368
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
It was agreed that the two Israeli planes had spent a great
deal of time circling the city, apparently contemptuous of
its defenses. It was also affirmed that King Abdullah had
become so enraged that he himself tried to bring them down
with his rifle. The bombs, I learned, had fallen on scattered
areas and killed six Arabs. Whether through sheer luck or
design, one bomb had damaged the home of General Abdul
Qader Pasha, Arab chief of the Legion. This had given rise
to all kinds of wild rumors. Witnesses had allegedly seen
flares and flashlight signals suggesting fifth-column conspiracy, and scores of both Arabs and non-Arabs, particularly
refugees, were being rounded up by the police. Panic was
growing. It was time for me to do something about my own
security. I went to the Jordan Press office to get my accreditation as a correspondent, and was brought before the military censor.
"I'm one of the American correspondents from Jerusalem.
I arrived yesterday afternoon."
"Where were you all this time? Why didn't you report
with the others?"
"I was in the Old City with Major Tel. He has given me
this accreditation. . . . I'm Armenian by birth. I'm on the
side of the Arabs and bless Melik [King] Abdullah every day
for his kindness toward the Armenians."
"What do you know of Robert Hecox?" he suddenly asked.
"Nothing much. He seems to be a good fellow."
"What do you know of his wife?"
"I didn't even know he was married," I said truthfully.
"Go see Hamid Bey Farhan," he growled.
Farhan was Chief Censor, a short, intense British-trained
Intelligence officer. I seized the initiative, laid down my credentials, emphasizing that I was an accredited correspondent
for Al Misri, and asked for Jordan accreditation.
"Did you cross with the other Americans through the Red
Cross?"