The Syrian MIG Attack
BY THE END of October, I felt the crisis had abated sufficiently to enable me to take a short holiday. Consequently I decided to fly my Dove aircraft to Europe. It was a flight which was almost to cost me my life.
I took off from Amman at about 8:20 on the morning of November 10, 1958, in the old twin-engined De Haviland Dove which had been my grandfather's plane and now belonged to the Air Force. In the cockpit beside me was Colonel Jock Dalgleish, at that time Air Adviser to the Royal Jordanian Air Force. My passengers were my uncle, Sherif Nasser, two Jordanian Air Force pilots who were to fly the plane home again, and Maurice Raynor, whom I had known since my days at Harrow. The Syrian Nasserite authorities knew long before I left that I would be a passenger and I planned to stay three weeks in Lausanne with my mother, Queen Zein, my daughter Alia, and the rest of my family. I also planned to celebrate my birthday on November 14. Rooms had been booked at the Beau Rivage, the same hotel in which I had received the fateful telegram which proclaimed me King.
I had gone out of my way to inform my people that I was taking this little holiday. Not only was this publicly announced but I even gave a farewell speech the evening be- fore my official departure from Amman airport which the diplomatic corps attended in full force.
It seemed perfectly simple to fly across Syria and Lebanon to Cyprus, our first stop, and then on to Athens and Rome. This was the shortest and the most usual way, and we had every right to chart this course to Europe.
It was a cool morning when we took off. There was an overcast sky and we climbed to about 9,000 feet, flying toward the Syrian frontier. Very soon we were in broken cloud and then we contacted Damascus by radio. We reported our position at the frontier and got clearance from them to continue.
If one is to follow what happened subsequently, it is vital to understand that it was Damascus Airport that had given us the right to proceed. I myself was listening through my headset on the V.L.F. radio when this clearance came through, and as a result we continued flying to a specified turning point well inside the Syrian territory where we were due to report our position and altitude to Damascus. This we did. We were asked our estimated time of arrival over Damascus and gave this information. Then we got the first inkling of trouble. A few minutes later Damascus called my aircraft again and told us, "You are not cleared to overfly. You must land at Damascus.”
We replied, "We are not cleared to land at Damascus. We are proceeding to Cyprus."
Damascus told us: "Stand by."
Dalgleish and I thought there must be some mistake.
We flew on and were not more than fifteen miles out of Damascus, which we could see occasionally through broken cloud, when they called us again and said, "You are not cleared to fly over. You will land at Damascus." Almost immediately, they started to give us the landing instructions and asked us to report when the airfield was in sight.
I looked at Dalgleish. Without another word we turned
the aircraft in the direction of Amman. We replied, "If those are your final instructions we must contact Amman and advise them."
Thoroughly alarmed, I called Amman up and told them what was happening. The anxious but clear reply came back, "You are to return to base immediately. Remain on this frequency. Do not acknowledge any further messages." And then significantly the voice added, "And good luck to you."
I opened again on the Damascus channel. They asked, "What is your position?" We replied, "We are orbiting, await- ing your final instructions." This time the Syrians were even more definite. Again they gave us the order to land.
I replied briefly: "Sorry, this we can't do!" and switched back to Amman.
We were already heading toward the nearest point of Jordanian territory. We did not bother to return by the same route we had taken from Amman. We took the shortest cut to the frontier! At this moment the cloud broke completely.
We were flying at about ten thousand feet and I had a sud- den idea. I turned to Jock and said: "Why don't we go down and fly at ground level?"
I put the plane into a dive at about two hundred forty air miles an hour, the most the poor old Dove could take, for I felt that once we were lying at ground level the possibility of picking us up by radar would be reduced, while the possibility of spotting us would be made more difficult, especially as jets do not maneuver well at low altitude, nor do they have a long fuel endurance.
We reached the ground it seemed to take hours and
hedgehopped at zero feet as we approached the Jordanian frontier.
Suddenly one of the Air Force pilots in the back of the plane came up to the cockpit and shouted:
"I've just seen two MIGs flying at height in the opposite direction."
This meant they were flying toward us from the Jordanian frontier, even perhaps from inside Jordan's air space. Dalgleish looked at me. We understood the significance of their position. These were not aircraft sent up since we had refused to land at Damascus.
I think both Dalgleish and I felt a real shiver of fear, but I told the pilot to go back and keep me informed if he saw them again. I glanced at Jock and both of us tightened our safety belts.
