THE SNOWY HEIGHTS ABOVE BEIRUT

During the twelve months I spent in Cyprus with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment during the EOKA campaign (1957-8), I had no leave as such, but spent two weeks in the Lebanese Army Ski School at Les Cedres high in the mountains above Beirut.
The Adjutant drew my attention to the notice in district routine orders and told me that the Commanding Officer thought it would be a good idea for me to have a break. I studied the words carefully and could find no catch, so there and then my name was put forward.
I heard nothing for a few weeks and then I received an official looking envelope from Headquarters Middle East Land Forces telling me I was required to report to a certain officer there a few days hence.
I made the journey to Episcopi, on the south coast, by way of the Troodos mountain range and was in time to have a drink in the mess and a leisurely lunch before keeping my appointment.
The fellow to whom I had to report turned out to be a lieutenant colonel in a cavalry regiment. He presented a sinister appearance with a black eye patch, but he greeted me warmly as I entered his office. He did not mince his words when he told me that I was being sent to Lebanon to find out all I could about the country. He told me to keep my eyes and ears open and write a report as soon as I came back.
The Adjutant of 1/WELCH had said nothing about the clandestine part of the skiing trip, neither was it mentioned in district routine orders. I began to feel I was sitting in the office of this one eyed cavalry-man under false pretences. Before I could tell him that James Bond films gave me nightmares, he stood up, shook my hand and wished me the best of luck.
When I returned to my unit, I tackled the Adjutant about 'setting me up'. He countered by telling me that if I was 'funking' out, he would erase my name from the list. Not wishing to be called a coward, but nevertheless thinking that the matter could have been dealt with more candidly, I prepared myself for the trip to Lebanon.
I flew the short distance from Nicosia to Beirut in an aircraft of Middle East Airlines along with two sergeants from other units of the British Army in Cyprus. I wondered if they too were on clandestine missions, but thought it better not to enquire.
A young man from the British Embassy was at the airport to meet us. He introduced me to a swarthy looking soldier called Salim, the driver of the Land Rover who had orders to take us to Les Cedres.
My joining instructions stated that ski-wear would be issued at the ski school but, as I take size twelve boots, I thought it wise to buy a pair before leaving Beirut. Salim took over when I explained what I wanted and drove like a maniac up the long tree-lined avenue from the airport to the town centre. Horn and accelerator were the two main driving essentials, with the brake used only to avoid collisions.
Salim, being a soldier, could drive over traffic islands and this he did every time we came to one. By the time we pulled up at the first shoe shop the two sergeants in the back were talking about getting a taxi to Les Cedres. I reminded them that we were on an official mission and they would just have to stick it out.
When we visited the next shoe shop Salim went through the motions of stem turns, snow-ploughs and Christies and the manager of the shoe shop finally got the message, but he didn't have anything to fit me. We visited another two shoe shops before I was forced to give up and accept the fact that Beirut was devoid of size twelve ski boots.
Salim was anxious to get going as it was a two hour journey to Les Cedres and the weather forecast was not good. He started off again and jumped another three traffic islands before emerging on the north coast road running towards Tripoli.
At Tripoli, he turned right and headed into the mountains. If Salim's driving at sea level had scared the pants off us, it was nothing to what he had in store for us once we had passed through the low foothills of the huge mountain range that towered in front of us. Heavy rain gave way to snow as we climbed higher but the slippery roads only made Salim take corners with more of a flourish. To add to our concern, steam started to cloud the windscreen. We drew up on a straight piece of road, Salim lifted the bonnet and was lost to sight as steam enveloped him. He re-appeared a few seconds later grinning like a Cheshire cat saying: "Mauyer maffeesh!" (water finished.) Fortunately, a stream ran along the side of the road and when the engine had cooled, we were able to scoop some water out and fill the radiator. Poor maintenance rather than a hole in the cooling system seemed to be the cause and we were able to continue our journey without further trouble.
A full scale blizzard was blowing and darkness had descended when we arrived at Les Cedres. The Land Rover drew up outside a building where the two sergeants got out. Salim then took me to another building on the other side of the quadrangle, which was the officers' mess. I was warmly welcomed by some Lebanese Army officers, who led me upstairs and gave me some really good coffee. It was hard to imagine that I was still in the Lebanon when only a few hours ago the sun had been shining and people were swimming in the sea. Even within the warm confines of the officers' mess, the blizzard could be heard and snow could be seen piling on the window frames.
I took stock of my room, which could be described as 'frugal but adequate', for my two week stay. Only two essential items seemed to be missing - bed sheets. I went along to the mess office and asked one of the servants if he could let me have some. He looked at me in a puzzled way and told me that he had actually made my bed that morning: "Where could they have gone?" was his reply. He accompanied me to my room, rolled back the blankets and exclaimed exultantly: "Here they are!" He returned to his duty and left me alone to take a closer examination of the obnoxious things that went under the name of ‘bed sheets'. They appeared to have been made from the same coarse material that prisoners in British jails use to make mail sacks.
