it we were speeding away on a clear, sunny day to start our new lives. The driver dropped us off at the transit camp on the side of Lake Timsah, a picturesque spot on the Nile Delta.
I’d been appointed regimental sergeant major at Moascar, the last garrison of the British Army in Egypt. We were to live in one of the married quarters, and though it was small and unsuitable for a growing family, we made the best of it. We had a lovely garden with a dozen or so banana trees that bore plenty of fruit. I used to spend many an evening and weekend picking and wrapping this delicious bounty in brown paper, and then putting them away in the cupboard until they were ripe.
We enrolled Terence at a Roman Catholic nursery school. Though it was quite a distance from the garrison, he seemed to settle in well, enjoying his time with the other military children and the friendly nuns who ran the establishment.
Before my arrival at Moascar, the general officer commanding had returned home to prepare for posting to Germany. His replacement, General Sir George Erskine, was a kindly Scot who filled the position with style, commanding admiration and respect from every rank. He was an authoritative figure, yet there was a benevolent twinkle in his eyes, which reminded me so fondly of my father’s.
As was usually the case at headquarters, the warrant officers were also the chief clerks, spending most of their time behind desks. As a result they had little idea about the regimental side of soldiering. Drill and weapons were far removed from their minds, so I took it upon myself to correct this. In fact, it soon became clear there was much that needed putting right. I arranged physical training for all ranks living in the barracks, and after breakfast there was a turn of drill. I wasn’t very popular over this, but that didn’t worry me. There is no worse sight in the world than a sloppy soldier.
Moascar, circa 1950: Paddy (crossed) in the officers’ mess.
Moascar, circa 1950: Paddy and General Erskine (centre) enjoying a drink in the officers’ mess.
Moascar, 1951: RSM Rochford participating in the garrison swimming gala.
My wife was extremely helpful during our time at Moascar and formed a ladies’ club that met weekly on the lawns of our new quarters. She accrued some ninety members in total, including Lady Erskine, and together they played a fundamental role in life at the garrison, throwing fetes, tea dances and charity events, which helped to take everyone’s minds off the darker side of being in the army.
Smith, Golbey and Heinzmann were the names of three notorious gunners from the Royal Artillery’s 41 Field Regiment, who between them had left a trail of crime from Cairo all the way to Ismailia. Their iniquitous ways came to a head in 1950 with the murder of an Egyptian taxi driver who’d agreed to take these chaps back to their desert camp one evening. Some miles from their destination, one of the three blew a hole into the back of the taxi driver’s head. There was no apparent motive, apart from pure evilness, and perhaps a touch of insanity. In the act of dumping the body in a nearby ditch and covering it with sand, a car drove past and disturbed them, but the three soldiers managed to escape into the darkness.
Moascar, circa 1950: Marjorie (centre) and her ladies’ club.
I was at a party that evening in the Arab quarter of Ismailia. On hearing a babble of angry voices outside, my host and I went to find out what was happening. A crowd of locals had gathered in the street, all wailing and beating their breasts. The body had been discovered, and it didn’t take long before all the gory details of the crime began creeping along the grapevine. The RSM of the Special Investigation Branch was told through an informer where the murderers were hiding, so he took a band of men to their lair and flushed them out. All three came quietly.
Egyptian blood was boiling over this and the death sentence was passed, though the rumourmongers doubted an execution would actually take place. Everyone assumed the British were bluffing in an attempt to appease the Egyptians, and it was widely expected that the men would be released as soon as the uproar died down. The scaffold was erected and the nooses were hanging, but still no one believed the stools would be kicked away.
The celebrated British hangman, Albert Pierrepoint, was sent for. He stayed at our garrison the night before and showed some of the officers in the mess the bag he put over the faces of the condemned. He always carried this around in the top pocket of his suit, like a handkerchief.
The mothers of the three murderers came out from England and were allowed to spend a few final hours with their sons. Then, early in the morning on 31 August 1950, Pierrepoint took Smith and Golbey from their cells, and side by side the two men went to meet their maker. Heinzmann, the more vicious of the three, was led out last, dressed in physical training shorts and a matching vest. He spat in the face of the provost marshal as he walked up the steps that led to the rope, where he passed from this life without a flinch.
