Suez 1956, page 42
One marine was killed and fifteen wounded. Nicholas Vaux was there.
It was one of those moments when order is either restored or not, and this is where training and, I suppose, leadership count for more than anything. I particularly recall the Adjutant, who had realised that his own Commanding Officer was badly wounded and one or two others of his friends, but also saw that his own Signaller had been killed, his own Signaller had been virtually blown in half by a cannon blast, and he turned to the nearest Marine to him and said: ‘Take the radio set off Marine Atkins and put it on, and come with me,’ just like that. And, in an extraordinary way, everybody realised that this was what you had to do, you had to get on with it, and this is terribly important in battle, these kinds of reactions.23
After the shock of friendly fire, what happened next to David Henderson was, as he said, like something out of a Carry On movie.
We were all lined up behind this wall fearfully taking in the area in front of us over which we were getting ready to move. Over the road was a line of buildings, mostly blocks of flats, which were all linked together by a wall with one or two gates in them, and we were all squinting at the doors and windows straining to catch a site of the ‘enemy’. Nothing moved and we were sure that surely with all the activity on the beach any defenders would have moved back but you never know. Suddenly a figure holding a rifle appeared as if from nowhere right in front of us and began to trot along the length of this wall. Without waiting, we all opened up on him blazing away with great gusto. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at us, and without thinking we also stopped firing. Then he was off again, this time as fast as his feet could go, and off we went again firing at him with a trail of bullet holes following his track and dust flying all around him. He must have been very good at his prayers that morning because not one of us hit him and he scampered round the end of the buildings and out of sight. Our sergeant by this time was going crazy stamping his feet in the sand and crying out for us to cease fire and take aim all at the same time.
Once he got us under control we got the bollocking of our lives . . . I often wonder if some Egyptian officer was watching the beach through his binoculars trying to work out what tactic was being planned with this squad of Marines sitting in a row on the sand with an NCO lecturing and waving his hands about. It was a different set of men that crossed the road after that incident, as nothing beats reality for teaching someone the facts of life.24
Another story of near-farce comes from Nicholas Vaux, whose troop found themselves in the grounds of Government House.
Now, at this point in time, there was still a lot of fighting going on around us, but not actually directly in our area. Government House looked just like you’d expect Government House to look in Port Said or anywhere else in the world – immaculate lawns, raked gravel and white portico entrance. And, just as I was looking at all this, around the corner, with his rifle at the shoulder, appeared an immaculate, elderly Egyptian soldier. Now, actually he wasn’t a soldier, he was obviously one of the guards at Government House. And what he was trying to do, I realised, was to come and report to me. But I was temporarily distracted, because all the chaps around, particularly the Corporal of the section that I was standing beside, were hell-bent on killing him. Anyway, we managed to prevent that, and he did actually, in perfect English, hand over Government House to me. I think he was actually quite glad to see the British back.25
The latest occupant took time out to examine his surroundings. Government House was deserted.
And as I was walking through the main hallway to go out the other side, the phone rang. Well, it was irresistible, really, so I answered it. And a rather sort of muffled voice, in Egyptian, spoke to me, and I apologised that I didn’t speak Egyptian, but said that if they could speak English, could I help? And the voice said: ‘You are English?’ So I said: ‘Yes.’ He said: ‘You are soldier?’ So I said: ‘No, I’m a Royal Marine actually.’ He said: ‘My God!’ and put the phone down. And I’ve never known to this day who it was. Perhaps it was Colonel Nasser.26
In all, the helicopters put ashore 479 men with 24 tons of stores and equipment in two and a half hours. It was not, as some claimed, a first in military annals. French paratroops in IndoChina and Algeria had taken part in similar operations and helicopters had been used in Cyprus for surprise attacks on EOKA guerrillas. But there were not many precedents that could begin to match the Suez lift. After delivering their commandos the helicopters were employed in carrying back the wounded. Ninety-six casualties were taken on board Ocean and Theseus. In close on two hundred landings, one helicopter crashed on deck and one had to ditch when it ran out of fuel. The helicopter was lost but the occupant, including two seriously wounded French soldiers, were rescued by another helicopter.
While the commandos were engaged in what they called ‘street cleaning’ exercises, the British troops who had parachuted in the previous day were still having a rough time. After being strafed by an Egyptian MiG, the only hostile plane to be seen on the 6th, there was a return to the cemeteries where snipers had reestablished themselves. Repeating the previous day’s work, they then moved on towards Shanty Town and the rather more salubrious district of Arab Town. With their narrow streets and jumble of hideaways both were potential death traps for unwelcome intruders. As a warning to snipers to move out, heavy weapons were called into play. They were used with due care but a single shell from a destroyer started a fire at one end of Shanty Town while at the opposite end an anti-tank gun caused another fire. With no means of putting out the blaze, the whole ramshackle maze of improvised huts was soon alight. While Shanty Town burned to the ground its occupants swelled the ranks of the refugees moving south.
Reinforced from the sea by the First Foreign Legion Parachute Regiment, the French paratroops who had landed at Port Fuad on the 5th were able to hold the town without much difficulty, though there was continued fighting at the Raswa bridge, the main escape route from Port Said, which the Egyptian forces were intent on recapturing. Determined as they were, they did not stand a chance.
