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“This way for World War II,” or “Hello Soldier, having fun.”

“You have just passed Go. Collect 200 pounds.”

“Insure now with the Prudential.”

Shapiro was patting his pockets…“Got a fag?”

Me:

Yes.

Shapiro:

Since we have been in action I’ve smoked more.

Me:

I’ve got plenty since I smoked a pipe.

Shapiro:

Ta.

The scene:

I lit him up and then lit my pipe.

Shapiro:

What’s it like with a pipe?

Me:

“It’s a psychological difference.”

Shapiro:

“What’s that mean?”

Me:

“I don’t know. I read it in a medical book.”

Shapiro:

“Let me try!”

The scene:

He took the pipe, drew, inhaled, then burst out coughing. His eyes started to water, “Ohhh dear! Fucking terrible! How do you inhale that crap?”

Me:

“You don’t.”

Shapiro:

“Now he tells me. I’ll stick to fags.”

Me:

“Yes, stick to yours.”

Shapiro:

Tell you what, you want to sell me some ?

Me:

You come quickly on the hour!

Shapiro: How much?

Me:

How much you got?

Shapiro:

You thieving sod.

Me:

It’s twenty fags, twenty francs. Business is business. We are fighting a capitalist war, so it’s twenty francs!

Shapiro unbuttons his left hand battle-dress pocket. You would tell by the wear and tear on the leading edges it was where he kept his lolly. He took out his pay book, opened it, laying between the leaves was 500 francs.

“You done a robbery?” I said.

“No, I save it and send it home to my mother, and she buys houses with it.”

He counted me out two tens.

“You’re a bloody robber,” he said smiling. I could but think of the added burden he had being Jewish. If the Germans took him prisoner…

Milligan selling cigarettes to Gunner Shapiro in the heat of battle

The line tested, we made for the Bren Carrier at the bottom of the hill. “Anybody in?” I called. Bombardier Sherwood appeared from under the scrim net. “Ahh! you’re just in time for tea.” Bombardier Hart was in the very act of pouring it. He looked up.

“Cor, Cohen and Kelly! you don’t half time it right.”

“We persecuted minorities have to use our nut.” I untied my tea mug from my waist. “ Weee Craskkhhhh.” An eighty-eight! Then another and another and another, then lots of anothers—in all about twenty rounds. We hugged the side of the Bren Carrier. The smell of cordite drifted across, fragments of metal scattered around us. It stopped as suddenly as it started.

“I think Jerry can see the bloody lot of us all the time,” I said, “whenever I’ve come up here, he’s thrown a few over.”

“It’s you, Milligan,” said Sherwood. “You’re a Jonah, get in the Bren Carrier and we’ll throw you over the side.”

We drank our tea. After two days in action I knew the most dangerous gun in Africa was the 88 mm, its low trajectory gave no warning of approach.

“Who’s at the O.P.” I asked.

“Tony Goldsmith and Spike Deans.”

“Have they had any tea?” I said.

“No,” said Sherwood.

“Fill my water bottle and I’ll take some up.”

Carefully Sherwood filled it. I fixed it to my belt and started up the hill. I took no chances and kept to the right, as I neared the crest, I lay down and crawled.

“Where are you 19 Bty?” I coo-ed.

“This way,” said Spike Deans. “We’re the good-looking ones.”

They guided me by “talking me down.” The view from the O.P. was magnificent. Below lay the vast Goubelat Plain, to our right, about five miles on, were two magnificent adjoining rocky peaks that rose sheer 500 feet above the plain, Garra el Kibira and Garra el Hamada, christened ‘Queen Sheba’s Tits’. At the foot lay El Kourzia, a great salt lagoon two to three miles in circumference. Around the main lagoon were dotted smaller lagoons and around the fringe, what appeared to be a pink scum. In fact it was hundreds of flamingo’s. This vision, the name of Sheba, the sun, the crystal white and silver shimmer of the salt lagoon made boyhood readings of Rider Haggard come alive. It was a sight I can never forget, so engraved was it that I was able to dash it down straight onto the typewriter after a gap of thirty years. Further right of the lagoon were