The bodies were buried in a row at the far end of the garrison cemetery, well away from the graves of the heroes who’d died in the service of their country. Since the start of the war hundreds upon hundreds of headstones had sprung up like daisies in this once desolate spot. Yet with so much evil still in the world, I often wondered what their sacrifice was for.
By now, the Egyptian Government was screaming its head off for the complete evacuation of the British forces. The fact we hadn’t returned to Cairo or Alexandria affirmed the impression that Britain was a spent force, defeated and beaten as a global supremacy. The Egyptians saw this as their chance to remove us from their country once and for all, and consequently life became hectic in the Canal Zone. Coffin after coffin passed by my door as British soldiers were cut down by the ruthless foe. The authorities were even contemplating the withdrawal of all troops to the safety of the barracks and camps, and sending their families home to the United Kingdom, well out of harm’s way.
The Egyptians soon began cutting off our supplies from the larger towns. Beer and other such luxuries were running out fast, and our stock of Stella had long since been drunk. The local NAAFIs had all closed, so my wife and her ladies offered to open one and run it themselves. This was met with cheers from the troops, who flocked to the homespun NAAFI every night, where they passed away their free time with singsongs around the piano.
Egyptian employees were slowly being enticed to stop working for the British forces. The country’s government had set up offices where these chaps could report and receive the same amount of wages in cash. We still had about 400 native staff members at Moascar Garrison, so one day I sat them all down on the grass outside my office and told them not be intimidated by the terrorists, and to hold fast. I could tell they were all frightened, though. I’d received a tip-off that agents from the terror gangs had visited these men at their homes at night, informing them to collect their money and then clear off as far away from the Canal Zone as possible.
The next day I was detailed to go to the bank in Ismailia and collect the cash for the employees’ payment. I was a little nervous about the journey, for there’d been a spate of bombings in recent weeks on the roads leading from the garrison into town. Homemade devices were being slipped into British trucks as they pulled up at crossings, and the culprits had so far eluded capture. With Sergeant John Boyd of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers as my escort, we moved off at a quarter to eight in the morning. John thought I was off my rocker wanting to go so early, as the bank didn’t open until 9.00 am, but I had a feeling something bad was going to happen and I wanted to get there in good time. We followed the track that ran parallel between the Arab Town Road and the Sweet Water Canal, where mutilated body parts were often fished out. Our road had been nicknamed Snipers’ Alley due to the number of bullets that flew over from the nearby mud houses, but we arrived safely without incident, and were the only people in town. Being so early we were first in and first out again, and though it was a relief to be heading back, I kept my Sten gun at the ready the whole time.
‘You know, sir, I would never have believed you could be scared,’ John said as he drove our truck back towards Moascar.
I ignored his remark and continued scanning the roadside for any signs of an ambush. Ahead of us, a little further along past the bridge that crossed the canal, I spotted a large group of Egyptians running in our direction, and they didn’t look happy in the slightest.
‘Turn across the water, now!’ I roared at John, grabbing the wheel of the truck.
The vehicle swerved as we passed over the bridge, reaching the other side just in time to see the mob speeding down the road towards Ismailia. I felt much happier with the river between us: I knew dirty people didn’t care much for water. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the swelling crowd weren’t all that interested in us, anyway, and continued on their way without so much as an insult yelled in our direction. I wondered what they were up to, so upon our return I sent a convoy of troops into Ismailia to find out.
By lunchtime, everything became clear. From the garrison we could see a great pall of smoke hanging over the town of Ismailia. Scouts reported back to say the mob had grown bigger and had begun roaming the streets, breaking into stores and setting alight every parked car they could find. They’d cleaned out the shops from top to bottom but, perhaps on Nasser’s orders, they didn’t interfere with any of the ladies who were buying at the counter. With burst after burst of fire, our troops began to drive the mob back, and by the end of the afternoon they’d managed to restore order to the town.
In 1951 Iran nationalized the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company and expelled Britain from the city’s refineries. This undoubtedly pleased some authorities, but Britain was enraged. We on the canal really thought the British Government would bare its teeth and do something about it. Armed and ready, we awaited the order to act, but it never came. This was just the tonic the Egyptians were waiting for, and the lack of military retaliation confirmed that Britain was a wounded, elderly lion that had lost all its teeth.
