by John Harris
Yet the place looked ideal and in peace time it was just bearable. Now, Group Captain Vizard had grave doubts. You couldn’t fight a determined enemy with roses, stocks, sweet peas and acacias, and the aeroplanes under his command would have better graced an aeronautical museum than an operational station in a modern war – which Kubaiyah was likely to become if things took a turn for the worse.
He stood at the window of his office staring into the darkness while the chief flying instructor stood by his desk, listening as the group captain thought aloud.
‘At the moment,’ he was saying, ‘less than one eighth of the aircraft available can be regarded as capable of serious operational work. Good God, Paddy, even a Gladiator or a Blenheim’s no match for a Messerschmitt 109, and the ambassador has reports that there are 109s, 110s and Heinkels just over the border in Syria. Let’s have the training stepped up, not merely in aircraft handling and navigation, but also in bomb-aiming and air gunnery. And put out a request for volunteers from the ground crews. Inform them that their training can be done here on this station and remind them that qualified air gunners now have the rank of sergeant. We’d also better inform Shaibah on the coast that we might have to call on their bomber squadron and that they’re to be ready in every way.’
The group captain lit his pipe and drew a few puffs from it, deep in thought. ‘And that,’ he ended, ‘is all that stands at the moment between the British Empire and an upheaval which threatens to throttle the flow of her oil supplies and cut her communications with India.’
For the first time people in Iraq were becoming aware of the faults in the Air Control System. When the enemy consisted only of raiders from the north, it was possible to keep things tidy with aircraft, dropped leaflets, and a few bombs and armoured cars. If the whole population were to turn against the British, however, the absence of a military force would be sorely missed because there were going to be precious few men to guard the installations and vital resources.
And Germany’s resounding victories in Europe were beginning by now to take effect on the people of the Middle East. Victories were the most potent form of propaganda and the German broadcasting stations were never slow to announce them. The Japanese, still technically neutral, were also not behind in their efforts to undermine the British position.
Sooner or later trouble was inevitable. But the British were in a cleft stick. They dared not give up any of the treaty rights that had been granted to them, yet they were anxious to avoid any clash that might inflame the Arab world against them and involve their scanty forces – already under heavy pressure in Egypt, East Africa and the Balkans – in further military commitments.
Fogarty looked up. ‘I take it Cairo and London have already been informed of the situation, sir.’
‘They have,’ Vizard said. ‘But Cairo probably has other problems. German columns are reported to be massing on the Greek and Yugoslav borders and it looks as though Hitler intends to go into Greece. At the moment, I’m trying to keep my eye on the ball here. Against what we have, the Ghaffer can muster four infantry divisions–’
‘Hardly of the best, sir.’
‘They’re supposed to be British-trained. One mechanised brigade–’
‘Sixteen light tanks, sir, mainly Italian, which haven’t exactly proved of great value in North Africa.’
‘Tanks, nevertheless, Paddy. We have none. Fourteen armoured cars, mostly British, and two battalions of lorried infantry. The Iraqi navy–’
‘A few river gunboats, sir. All old. All paddle-wheeled.’
‘True enough.’ Vizard smiled. ‘Actually, it’s their air force that worries me, Paddy. Sixty aircraft of various nationalities. Italian Fiats, Bredas and Savoias; American Tomahawks and Northrops; and British Blenheims, Audaxes and Gladiators. Though they’re probably not all serviceable, it’s still quite a formidable force when you compare it with what we have. Taken as a whole, they’re even more up to date.’
As they talked the telephone went. Vizard picked it up. Fogarty heard the instrument chattering quietly in his ear then Vizard’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What!’ he barked. ‘Are you sure?’ He listened for a while longer then replaced the instrument and looked at Fogarty.
‘That was the AVM, Paddy,’ he said. ‘What we’ve been fearing’s already happened!’
‘What, sir?’
‘The guessing’s come to an end and the fun’s started.’
Jenno was silent on the way home. Boumphrey, the dog asleep by his feet, was chattering away most of the time but Jenno wasn’t listening.
