104 | John W. Warner IV pranks on one another; they were just boys fighting far from Germany or Austria or Italy, and it was obvious they missed their families and loved ones, proudly showing their comrades photos and keepsakes from the mail, little bits of sanity from home they would keep in their pockets so they wouldnt go mad at times or lose faith. Soldiers treated the locals with respect, and a minority of them were flushed with victory, drunk on adventure, and having the absolute time of their lives. They were brothers, a family; they fought for German glory, each other, and father Rommel, not Hitler and his bastard Nazis. Three officers were yawning and stretching as they leisurely exited commandeered houses used as barracks. The smell of tea, spices, and coffee filtered through the gentle breeze, stiffly punctuated only by the occasional jackass or camel dung pile buzzing with clouds of flies, the only true conquerors of the desert. A few empty bottles of Italian Doppio Kummel filled the trash bins, and piles of brownish greatcoats fresh from the nights chill lay neatly stacked near a medical corps station adorned with the Kfrika Korps -p3m. tree and swastika. A dozen Germans and Italians were sick from lice, diphtheria, dysentery, and the hated skin sores, the hot, dry desert fighting harsh, thirsty, unforgiving, testing, a burning cauldron of death despite the little paradise all around them, a calm little water island in the eye of a dusty, raging sand sea, a Ghibli sandstorm of war. The scent. Fruit and vegetable markets were just opening for the days trade. Far off, there was a call to prayer, a melodious chant that stirred the hearts of all that held Allah dear. Slowly plodding atop Udad, Bea absorbed everything that was around her, the fresh tomatoes being sliced and consumed making her nostrils flare. They passed a camouflaged Volkswagen Beetle with oversized off-road tires and flag standards, obviously the command car. Porsches greasy little fingerprints are all over this damn oasis. Gwafa, think you can find a quick way to the palm groves? she asked quietly in French. Chewing, he pointed above the rooftops. Oui, madame, to the north I will use the Shali Mounttun as a guide. Got the book handy? Takuta patted his robed chest. Right here, mum. Fingers crossed, chaps. Stay with me, Stick. Sneakthievery, offense, surprise. As they followed the romantic call to prayer by the Muezzin that led the devout to the mosque, huge palms ceilinged them as they drew nearer to the plentiful waters. Under the tightly-knit trees in the shadows of the early morning it was almost darkness,