Trevor’s father had been a Desert Rat the Second World War so Trevor knew all about half-tracking around the Sea Of Sand on insufficient fuel and water, dodging German patrols and coming under Stuka attack. He respected General Rommel, a soldier’s soldier happily untainted by the demonic creed of Nazism. He drew his own War Comics correct in every khaki detail.
Trevor’s dad was long dead and Trevor a cardboard engineer when he was called to Dubai to advise on point of sale for the Shopping Festival. Days passed in arctic air-conditioning and stalemated meetings, nights in extended courtesies over elaborate dinners. Finally as a reward for a job appropriately compromised he was taken out on a dune-bashing excursion.
A convoy of Landcruisers drove out into the desert until all horizons were sand, deflated their tyres and skimmed at breakneck speed across the towering dunes. At times only centrifugal force attached them to the overhanging crests. The Bedu drivers kept an expert eye out for lethal soft sand and after an hour of controlled flight, brought their breathless passengers to a safe halt.
Trevor clambered out. The desert stretched away from him in shades of brown and dirty pink. Orange was bleeding into the sky from a hazy setting sun. It was still, just the irregular clanking of cooling engines. The smell of fuel and hot rubber drifted up.
He looked out at the Sea Of Sand his Dad would have seen, this coarse rock and warm pastels. Somewhere out there, his Dad, twenty two and eight stone, was digging out a jeep while covered by Bren Guns from a Wadji wall. And if his Dad was here then he, Trevor, belonged here. He shut his eyes, smelled the diesel and never wanted to go home.
Trevor’s dad was long dead and Trevor a cardboard engineer when he was called to Dubai to advise on point of sale for the Shopping Festival. Days passed in arctic air-conditioning and stalemated meetings, nights in extended courtesies over elaborate dinners. Finally as a reward for a job appropriately compromised he was taken out on a dune-bashing excursion.
A convoy of Landcruisers drove out into the desert until all horizons were sand, deflated their tyres and skimmed at breakneck speed across the towering dunes. At times only centrifugal force attached them to the overhanging crests. The Bedu drivers kept an expert eye out for lethal soft sand and after an hour of controlled flight, brought their breathless passengers to a safe halt.
Trevor clambered out. The desert stretched away from him in shades of brown and dirty pink. Orange was bleeding into the sky from a hazy setting sun. It was still, just the irregular clanking of cooling engines. The smell of fuel and hot rubber drifted up.
He looked out at the Sea Of Sand his Dad would have seen, this coarse rock and warm pastels. Somewhere out there, his Dad, twenty two and eight stone, was digging out a jeep while covered by Bren Guns from a Wadji wall. And if his Dad was here then he, Trevor, belonged here. He shut his eyes, smelled the diesel and never wanted to go home.
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