Where the Desert Meets the Sea

by Werner Sonne

When Lieutenant Goldsmith entered, General McMillan was standing at the window, staring at the barbed wire surrounding the British headquarters. “Just a few months more, Goldsmith. We ruled this place for thirty years, and soon it’ll all be over.” The general turned around. “But until then, we still must maintain order, somehow. Or at least act as if we have done.” He fixed his stare on the lieutenant. “So that we do not misunderstand one another: for me, this is not about those lunatics out there. This is about our boys. We’re sustaining dead or injured nearly every day now. I don’t have the slightest desire to put our soldiers at any more risk, so we’ll keep out of their squabbles as best we can. Beyond that, the orders from London are clear: crack down hard when we’re attacked. Is that understood, Lieutenant?” Josef shifted uneasily. “With all due respect, sir, aren’t the Jews just angry because we usually take the Arabs’ side? And how are they supposed to establish a state when we don’t allow them into the country?” McMillan watched him with cold eyes. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Our orders are clear. We’re not to alter our immigration policies. Britain will still have powerful interests in the Middle East after we’ve left this dreadful country. Oil, energy, the Suez Canal. I really don’t need to explain that all to you. We were not for this Jewish state nonsense, and we see no reason to view things any differently now. Besides, are you suggesting we show leniency eve...