90 Minutes at Entebbe

by William Stevenson

  After Athens, suddenly, I noticed the steward talking with one of the Arabs and raising his arms in surrender. He drew back, his face showing fear. From that, I comprehended that the Arab was aiming a gun at him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought that I was dreaming.

  I saw the entire cabin crew—stewards and stewardesses—raise their arms above their heads, and then lie down, face downwards. One of the stewardesses was close to my seat. She lay on the floor with her hands on the back of her neck.

  In the first-class section the two Germans raced toward the pilot’s-cabin I was too far away to see what was happening there, but the first-class passengers told us about it later.

  Everything happened at a dizzy speed. The German woman came to the tourist section where we were sitting and began shouting in German. I did not understand her words, but several times I heard her shout: “Che Guevara.” After that, one of the stewards, who spoke English, was ordered to translate. We were told that we were being hijacked in the name of “Arab and world revolution.” We were forbidden to move—any unnecessary movement would lead to shooting.

  We were told that the hijackers were renaming the plane Arafat. The German woman added that, in place of Air France, we were to use the name Arafat. A short, bearded man, about five feet three, who spoke French with a heavy Yiddish accent, tried to resist. The hijackers knocked him to the floor and beat him severely—the German woman doing most of the punching. We froze in our seats. The head steward told us there was nothing to worry about. We should not be frightened. But he himself was shaking like a leaf. Surprisingly, we became relaxed. Mothers continued to look after their children, other passengers sat in silence, and there were even those who went on reading papers or books.

  None of us knew where the plane was heading; all we knew was that we were flying to some other place. When I went to the toilet—after requesting permission, and escorted by the German woman—I saw the Arabs and the German speaking into the plane’s radio transmitter.

  One of the hijackers’ first acts was to confiscate our passports and other documents in our possession. They noted down every item. After that the stewards passed along the gangway, distributing drinks and biscuits, as though nothing had happened.

  Benghazi—where we landed that afternoon—was nothing more than a geographical name for us. The chief steward called out, “Benghazi!” and that was how we knew where we were. We knew—my neighbors and I—that our “visit” to an Arab country dedicated to destroy Israel was not good news. This was certainly not a safe haven for us. An hour passed, and another hour, and we sat there in silence, heavy with foreboding.

  When the plane took off we sensed relief. Someone said we were flying south. The rest remained silent. They didn’t speak: the hijackers did not permit conversations. The German woman was especially strict, she walked along the gangway, one hand scratching her hair—or, to be precise, the wig she was wearing—while the other held a grenade. She barked at us to be silent, over and over.

  I heard crew members whispering that the gang knew where we were going from the start, that the chief pilot was shown a chart with the different places marked. Still I could not guess where.

  We landed at a time when it was very dark—the darkest hour, perhaps 3:30 a.m. Then a steward told us we were in Uganda. Uganda? Nobody near me knew where this Uganda was, or anything else about it. And then somebody whispered that this was the country of Idi Amin. Now we knew where we were.

  I must confess I was frightened. For me Amin resembled Hitler. He had boasted how much he admired Hitler. First the German woman was screaming out orders and casting terrifying glances—and now: the country of Idi Amin. During those moments I fancied that I had entered a terrible nightmare world—the world of the concentration camps of World War II.

  We sat in the plane for several hours, waiting; no one knew why. From our seats we could see the airport building, the terminal, and a number of Ugandan policemen and soldiers running toward the plane. After that, powerful searchlights were switched on, illuminating the plane like daylight.

  We waited there till 10:00 a.m. Then the door of the plane was opened and we were permitted to descend, one after another. We were taken to the central lounge, from where we could see Lake Victoria. I never dreamed I would see the lake.

  A few minutes later, a helicopter circled above us. Idi Amin arrived, together with his son, who is about seven or eight years old. Father and son wore identical uniforms, with identical decorations and medals.

  Idi Amin entered the lounge, laughing and shaking hands all round. “Welcome, welcome to Uganda!” he said over and over again.

  Idi Amin said that he would try to make sure that our stay in Uganda would be as comfortable as possible. Numerous African women entered the lounge, carrying armchairs. I think there were enough armchairs for all of us—250 or more. After that breakfast was served: tea, bananas, bread and butter, eggs, and even potatoes. Idi Amin launched upon a long speech, encouraged by our applause. The Palestinians are entitled to state of their own, he said: the Zionists and the imperialists are depriving the Palestinians of a state. He told of his recent visit to Damascus, and to its Jewish community; he assured us that the Jews of Damascus were treated well. “Don’t worry about them,” he said, “the Syrians are looking after them and supplying all their needs.”

  He was followed by a doctor and a nurse. They asked each of us whether we were ill, or in need of medical attention. The doctor looked like an Arab, and several people said he was a Palestinian. The few examinations made were hurried and superficial. One of the passengers—Solomon Rubin—suffers from a heart ailment; for him, the doctor prescribed a few aspirin tablets.

  Throughout the night we were guarded by two of the hijackers, who were armed with submachine guns. I noticed that the Germans—the man and the cruel woman—did not sit down for one moment. They stood throughout their turn of guard duty. The German was still carrying the submachine gun, which had previously been strapped to his back, underneath his jacket. That was how he brought the gun onto the plane at Athens.

