“Wait for the next transporter to go by, then force the door,” Jenkins said. I liked Jenkins; he looked after me. Others wouldn’t, most wouldn’t even talk to me. I liked his Welsh accent, the way he smiled and treated me like a younger brother. I was nearly a foot taller and 10 kilos heavier but he still looked out for me. I waited behind the rear door to Med7 and surveyed the camp; dozens of soldiers moving with purpose over the desert sand, shifting crates to piles next to where the planes were loading. Despite the late hour, the…

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