Being as extremely aged as I am, I sometimes indulge myself with tales of my middle age. Such as this.
It was a summer night in 1942 when we landed in a small inlet on the coast of the Red Sea. Our orders were clear. Dressed as Bedouins we were to cross the Arabian Desert to meet our contacts near the Nile where we were to obtain vital information regarding Rommel’s forces.
We were given a map showing each rivulet and creek as we could carry only a limited amount of water. We had to travel primarily at night because of the extreme heat. Each time we reached another creek on the map, we would find only a wadi, totally dry this time of the year.
In spite of extreme thirst and dehydration, we finally staggered to our assigned destination where we were met by Arab nomads loyal to the Allied cause.
We explained that we had crossed the desert without water as every river bed was dry.
“Of course,” we were told, “you went from one ex-stream to another.”