It was Palestine 1947 and I was a British Constable in the Palestine Police. In all there were approximately 5000 of us trying to keep the peace and administer justice in a very troubled land.

At the time 47/48 I was stationed in Jaffa. Watching the turmoil and slaughter in Gaza today, I was forcibly reminded of Palestine as I knew it. I feel very little has changed.

While I was stationed in Jaffa, another British Constable was transferred for his safety from Jerusalem. Hector McKechnie had served in Jerusalem for some time when information was received that his life was under threat.
Hector had become involved romantically with a young Jewish girl. Hector in a candid conversation with me had extolled the many virtues of his beloved. She embodied all the virtues, her beauty was breathtaking and he believed she loved him as he loved her.

He realised if the romance led to marriage, he would have to resign from the police but he was prepared to sacrifice his career for love. Lisa, he told me, was her name and it was engraved on his heart, he was truly smitten.

Nearing the end of December, Hector was all agog with the knowledge that in a matter of days he would be seeing Lisa again. Being a Scotsman, he was hoping for a double celebration in Jerusalem, New Year’s Eve and engagement to Lisa, his dream girl. He even went to the length, in order to impress, to borrow my hardly worn light raincoat.

It was reported to us afterwards that Hector and Lisa met outside a cinema in Jerusalem, that Lisa kissed him passionately and then for some reason departed into a nearby shop. While she was absent, Hector was shot five times in the back. He died on the way to hospital and Lisa was nowhere to be found. He was twenty-three.

Love is often a dicey emotion, sometimes only one of the pair suffers the pangs, but in most cases the path of love is seldom smooth. However, it is not often that one’s love is betrayed to the extent of death.

Hector’s body, complete with coat, was returned to Jaffa for burial. I saw the coat, there were five bullet holes in the back and it was soaked with blood.

My last tribute to my mate was to be a member of the guard of honour that escorted Hector’s body to Ramleh cemetery and who fired a volley over his grave. Hector’s killers were never arrested and Lisa, of course, had disappeared.

Although sixty-one years have passed, I can still see Hector as he departed with high expectations to Jerusalem. I have never visited his grave and am unlikely to do so now, but I have never forgotten Hector or forgiven Lisa.

British policemen in Palestine during the late 1940s.