November 2, 1967
A lot can happen in thirty minutes. If Harry had only known what the
next half hour would mean in the grand scheme of things, he might have
paid more attention. His mind was preoccupied, so much so that he had
let his guard down.
His stride hastened through the sandy shopping streets of Steamer Point
in the Yemeni city of Aden, crimson dust clouds trailing his every step
along the uneven path. It wasn’t even noon and the heat was relentless.
Sweat trickled down his forehead and spine, soaking the white cotton
button-down shirt now stuck to his back. The call to prayer began in one
corner of the city and within seconds echoed through all the minarets
dotted throughout the mountains. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he
pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the beads of perspiration from
his brow. The taste of salt was heavy in the air, drifting in from the ocean
just beyond the small garden he was passing,
the lethargic waves barely audible as they climbed the shore. Years of
brutal SAS military training had taught him how to manage the extreme
weather of the Middle East. Even though his body automatically
responded to the high temperatures, his mind wouldn’t succumb, and for
this he was grateful. He ignored the sweltering sun and damp heat
pushing up against him from every direction, daring him to continue.
Instead, his mind was distracted and consumed with disappointment—
disappointment with the direction his government was moving in. The decision had been made. The decision to pull out of Aden sooner
than originally planned.A whole year earlier. Harry tried to ignore the pit
in his stomach and instead focused his thoughts on the work he had
done, all that he had accomplished with the local federation of sultans
and the agreements that had been made, many of which Harry had
negotiated himself. This wasn’t the way to leave a country that had
served them well until recently. Frustrated, he clenched his teeth. He had
worked so hard to strengthen the relationships within the federation; his
reputation was on the line. The last post of the British Empire and they
were going to run with their tails between their legs. His brow furrowed
as the pit in his stomach grew. Wasn’t this exactly what his country was
trying to avoid? History, he knew all too well, was infinitely wise and
tried her best to warn us of the consequences of our actions. Why do we
continuously struggle with those lessons? he thought. Why do we always
think that it will somehow be different this time around? Why is it that
we never learn? He quickened his pace while his eyebrows narrowed
even
more, creasing his forehead. The conversation replayed over and over
again in his mind.
“It’s not working,Harry,”Lord Besick had said nonchalantly. “Tensions
have risen. We’re losing men, and it’s clear that the insurgents want us
out. It’s hard to justify still being here, quite honestly.”
“Sir, we told the federal rulers and sultans that we would stay, that our
military base would remain permanently in the area, that we would help
them with the handover. This isn’t that. This is breaking every treaty
we’ve signed with them. We’re not keeping our word.”
“Harry, there is no breach here.” Now irritated, Lord Besick spoke
slowly, enunciating each word. “The Crown is not responsible for any
false hope or promises that Duncan Sandys may have made. That is
preposterous.”“With all due respect, sir, you’re saying that our government has made a
unilateral decision that affects the future of Aden without even
consulting the federation of sultans. When a British foreign minister,
such as Mr. Sandys, makes promises that we then break, we stand to
look like idiots. What about all those signed treaties? We did make
promises to the sultans— promises to protect them from the nationalists.
To maintain peace when we give them back their country and to help
them with the transition. We’re opening the door to chaos. They need us
to ensure a proper handover. They trust us, sir.”
“Treaties were not signed.” Lord Besick raised his voice. “Might I
remind you that the majority of your federal rulers are illiterate thugs. A
thumbprint is hardly a binding agreement.” He snorted in disgust.
“Orders are orders. I’m not looking for a conversation here, nor, quite
frankly, your opinion. Are we clear?”
“But, sir—”
“Are we clear?!”
Silence slowly stretched and dragged itself between them as
Harry painfully brought himself to respond. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, that’s more like it. Let’s talk tomorrow, shall we? We’ll need to
discuss the logistics in detail. I want our troops
and civilians out as soon as possible.”
Back on the sweltering streets of Aden, Harry’s jaw began
to ache. He paused in front of a toy shop to massage away the tension
and let his thoughts flow. The dusty street housed a strip of buildings
with several shopfronts: Bhicajee Cowasjee, Star Pharmacy, the Marina
Hotel, and the boarded-up Universal Bazaar, which had been owned and
operated by a young Jewish Yemeni, Benjamen Yahuda, until his
departure in 1950. Harry had not known him, but Yahuda’s standing as a
businessman was legendary in Aden, his home until 1947 when the
United Nations passed a resolution that called for the partition ofPalestine into Arab and Jewish states. As news of the resolution spread,
Arabs across the Mid-East rioted, attacking and killing Jews for their
perceived role in the displacement of their Arab brothers. In 1950, Israeli
Prime Minister Ben Gurion announced the Law of Return, which
granted any Jew the right to return to Israel.
