o“Chris somehow talked us out of it.” That sentence in Tim Llewellyn’s obituary of Chris Drake struck a chord with me, as I was the stranded wife whom Chris rescued in West Beirut in 1984.
We fled from our apartment in Chris’s car, I sitting in the centre of the back seat with my two little girls on either side as Chris drove at breakneck speed towards the Commodore Hotel. It was curfew and there were no other vehicles on the streets. We sped through junctions without slowing down, Chris leaning on the horn, until we rounded a corner and were stopped by four or five youths all carrying Kalashnikovs.
They surrounded the car, weapons pointing at us and peered in. Chris in typical pose, elbow out of the window, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, spoke to them easily and looking totally relaxed. “Sorry guys, just getting the wife and family home, OK?” They said nothing, just looked puzzled and waved us on. Chris saved our lives.