‘Clever gel, Prudence,’ he was saying. ‘Wants to be a nurse.’
Jenno came to life. ‘Wants to be a what?’
‘Nurse. You know – Red Cross and all that.’
‘Why?’
‘In case of trouble here.’
‘She’d be flown to the coast straight away. Like all the other women.’
‘She says she won’t go.’
‘She might not be given any choice.’
The road out to the aerodrome was dead straight from the outskirts of the city, rising in slight waves to the shape of the desert. The river lay in the distance, sparkling in the cold light of the moon. As they reached the gates, they noticed there was a lot of activity at the guard house and the Assyrian levies who normally did the guard had been joined by RAF men, sweating in unaccustomed webbing harness. There was a great deal of fuss about identifying themselves and Jenno grew angry.
‘You know very well who I am,’ he snapped. ‘What’s going on?’
The airman he spoke to shrugged. ‘Dunno, sir. We got orders. The guard’s been doubled here and on the hangars.’
The mess was full of officers and there was a lot of chattering going on. Most of the younger men looked excited. The older ones who had already seen action were looking grave and concerned.
‘What’s happened?’ Jenno demanded.
The adjutant looked up from the table where he was writing out a list of duties. ‘We’ve been promoted from the Reserves to the First Division,’ he said. ‘The regent persuaded the prime minister to move against the Golden Triangle. All three of them were ordered to places where they couldn’t do any harm – Ghaffer to Hil-Hafira, Tafas Raschid to Shah-Hiza, and Aziz el Dhiab to Ramitha.’
‘Have they gone?’
‘No, they haven’t. And they’re not intending to. Ghaffer’s demanded that the orders be cancelled. It’s mutiny, old boy, mutiny.’
By morning they learned more. Ghaffer had called a meeting of the National Assembly, packed it with his supporters and had then declared that the regent was working against the interests of national unity.
That evening the British colony kept to its own area because the natives in the city were truculent and the place had been brought to a standstill. Shops in the bazaar had been closed and there had been several shootings, while taxis and cars were being halted by the mobs, and the passengers persuaded, some of them none too gently, to walk. Meanwhile, a parade several thousand strong snaked its way with torches through the Agaba bin Naif area, shouting that it was time the British left. A few Europeans had had to take refuge in the United States and British embassies. The next morning they learned the result of it all. The regent had vanished.
He had never cut much of a figure and, with all the German and Italian agents surrounding him, hadn’t really had much of a chance. It looked as if the trouble in the city was going to increase rather than die down.
There was a great deal of speculation at the aerodrome about what was going to happen, then, during the afternoon, a car belonging to the United States ambassador appeared down the road that led from the capital and swept in through the front gates to AHQ. Boumphrey, who happened to be passing, was startled to see a rug lifted in the rear of the car and a figure in woman’s clothing climb out. His eyebrows rose – and he noticed the figure didn’t walk with a female gait. Shortly afterwards, the British ambassador arrived in a hurry just as the American car left, and orders
were given for one of the Vickers Valentias of the Communications Flight to be made ready for take-off.
There was considerable speculation as everybody asked what was going on and, later in the afternoon just before the Valentia left, it was noticed that – as Boumphrey had spotted – the figure that appeared from Air Headquarters was not that of a woman.
‘It’s the regent,’ Boumphrey said.
As the Valentia disappeared southeastwards it became clear what was happening. The regent had escaped in the nick of time in clothes borrowed from one of his household’s female staff and was now heading for Basra, from where he hoped to organise some resistance to the rebellion which had ousted him. Failing that, he intended to continue to Amman, the capital of Transjordan, where his uncle was the Emir.
‘Well,’ Jenno said. ‘That seems to be that. The bloody situation’s been threatening to erupt for months but now, when it has, it’s caught everybody by surprise.’
The following day another conference was called. All the same people appeared, the ambassador’s face more anguished than ever so that he looked like an elderly bloodhound.