Yahuda was one of fifty thousand Yemenite Jews evacuated in Operation
Magic Carpet, one of the most complex immigration operations the state
had ever known. Israeli, British, and American transport planes secretly
flew them to their newly established home of Israel. Yemenite Jews
made their way to Aden by foot from all corners of the country,
desperate to avoid attacks from Arabs and arrive to safety. Harry
remembered when Operation Magic Carpet was in every newspaper in
London. He had been just a teenager then but followed every detail of
the story, and ultimately it had inspired him to work for the British
government—he was determined to be a part of something big and make
a difference.
This ever-evolving country continued to awe Harry.To think that there
had been fifty thousand Yemenite Jews here to begin with flabbergasted
him. Yemen was so rich in culture, so steeped in history.These people
had waited patiently to take their country back after more than a century
of occupation. He felt for them.
His long legs scaled the large steps up to the veranda of Bhicajee
Cowasjee, where he stopped for a moment at the tall stone pillars that
guarded the shop. Placing his hand on one of the thick white columns, he
expected it to be cool to the touch. But even this stoic sentry had
succumbed to the sun’s domination, and it felt warm and clammy, much
to Harry’s disappointment. Looking away, and feeling even more
defeated, he was caught by a strange sense that someone was following
him. Turning back to glance over his shoulder, he quickly scanned the
street, but nothing struck him as out of the ordinary.Inside the shop, the steady breeze from the overhead fans brought instant
relief as he made his way toward the soda machine. Harry pulled out a
drink from the icebox and lingered for a moment, reveling in the cooling
air before using the attached opener to remove the jagged metal cap.
Eagerly, he drew the bottle to his mouth. The sensation of the cold glass
on his lips was heavenly. After gulping down the sweet, icy cola, he
pressed the bottle up against his flushed and chiseled cheeks, taking
sanctuary in the small pleasure.
Dara, the young Parsi man who owned the business along with his
family, emerged from the back of the store and immediately began to
shower his customer in a warm welcome. Harry had lived in Southern
Arabia for close to fifteen years and was well versed in the many
cultures that made Aden the haven that it was. He and his wife, Jane,
were regulars at the shop, and they were also part of the larger social
scene that Dara and his wife, Silloo, ran in. The warm weather and miles
of beaches and mountain ranges meant an active life for most people
who lived in Aden. Beach clubs, boating, water-skiing, dancing, and
camp-outs along the shoreline were all a part of the everyday routine;
through these activities, the small city fostered many friendships across
its diverse communities.
“Harry, my friend, so nice to see you. How are you?”
“Ah, Dara, hello there. Forgive me for just helping myself,” he said,
holding up the empty Coke bottle and smiling sheepishly. “It’s a hot one
today, wouldn’t you say?”
“Please, please, you are always welcome to help yourself. No need to
apologize. Anything I can assist you with?”
“I have a list somewhere,” Harry replied, digging through his pockets for
the folded piece of paper. “Jane asked for a few things. We are heading
to a party tomorrow night in Ma’alla. A handful of officers and their
wives, some of the secretaries. Apparently, there will be quite a spread.Jane wants to bring Yorkshire pudding... So, ah, here it is. Flour, eggs,
milk, and vegetable oil.”
“Jane was just here for flour last week. She must be baking up a storm!”
“Actually, she opened it up and there were a lot of little ants or
something in the jar. That’s why she wanted some more.”
“Harry, that is just a little extra protein in this part of the world! Nothing
to fret about.” Dara chuckled, waving it off.
“Ha, that’s true.” Harry smiled knowingly at the shop owner. “But Jane
was worried that the other guests might not be so understanding.”
They both laughed while Dara leaned in. “Let me have someone pull
your items for you. Can I get you anything else while you wait?”
“You are a good man, Dara. No, thank you. The drink was all I needed.”
Dara rang up Harry’s shopping list while they talked about their boats
and wanting to get out for a good sail over the weekend. He then carried
the bag of groceries and followed Harry out of the store, still chatting
about the weather and the unusual increase in sharks of late. There was a
definite need for more shark nets and better patrolling of the waters.
Harry took the bag and then walked down the stairs, leaving Dara up by
the pillars, still talking, both men equally engrossed in the topic. Harry’s
shoulders started to loosen; he was, at last, beginning to relax after his
monumental day, no longer feeling quite so defeated.
A white 1958 Chevy pulled into a parking spot in front of Harry. He
moved out of the way to give the driver some more space but remained
preoccupied with his and Dara’s conversation.
“Let’s plan an evening at Shalimar with the missus,” Harry suggested.
“It’s been a while since we had a night out. Maybe Pierre and Valerie
can join us too.”“That’s a great idea. You let me know when, and I’ll make sure we have
the best table!” said Dara.
A young Yemeni man emerged from behind the car in a scuffed-up blue
collared shirt and beige cotton pants, his head wrapped in a checkered
white-and-black scarf. He was chewing khat, his shoulders tense and his
hands hanging oddly by his sides as he walked toward Harry, who was
back to talking about sharks.
The man walked right up to Harry, his hands steady, his gaze penetrating
as he looked him straight in the eyes, then lifted a P-64 pistol from his
waistline and aimed it at Harry’s forehead.
