I resign

Almost seem to wear them with a kind of pride, wonder if the locals go so far as to pick the bullet holes out with paint, the way they do in Belfast. Less Graffiti than New York or Belfast though. Not surprising. Don't so much clean it off, as blow it up here... all this from the narrow slit in the side of a personal carrier, hemmed in by well groomed fresh faced Israeli soldiers. Just conscripts, but their equipment's top quality, nice and new looking. Impression that all this shiny new equipment's a pathetic attempt to compensate somehow for the ancient dirty job they have to do. Gives me a weird feeling. Bit like your granny knitting you a nice warm pair of gloves just to help keep your aim steady so you can blow some poor bastards heads off. Their youthful faces remind me greatly of GI's and I keep getting flashes of my time in Saigon. Not nearly as nervy and cynical though. Quiet and well behaved by comparison. Self controlled, self disciplined, but definitely not relaxed. The tension inside the vehicle has a really nasty quality, puts my teeth on edge. When I close my eyes, I keep seeing reptiles, slow, cold eyed beasts that bask in the sun with the stillness of death, yet ever alert and expectant for the smell of death..

The acid of course... do my best to stay suitably detached, Musn't show signs of weakness. Let the flag down and all that bollox. Already treat me like a useless bloody accessory. Can't blame them really. Brit's are not exactly their favourite people. Must be wondering what I'm doing here as much as I am myself.

Sat next to me is the officer in charge, a youngish Lieutenant.

Apart from an almost imperceptible nod and a vague look of contempt, no communication has so far passed between us. Usual front line response,at least until they find out what you're made of. Sort of soft yellow jelly in my case, but then I've never claimed to be a soldier.

In a slick manoeuvre perfected no doubt by frequent practice, the convoy sweeps to a halt and surrounds the cafe where our man's supposed to be.

In seconds there's a ring of soldiers round the place, a feat made easier by the fact it stands isolated amidst a sea of rubble. Three stories high, in pretty good condition, considering it's just about the last intact building on the block.

Before I realise what's happening I'm out of the carrier and being hustled inside..

Don't stop to fuck about, these boys. Tables and chairs go flying as they swarm all over the place. Find myself in the charge of some NCO who tells to me to keep close. I'm unarmed, so his broad back seems an excellent shield, especially as there are two or three more broad backs in front of his.

Place appears to be some sort of flop house, filled with tiny cubicles. A fucking maze as far as I'm concerned, and soon we're turfing out sleepy eyed Arabs left right and centre, all males, frisking them for weapons, leaving them for someone else to check papers. Half of them could be our man, the grainy photo they showed me was terrible.

Eventually we find ourselves in the kitchens, which have more than the usual stink of garlic, stale spices and rancid fat. Appear to be empty, but there are a couple of doors to be checked.

The four soldiers in front of me split into pairs, cover both doors while I wait by the entrance.

Behind me the whole place is in bedlam.