  All the hijackers were well armed and determined to complete the operation they had begun. The German carried a submachine gun; each of the others carried a pistol in one hand and a hand grenade in the other. It appeared that relations between the terrorists and the Ugandans were excellent. Before we went to sleep, we were warned that anyone trying to “cross the lines” would be shot dead.

  The Ugandan soldiers were stationed at least 20 yards away from us. We had the impression that the Ugandans were helping the hijackers to keep us prisoners.

  After we were brought to Entebbe the hijackers received reinforcements. Two men who looked like Palestinians joined our captors. Someone said they were members of the local PLO office in the capital, Kampala. In any case, the armed terrorists, together with the Ugandan army—which surrounded us and seemed to be cooperating with the hijackers—precluded any attempt at resistance.

  Idi Amin came to visit us again. He said that he was doing everything in his power to bring about—by means of negotiations—the release of some of us: in other words, elderly people, invalids, mothers, and small children. Afterward he claimed that the hijackers had offered to release 40 persons, but he succeeded in persuading them to release 48.

  Throughout the time we were in the lounge in Entebbe we did not once see the French ambassador or anyone else, except for our captors, Idi Amin, his bodyguards, and the African women.

  Tuesday was sad and tragic. In the evening, just before supper, the German hijacker entered, holding a list. He began to read out names. After four or five, it became clear that they were all Israeli names. Those whose names were called took their suitcases and possessions and moved to another room. Many of the 83 were crying as they went to the second room. Many of us who remained where we were felt miserable. It was a terrible scene—that thick German accent and the selekzia.

  The 83 went. A few minutes later Amin entered the outer room to meet them. We cou
ldn’t hear everything he said—only fragments reached our ears. Several times we heard him say the Hebrew word “Shalom.” When he concluded, the Israelis clapped. It was an awful night, even though I myself and many others knew that we would soon be released.

  Yesterday, Wednesday, we knew it was all over. Idi Amin visited us again. We, the lucky ones who were about to be released, were preparing our departure. Idi Amin shook hands with each one. He wished us a good journey, and assured us that he was our friend.

  A French nun, whose name was on the list of those to be liberated, protested. She wanted to stay behind, and give her place up to someone else—an elderly person, or an invalid. Another person—a Frenchwoman, about 55 years old—made a similar offer; but it soon was clear that the list was fixed and unchangeable.

  We were taken in a bus to the French consulate, where the ambassador awaited us. That was the first time we saw him. We shook hands, we were given orange juice, and then we drove to the new airport, where we boarded the plane. It was all over. After a flight of nine hours, we reached Paris. For us the adventure was over.

  For us—and for us alone. None of us who have returned knows what will happen now, or what will be the fate of those who remained. It’s clear that the hijackers seem determined, that over two hundred hostages are still captives in their hands, and that they are capable of anything.

  Moshe Peretz, the Israeli medical student, was recording Thursday’s events at Entebbe:

  0800—The routine timetable: breakfast, washing clothes, the children on the lawn, house arrest.

  1200—Amin appears in battle dress, together with his son, and informs us that so far negotiations have failed, because of the obstinacy of the Israeli government. He announces that he is negotiating with the government through the offices of his good friend Colonel Bar-Lev, and that he has gained an extension of the ultimatum to 11:00 a.m. on Sunday. There is an air of depression among the Israeli group. People are quiet and sad; they don’t talk much with one another—they’ve withdrawn within themselves. The children continue to play.

  1400—A second group of Frenchmen leaves. Those remaining are the Israelis, 20 young Frenchmen, and the crew. In the meantime the terrorists have invented a new form of entertainment: they read out the names of the Israelis and each one who is called lifts his finger. The terrorist takes a long look at his face and makes some mysterious mark by his name. Are these marks the signs for life or death? It’s horrifying. One boy, about 16 years old, apparently slow in raising his hand, was rewarded by one of the Arabs with a sharp slap, accompanied by terrifying shouts. Rumors are going around about tortures which four of the passengers have undergone. It’s reported that the hijackers have subjected them to electric shocks and threats of murder. Four persons were, indeed, taken to a neighboring room. One of the men was beaten severely, and one of the women was treated to threats.

  1600—We are brought back to the central lounge. We feel united, together with the Frenchmen and the crew. A good feeling (under the circumstances).

  1800—We’ve just received tidings which have made us all jump for joy. It has been made known that the Israeli government has accepted the terrorists’ conditions in their entirety! What joy! Everyone is hugging and kissing one another, as though they had just been “born anew.” The news came from the French captain of the plane. However, a few of the hostages say the decision leaves them with a strange taste in their mouths. True, they are included among those to be released, but the fact that all the terrorists’ demands have been accepted means giving them further opportunities to operate against civil aviation.

  2000—We organize sleeping arrangements and make preparations for tomorrow’s flight home.