‘The German radio’s joyful,’ he said. ‘And I gather the press is firmly in line. However, I think they’re a little annoyed at the mistiming of Ghaffer’s coup.’
‘Mistiming?’ Craddock said. ‘I’d say they’d got away with it perfectly.’
‘Not quite so perfectly as you might think,’ Osanna commented. ‘The Germans are poised to go into Yugoslavia and Greece. It won’t be easy to give him any backing.’
‘They’ll try all the same,’ the ambassador said. ‘I expect German aircraft to arrive at any time.’
‘And then–’ Craddock snorted ‘–God help us! There isn’t a single decent British soldier here except for my chaps. I take it we can expect some.’
‘I’ve requested men,’ the ambassador said, a shade warmly as he resented Craddock’s suggestion that he didn’t know his job. ‘Indian Army Headquarters take the view that the sooner the situation’s under control the better. However, London says that neither Germany nor Italy’s anxious for a confrontation with us until they’re certain they can profit from it and now isn’t considered the time. Both sides have been caught on the wrong foot. The Germans because they’ve got their hands full in the Balkans. Us because we’ve got our hands full in the Western Desert. I learned this morning that the Afrika Korps has started an offensive in Cyrenaica and it looks bad. Middle East Command will be able to send us no help. Anything we receive will have to come from India.’
‘And will amount to what?’ the AVM asked.
‘The matter’s still being discussed. A brigade, together with artillery and Engineers, is about to embark at Karachi for Malaya – where, as you’ll know, with the Japanese growing more difficult, another cloud’s threatening – but it’s been suggested that, since the emergency there doesn’t yet actually exist while here it does, they should be diverted to Basra so they can be flown up here if necessary in Valentias. Under the treaty, we have a right to receive all possible assistance from the Irazhi government for the movement of troops, India’s also offered four hundred men to secure the air base at Shaibah, close to Basra, and is considering following up the first brigade with two more, so that eventually there’ll be a full division in or around Basra. In the meantime, Ghaffer’s been appointed head of the new government of national defence. He’s declared the regent deposed.’
‘It couldn’t have come at a worse time,’ the ambassador went on. ‘Troops have had to be sent from the Middle East to Greece, together with units of the RAF, so that there’ll be none to spare for us. Which means, until things resolve themselves, that we shall have to consider ways and means of taking care of ourselves. And that, chiefly, means aircraft.’
‘Of which,’ Vizard pointed out, ’excluding the Valentias, we have just forty that are capable of flying operationally. And they’re really all training machines, and some are very old indeed. Hawker Audaxes and Harts, circa 1930, Fairey Gordons and Airspeed Oxfords. There are two Gladiators, of course, one Blenheim – at the moment grounded for lack of spares – and one DH Rapide. Most of them are biplanes. The Audax and the Hart are virtually the same machine, the only basic difference being that the Audax has been fitted with a device underneath for picking up messages from the ground. She’s known–’ he smiled faintly ‘–as the ’Art with the ’Ook.’
‘What about the others?’
‘The Oxfords – flimsy machines built of wood. Burn easily and very touchy on the controls. Gladiators – they were used in Norway where they proved that, while they’re good machines they’re no match for the German aircraft. The Blenheim – much the same. The Valentias are nothing but troop carriers and very vulnerable to anything fast and heavily armed. The Rapide’s just a small transport fitted up for training wireless operators and observers. The Harts and Audaxes are for training air gunners, the Oxfords and the Blenheim for pilots moving on to dual-engined machines. The rest are for solos by pupils expected to fly single-seaters. What are left just happened to be here. A lot are unserviceable but, with the aid of the station engineer officer and the ground staff, we could doubtless make them serviceable.’ Vizard paused. ‘I wouldn’t like to offer any of them against a German in a Messerschmitt or a Heinkel.’
Six
There were sighs of relief all round when they heard of the departure of the Indian army brigade from Karachi and the readying of the four hundred infantrymen to fly to Shaibah to make the port of Basra safe for the arrival of the convoy.
