They Die with Their Boots Clean #970476

The Wogs was around us. The desert was alive with Wogs. You couldn’t see ’em. You couldn’t hear ’em. But you knew they was there. They can hide, those Wogs can, behind a grain o’ sand. Ain’t that a fact, Dusty? They wears robes the same colour as the desert. They digs themselves little bits of cover. Puzzle, find ’em. You know they’re there, but they’re invisible. And the Wog can wait. He can wait hours. . . . Then bomp!—and wheeee!—he’s letting loose atcha. He ain’t a bad shot at three hundred yards.
What was I saying? The Wogs was around us, quiet as mice, but all you could see was lousy sand. We come to a road block. We takes it down and marches on. Now mind you there’s nothing stirring—nothing in sight, only the lousy great sun and the lousy old desert. I say we marches on. Quarter of a mile on, round a bend, we comes to another barricade. Walk on, and walk into a jolly old death-trap. We about-turns and goes back. We definitely does.