Where the Desert Meets the Sea

by Werner Sonne

Jonathan Higgins tossed a file into the overfull wooden crate next to his desk. “So, that’s that,” the sergeant said. “Thirty-one years and now it’s closing time. Our good General Allenby surely couldn’t have imagined this when he reported to Jerusalem back in 1917.” He slammed the crate shut. It was the last of so many he’d filled in the past few days. The British Mandate government had thoroughly prepared for withdrawal. Over two hundred thousand tons of material had been packed up and readied for delivery back home. The British were saying goodbye to yet another part of their shrinking empire. “Hard to believe we’re heading home, out of bloody Palestine, away from these nervy Arabs, these impertinent Jews, out of this place, back to good old Britain. Wonder if anyone will thank us? We brought civilization to this godforsaken desert, paved roads, real governance. And now? Now they’re all happy we’re finally clearing out. God save the King.” He turned to Lieutenant Goldsmith, sitting in his chair behind the empty desk. “I’ve requested my discharge. It’ll do for a little house in the country. Perhaps I’ll even start playing a little golf.” He cleared his throat. “What about you, sir, if you don’t mind my asking? The big careers are now being made in Germany, what with the Commies causing loads of trouble in Berlin. The ‘Cold War,’ they’re calling it.”