It was expected that the outrage among the Irazhis would be loud and clear but, to everyone’s surprise, the speeches in the Irazhi parliament were disconcertingly mild and Ghaffer’s own speech even placatory.
Only Osanna wasn’t fooled. ‘Ghaffer’s not ready,’ he decided. ‘And, because he’s showing willing, I expect our people will start having second thoughts.’
Sure enough, two days later it was learned that it had been decided to hold up the departure of the airborne troops after all and to halt the convoy carrying the brigade at Bahrein.
‘Ghaffer’ll now request German support,’ Jenno said to Boumphrey, ‘and it’ll all be over before they can arrive. We’ll get nothing from Middle East Command. They’re backtracking towards Cairo as fast as they can in front of the Afrika Korps, and the Germans have gone into Greece. Osanna’s just heard.’
The tension in Mandadad increased and there was considerable unrest in the labyrinth of narrow streets among the ill-lit houses, shops and bazaars. The teeming, gesticulating people seemed noisier than ever and the British colony kept well out of the way. A fine dust filled the air and overhead the kites wheeled and the vultures watched blank-faced from vantage points on roofs and in trees.
It was well known that agitators were at work, and not the normal agitators either. These were two champions of the local people, a doctor who had been educated at Cambridge, and the newspaper editor, but neither of them was particularly against the British. Now the secret agents who supplied Osanna with his information were reporting other men, new men, who had been seen talking to the grey-flannelled German tourists. It was quite obvious what was going on. The place was being set up for a take over.
There had already been terrorism, bombs, shooting, arson and sabotage. Though, so far, it had not affected the British – only those Irazhis who were considered to favour the British – nobody was in any doubt that the opposition was in fact against the British. Messages written on scarves and inciting action had been passed from hand to hand, and there had been a strike which had brought the city to a standstill.
Colonel Wood-Withnell was in no doubt about what was happening and he didn’t hesitate to say so at the Lafwaiyah Club. ‘There’s a rising in the offing,’ he said, ‘and the Germans are behind it. And if they chose to start something we wouldn’t have enough men here to defend even the railway station. We’d have to give up nine-tenths of the city and retire to the RAF at Kubaiyah.’
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Those people not in the know who felt that membership of the club gave them security, didn’t believe him. ‘It’ll be nothing worse than the usual noisy picnic,’ they said.
Nevertheless it was with some relief that they heard that Delhi had changed its mind again and that the troops were on their way once more from India. To keep things calm, the ambassador sought an audience with Ghaffer al Jesairi and pointed out gently that if there were no trouble when they arrived London might see its way clear to recognise the new government. The following day it was learned that the convoy had arrived at Basra and the men were already disembarking and that the airborne troops were due to follow at any moment. The dock area, the civil airport and the RAF cantonment at Shaibah had been secured and, according to the BBC, which was blatantly dispensing propaganda, the reinforcements had been welcomed with open arms. Ghaffer issued a statement to the effect that Axis claims to the contrary were unfounded and all seemed set fair again, because even the Turks to the north felt that the arrival of British troops in an area seething with discontent would at least keep open their own communications southwards.
The following days were punishing in the heat. Kubaiyah was as pleasant a place as it was possible to find in Irazh. There were not only green lawns, native palms and cactus, but also clematis, jasmine, lilac, honeysuckle and other English shrubs, while among the fruits that were growing were apple, pear, peach, plum, lime, orange, banana, pomegranate and zizyphus jujuba, known to the airmen as the Tree of Knowledge.
But, despite all these delights, despite the swimming pool, the gymnasium, the golf links, the riding stables, the polo ground-cum-racecourse, and the sailing dinghies on Lake Kubaiyah, the place was still a prison. In the middle of the summer it was cooler to stifle with the windows shut than open them to the oven-like breeze from the desert, and there was nothing outside the station apart from occasional visits to the overpriced delights of Mandadad – now for the moment out of bounds, anyway, because of the unrest.