him to the warehouse that we are supposed to guard. There I hug a wooden post and spew.
"I think I am dying" is all I can mumble. My stomach is turning over.
"I hope so," Sancho answers mercilessly.
I lie down on a pile of sacks of flour and go straight back to sleep.
* * *
When I wake up the sun is beating down on my face. The warehouse is deserted. Sancho is not there and my mind is clear again.
In front of the headquarters stands a convoy looking like some-thing out of The Thousand and One Nights. The company which was in Sukreir during the night has returned in their armored vehicles. They look like figures from a fairy story: turbans and keffiyehs on their heads, sparkling daggers in their belts. And the vehicles are sparkling too: long swords, water pipes, masbahas.11
A soldier with a walrus mustache - wearing a yellow keffiyeh and a square agal with silver threads, like those worn by respected sheikhs - fills Sancho in with the details.
"Without these bloody British we would have had no trouble. We had surrounded this shitty village and called through loudhailers for them to bring out their weapons. You should have seen how they ran to give up their weapons. It was a joy to watch. Then we went from house to house to search them. Then we suddenly learned that the damned Brits were approaching with their tanks from the direction of Sarafand. So we beat it quickly."
"To hell with these Brits," cursed someone in the next vehicle. "I had just got my eyes on a nice little one, well rounded with really dark eyes. Just when I was about to grab her we had to disappear."
"Ugh! Do you want to rape Arab women?" The man with the mus-tache played holier-than-thou.
"So what? War is war. I can’t see what’s wrong with that!"
"Why not?" a third joined in. "If you can kill, you can also rape."
"That is something different. In war you have to kill. But to rape - that is disgusting."
"Especially with a stinking Arab woman!" sneered the man with the mustache.
"There is no arguing about taste" added another philosophically.
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