RAF 107 MU KASFAREET 1950-52
As Remembered By Thomas R. Williams
This is a true account of what happened to Bernard Maltby and myself on thr 9th October 1951, when we were informed the Treaty had been abrogated. I am wondering whether any other Canal Zoners can confirm from their own experiences that the "Troubles" started on the 9th October 1951 - a week before the official date the 15th October? Maybe the Egyptians abrogated the Treaty on the 8th or 9th October but our Government only released this information on the 15th October?
ZIGZAG AT ZAGAZIG
My mate, LAC Bernard Maltby, and I were at 'Seaview' Leave Camp, Port Fouad, having travelled down by bus from RAF 107 MU Kasfareet. During the week, on hired cycles, we visited the town centre and were surprised to find the place deserted. The owner of a baszaar said everyone had gone to see General Neguib at a rally in the sports stadium. Sure enough, a public address system was ranting away interspersed by loud applause and excited cheering.
That Saturday, 9th October, our Leave was up but we were woken by the tannoy system urgently telling us that the Treaty had been broken and we were in an emergency situation. All leaves were cancelled and we had to report to our units immediately. Army gharries would escort us to Port Fouad where Navy pontoons would take us across the water. At the quay side we were met by a horde of belligerent locals hurling insults and stones at us as we quickly jumped aboard the landing craft. What a sight met us in the harbour - anything and everything that floated had been commandeered by the mobs for their anti-British demonstrations - dhows, rowing boats, rafts and even the public ferry had been taken over. On the other side Army trucks transported us to Port Said Railway Station where we were handed tickets stamped Port Said-Fayid (I still have mine, with the date 9/10/1951). Aboard the train we found seats next to two airmen from other units and eventually started playing cards. An Arab 'garooza wallah' lugged a crate of pop along the centre aisle of the carriage trying to sell his 'quoise tam am' lemonade.
It's incredulous that no one in authority had told us we must change trains at Ismailia, neither did any servicemen who trudged past us to disembark at that station! So, unaware, we were now on our way to Cairo, we continued our journey until the bearded pedlar again approached us and gloated on our plight making reference to his lemonade "being very good for long train rides". The warning bells were beginning to ring but we didn't realize how much of a "clanger" we had dropped! The four of us wandered through the train, initially looking for other servicemen, then anybody who was speaking English. Eventually we approached a European dressed couple - they were elderlyand French but fully understood our predicament and suggest that we got off the train at the next station - Zagazig - where we could catch a train from Cairo going to Ismailia. It was due in Zagazig within the hour. They said it would be better to change out of our uniforms. Stuffing our khaki drill tunics and caps into our kit-bags we donned 'civvie' shirts.
"Out of Bounds to British Troops" - the signs were in red on a white background, painted on pllars and walls. No wonder the Frenchman had told us to change into 'civvies'. The signs were there as a warning under normal circumstances - but Today!! Too late, we were on the platform in a flow of passengers slowly moving towards the exit and we hoped a booking office. Silently we shuffled along a subway tunnel and joined a queue outside an open doorway. Suddenly we heard excited shouting - it was the 'pop-wallah'. He had obviously followed us and stood on his crate of drinks addressing the crowd. His arm shot out pointing in our direction. We quickly moved along the opposite side of the queue and forced our way through the open door. Inside the office sat a large, heavily perspiring Egyptian Army Officer, his fat belly pressed against a desk full of papers. At his side stood a young officer. They were remonstrating with a gallabeah clad wretch who bowed cringingly as he was yelled at. The young officer saw us and bent to whisper something to his superior. We were beckoned forward on the hook of the fat mans finger. "Are you British Army?" he asked and we replied we were RAF and wanted rail tickets to Ismailia. The young officer interrupted the officer and they seemed to argue. In retrospect it appeared that the younger man wanted to keep us in custody - we were prime hostages on such an important day for Egypt! The senior officer disagreed and abruptly called over four tall black militia with khaki fezzes, brown leather cross belts across their chests and khaki puttees around their ankles. They each had a 2ft 'swagger'can as an emblem of their authority. The officer belched instuctions to them then turned to us nervious 'erks. "These men will escort you to the platform where you can get tickets - you no come back again -eh?" He thumped his desk and we made for the door.
