action . . .

Anything would be better than this God-forsaken island. Why the
dickens did they leave us moping here: working in the blazing heat,
and crawling to the latrines in the chilly nights? For goodness' sake,
let's get out of it! Let's get to work! . . . So the days dragged on.

The natives wore baggy trousers and coloured head-bands. They sat all
day near our camp selling melons, tomatoes, very cheap and tasteless
chocolates, raisins, figs and dates.

We used to go down to swim in the little bay-like semicircle of the
harbour. The water was always warm and very salt. Here were tiny
shoals of tiny fish. The water was clear and glassy. There were pinky
sea-urchins with spikey spines which jabbed your feet. The sandy bed
of the bay was all ribbed with ripples.

The island was humming and ticking like a watch with insect-noises:
otherwise the deadly silence held. There were red-winged grasshoppers
and great green-gray locust-looking crickets which whistled and
"cricked" all night.

We had to fetch our water from the water-tank boats, about a mile and
a half distant, and haul it up in a water-cart.

Gangs of natives were working under the military authorities. There
were Greeks and Greek-Armenians, Turks and Ethiopians, Egyptians and
half-breeds of all kinds from Malta and Gib. They were employed in
making roads and clearing the ground for huts and camps.