I unpacked my kit and went along to the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me and heard a thud from the landing outside. I could see at once what had happened; the metal bar, with the outside knob, had passed through the lock. There was no way I could have opened the door, but I was not concerned as I felt sure that someone would come along, see the knob on the landing and release me. Hot water gushed into the huge bath-tub and I was able to enjoy a good soak.
I must have been in the bath for half an hour without hearing a sound, and I started to get worried. I dried myself, put on my dressing gown and inspected the door and its frame again to see if there was any way I could get out; it was quite impossible. The only course, it seemed, was for me to shout for assistance, so I opened the window and was subjected to the full blast of the blizzard which nearly blew me back into the bath. I persevered and managed to get my head and shoulders into a position where I could see the entrance to the officers' mess.
In the lee of the porch was a sentry wrapped in a great-coat. I shouted to attract his attention, but he did not hear me. I tried again and this time stuck two fingers between my lips and let out a piercing whistle. I felt I was making progress as this time the sentry looked about him, but only at ground level. Despite the fact that I was now covered with snow, I made one more try and levered myself as far as I could out of the window. The sound I made not only caused the sentry to look upwards, but the guard commander and a few others came out of an adjacent building to find what all the noise was about. The extra surge of decibels was due to my dressing gown falling open thus allowing certain tender parts of my anatomy to descend upon the top of a very hot radiator. I hastily withdrew from my position and rendered first aid to myself with copious amounts of snow.
In order not to lose contact with those on the ground, I shook a large bath towel out of the window. Within a few minutes, I heard sounds in the passage-way and then the door opened. I was still in considerable pain but I made light of the matter and walked with as jaunty a step as I could manage back to my room.
Whilst on matters lavatorial, I was caught one day trying to remove a piece of fossilised human excreta from the top of the lavatory seat in the wash room of the officers' mess. One quite sophisticated Lebanese officer could not understand why I was standing with one of my shoes in my hand chipping away with the steel-tipped heel at something on the seat; I felt embarrassed about having to tell him what I was doing. He inspected the offending lump, which now had sharp edges, and said quite cheerfully: "There's no need to worry about that. There's an old Arab proverb which says: 'There's a dirty place in every man's house'."
The blizzard of the previous evening had reduced visibility to only a few yards, but when I awoke on my first full day in Les Cedres the sun's rays were bringing a russet glow to the snow shrouded mountains. For the first time I was able to see the large clump of cedar trees a few hundred yards away which are the only ones left from hundreds of thousands that once grew in those mountains. Nine hundred and fifty years before the birth of Jesus Christ this fine wood was used to build the temple of King Solomon in Jerusalem and, it is said, some of the trees standing in Les Cedres were growing there when Jesus was born. Their majestic branches, spreading outwards from the trunk and parallel to the ground are more familiar in our own country these days than they are in the Levant.
I had been told the night before to report to the ski school stores at 8am to draw my kit. With a few minutes in hand I met the two sergeants and the instructor/interpreter who had been detailed to look after us during our stay. Arctic clothing of the same pattern used by the British Army was brought out and we were given our appropriate sizes. Then came the skis and ski sticks and finally, the boots. This was the moment of truth and I began to feel uneasy when the storeman scratched his head when asked to find an extra large pair for me. He pulled out a number of boots but I felt like one of those ugly sisters in 'Cinderella' as I tried to stuff my feet into them. It was no good, they were too small and it looked as if I was going to be left in the kitchen while everyone else went to the ball. The interpreter suggested I should go along to the one and only ski shop in the shopping area when it opened at 9am. If and when I found some ski boots to fit me, I was asked to join the others at the bottom of the ski lift.
I went back to the mess, had some coffee and then, at 9am, took the short walk to the ski shop. The manager was rolling up the blind when I arrived. He gave a sigh when he saw the size of my feet and said: "I can tell you now, sir, I have nothing that will fit you." I asked him if there was anyone else who could help me. After a few seconds' thought he replied: "There is a man who lives in the village of Bacharre in the Kidicha Gorge not more than 15 miles from here." He explained that it would not be difficult to find him as he lived in a cave on the right side of the road a hundred yards before you entered the village. "His name is Haji Yusuf - he owns a boot shop and he may be able to help you." I thanked him and went back to the ski school to get some transport.
Salim had returned to Beirut, but another soldier was summoned and ordered to take me to Bacharre. Not only did this driver bear a remarkable resemblance to Salim, but he had obviously graduated from the same driving school as his look-alike. There was a deep covering of snow on the road and driver No. 2 used it to skid alarmingly around corners with drops of thousands of feet on one side.
