Brew Up Wadi, Western Iraqi desert…First Gulf War. Myself centre foreground.
I told this story a few years ago now, but this morning, having coffee with an American friend, I found myself telling it one more time…here it is:
At the end of the war, we returned from the Iraqi desert and crossed the border as a squadron in our bashed-up vehicles, back to the Saudi camp from where D Squadron 22 SAS Regiment began their amazing journey to harass and stretch out Saddam’s military across into Western Iraq.
On arrival at the base, I went to look for a toilet.
On the way between tents, buildings, and US-parked vehicles, I ran into an immaculately dressed and groomed US military officer.
I was dressed in the filthy, sand-battered, worn-for-weeks clothes that you see me wearing in the above photo. Smelling like a nomad’s date bag, unwashed and sporting a poorly grown and untrimmed beard.
He stopped me, looked me up and down, and threw me some verbals reminiscent of Flecker’s “Golden Road To Samarkand,”
THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN (Read American officer):
But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty bearded blocking up the way?
THE PILGRIMS (Read me):
We are the Pilgrims, master, we shall go
Always a little further, it may be
Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow
Across that angry or that glimmering sea
White on a throne or guarded in a cave
There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born, but surely we are brave
Who take the Golden Road to Samarkand
Exit left the American officer.