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Not until 1948 did he see combat. When the frontier squabble between the new state of Israel and the Arab League burst into flames, Naguib was against invading Palestine, not out of love for the Israelis (whom he still calls "the enemy on our eastern frontier"), but because he knew what the war would prove: that the Egyptian army was not ready for a desert campaign. "But the army was never consulted," he says with a bitter shrug. Naguib, a brigadier, took charge of a machine-gun and infantry regiment in the Sinai desert. He was the only senior officer his troops had ever known who literally led his men. When an enemy fusillade struck down most of his company, including a captain standing at his shoulder, the only harm that came to Naguib was a bullet that smashed his pipe. "Why do you risk your life in this needless way?" asked his commanding officer. "It's not needless," replied Naguib. "It makes my men fight better."
For all his luck, Naguib was eventually badly wounded. The first bullet pierced his shoulder. The second tore a gaping hole in his lung, and the Israelis, who won the battle, left him for dead. He was nursed back to health by Dr. Mahmoud Naguib, his younger brother.
Naguib has never forgotten Palestine or the men who fought with him. One day last week, while he was inspecting a military hospital, a dusky Sudanese trooper knelt as he approached, trying to kiss his hand. Naguib flung his arms round the man. Then he introduced him to everyone present with the proud words: "This is one of my boys."
How He Runs His Show. Ever since the coup Naguib has been working 18 hours a day, bedding down at night on a shabby army cot outside his office in Abbasiya Barracks, his GHQ. He is up with the buglers (6 a.m.) in time to say his morning prayers and read a chapter from the Koran before sitting down to breakfast (yoghurt, one tomato, brown bread) and the morning papers. By 8 he is in his office—where King Farouk's picture has been ostentatiously turned to the wall—drafting DROs (Daily Routine Orders), interviewing local commanders, dictating replies to his morning mail (1,000 letters daily). Most of the letters he answers with a picture postcard of his troops or himself with the message: "Our movement succeeded because it was in your name and at your wish . . . [It] is from you and by you and for you."
Afternoons, he is in the field, barreling across the desert in his official Lincoln sedan, to ordnance depots and training camps. Often, when soldiers gripe about their miserable pay (10¢ a day), the commander in chief turns out his pockets and hands out all the money he has on him.
His most important job does not begin until long after dark. The Free Officers Committee, which meets each night, is the real ruler of Egypt. Its nine members, mostly captains and majors, all under 45, hammer out the policies that Naguib—and Prime Minister Aly Maher—are expected to carry out. As chairman, Naguib wields important influence. But he dares not act alone. Faced with a major question of policy, military or political, Naguib invariably comments: "I'll have to get the committee's opinion on this."