As we approached the village of Bacharre, I kept my eyes open for the cave where Haji Yusuf lived. We missed it on the first run and had to turn around and try again. On the return trip, it was easy to find as the opening of the cave faced towards the village. A track led from the road to the cave and I walked the hundred yards or so to the entrance.
Haji Yusuf's boot and shoe emporium must have had the best view of any shop in the Lebanon. Shielded from the prevailing westerly winds, it absorbed the morning sun and provided a light-filled work and show place ideal for the purpose of that master cordwainer. Haji Yusuf saw me climbing the slope and stood up as I approached. Befitting a pilgrim who had visited Mecca, he wore a henna-stained red beard and welcomed me to his cave. "Salaam alakum," he said in greeting. "Alakum, salaam," I replied - and we shook hands. I told him of my difficulty in getting a pair of ski boots and asked if he could help. He asked me to raise my right foot to his lap and, with a wooden contraption, he took my measurements. He sucked loudly through his teeth and exclaimed: "Quois kebir!" (very big!). Nevertheless, he nodded in an optimistic way and asked me to follow him to the back of the cave. Rows of shelves lined the solid rock wall and Haji Yusuf stopped at a place that looked as if it was a tomb for long-dead beavers. He took down a pair of whiskery boots and asked me to try them on. Shaggy fur ski boots had yet to become the fashion in ski resorts and I suppose I can claim to be one of the first to wear this avant guarde style of footwear. The important thing was that they fitted me like a glove and I asked if I could hire them for the next two weeks. The old Arab was delighted to be of service and mentioned a paltry amount which I was only too pleased to pay in Lebanese pounds. I told him I would return them when I passed through Bacharre on my way back to Beirut.
Most of the morning had been occupied in my search for boots and by the time I returned to Les Cedres, it was nearly midday. There are only a few weeks at the beginning of the year when you can ski all day at Les Cedres. By mid March, when I was there, the snow on the piste gets slushy by noon and everyone packs up for lunch. It might be a good place to spend your honeymoon, but for someone on his own it was the most boring place I have ever been in all my life. Once you had walked around the clump of cedars and inspected the ski and souvenir shop - that was it. There was only one other thing to do and that was to go to your room, curl up on your mail bags and read whatever books you had brought with you.
Another blizzard hit us on my second night in Les Cedres, but the social climate changed for the better. A crowd of Lebanese Air Force officers arrived during the afternoon and they provided congenial company.
I was keen to get started the following morning and gave little thought about the effect my strange looking ski boots would have on other people. I was given some idea when Gilbenk, the mess waiter, thought I had brought a dog into the dining room and that it was sitting between my legs.
After breakfast, I gathered my kit and walked across to the ski lift. The two British sergeants were drinking coffee at the small stand-up bar at the terminal when I arrived. Their expressions reflected what they thought about my footwear, but they were too polite to make any disparaging remarks. One of them said: "Glad to see you got some boots, sir." Our instructor arrived and soon the lift creaked into action. The two sergeants continued with basic lessons while I, graded 'competent novice', told them I would see them at the top. I grabbed the first swinging seat that came along and winged my way up the ski slope.
I looked behind me when we were nearing the half-way point and was surprised to see how steep the ground had become. The next stage was more precipitous so I jettisoned at the first opportunity. The blizzard of the night before had blown itself out but clouds were still thick and heavy with snow as they descended over the piste. I spent a few minutes getting the feel of my skis and found that the skills I had learnt in Austria a few years before were coming back to me.
The previous night's fall of snow had produced an unblemished surface on the side of the mountain but when the clouds thickened I experienced for the first time the phenomenon known as 'white-out '. This happens when land and sky merge into one element. For the novice skier, it is a disturbing feeling to lose control and not know where you are going. All of a sudden I felt the wind strengthen on my face and I had a feeling of moving much faster than I should under such conditions. It came to an abrupt end when the slope I was descending reversed its inclination. The points of my skis dug into the snow, I parted company with them and flew about twenty feet through the air. I was immediately conscious of a very cold feeling in my feet and when I looked at them I was horrified to see that all I had on were the hairy uppers; the soles were still clamped to the skis.
When the clouds began to clear, I found that I had left the piste, slipped into a valley and was on my own. Immediate survival action was required if I was not to lose my toes through frost bite, but the only implement I had resembling a tool was a cigarette lighter.
The Zippo, although clumsy in shape, became the best known cigarette lighter in the world when it was issued to American soldiers during World War Two. I doubt if it has ever before or since been used as a hammer, but it saved my life that day when I was able to replace the nails that held the two parts of my boots together. I knew it was only a temporary measure and it took me a long time to get to the bottom of the ski lift. I was thankful that the instructor and two sergeants were not there to witness my embarrassment as I shuffled off to the officers' mess.