Weekend after weekend, terrorists came up to Moascar from Cairo and snuck around the camps, shooting and stabbing any Briton they came across. Nightfall would herald volleys of shots from the darkness, mingled with the barking of nearby dogs. Orders went out that we were all to carry arms inside the garrison as well as outside. Though she was heavily pregnant with our second child, Marjorie began running a shooting group for her ladies, and I was amazed at the progress they made.
One evening, a British military police officer and one of his NCO escorts were shot dead as they passed by the Egyptian police barracks on their way to Ismailia. If that wasn’t bad enough, it was discovered that the shots had been fired from inside the barracks. Shockwaves rippled through our garrison when the truth of the matter began sinking in: it was a police officer who was responsible. That was the last straw. We’d had enough, and weren’t prepared to take any more. General Erskine sent an ultimatum to the police force, ordering them to hand over all of their weapons, or else. This, of course, was ignored, so within two hours the general and some 7,000 of his men began pounding the barracks with heavy artillery. It was an almighty conflict. Messages flooded into my garrison that the Lancashire Fusiliers had gone in with the old cold steel – their bayonets – and had stirred up the 700 Egyptian policemen, who refused to surrender. After several hours the result was a resounding victory for the British, who’d killed about 10 per cent of the armed police. The rest we sent packing to Cairo by train, minus their armaments.
The Egyptians had fought with courage. This surprised even me, as they never struck me as a force to be concerned about. One of their officers, a captain, covered himself in glory. He showed great bravery that day and stuck it out until the last moment even though he’d had the chance to surrender. Covered in blood, he appeared at an open window during the shelling and asked for a ceasefire so he could clear away some of his dead and tend to the wounded. He also asked the British for medical supplies for his comrades. This was all granted, and when the ceasefire was over, he was asked through a loud speaker if he was ready to surrender his men.
‘Fight on!’ he cried.
The captain was captured when the barracks fell.
Though 1951 had been tainted by so much savagery, from out of the ashes some good had been born. I’d become a father again. My first daughter had been delivered into the world safe and sound, although the birth was not without its complications. My poor dear wife had been rushed to a medical tent where it was discovered the baby was breech. The medical officer was in rather a state, as he’d never encountered this condition before. As brave and as selfless as ever, Marjorie was more concerned about the welfare of the poor doctor than she was for herself. Fearing he was going to pass out, she kept showering him with praise and encouragement the whole way through.
My family was blessed with a few months of bliss, and it was Christmas Eve 1951 when our peace was shattered once again. A figure, lurking in the shadows, made an attempt on my life as I stood at the gate of my quarters, bidding my guests goodnight. Bursts of Sten gunfire tore into my garden gate, inches from where I was standing. I dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and managed to crawl to safety as the bullets ripped into the walls of my quarters. I was terrified: my wife and children were inside. Terence was upstairs in bed, watching on as ‘shooting stars’, as he called them, whizzed through his bedroom window and over his head. Mercifully, nobody was hurt. The mystery of who should do such a thing, and why, was never explained. The only thing that was clear, however, was that the Sten was a British weapon.
Moascar, Christmas Day 1951: Christmas dinner in the garrison.
Moascar, 1951: General Erskine (centre) inspecting the diners with Paddy and other colleagues.
After Christmas, Sister Anthony, one of the nuns from the convent on the fringe of the Arab town of Arashiya, began making regular trips up to the garrison with her basket of eggs and fresh fruit for the troops. I knew her well, as she was Terence’s favourite teacher at school, and a close personal friend of Lady Erskine. It was quite a walk from the convent and she had to pass along the dangerous Snipers’ Alley. Naturally, I was concerned for her safety.
‘You’re not a martyr yet,’ I said, ‘but you may be one of these days if you’re not careful. I should think it would be best if you stayed in your convent for now, at least until the troubles have died down.’
Sister Anthony chuckled. ‘Ah, but you see, I’m collecting British and Egyptian bullets,’ she jested in that soft, American accent of hers. ‘They do tend to whiz over our convent, and I can find lots of them on the road to the garrison.’