When French and British forces encountered each other it was almost as if they were fighting different wars. They were on the same side but there was little in the way of mutual understanding or even sympathy. And it was not just a problem of language.
A Foreign Language parachute battalion near us had the air and absorbed swagger of established killers. Some thirty per cent of them were German ex-panzers and Vermacht and perhaps even SS. They had generally not stopped fighting somewhere since the 1940s. On greeting one with the conventional salute they would thump their rubber boots together and say ‘You wish to see my captain?’ with the accent of a bad English actor in a war movie. They clearly regarded us as boy scouts.27
As if to confirm Captain Roger Booth’s impression, Pierre Leulliette tells a story that mocks the British desire to conduct a war without involving civilians.
Along the canal, in front of the barracks, a dozen big barges and sailing-boats were moored. We hadn’t time to notice them the previous day. That was where all the noise was coming from. We dashed over, with loaded automatic rifles. A dozen fishermen, hiding in a bolt-hole, let themselves be taken by surprise.
Hands in the air, yelling something or other in their own language, they were trying to prove that they weren’t soldiers. It was in fact probable that, caught the morning we arrived in the thick of our lines, all they could do was hide in their boats to avoid the bullets. But: ‘No unnecessary prisoners! They’re a nuisance and a waste of food!’ A voice in the hearts of some of my comrades was whispering: ‘Kill! Kill!’ They had hardly slept and hadn’t had time to drink their coffee, so they were in a foul temper that morning.
We emptied our magazines. The fishermen fell into the water, one by one. Very soon, only two were left. Realizing they were lost, they dived in and tried to hide alongside their boats. Première Classe L. had obviously never had such fun. To show he was a real ‘tough’, he climbed on to the last boat. No one there. He leant over the side. He knelt down. He was waiting for the moment when the two gasping men would have to show their heads. After a few minutes, a face emerged. ‘Rat-a-tat-tat!’ went Première Classe L.’s automatic rifle. The head disappeared, riddled and shot to pieces at point-blank range. Three minutes went by and the head again appeared, streaming with blood and water, a horrible sight. Another burst. The water covered it for good. A large, pink bloodstain slowly spread on the surface and then dispersed. The same fate for the second man, who also emerged from the water, with the same shaven head and eyes bulging in terror of death, and the same concentric circles and crimson reflections . . .28
As with the contrast between British and French troops, so it was with the press representatives of the two nations. Roger Booth made the acquaintance of a French reporter.
He sported a combat jacket, a ring in his ear and he looked quite hippy compared with our uniformed Fleet Street men. He was highly experienced and had covered the Algerian war. He had been appalled by the demonstrations in Trafalgar Square. He regarded them as a sign of our increasing British decadence. Our military posture also bewildered him. British vehicles frequently had grenades thrown at them. Soldiers would dismount, ring the doorbell of the offending house and enquire of the householder ‘Excuse me, do you mind if we go upstairs? Someone has just thrown a grenade at us from the roof.’ French reactions were inevitably more severe. In Port Fuad solely occupied by the French on the opposite side of the canal few Arabs could be seen. They were all indoors. A canal pilot who had a flat there claimed a French Legion officer had said to him ‘if you want anyone killed just let us know’.
‘Only the British would invent rules for war as if it were some nasty game of cricket,’ my French correspondent said. ‘War is total, absolute. Who invents the rules for it? I invent stories . . .’29
Of course, British correspondents were not alone in inventing or at least elaborating on stories, particularly when the message was heart-warming.
At one time, in Port Said, an old lady, wearing black clothes from head to toe, became tangled up in the barbed wire while taking what she thought was a short cut. With some difficulty I at last managed to untangle her, and then helped her across the rubble. Later, my Mother sent me a picture from the English magazine ‘Picture Post’, which I am sure was of this incident. However, they had put a caption on saying, ‘Don’t cry, the shooting is over for now’, which of course I never said.30
Then one of the few publications to make the most of news photography, Picture Post led the way on ‘human’ stories.
His eyes were the eyes of an animal who was caged, frightened, furtive and imploring his captors for some understanding. He was wearing pyjamas which is not as unusual as it sounds, for here in Egypt people wear pyjamas quite normally in the streets. He also wore a bloodstained bandage around his hand as he squatted in a courtyard corner. He had been a soldier, but he had not been taught to surrender. He had sniped at British soldiers and now they had taken him prisoner. When I first saw him, a British Marine Commando corporal was offering him a cup of tea, but the prisoner was trembling so violently with his fear and his wounds that the tea spilled on the ground. The corporal lit a cigarette for him.
