Of Mud and Honey

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.