Stumbling backwards, Harry dropped his bag and put his hands up.
“Shabab, Akhi, brother. What are you doing? Let’s talk,” Harry pleaded.
“Skut, kalb Inglise. Shut up, you British dog.”
“Please... let’s talk. I want to help you. I’m on your side.” The young
man looked rabid, his eyes somewhere else—
glassy, angry, hateful. He sucked in mucus from his nose and spat a ball
of phlegm at Harry’s feet.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through Harry’s skin and muscle before it exploded into
his cranial bones and prefrontal cortex. A cloud of gun smoke and the
stench of burning flesh permeated the air. Dara watched in shock and
horror as his friend crumpled to the ground like a bloody rag doll—
Harry’s face instantly gone.
The shooter tossed a piece of paper onto Harry’s blood- splattered chest,
his body splayed out. Without hesitation—his hand perfectly steady, his
eyes cold and empty—the young man pointed the gun at Dara. Gesturing
to his mouth with his free hand, he used the gun to mimic slitting histhroat. His message was clear: keep your mouth shut or you’re next. And
then, as swiftly as he had emerged, he was gone.
Dara flew down the steps toward Harry, yelling hysterically for help, for
the police, ambulance, anyone. He ripped off his shirt, revealing his
crisp white sudreh, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but there was
no place to start. Harry’s face was unrecognizable. Blood was
everywhere.
As Dara continued screaming, a crowd started to form and people began
running and calling for help. Then sirens. He could barely hear them
over the dull ringing in his ears, startled by the muffled sound and
vibration of his own yelling.
He watched as the ambulance finally arrived and the paramedics poured
out, moving quickly, ready to take action as though there was something
they could do, but there was no hope. Harry had died the instant that
bullet made contact.
Dara sat in the growing pool of blood as it mixed with dirt and sand. The
medics covered Harry’s body with a sheet and carried his friend away.
Only the blood remained, inching its way out, away from him, tainting
the ground forever. What was happening? He wiped the sweat from his
brow, realizing that he too was drenched in blood, dust, and tears. He
picked himself up, blinded and choked by the piercing sunlight and
insidious heat. He dragged himself home.
2
“The only paradise is paradise lost.”
—Marcel Proust
October 20, 1967The catastrophic implosion that was about to pulse through Aden
remained hidden, bubbling and fermenting under the tranquil waters of
the Red Sea, unbeknownst to Dara. A warm breeze whipped through his
dark hair as he guided his speedboat swiftly through the temperate
waves. The turbo- powered engine sucked in water through a grill, then
rapidly shot it out the back at forty-five gallons per second, propelling
and jerking the boat forward. Even through squinted eyes, the sheer
beauty of the Aden shore was unobscured. About halfway between the
club and Elephant Bay, he leaned smoothly into the throttle. The boat
lifted its nose obediently and sped off toward the horizon. Approaching
an inlet, he released the throttle, shut the engine off, and pulled out a
bottle of Beck’s from the army-green Coleman cooler. The ocean lapped
gently at his boat, lulling him softly from side to side. Leaning back in
his captain’s seat, he took a slow, deliberate gulp of his beer and admired
the picturesque coast that surrounded him.
His eyes followed the range of shades from cobalt to turquoise
shimmering up through the ocean floor to the line of posts that
connected the shark nets around the swimming area, meticulously
aligned to keep swimmers safe. The fine red sand that powdered the
beach glistened in the distance. He turned to gaze at the silhouette of the
elephant head, its trunk naturally sculpted out of the mountains, looking
regal and all-knowing. From where he sat, the sky was a striking shade
of aqua, empty of clouds or anything else, just a vast expanse of
cerulean. The sun caressed his nose and cheeks with a searing heat that
penetrated his golden skin. In the distance, he could just make out the
blurred outline of the Gold Mohor Beach Club on the horizon. It looked
tiny in contrast to the mountains of Crater, which sat immense and
unyielding, anchored and proud behind it. The paved roads were barely
visible on the steep rocks that clung to the hillside. Houses and
apartment buildings in a range of whites and beiges huddled together to
house the city’s population.Dara finished the last of his beer and started the engine. He decided to
take one more loop around the harbor, passing the Officers Union and
the Italian Club before heading back toward the dock at the Gold Mohor.
At this point he was already late. A few more minutes would make no
difference. The boat bounced excitedly between waves as he sped back
to the shore with the wind in his hair. As he glided back into the harbor,
he recognized a muffled Paul Rich under the hum of the engine and
whistled along to the song coming from the speakers on the club patio.
Hassan was there waiting for him, wading in the water at the dock ramp
and saluting as he entered the harbor. As the club watchman, he ran a
security patrol for all the boats docked; conducted beach safety patrol for
the sailors, swimmers, and boaters; maintained the shark nets; and made
sure that the sandy beaches were always clean and pristine. Hassan had
sharp, dark eyes and olive skin, weathered by the extreme Yemeni sun.