  8

  SHIFT TO TRACK B: ATTACK

  While the hostages and their families were rejoicing and indulging in wishful thinking a feeling of depression spread through Israel: the heavy sense of surrender and of helplessness. The cabinet felt the same way. Some ministers contended that surrender—in the face of the selekzia the only option open to them—would inflict a further blow at the government’s position. Israel’s antiterrorist campaign would peter out.

  The cabinet’s decision to surrender was genuine, and no mere ruse. Nevertheless, as is his way, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was trying to gain time. Hours. Days.

  A combined intelligence operation by Friday, July 2, began the shift to Track B, the military option.

  Police and military specialists in terrorism fed information to Israel from several Western capitals, disregarding the timid views of politicians and the official policies of governments. An underground network created itself out of the challenge of the tyrant and his terrorist allies in Uganda. President Amin was a puppet of his so-called State Research Department, organized by Soviet Russian advisers and staffed by highly trained protégés of the Palestinian guerrilla agencies. State Research Department was the cover name for a secret police so powerful that Big Daddy, despite his self-proclaimed titles of operatic splendor, performed a stage role. This much was made clear by the collection of intelligence from many sources.

  From West Germany came information on Wilfried Böse, tentatively identified as the German who declared himself captain of the hijacked airbus.

  From Canada came a flood of material collected by Guy Toupin, coordinator of security for the 1976 Olympic Games in Montreal. Toupin had worked for more than a year with the police of a dozen countries in preparation for the Olympics. He recalled only too vividly the massacre of Israeli athletes during the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich. That had been the work of Palestinian guerrillas, and Toupin pointed out that that Uganda’s President had cabled the United Nations his joy and approval of the slayings, adding his praise of Hitler for killing 6 million Jews. Was it not probable that the mastermind behind the Olympic massacre of 1972 sheltered in Uganda?

  The speed and efficiency of “Captain” Wilfried Bose in taking over the airbus was confirmed by information smuggled out of Uganda by the Air France crew. Captain Michel Bacos, the slim gray-haired skipper of the airbus, insisted that in no circumstances would he or the plane’s other crew members leave Uganda without all passengers; when the two batches of hostages were released, he sent with them a detailed report of events between Athens-Benghazi-Entebbe. “It was a dangerous action, dangerous to his own safety,” commented an Israeli minister later. “But it characterized all his actions. Captain Bacos even swept the floors and made the beds of sick passengers, advising them what to say and how to behave so that none of the terrorists nor Amin would be provoked. Most important, though, was this intelligence that the hijacking was calculated and executed by experts whose leaders were now gathered in Uganda.”

  Shimon Peres, the Polish-born defense minister who had learned to fly during 25 years of public service in Israel, understood and admired what Captain Bacos was trying to do. Peres was the architect of good French-Israeli relations in the 1950s that led to the acquisition of the French Mirage jet fighters. The Mirage was modified by research scientists who were mobilized by Peres while he served in defense under David Ben-Gurion, then both prime minister and minister of defense, and this new Israeli version made the Mirage one of the world’s most envied fighters.

  In his Tel Aviv office Peres dealt with a constant stream of soldiers and airmen. From the first day of crisis he was convinced that surrender was the greater risk.

  “What use is it to speak of freedom if people are afraid to make sacrifices for it?” he demanded of Chief of Staff Mordechai Gur.

  There was no need for Gur to reply. His mind had been on Track B all along, though he could offer no realistic military option before the first terrorist deadline. All week he had encouraged ideas from his men. By Friday the more outrageous schemes had been eliminated Attention focused on the single rescue plan that seemed to offer the least danger to life.

  The great rescue depended on these considerations, laid out coolly by Peres:

  1. President Amin was enjoying the tremendous
publicity and the terrorists encouraged him to bathe in the light of world attention. There was no possibility of arguing Amin into cooperating with Israel, but there was every indication that he and the terrorists wished to prolong their act. Therefore, Gur should try to put together a precise operation on the basis that there was time for a full dress rehearsal.

  2. Six terrorist leaders were known to have driven from Somalia to Kampala, preferring surface transport to avoid detection. President Amin had spoken of “the number one” standing beside him during one of the bizarre phone exchanges with shopkeeper and ex-military adviser Bar-Lev in Israel. This might be Dr. Hadad, whose chief concern must be to milk the situation for its propaganda value within the Palestinian guerrilla movements as well as outside.

  3. President Amin would use the conference of the OAU to make a grand entrance, then rush back to watch the countdown to Sunday’s new deadline.

  4. There was reason to fear that the execution of hostages would begin Sunday, one by one at long intervals, to demonstrate the gravity of the terrorist threats.

  5. The Uganda State Research Department would control any lunatic urge on President Amin’s part until Sunday. Then the secret police might see some advantage to displaying brutality.

  The great rescue should aim for Saturday night, therefore, no less than six hours before the dawn of Sunday, July 4, when the executions might begin.

  A report, was leaked to the public from the scene of the Olympic Games in Canada. The Jackal was in Montreal. Other circumstantial details were released to persuade terrorist organizations that the identity of Wil-fried Bose had not been guessed; that the presence of terrorist leaders in Somalia and Uganda was not suspected; and that Israel felt itself alone in dealing with a dangerous and unknown situation.