Two minutes later the two MIG 17s of the United Arab Republic Air Force passed us on our starboard wing. Almost at our level, they turned across our path, gained height, and dived at us in what is known as a quarter attack.
I felt my time had come. I really believed that this was the end.
I tore the old Dove around in a turn. I thought to myself, If I go, at least I'll take one of them with me. It looked as though we were almost finished, so I made up my mind to ram the first MIG, since it was obvious they meant business.
What a way to get rid of us! No one would ever know what had happened in that uninhabited lava-covered area!
As they tore into the attack, Jock took over the controls and managed to avoid their first pass by tightening his turn.
Their tactics were simple. They dived at us in turn, from the port side, slightly forward from our position, screaming down toward us at speed, banking toward our nose. Time and again they attacked. We could do nothing but watch out for them and wait for them to come in. Only one defense was possible.
We had to turn inside their circle at the precise moment they began to get us lined up in their sights. I knew that a MIG could not turn as tightly as our slower Dove, which could turn in a much smaller circle and at as slow a speed as ninety
miles an hour. So when we turned in to meet the MIGs, they were forced to overshoot every time.
But our biggest fear was not seeing them as the attack developed. Both of us were straining our necks looking out for each new attack. We were flying the poor old Dove as fast as she could go, with full power, exceeding all engine limitations, but she held together. As we twisted and turned I hated to think what it was like back in the cabin. It must
have been a shambles. Somehow my uncle struggled to the cockpit and shouted, "What on earth's happening?"
I yelled out, "We're being attacked!"
His reply was characteristic of him.
"Give me the radio," he cried, "and let me tell them what I think of them!”
"This isn't the moment," I answered. Nevertheless, his attitude cheered us up enormously.
Before long the attacks intensified. Jock shouted, "I think you had better call Mayday in case we're forced down."
I myself gave the S.O.S. call on the Amman frequency, but unfortunately or perhaps fortunately for their peace of mind it was not picked up by Amman, doubtless because of our very low altitude.
Then came the moment, the split second, when we almost
crashed. Jock was at the controls, watching one side for a possible attack, while I looked out of the other side. We turned our heads at exactly the same instant as we seemed to be flying straight into a hill. Frantically, we yanked at the controls. The old plane lurched, staggered, hesitated under the strain, and as the nose went up we skimmed the top of that
hill by inches.
That was perhaps the worst single moment of the flight. No doubt it would have elated those who had been sent after us.
The battle was not over. By turning into them at the moment of attack we had foiled them because of our slower speed, so now they tried different tactics. They gained height, and then simultaneously attacked from both sides.
This was even more frightening. I cannot describe it except to say that it was like playing tag in the air at fantastic speeds. They were chasing us and we were compelled to dodge. It was dangerous for them too. We managed to avoid one MIG which then shot right up as the other dived steeply from the other direction. They almost collided head-on.
Attack after attack continued until we crossed the road from Mafraq to H.5 the main road to Iraq and well inside the Jordanian frontier. Suddenly it was all over. The MIGs flew away and we lost sight of them as they headed back toward Syria. At first I could not believe it. Dalgleish and I waited for the next attack, wondering where it would come from. All sorts of possibilities flashed through my mind. It seemed hours since the first attack, though I suppose it was only minutes.
We flew on at a very low altitude for a long distance. They might have gone, I thought, but we were still worried. If we gained height, Syrian radar might pick us up again and other fighters might be close at hand.
At last we felt the danger had passed. We climbed. And at that moment my uncle came to the cockpit holding out a cigarette for me - the best I ever smoked.
He gave me the thumbs-up sign. "Well done!" he said.
"Don't we passengers deserve wings?"
I shouted back: "It looks clear now. Can we have breakfast?"
Alas, there was no breakfast to be had. The food was an unholy scramble. However, we did have a hot drink. Throughout all the twisting and diving, with everything thrown about during the battle, Raynor British to the core had held firmly on to a thermos and now produced two cups of tea.
Tea and a cigarette - what more could one ask! And as
music to go with it I could now hear the welcome and angry voices of the Jordanian Air Force jet pilots.
As I sipped the hot tea, I looked at Dalgleish. He was in his element. A huge grin filled his weatherbeaten face.
"That was close, sir!" he shouted. And as we flew sedately on toward my capital, all danger past, I reflected just how close to death we had been. And I wondered, too, what madness had prompted the Syrians' wanton attack.
There was never a question of "mistaken identity." My
Dove was well known and could not have been mistaken for any other aircraft. It had the royal Jordanian Air Force markings and carried the royal coat of arms and the royal flag. It had flown to Damascus several times, once with me on an official visit.
