A King Whose Life is in Constant Danger.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18615, 17 November 1928, Page 19 (Supplement)

A King Whose Life is in Constant Danger.

Skanderberg 111. of Albania Always Has Gun Within Reach.

(Written for the “Star”)

Being king of a country like Albania is not all fun, according to a New Zealander who is at present in Europe. Writing to a member of the staff of the “Star,” he says: Hullo. Bill! Haven’t written to you for quite a long time. That letter of vours, for which many thanks, got me into quite a heap of trouble that’s all mixed up with the information you asked me to get about the Ahmed Zogu gent. I’m writing now’ from the old Daniel, the best pub in Venice, after leaving Durazzo because the police told me to. I started out trying to get the dinkum dope on this Zogu, Skandeaberg 111. he calls himself, as you asked me to, but it was very difficult. He keeps himself so wrapped up and guarded that no one can get near him, v except strictly on business. Even the ambassador Johnnies are closely inspected and watched by armed guards when they go to see him on official business. It’s like this. The vendetta business still rules Albania, and there are some two thousand men sworn to shoot him on sight on account of various interludes in his past. Every man here goes about armed. No respectable Albanian, outside the towns, would dream of being found without his rifle—he grabs it when he leaves his house, as you grab your hat. And when the country folk come into the towrn they don’t leave their weapons behind—they’d feel undressed. Well, I started hovering around the palace (they call it) where he lives, in hopes of getting a glimpse of him. I took a few photos of the place and of their Parliament building, but nary a look did I get. Bill, he never goes out except absolutely secretly. However, I was cainping at quite a decent pub, brand new—even had electric light and whisky wasn’t too dear. One night I’d gone to bed earlyish, when there w’as a terrible din at the door and, when I switched on the light, 1 found the room completely filled with policemen. I was yanked most unceremoniously out of my cosy little bed, while the whole joint was thoroughly searched, and, believe me, they weren’t too gentle. They let me put on a great coat over my pyjamas, and a pair of slippers, and off we went to police headquarters. I’ve ridden -m many sorts of vehicles in my time. I’ve tried a hearse and even a fire engine, but this was abso* lutely the first time in my little life that I’ve been honoured with an armoured car. That’s the sort of criminal, or rather hired assassin, I was. Yes,, handcuffed, in pyjamas and in an armoured car. I suppose that I wasn’t treated as badly as I might have been because I was English, but they tried to bully me in Albanian, which I couldn’t understand, and then in Italian and French, which I wouldn’t understand, and then they sent me up to the boss. It was midnight by then. Oh, I forgot to say that though they used these foreign languages, they must have known English, because the incriminat-

ing evidence against me was your facetious little reference to the worthy Ahmed and your request for information. How they read your disgusting scrawl passes my comprehension. Then occurred the most amazing thing of the lot. I knew the boss policeman’s face quite well. He was an Englishman, lie was looking through my papers, and he looked up, and I knew he had recognised me. He said, “Haven t I seen vou before r ’ And it came back to me like a flash. “Don’t you remember that disgusting sugar refinery in lront of Colincamps?” I said. “Or the old windmill on the Maillet-Maillet road in 1918? You drank bottles of my whisky there.” He was a Tommy officer that I had a lot to do with. Saw him every day for months. In about two minutes the Albos had been turfed out and we sat down to a darned good faddle. 1

tell you, Bill, it was like finding a longlost brother, under the circumstances. We talked late into the morning and we saw a good bit of each other in the next few days, till he advised me to go, as my presence was resented by some of the Albanians who were still suspicious of me. The trouble was all in aid of my hanging round the local White House to get an eyeful ol Ahmed. But I never got my photos back. That was a bit of a curse. The tale my cobber told was a bit of an eye-opener too. He was one of eight British ex-officers who went to Albania at the request of the Government to organise the gendarmerie, but though my friend had some high-sound-ing appointment, he preferred to call himself “Stopper-in-chief of revolutions.” lie saw quite a lot of Skanderberg himself, as he received most of his instructions direct and was probably one of the few people in the coun-

ry that the king could trust,’*’or would rust. Skanderberg is terrified of being .ssassinated, chiefly on account of chose two thousand gents who are .worn, by reason of a blood feud, to shoot him on sight; he very seldom leaves his very modest little house, which is entirely surrounded by armed guards, and everyone who goes near is looked at more than sideways. When lie goes out it is only with the greatest precautions, and the people never see him. He is not game to face a big public ceremonial coronation. My cobber told me that Ahmed always has a big automatic pistol within easy reach. When he sits at his desk in the room where he receives those who want to see him it hangs on a special rest just alongside his knee. The trouble in the country is between the Christians and the Mussulmen. Ahmed is a Mussulman and the Christians won’t stand for his regime in. perpetuity. They want a king, the trappings and fal-lalls appeal to them; they , realise that he is doing tremendously good jvork for the country with schools and communications and trade and all that, but he is a Mussulman. My cobber was sent up to Scutari (Shkoder they call it) to find out what Yas Kiri, the Christian leader, was thinking about things. He saw a number of the head men of the main villages, and they all said the same thing: They would put up with it for a certain time but not for ever. Now this was while Ahmed was president, and the constitution provided a presidential term of seven years, so it was reported to Ahmed that he had nothing to be frightened of in the way of revolution till the end of his term as president, but then the Christians would see to it. He said he had no intention of remaining in office longer than the legal term unless re-elected. But now that he has proclaimed himself King trouble may come soon. Since Ahmed with forty of General Wrangel’s White Russians and a handful of Albanian outlaws seized power at the end of 1924 he has been virtually a prisoner in his own house. They say that he works very hard; of course he is practically a dictator, but as he is unable to take any exercise he has grown very pale and flabby. lie used to be a tall, handsome mountaineer when he fought for his living. He is only thirty-three, so he must have some guts to get where he is. Once when they were discussing the possibility of being more sympathetic to the northern Catholics, Ahmed replied ; "I used to be sentimental when 1 was a boy of twelve, and I have spent the time since being shot in the back by my friends.” - That as a matter of fact is almost ' literally true. I was told that he has ; been wounded at least ten times, and ; has shown wonderful courage. Once he 1 was shot through the hand and the j groin while on his way to Parliament. 1 He stumbled, recovered himself, and J pursued his assailant, a boy of sixteen, whom lie shot dead He then returned ]

ot Parliament, made his speech, and went home, where he was in bed for months. He seems to lie a bit vain,.from what I can hear, and wears rather wonderful uniforms. The commonest picture of him is one in a gorgeous affair of white and gold. My cobber gave mi an autographed photo which I thought you might like to see, and I enclose a funny little picture of their Parliament building, all I was able to save from the wreck when the police went through my pockets.