Foreign News: Under New Management

“We can and mean to run the canal,” boasted Egypt’s President Nasser. Last week, eight weeks after his seizure of the canal, a week after the walkout of two-thirds of the canal pilots, Nasser seemed to be making good his boast. Since the seizure, 2,432 ships had passed safely through the canal, 301 since the pilots’ walkout. Thanks in part to the detour of some French and British ships around the Cape, there were no jams at the canal entrances. After a few days of limiting convoys to two a day, the Egyptians moved back to the pre-seizure schedule of three a day. After traveling the 103-mile route last week on the Italian supertanker Coraggio, TIME Correspondent John Mecklin cabled:

NASSER’S troubles are far from over, but any responsible assessment of the canal crisis must include the probability that the Egyptians are able to run it by themselves. At 0730 on the dot, placed 14th in a 24-ship convoy, the Coraggio swung free at Port Said. Egyptian Pilot Ibrahim el Shiaty, who speaks good Italian, barked his first orders: “Avanti adagio, venti a diritta” (Slow ahead, 20 degrees rudder to the right). We moved slowly past the statue of Canal Builder Ferdinand de Lesseps with bronze arm outstretched, past the white-colonnaded canal headquarters where the green Egyptian flag flew proudly from the mast, past a pair of Egyptian navy corvettes acquired from the British in better times.

Inches to Spare. At the outset there was a certain amount of tension on the bridge. Shiaty is an oldtimer with 27 years at sea and 10 on the canal, one of three Egyptian pilots who reached first-class rating (none held master’s rating) under the old company, and one of seven available pilots (four top-class Greeks also stayed on) qualified to handle big ships under the old company standards.

But the Coraggio was the type of ship which confronts a pilot with the toughest problems and dangers of all. She was built to carry the biggest load that could squeeze through the ditch. Her twin screws churn up mud within inches of the bottom, tend to make the big ship yaw from side to side. Besides, she was heading south full of highly volatile free gases left (because of an evaporator breakdown) from her last load of crude. A single bump, a single spark, could explode the gas in an instant mass of flame. Skipper Aniello Coppola stuck close to the bridge, watching every move.

Other ships looked like black bugs under the blazing desert sun. Alongside, white, shimmering sand on the rock-filled banks slipped silently by. Cars and trucks sped by occasionally on the canal highway. Beyond, in the rolling desert, djinns of dust spun with the wind. Occasionally we saw a camouflaged gun position, a snorting dredge, a rowboat with a fisherman and his son watching their nets.

On the bridge beside Coppola stood a newly recruited ex-Kiel Canal pilot, Captain Helmut H. Wilters, taking copious notes. He was one of 50 to 60 volunteers from several countries being rush-trained to replace the departed pilots. Shiaty tutored him meticulously. When the Italian helmsman—changed every hour on account of the strain—just once failed to follow a command, Shiaty called to the mate: “Another helmsman.”

“You Happy, Captain?” At noon Coppola invited me to an enormous lunch of spaghetti, steak, and plenty of strong Neapolitan wine, and unburdened himself: “If the Egyptians have enough men like this pilot, they can easily run the canal.” Shiaty was making his third full-length trip in five days. “It’s really killing, this work, but we have to do it,” he said, nibbling at a sandwich. “It’s my country. Wouldn’t you do the same?” I asked Wilters, the German, for his opinion. “I better not talk politics,” he said.

As the ship rounded the bend into Suez Harbor, elation broke out all over the bridge. Shiaty. beaming with pride, called: “You happy, Captain?” Said Coppola: “Ten hours! In the 30 years I’ve been going through the canal, this is the fastest transit. The last trip took 18 hours, and the French pilot had so much wine that we had to keep him awake with coffee. I’m glad they’re gone, these foreigners.” “We don’t need them,” said Shiaty. “They won’t be back.” Then he shook hands with the captain and headed down the gangway to the pilot boat. It was 5:30 p.m. His next ship was due out at dawn.