Presently a doctor came in and the Egyptian lowered his pyjama trousers, revealing his uniform and another bullet wound in his leg. He seemed convinced now that he would not be killed – as he had been told he would if he surrendered. As we were standing there we heard again the echo of a rifle shot in the next square and his trembling got worse. ‘Nasser never taught these fellows to surrender,’ said the corporal. ‘They were told to get into civilian clothes and keep fighting.’ I reckon that in a ‘normal’ war this prisoner would have been shot on sight for sniping in civilian clothes. But this time the sad little double-wounded figure is herded into an ambulance and death has been thwarted – even in this ‘pyjama war’ where the enemy wears night dress for a uniform.31
The link-up between French and British forces took place close to the offices of the Suez Canal Company. That building was captured by commandos without too much difficulty but the surrounding warehouses were strongly defended and two died on the British side before they were overrun with the help of point-blank fire from Centurion tanks.
But the hardest resistance centred on Navy House, an imposing, solid edifice that had at one time served as the headquarters for the Royal Navy. There was no question of storming a building that was clearly in the hands of fighters who were prepared to go the whole distance. It was a job for the Fleet Air Arm, as it happened their last of the campaign. As the order went out, Donald Edgar of the Daily Express was leaning on a ship’s rail as it edged its way towards a jetty at the entrance to the canal.
The scene of destruction along the water-front cleared through the smoke. Crumbled masonry, blackened walls still standing with nothing behind, burnt-out vehicles, debris scattered over the road. A few soldiers hurried to and fro, but the firing – rifle and machine-gun and mortar – seemed to be concentrated a few hundred yards down the Canal. The captain had a radio set on the bridge tuned to the BBC and we heard a bland voice announcing that all resistance had ceased in Port Said. It was just then when with a great scream that froze me in terror, a section of naval fighter-bombers dived down over us dropping their rockets and firing their cannon just ahead of us. Almost quicker than sight they wheeled away into the sky while clouds of grey smoke rose into the air. We were all silent on the bridge for a minute or two.32
Even after this attack, the defenders fought on. A commando officer told Edgar that in the end they had to be cleared out room by room. It was not until the next day that twenty survivors gave themselves up. Thirty of the original garrison had been killed.
There was some impatience at senior level – political and military – that it had taken the full day to bring Port Said under allied control. The cumbersome nature of the plan of attack, which failed to allow for the flexibility urged by the French commanders, was now apparent. The previous day British sappers who had dropped with the French had ventured 6 miles down the road towards Qantara without encountering any opposition. Massu did not disguise his anger at the failure to use Gamil airfield for rapid air reinforcement. Why all the fuss clearing Port Said of snipers when the town could simply have been bypassed by a force determined to win possession of the canal?
In fairness to Stockwell there was an occasion when he must have believed that he was about to be vindicated. A message came through from Brigadier Butler that there was another chance to negotiate a ceasefire, this time through the good offices of Count Vincente Moreni, the Italian consul. Moreni had turned his home, and office and the Italian school next door into a refugee centre for the European residents of Port Said, who naturally assumed that they were at risk. But Moreni also had good contacts with the Egyptians, and if he thought that a surrender was in prospect he was to be taken seriously. Accordingly, Stockwell and Beaufre, with Barnett and Durnford-Slater, loaded themselves into a landing craft and were ferried ashore. Unfortunately, and beginning a chapter of accidents, the launch made for the Canal Company offices, which were then still held by the Egyptians. Hugo Maynell, Stockwell’s ADC, was the first to acknowledge the hostile reception.
I suddenly looked over my right shoulder, and there was a commando platoon attacking across some roofs to the right. And I said to Hughie Stockwell: ‘I think we’ve got a bit in front of it all.’ And he laughed. Anyway, we were machine-gunned. There was a sailor in the front, with this pretty heavy machine gun, and I think he came spinning backwards. He wasn’t wounded, but I think he got clipped on his helmet. And quite a lot of the woodwork disappeared between Dick Worsley and me.33
According to Stockwell the prize comment was delivered by Admiral Durnford-Slater. ‘You know, General, I don’t think they are quite ready to receive us yet.’34 While a more hospitable landing place was sought, Beaufre reflected on the chance passed up by the Egyptians of capturing the entire allied senior command. When eventually the delegation found their way to the Italian consulate it was to discover that the opportunity for a ceasefire, if it had ever existed, had evaporated. From the varying accounts it is uncertain even whether Brigadier Moguy, who had led the Egyptian side in the earlier negotiations, was even in the building. Beaufre claimed that there was an Egyptian representative who was too exhausted to make sense, but Stockwell maintained that ‘after hanging around for some time for someone to turn up, we abandoned the idea’. While still on land Stockwell gave his orders for the following day. ‘In brief they were for the 15th Parachute Brigade under Brigadier Butler to break out south from the causeway and move to the capture of Abu Sueir airfield. The French under General Massu, with seaborne and airborne assaults, were to capture Ismailia. The Royal Marine Commandos were to clear up and consolidate the town.’35
They were orders destined not to be carried out.
22
Stockwell’s return to his command ship was a journey to remember. He wanted a helicopter, but that was thought to be too risky because it was already getting dark. Since nobody had thought to lay on a launch, the general and three companions were compelled to walk the quayside looking for a vessel to commandeer. ‘We found a couple of marines cleaning out an assault craft so we piled into that and said, “Take us out to Tyne.” And, of course, at that point the fleet blacked out as it did every night in case Egyptian frogmen got it into their heads to plant limpet mines.’1
