Tales from Halton

Stories and anecdotes from the 69th's time at RAF Halton, between 1951 and 1954, and outside in the wider world. Dates shown refer to when the story appeared in the 69th Association's newsletter.

Ice Cold in Beirut, by Barrie Curtis - August 2005

Licking my lips I sidled up to the bar, "A glass of your finest please barman". I took a sip of the old throat oil and relaxed. I had arrived from Saudi the day before and Saudi Arabia is not famous for its beer and skittles lifestyle.

The sun sparkled on the blue sea and also twinkled delightfully on my ice cold beer. The air was warm with a nice moderating breeze. Bikini-clad girls chattering in French sashayed past. In short, everything seemed about as perfect as one can expect in the world (someone has to do it).

We were at the beach club, half way between the city and Beirut's airport. Although calling itself a club, anyone who could afford it could wander in and it was a favourite haunt of Beirut's expat community. There was an excellent restaurant, bar and a nice large swimming pool at the top of the beach. Occasionally an airliner screamed over on approach. It seemed today there were fewer people around. When we arrived and parked in the biz-jet area there were several American Air Force olive green jet transports near us. There was also a Lebanese army tank with its crew sitting on old kitchen chairs around a makeshift table playing a board game. I thought we looked important but they ignored us.

Few realised then that Lebanon was about to embark on its incredibly savage civil war in which thousands were to die and the centre of the city would be left looking like Berlin in 1945. The Americans would lose their nerve and depart when over a hundred of their Marines died in a truck bombing.

Lebanon was then called the Switzerland of the Middle East, usually by over-imaginative tourism officials. But it was a very beautiful country and had a reasonable democratic government, the only one in the Middle East apart from Israel. It was also the major financial and commercial centre of the Middle East. In the mountains above the city were ski slopes, but I never saw more than a thin layer of snow. You get fantastic views of the Mediterranean up there too. On the road to Baalbeck I walked into a Tyrolean-styled restaurant in the mountain to discover a bunch of secretaries I knew in Dhahran. There were squeals of amazement (from them, not me). Didn't this happen to Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca?

Baalbeck is famed for its amazingly-preserved Roman temples. These are approached through a tunnel with 2,000 year old mason marks on its walls. You finally climb steps to arrive in a square surrounded by temples. I believe it is almost impossible to go there now as it is a noted centre for terrorists. I once drove further on into Damascus. A few years later I would be living there.

On earlier visits I had travelled south to Sidon and Tyre through land growing almost every kind of fruit, including bananas. The latter is the city besieged by Alexander the Great amid great slaughter. In the distance Israel could be seen. An archaeologist told me that they were hoping to excavate part of the Roman remains, including a horse-racing stadium. But as always, money was the problem. Skeletons could be seen in broken graves.

At mid-day we expats tottered out exhausted from the offices around Hamra Street to tables on the broad pavement for a spot of lunch and liquid refreshment. Some stayed all afternoon doing their report writing in these congenial surroundings. News and rumours from all over the Middle Fast were exchanged. Kim Philby knew what he was doing when he came to live in Beirut. I used to wonder if there were any spies in this bunch. I knew I wasn't one. Honest!

We were billeted in the Commodore Hotel from where a few months later the BBC would be broadcasting news of the day's atrocities. Already there were a number of journalists propping up the bar. According to them there was a lot of shooting going on but I only heard the odd pop during the night. Going out to fetch a day-old Daily Telegraph, I was coldly eyed by some gun toting militia men who looked as if they would rather like to use me for target practice. I thought of giving them a bright sunny smile, but my BSS's usually caused offence over a wide area. Perhaps I was lucky. It was not much later that kidnapping became a popular pastime; ask John McCarthy.

I peered into a dusty shop window opposite the hotel. A certain amount of agitation was going on below chin level. It was a dark cove trying to get my attention. He had so many gold teeth I thought he was chewing a bracelet. Down steps, the cavernous, hanger-like interior was a revelation. Carpets were piled everywhere. I sat on a pile of rugs, was given coffee and the old soft sell. The Levantine businessman has a well-honed instinct for trouble and they were trying to get rid of as much of their stock as possible. I bought a rug and hoped there would be room for it on the plane.

On departure Steve the Aussie pilot and I supervised the loading of the Citation with boxes of electronics and the usual mass of contract documentation and technical bumph. There were only two seats and barely enough room for them. My rug was pushed into a gap. We flew north along the coast for a bit of mountain scenery viewing before heading off across Syria, Jordan and Saudi Arabia. Our track roughly followed the Trans-Arabian Pipeline before branching off to Riyadh. As on the outward journey, Steve gave me a bit of stick time and in return I put up with his probably well-founded grumbling suspicions that he was getting less money than American pilots.

The Trans Arabian Pipeline is almost the only feature on the northern Arabian map and it has a rough service road alongside which was used by adventurous expats as a route for driving back to UK when political conditions permitted.

At Riyadh the burnt-out Saudi Air Tristar in which over 300 people had died behind locked doors was still parked. After a partial unload, refuel, entry formalities and a meal we were on our way back to Dharan which then passed for home.