Man With Price Upon His Head

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 90, Issue 167, 22 July 1946, Page 8

Man With Price Upon His Head

Arab, Jew, And Briton A contingent who came to London for the Victory Parade left the other day for Palestine, going back to do their jobs as policemen. But one man was not with them. If he returns there he will be murdered. The authorities are certain of this, and that is why they have insisted on Lieutenant-Colonel Raymond Cafferata taking a desk job in London, writes Warwick Charlton in the “Daily Express.”

A few weeks ago he answered his telephone in his house at Nablus, near Samaria. “Is that Colonel Cafferata?”

said a voice. “Yes,” he replied. “Take warning—you are going to be killed. You are going to be killed.” said the voice. Colonel Cafferata, of the Palestine police, put down the receiver.

“It was rather cinema stuff, and in 24 years in the Palestine police I had answered many such calls,’’ he said. “And it is true that the callers often attempted my life. “But I must say I found these threats rather stupid in their manner and wearying in their execution. But still, they meant it.”

BI LLETS AND BOMBS. A day later Cafferata was driving his car round a corner of Mountain road when he saw a truck drawn i across the road in front ol him. There 1 were some men behind it. “I shot it out with them,” said the colonel, “and when one o? them got h bullet in the guts they started to throw home-made gelignite bombs. They hit my car, but fortunately the bombs didn’t go off. ’ ; Alter that the in aonfes decided it I was time Colonel Cafferata came h< me with his wu ? at i two young children. Now they are living at Brighton, where Mrs. Cafferata finds it “quite quiet.” When there was trouble between Arab and Jew 15 years ago he earned the title of “Man of Lead” from the Arabs. He was the only Englishman Jat Hebron when the riots began, i After stemming single-handed the I .savage slaughter inside the Ghetto, he ! entered houses alone and shot down j men who were in the act of murder- ; ing children. Then he came out, ! only with a revolver, and wit?i- -! stood a crowd of 80. An ex-policeman, armpd with a sword, incited the mob to kill Cafferata. He straightaway fired from I the hip. The crowd hesitated and i were lost. He disarmed them. I For this he was given the King’s Police Medal. i To-day Cafferata reads the news I from Palestine, and—as though he | were discussing the weather —says: I “It looks like things are simmering lup again—though they are never ' i eally off the boil. The young men

'I who go out from Britain to join th< '■ force a v e going to lead a tough life, ; j lonely life, but. a man’s life.’ H 1 might have added the word danger ous.

NOWHERE IS SAFE. For, apart from the old sniper’s bullet, an ambush on the road, a booby trap, or a knife in the back, the Palestine policeman has the thought that terrorists have twice blown 1 up police headquarters in Jerusalem, twice in Haifa, and once in Jaffa. Nowhere is safe. “Sometimes we make mistakes,” Cafferata says. ‘You know, the line between a little trouble and a big riot is very slender. Perhaps stones are thrown by Arab children at Jewish or the other way round. If the constable does not act at once the parents join in and the children’s fight becomes a racial riot. “He must show exquisite tact and humour. He must call on an Arab and a Jewish constable and ask each of them to deal with the children of their own nationality. Above all. the British policeman must be impartial.” So strict is this rule that if a policeman falls in love with a Jewish or Arab girl he may not marry her. GOODBYE. Colonel Cafferata took me along to Kensington Gardens, where he went

to say good-bye to the Victory Paiade contingent. In a bell tent he sat down on a box and spoke to Sergeant G. Hill. A sure young man was Sergeant. Hill, with steady, unwavering eyes. Like the colonel, he wears the King’s Medal for .Gallantry. Once, when acting as 'escort to V.T.P.’s, he ran into an ambush. The terrorists shot the driver .through the neck, and he lay slumped lover the wheel. Sergeant Hill turned to the V.l.P.’s and said: T we ditch the car--if you take cover I think I can take care of them-.” And with his revolver he fought off attacks‘until assistance arrived.

Twenty-six-year-old Constable Arthur New came up to us.

“You know,” he said to the colonel, “I don’t regret going back. I like the feeling that you’re always on the job out there. But. there is one thing I am going to miss, and that is friends. Can’t be too friendly w'ith an Arab, can we? Can't get too chummy with a Jew’. And they’re both a bit afraid

of what people might think if they are too close with us. Back here you feel you’re part of things and out there you’re alone.”

BUT A MAN’S JOB. When we left the tent. Colonel Cafferata turned to me and said: “There is one thing the police—none of us—will ever forget. Many of them are married and have children, and we run a special bus for them. The terrorists decided to get that bus. It held 38 children. “As it was coming up the hill leading to their school one of our constables spotted a man on the summit. He raced to him and got him just in time. The terrorists had planted enough explosives to kill every child in the bus. “Every man’s hand seems against you,” said Cafferata softly, as though to himself. And then he added, as if he would rather be in Tel Aviv and the troubles than Brighton and the sun: “But it’s a man’s job.” It certainly is.