Moascar, circa 1950: the military children at play.
The following Sunday, the nuns were busy entertaining the military children prior to serving their usual afternoon tea. Across the road was a patrol of British troops, sitting around, enjoying a cigarette or two in the warm weather. A little further down the lane came an Egyptian barrow boy, pushing his barrow full of fresh fruit and vegetables. He stopped in front of the troops and flashed them a toothless grin.
‘A present from me to you,’ he said, gesturing towards his little wooden barrow. With another smile, he turned on his heels and skipped off, leaving his offering in front of the puzzled patrol.
No sooner had the chaps stood up to examine their unexpected gift when an explosion crashed through the air, taking the Trojan barrow and the troops with it; blown to pieces by the device concealed among the fruit. Before the survivors could regain their senses, a machine gun opened up from a small copse of trees. Behind the weapon were Egyptian terrorists, sniping at the injured soldiers and any other target that presented itself.
The nuns and the children at the convent began fleeing into their courtyard, taking refuge in their air raid shelter. The mother superior dashed to the telephone to raise the alarm, but just then she heard Egyptian voices coming from outside.
She managed to get through to Moascar Garrison just before the line went dead. All she could do was hope and pray that reinforcements would make it in time. She joined the others in the air raid shelter, where together they waited for something to happen.
After what must have seemed like forever, Sister Anthony, aware the children were in some distress, decided to risk going back into the convent so she could bring them some water. She was a completely fearless woman. The minutes passed and the nuns, who were still below in the air raid shelter, heard more guns and tank fire from above: the British had arrived.
As soon as things began to quieten down the mother superior went outside to make sure the coast was finally clear. To her horror, she found Sister Anthony lying dead on the porch steps. A bullet had passed straight through the left side of her heart, travelling down into her right arm, breaking the bone completely in two. To the left of the convent was the position the Egyptian terrorists had held, and to the right was where the British soldiers stood; yet nobody knew whether the sister had been shot as she was leaving the convent, or as she’d turned to go back inside. Some of our lads claimed to have heard the Egyptians cry: ‘We’ve killed the daughter of a dog!’ so it seemed undeniable that the rebels were responsible for her murder.
With five warrant officers, I drove through the chastened streets past Arashiya towards the convent. Sister Anthony was to have a military funeral, making her the first non-military personnel to be granted the honour, and we six were to be the coffin bearers. As we passed the police barracks, I wondered if we might get sniped at, as tensions were still fraught since the infamous battle, dubbed by Egyptians as ‘the Ismailia murders’. I’d always been one to obey an order down to the last letter, but this was a day when I chose to think for myself. We’d been told no firearms were to be carried by my bearer party, but I wasn’t prepared to take any chances, so I placed a Luger pistol under a handkerchief on the seat beside me, and would have gladly used it had we come under fire.
As we entered the convent, we were led to the chapel where the coffin was waiting. The little room was packed with nuns and children of all nationalities whose lives had been touched by this brave and compassionate woman. Some began to cry as we placed the white rosewood coffin on our shoulders and carried it gently to the vehicle. I felt my own eyes filling with tears. This woman was an innocent victim of a war that should never have been fought.
We drove her remains to the nearby Roman Catholic Church and laid her in the chapel of rest. I’d arranged for a grave to be dug at the military cemetery at the rear of Moascar Garrison, but just as we were leaving the church, one of the warrant officers remarked how wide the coffin shoulders were, and how it might not fit into the grave. It was quite late in the day by that time and the funeral was due to take place the following morning, so I hurried back to the little chapel and, as people were silently praying, I began measuring the shoulders. I didn’t have a tape measure on me so had to improvise with my pace stick. To my horror, I found the warrant officer was quite correct: the grave was far too small for the coffin. We dashed back to the garrison as fast as we could, and I sent hurried orders to Sam Reeves, my provost sergeant, who hastily corrected the error just in the nick of time.