Outside a large crowd had gathered - the 'gazooza wallah' had certainly stirred things up, primed by the heady atmosphere of Port Said and the "British Out" demonstrations he had witnessed. Initially the four 'policemen' did their jobs well. Surrounding us they seemed to relish using their sticks against the hostile mob trying to get at us. We covered our faces with our arms and hands as we were ushered back into the subway tunnel through clouds of sand kicked up by the crowds as they skirmished with the 'policemen'. By chance we were met by a dozen or so fellaheen returning from their fields outside the town and the two fractions collided in the centre of the tunnel. Since the only form of light came from the open ends, the place was hazy and frenetic and the confused peasants did not like being pushed around so a general melee ensued. Taking advantage of the situation we squeezed our way along the tunnel walls to the exit. It was only when we reached open air we realized the 'policemen' had been left behind. Suddenly one of them appeared in front of us, "Over here, Johnny!" he waved us to follow him into a grey plastered poky little booth some 25 yards away. Inside was a high wooden counter, behind which sat a small Egyptian clerk with an important looking peaked cap. Our escort had a word with him and he thumbed through a book. He turned to us - "It is 140 piastras each to go to Ismailia" he exclaimed. We started to argue - having just finished a holiday we were not exactly 'flushed' - it should only have been 40acker tops! The policeman behind us hit a dead fly off the sand encrusted door with his swagger cane. "You no pay the man - you no go home!" he said. After pooling what money we had we gave the lot to the booking clerk and were handed the tickets. The 'policeman' then went over to him and they completed their business in a huddle.
We sat down on the floor to discuss what to do next. The Frenchman had said the train would arrive at 4:30pm and it was now 4:05pm. It was decided to leave the booth separately, at two minute intervals, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. The 'policeman' informed us that the train would arrive on the track opposite the office, but 30 yards down the line. Eventually it was my turn to leave. I opened the door and edged out, my head bowed, looking at the sandy platform I made my way to the embarking area, passing my mate Bernard who was sat with his back against a brick wall. A few yards further on I followed suit grabbing a discarded Egyptian newspaper from the surrounding litter to cover my fact. Momentarily I looked over the top of the paper then quickly averted my gaze - everywhere were facsimiles of the damned 'gazooza wallah'. I looked at my watch - ten minutes to go. "Ai-eeee!!" some screamed, followed by a high-pitched jabbering, then more wailing. It transpired that the other two airmen had positioned themselves behind a wooden form upon which were sat two women in black. One of them left her seat and an airman straddled the back rest and took her place, much to the onsternation of her friend. A few people stopped to see what the commotion was about and soon the lads were embroiled in a tirade of indignation. Resignedly, Bernard and I went over and tried to calm things down with bags of false smiles, "effendis"and friendly gestures, but the damage had been done and the numbers around us swelled and things were getting nasty as they realized we were British.
When I think back I can't understand why we didn't panic but then we were traumatised and our senses numb. The mob gathered tightly around us and we awaited the inevitable 'coup de gras' when a youth appeared from out of the mass. He could only have been about 16 years of age. Smiling widely he stepped forward and shook our hands. The crowd quietened a little as he spoke to us in English - I don't know what he said, transfixed I just kept looking at his face. Bernard has since told me that the young Arab explained that he had lived in England where he was educated and his father had worked for many years. Whoever he was the people around us seemed to hold him in some esteem for when he admonished them they stopped their pushing and all the time the smile never left his face until a shrill whistle pierced the air. He waved and was gone as the train appeared. We opened the nearest carriage door and slumped to the floor. The airman who had drawn attention to us on the platform however, was in a 'cocky' mood and leaned out of the closed door giving 'v' signs. His belligerent attitude stopped anyone else getting in but he received a smack in the face from a club or fist and turned to us with his nose bloodied, seemingly unfazed by our ordeal.
At Ismailia it was 'headless chicken' time as passengers ran in different directions to where safety was for them. Groups of excitable rioters were about and a smell of burning in the air. Every now and then we could hear small arms fire as we kept our eyes peeled for any form of military transport out of the place. Eventually we cadged a lift on an Army gharry going south and could at last relax, especially when it dropped us off near Fanara on the Treaty Road. From there it was a short hike to El Hamra then across the sands to our camp at good old Kasfareet -home sweet home.
As an after thought, one thing has always puzzled me - who was that Arab boy at Zagazig? To my mind there is no doublt that it was divine intervention and our release from such a predicament a pure miracle. There again strange inexplicable things have always happened in the Middle East, haven't they?