Open Writing

"Mohammed, I've just got a brilliant idea: it has all quietened down now that it's dark; the tribes are all in groups around the camp. We'll go and arrest the Sheiks."

"We'll what?"

"Arrest the Sheiks."

"But we have no authority to arrest anybody; we can't do that."

"Well look; somebody has to do it. If we can separate the Sheiks from their tribes, then the latter will be docile and disappear back into the desert. Tell you what: let's just say that we'll go and round up the Sheiks and invite them back for a coffee."

Mohammed grinned, "Well, that's as good as arresting them, I guess. At least we'll have them here, all together, for when the Desert Forces arrive or when or if the Tribal Officer ever sobers up. What are we waiting for? Let's go!" I explained the plan to the others, and added, Tewfiq, prepare coffee for guests; you help him, Hassan."

But this time Hassan insisted on coming, "I am your driver, Master; besides, I can be of use to you because I know the tribes and Sheiks better than either of you." He was right, and later his questioning of the Bedou was of considerable help in tracking down the whereabouts of the Sheiks.

Taking the Humber, we drove around the area with headlights on, picking out the scattered groups of Bedou. One by one, we located the Sheiks and took them back to Tewfiq in the Personnel tent. By the early hours of the morning we had rounded them all up.There they sat, in the Personnel tent, without their bodyguards, sipping coffee and looking very sheepish: the 'big leaders', as they thought themselves to be, with their bloated egos; Sheiks Sou'an, Haza'a, Merjil, Hameed, Dahan and Fawzi, like truant boys caught stealing apples from an orchard; these leaders of the Spa'a tribe, the Ageydat, the Beni Khalid, the Dulaimee, and the others, all waiting for the Desert Forces to arrive.

I turned to Mohammed, "Where in the hell are those Desert Forces? They should have arrived within an hour, it's only about 40 miles away. It's just about dawn."

"They probably went back to sleep," Mohammed commented, "Or they have lost their way; we should have sent Hassan to teach them how to find their way in the desert."

It was not until 7.30 am that they made their appearance and promptly demanded breakfast from us. After satisfying their voracious appetites, the lieutenant asked us where the Bedou were. We produced the six Sheiks; apart from them, there was not a single Bedou in sight. Once more, the desert had swallowed them up. The lieutenant then asked for three trucks and sent them off with their armoured car. Scouring the desert, the Desert Force soldiers in their pantaloon style of trousers and curved daggers at their waists rounded up many of the Bedouins, beat them with sticks, loaded them into the trucks and brought them back to the camp.

The drunk Tribal Officer, with a terrible hangover and suffering from the jolt of every footstep, was also rounded up and taken away, never to be seen again. Under the supervision of the Desert Forces, the Bedouin labourers were engaged, this time in orderly fashion. The welders and Yanks returned to take a cruel ribbing from Jock, Busty and Monty. The Gang carried on; not an hour of work was lost.

Several days later, I paid a courtesy call to the Commanding Officer of the Desert Forces at the Palmyra fort and was cordially received. I was puzzled; thanking him for his help, I asked "But, Sir, how was it that you took so long to come?"

He took me to their garage to explain. There, standing on wooden blocks, was a truck and next to it the armoured car.

'You see," he explained, "When you telephoned, the truck was in Damascus, picking up stores, to return the next day. We had to contact them to return at once."

"So what happened to the armoured car?" It still made no sense to me.

"Well, of course, we had to wait for the truck's return."

"Why? Had you no driver? Surely somebody else could drive the armoured car?"

"Oh, it was not the problem of a driver, it was a case of wheels. We only have four wheels between the two vehicles and, at the time, the ration truck had them in Damascus. As soon as it returned, we put it on the blocks, fitted the wheels on the armoured car and sent it." So, that was it. I looked at the armoured car; it was homemade, a converted truck; steel plates had been welded to the sides while, amidships, a machine gun pointing to the rear, had been mounted on a pedestal.

"Do you mind if I get up on it?" I asked.

"Not at all; help yourself."

I climbed up: it was an antique gun of French origin. Sighting the gun, I tried to traverse with it but my hips hit the steel-plated sides; the gun was so mounted that it could only fire to the rear.

"That is a little awkward, isn't it?" I asked, getting down.

"Why?"

"Well, you can only fire to the rear; what happens if you want to fire to the front?" He regarded me with pity, wondering at my simplicity, lack of military knowledge and intelligence, and then explained, "Well, if we want to fire to the front, then we turn the truck round so that the back faces in that direction." Of course! In spite of my Guards' training, I had not thought of that.

But what an incredible difference to the Syrian Army when, a decade or so later, the world witnessed highly efficient, superbly trained Syrian tank crews, with ultramodern tanks, engaged in huge tank battles against the Israelis. All thanks to the Soviet Union moving into and manipulating their political aid in their chosen Middle East countries.