The funeral was a most impressive affair, more like a state funeral. Hundreds of people had turned up to pay their last respects at the graveside, including the American Ambassador. I’d managed to ‘borrow’ a Stars and Stripes pendant from the front of his car, which I placed on top of the sister’s coffin. Afterwards, when the time came to return it, the chaplain calmly informed me it must have accidentally been buried with her, for nobody had seen it since. My heart began to race as panic set in. I knew I’d be in hot water over this. Thankfully, it turned out one of my quick-thinking corporals had taken the pendant from the coffin just before it had been lowered into the earth, and had slipped it under his bush jacket. Taking it from him, I raced over to the general officer’s residence, where the ambassador was being entertained. I placed it back on his car without being seen, and not a moment too soon, for just then the door opened and out came the general officer, closely followed by the ambassador. I stepped back and saluted as he walked towards his vehicle. As he drove away, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. I made my way straight to the mess, where I had a large glass of beer.
An inquiry into the murder of Sister Anthony was held, and the proceedings were treated as top secret and sent on to the United Kingdom. Though a British doctor had examined the body, we never heard the result of the findings, and so we never knew who was to blame for the death of this kind and gentle lady.
It was 26 January 1952, a date many of us would never forget. It was the day an army of barbarous civilians marched into Cairo, hell bent on utter destruction. These weren’t mindless mobs but organized squads, armed and prepared with all the implements required for arson, looting and murder. So well prepared were these hundreds, if not thousands, of anti-British protesters that the authorities were too afraid to intervene. Even the police kept off the streets, no doubt in sympathy for their fallen comrades.
The prime minister, who at that time was the Wafdist Mustafa el-Nahas Pasha, begged the chief of the Egyptian Army to send his men to defend the city, but the chief was an honest man and was forced to admit his army was in a state of mutiny, with many of the troops and officers siding with the rioters. He was powerless to assist.
That was the day the great city of Cairo lay down to be ravished by a bloodthirsty, half-crazed army of students and barefoot natives. Shopkeepers lowered their shutters, but they offered no protection. They were prised open by the rioters, and the premises looted then set alight. Hundreds upon hundreds of buildings were targeted, and in no time at all, the entire city was ablaze. Nothing was spared, from the brothels and backstreet bars all the way up to city landmarks such as the Shepheard’s Hotel and Barclay’s Bank. All were completely destroyed.
Those trapped inside suffered horrific deaths. Limbs were sliced off with scythes; shopkeepers had their throats slit, whilst others were disembowelled and then set on fire. The screams of terrified victims filled the dilapidated streets, mingled with the explosions from petrol bombs and the maniacal laughter of the mobs.
The exclusive Turf Club had been holding a lunch party that day, despite several warnings of what might happen, but British people often act strangely, especially when they’re abroad. With no police guard outside, the approaching mob battered the doors down as easily as if they were made of cardboard. They doused the entire building with petrol and set it alight. Those who tried to escape were hacked at with cleaving knives and pushed back into the flames.
We on the Canal Zone were waiting with baited breath to be called into action. General Erskine even received a telegram from King Farouk, begging for British assistance.
‘Send British troops back to Cairo: foreign lives and property in danger,’ it read, but a follow-up telegram from the British Ambassador called a halt to any desires the general may have had about moving. That was Britain’s last chance to go in and put an end to the trouble, and we didn’t take it.
I was appalled when I read in the newspapers that Colonel Nasser had said it would be difficult to know where to lay the blame for this massacre, insisting – rather too keenly, for my liking – it had nothing whatsoever to do with the Free Officers. Be that as it may, somebody knew who was to blame, and they remained silent to their dying day.
Moascar, 1951: Paddy, the Deputy Provincial Grand Primo (second from the front), and other members of the RAOB marking the first birthday of their Prince Charles Lodge.
26 January 1952 became known as Black Saturday. Even though it was the blackest day, it led to the fall of the Wafd government, which I believe was a small mercy. A new prime minister was appointed, General Hussein Sirri Pasha, but he resigned after just three weeks. All eyes fell upon Major General Naguib, a prominent Free Officer, who was now regarded by many as the best man to lead Egypt. This, of course, wasn’t popular at the top, so the king, fearing for his own position, had him posted to the Frontier Brigade, well out of the way. That was the spark that lit the blue touchpaper. An enraged Nasser and his followers soon became extremely busy, shutting themselves away and conspiring long into the night, until the Free Officers were at last ready to make their move.