"EXCLUSIVE FROM PAKISTAN"
By Watson Sims
I was shaving at home in New Delhi when a bulletin on All India Radio said the government had been dismissed and martial law declared in Pakistan. Leaving the shave unfinished, I ran for the morning flight to Karachi.
Pakistan was a volatile part of my territory as Associated Press bureau chief in New Delhi. Months earlier, a chair thrown during violent debate had killed the Speaker of the East Pakistan Assembly, and there was widespread talk of revolution.
But who would lead a revolution? And where did Pakistan's Army stand? Those were burning questions on October 7, 1958, and I hoped to find the answers in Karachi.
The city was forbiddingly quiet. A clerk at the Metropole Hotel knew the government had been dismissed, but he did not know why or by whom. Finding the Foreign Office closed; I went to the presidential palace and asked for an interview with President Iskander Mirza. I was told my request would be considered.
Returning to the Metropole Hotel, I met Elie Abel of the New York Times and Charles Wheeler of the BBC, who told me that Karachi's airport had been closed. No more correspondents would be arriving.
A day dragged past with no further information, and then came an electrifying call from the president's office: The president would see me at 5pm.
"God," said Elie Abel. "I'd love to go with you."
"God," said Elie Abel. "I'd love to go with you."
For several reasons, I invited him to come. His predecessor as Times Correspondent, Abe Rosenthal, had been helpful when I arrived in India. Unlike United Press International, the Times did not serve other newspapers. And on such a vital and sensitive assignment, I welcomed the company of a non-competitive witness.
At the presidential palace, I found I was expected, and Abel was accepted without challenge. We were escorted to a large office where President Mirza, a swarthy man in his late 50s, was waiting. As we began talking, we could hear someone pacing, up and down, behind curtained doors at one side of the office.
Mirza, visibly ill at ease, said the government was dismissed because it had been unable to control the country's widespread lawlessness. There would be new elections, he said, but important issues had to be resolved before a date could be chosen.
Suddenly, the doors to the balcony were thrown open, and a strapping, mustached man in the khaki uniform of the Pakistan Army entered the room. Quickly, Gen. Mohammad Ayub Khan took command of the meeting.
The fact was, he said, that Pakistan had drifted into disorder under its civilian government, and the Army offered its only hope for stability and peace. The country had many good public servants, but they suffered for lack of direction and purpose.
"We will get some of these good chaps and put them in charge," he said. "Once the situation is under control there will be new elections."
The situation was now clear, and I asked whether I might leave and send my story..
"Oh, no," said President Mirza, glancing at Ayub. "What you have been told is off the record."
"No," said the general. "You may send your story, but first have it read by my assistant, Gen. Yahya Khan."
Within a half-hour, I handed my story to Gen. Mohammad Yahya Khan. He challenged only one word: "Why do you say this is a luxurious palace? It is not nearly so luxurious as your White House."
Relieved of the offending word, the story became a worldwide AP exclusive on a momentous change in Pakistan, with Abel's story in the Times coming one day later.
When Ayub Khan, who was to rule Pakistan until 1969, held his first news conference, a Pakistani journalist asked why the country had been forced to learn of its change of government from a foreign news agency.
"Well," said the general, "none of you chaps asked me."
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