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[Page 26]
cargoes frequently made up of fruits and vegetables, colourful and refreshing, cropped from the irrigated gardens which border the sweet water canal from Ismalia to Cairo and make those striking patches of lurid livid green against the dry, light desert sand beyond. Ismalia is, of course, well known to the tourist and I feel I am becoming kaleidoscopic. if not Virginal. But before I cross the Canal and for your sakes gallop after the Light Horse I must mention the French Club at Ismalia, where I have had one or two delightful dances; where there is occasionally quite good music; billiards; fair food at enhanced prices; cold soda at sixpence a small bottle and bad whiskey at a cost unspeakable; in fact it reminded us of London. It was almost a custom to dissipate any small amount of back pay accumulated up the line at the French Club. And the Great Australian Thirst with its British Ally placed the Club on a very solid financial basis.
From Ismalia I passed over the Canal at Ferry Post, at that time a base for the Camel Corps, and in the minute or so that it takes the antiquated chain Ferry to land one on the eastern side one should say goodbye to what is known as civilization, smash the bottle of whiskey on the rails of the pontoon, give the stolen half chicken to the black whalland, pull the brim of the hat further down on the forehead, let the sweat dry on the face and brace oneself for the blazing desert, the iron ration smelling of camel, the strong tea smelling of camel, your best friend smelling of