When I had changed into some decent footwear, I arranged for a Land Rover to take me to the shoe cave in Bacharre. Haji Yusuf was where I had left him the day before and he looked sad when I handed him the boots. It was not a problem for him though and within a few minutes his sturdy foot operated sewing machine and a battery of nails put the boots back into working order. I returned to Les Cedres and was in time to get in some skiing before the snow turned slushy. I had no more problems with the boots and soon became oblivious to the stares of new arrivals.

The young man from the British Embassy who met us in Beirut told me to expect a visit from the British Military Attache while I was at Les Cedres.
About half way through my stay, Colonel Andrew Braisby arrived. He made his presence felt as soon as he stepped from his official car. He was well known to the Commandant of the Ski School and we all had an hilarious lunch time session followed by an equally pleasant evening when much good food and wine was consumed.
Colonel Braisby was an officer equipped with a most ebullient personality. He had a fine war record and was a member of one of Scotland's most respected infantry regiments. He had a strange twist to his mouth, wore a monocle and possessed a booming voice. He was the centre of attention at the dining table and the other Lebanese officers who had not seen him before were in awe of him. He spoke perfect Arabic and French, although at one stage of the meal he was at a loss for the name of a certain animal, like a wolf, that frequented the area of Les Cedres. He sought the assistance of one Arabic speaking officer on his left, who was unable to help. The Colonel was quiet for a few moments and then leaned back in his chair and let out an enormous howl. This was supposed to help his luncheon companion remember the name of the animal, but only succeeded in causing him to choke on his food.
I learnt later that the Colonel was held in the highest esteem among the military and diplomatic hierarchy in Beirut. He had the reputation of being the unluckiest officer in the British Army in terms of being wounded by gun-fire. It seemed that many of his wounds had been inflicted in the pursuit of saving Arabs from Jews. This and the fact that some of his wounds had contorted his face - giving even more credence to his bravery, made him very popular among the Arabs. It was generally agreed that he was the ideal choice for British Military Attache to the Embassy.
He told me the story about the last time he was wounded during World War Two - or to be exact, just after World War Two. The war in Europe officially ended at midnight on the 8/9th May 1945. Andrew Braisby, then a young major, was on his way to brigade headquarters in North Germany on the first day of peace for five years, when his car broke down. The driver was still trying to find what had gone wrong when a dispatch rider on a motor bike came along. Andrew stood in the middle of the road, flagged him down and asked for a lift. The DR signalled Andrew to take a seat on the pillion, but when he released the clutch, the engine stalled with the extra weight. To start the machine again, it was necessary for the driver to put one foot on the ground and use the other to kick start the engine. After the third unsuccessful attempt, the DR put everything he had into the next lunge. The extra effort caused his elbow to come into contact with the cocking handle of his Sten gun, which was attached to a sling around his shoulder. There was a sharp rattle of gun fire and Andrew Braisby became the first post war casualty of the British Army when he was shot through the jaw.

By the end of eleven days in Les Cedres, I was quite happy to pack my bags and return to Beirut where I had been booked into the Normandie Hotel on the sea front. It was a pleasant relief to sleep in proper sheets again and explore the bazaars and fascinating maze of streets that made up old Beirut. The broad boulevards and majestic promenade reflected the strong Gallic influence and helped to make this city the show-piece of the Levant.
When I returned to Cyprus, I gave some thought to the one-eyed lieutenant colonel in Episcopi and the report he wanted me to write. I spent a long time sucking the end of a pencil and staring at a blank sheet of paper before commencing. I could have made a suggestion that others with plans to ski should bring their own sheets and boots - if they have large feet. Also, an ample supply of books and a few bottles of whisky would not go amiss, but these were frivolous points so I confined my comments to writing about the hospitality I received and how pro-Western everyone had been. I remember ending my report with the recommendation that more cultural, sporting and tourism ties should be forged with this haven of peace and tranquillity.

A few months after I wrote the report, the Muslim community in the Lebanon revolted over the Christians' pro-Western policy. The Christian president, Camille Chamoun, asked for help and a task force of American marines and armour landed on the beach of Beirut and stormed through the town. At the same time, other Arab countries of the Eastern Mediterranean were plunged into turmoil when King Feisal 11 of Iraq and his Prime Minister Nuri es-Said, were assassinated. It was one of those turning points in Middle East history and the shock waves that travelled around Arab countries had far reaching consequences, As far as the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment, with whom I was serving, was concerned, it meant rapid removal from Cyprus to prop up the tottering regime of King Idris of Libya - who thought he was the next in line for the 'chop'.
I never received an acknowledgement for my report and I should be surprised if it occupies space in any government or military archive. I only hope that my highly inaccurate recommendations did not influence anyone to take precipitate action.