sir" he said, "have the speech of the desert and they shout very much. But I think they say that the King has been shot, the murderers have passed this way and they wish to pursue them." "Not another assassination this is too much" said the horrified wife. With some cause. Since not only is it exceptional to hear of the murder of a King on your way to the shops but also, only the week before and three days after her arrival, her husband, unknowingly, had driven her through the silent ambush laid for a prominent visiting statesman of a neighbouring Arab country. On their return an hour later, the statesman was dead and the road blocked with wrecked cars and excited police.
"Which way?" said the GSO I. "To Ramallah they say sir". The GSO I, had a mental picture of a sixty mile an hour chase with demented Bedouin shooting out of the windows and a car load, perhaps, of desperate assassins ahead shooting back. Clearly not a suitable Friday morning occupation for a young wife. "Out you get, dear", he said "and sit there in the ditch We will be back soon—don't move". In piled the Bedouin, the car turned round, and within sixty seconds of stopping was screaming round the bends in the reverse direction, the GSO I wishing that he had brought his revolver on the shopping expedition. After a mile his driver, who had been listening to the continued shouting of the trigger-happy Bedouin, none of whom had his safety catch on, said "Sir, now I understand them better. It is true the King has been killed but they are not chasing the murderers. They say there is a revolution in Jerusalem, much shooting, and they wish to get help from the Army Camp". The GSO I, knew there was a Bedouin Battalion Camp a few miles further up the road, so he ordered the driver to continue to it, and the four soldiers, to the relief of the GSO I, and even more of his driver who had been controlling the car with a rifle muzzle pressed against his neck, were left at the Guard Room to explain the situation.
Clearly there was much to be done, and the first thing was to contact the General. "To Ramallah, quickly". "But the lady. Sir?" Of course. Round again, and back towards Jerusalem at seventy plus. The GSO I's wife was still sitting in the ditch, keeping off the flies with a switch of palm. "Have you killed them all already?" she asked. "No time to explain, get in". On arrival in Ramallah all the servants, who were soldiers, were turned out to guard the house with their rifles. If there was indeed a revolution going on, it was well to take precautions.
The GOC had already heard the news on the telephone. "I have been trying to contact Glubb Pasha and the Brigadier in command of the Jerusalem Brigade but I can't get through to Amman and the Brigadier appears to be bathing at the Dead Sea and is out of touch. We had better get down to his HQ in Jerusalem at once, and take over".
On the way there several truck loads of Bedouin soldiers, bound for Jerusalem, were passed. They had evidently been turned out by the four soldiers the GSO I, had delivered and seemed to have the sole intention of shooting up anyone who had killed the King or who might be suspected of sympathising with the act. "I think", said the General gently, "it would be just as well if we got to Jerusalem rather quickly before things get too out of hand". On arrival at the Brigade HQ they found one distracted Arab Brigade Major, and many rumours. Prince Hussein was missing, or had been killed also. The Jews were about to attack. Elements hostile to the King were sniping in the streets of Jerusalem.

It was a Jewish plot, an Egyptian plot, a Palestinian plot. A rising was imminent. And much more. All these rumours, as is the way of rumours in Arab countries, proved to be either incorrect or greatly exaggerated. The only incontrovertible fact was the tragic one that the King was indeed dead, shot in the head by a fanatic as he entered the mosque, little more than an hour after the GOC had taken his leave of him. Prince Hussein was certainly missing, but proved to have been hustled back to Amman by a sensible ADC. All was quiet on the Israeli Border and, although all frontier strong-points were alerted and strengthened, not a sound or a movement came from the other side. It was true that shots could be heard going off intermittently within the walls of the Old City. But these proved to be, not the forerunner of revolution, but stray shots loosed off by grief-stricken and angry Bedouin soldiers, in the air, at buildings, or at occasional scuttling Jerusalem towns buildings, or at occasional scuttling Jerusalem townsfolk, fortunately with little effect. In the simple reasoning of the Bedouin, who loved the King as one of their own, since His Majesty had been shot in Jerusalem it was the fault of the Jerusalem townsfolk; it was therefore logical and proper to shoot at them or their property. But Jerusalem had seen many murders, many crises, and much violence in its thousands of years of bloody history. Its citizens knew what to do. Off the streets and up with the shutters. Very quickly any stray soldiers were brought under control, and the town was quiet, but tense. Reinforcements arrived from over the Jordan, a curfew imposed, guards mounted on all foreign Embassies. The Brigadier, having been contacted at his bathing picnic, appeared and took over control of his scattered and nervous troops. Soon too, appeared the grim faced Arab security police who went into instant operation on a simple plan. Arrest everyone. The murderer, indeed, was dead, shot to pieces by the Bodyguard within instants. But his family, not excluding aged grandparents, second and third cousins, children even, were all picked up "for questioning". Every politically hostile or suspected hostile person was gathered in. All through the rest of that long, hot day, and for many days after, the police trucks rushed through the streets, crammed with frightened "suspects" bound for unknown destinations, for unknown periods of detention. Over the radios—and almost every Arab house had one turned full on—wailed out the moaning incantations of the Imams, reciting the Koran and lamentations for the stricken King. From time to time these were interrupted by harsh announcements from the Police, warning the population what not to do.
As the long evening shadows changed quickly to the sudden darkness of a Palestinian night there was no other sound than these screaming radios and the rumble and hooting of army and police trucks. Jerusalem, all the West Bank, crouched timidly within doors, awaiting what the next day might bring. Murders, wars, revolutions, disasters. This was just another incident. It would, like others, pass. In the meantime, stay at home and avoid being shot or arrested. This was prudent, customary.
The GSO I, tired, sad at the King's death, relieved that worse still had not happened, returned home. "You can stand down", he said to the cook, still patrolling the front garden with ready rifle, "and prepare supper".
"I think, my dear", he said, inside, "I could do with a drink. It's been a long day".