Even now we do not know why they made the attack. I
do not believe for a moment that they were merely trying to turn us back. There is an international code by which planes in the air order another to return. There is a whole sequence of procedure, and only after going through this does a fighter have the right to consider you "fair game" if you do not choose to respond to his instructions. Every flier learns this almost before he can fly. The MIG pilots knew this as well as I did but they came right into an unmistakable attack! And never once did either plane appear in the least friendly! The Syrians have always been touchy about their air space. In the months preceding the attack on my aircraft, there were others. Some months before, they had caught a Lebanese civil aircraft over Damascus Airport and opened up with anti-aircraft guns at point-blank range. The pilot, a New Zealander, dived just as we did and got away to Beirut. There were other incidents, too, in which the motives seem obscure- However touchy, this was no excuse for deliberately attacking an unarmed aircraft on a perfectly lawful passenger flight Only one conclusion was possible. They had hoped to kill us. My death, three months after King Feisal’s, could have virtually ended the Hashemite Kingdom. And if it had been an "accident” how easy it would have been to lay the blame on my stubborn insistence on learning to fly!
But so many questions remain unanswered. Who were the pilots? Whose voice was it in the control tower that countermanded the first order for us to proceed? What drama might have taken place in the control tower at Damascus before one man took the place of another?
We have never had a satisfactory answer to these questions from the then U.A.R. authorities or to others in Jordan's official protest over the incident. Despite repeated requests, they have never told us on whose orders the Damascus Airport authorities and the Air Force planes were operating.
After serious consideration, we decided not to proceed with a case to the United Nations. I preferred to consider this a personal matter rather than a national issue.
I was more than recompensed by the loyalty of my people, from the moment we landed. Anxious officials had congregated at the airport. Huge crowds rushed to surround my plane as we taxied to a stop on the apron. When I reached the Palace, the enthusiasm was unbounded. I was tremendously excited. Through the door of my study where I stood, scores of officers and troops from the Army, men from the desert in white and brown robes, and or so it seemed people from the streets came to pay me homage. I was almost mobbed. I could not prevent them from embracing me, shaking my hands and crying, "Thank God! Thank God you are alive!"
Machine guns were being fired outside, and rifle shots and shotguns also were echoing round the hills. In one place an excited soldier found nothing else to use but a tear-gas bomb and hurled over the heads of the crowd. It seemed as though the whole town had gone wild. Men of my Army tore past the Palace gates up the hill, some of them in Land Rovers, firing their rifles into the air as they headed toward the Palace. The crowds grew as army units stationed outside the city started rolling into Amman to congratulate me. It was a wonderful, wonderful day, and it made me change my mind about a holiday in Europe. At first I had thought of refueling and finding an alternative route to Europe, but
when thousands of men, women and children begged me to stay, I could not leave. My place was with these loyal people, some unashamedly weeping as they embraced me.
My scrape with the Syrian MIGs was a hair's-breadth escape from death, and I must admit that at one time I felt - to use Air Force jargon - that I had "bought" it.
Times have changed since those bitter days of 1958 when tragedy ripped the Arab lands asunder. Even so, the Syrian MIG incident was an attack upon a head of state as yet unparalleled in history, and it will take me longer to forget it than it has taken me to forgive those responsible.
As chance would have it, exactly one year later the same hour, the same date I flew over the same spot, on my way to London, and took the opportunity to mark privately the anniversary of that attack. From the cockpit I looked down as I followed the course I had taken the year before with Dalgleish. Then I had been defenseless and flying at zero altitude. Now the Jordanian Air Force was soaring at height and in strength along our frontier. It all looked so calm and peaceful. On the H.5 road, like a straight black ruler leading to Iraq, there were only a couple of trucks. On the desert, with its lava-covered hillocks where we had so nearly crashed, a camel train moved slowly toward the frontier. At the proper moment I called up Damascus to report my position, thinking back to that first enigmatic reply just a year before. It was different this time! Politely, an impersonal voice gave me leave to proceed. There was not a MIG in the air.
How strange life is and how strange are memories, especially in the loneliness of the skies. I could hardly believe that over those same low black hillocks of lava I had just a year before hedgehopped, fighting desperately for my life, waiting for each new assault as the MIGs attacked. I strained my neck looking out of the cockpit remembering them.
One of my entourage entered the cockpit. Did I need anything? I shook my head. No, I needed nothing; nothing except a moment of privacy to pray silently to God for the gift of life.
Then I busied myself with my instruments and set course for Cyprus and the West.