Free The Man Who Broke Into Auschwitz by Denis Avey Page B

of wooden crates, each two feet square and about eight inches deep. I was suddenly energised by the thought that the crates might contain food or drink. There wasanother chap with me. We hopped up onto the first truck. ‘Come on, look lively,’ I said, ‘Get your sword on to it.’
    He hacked a hole in the plywood. I was immediately disappointed. There were no bottles or cans, just printed paper. He prised the top off altogether. ‘Good heavens above, take a look at that,’ I said. The crate was stuffed with thousands and thousands of crisp, newly printed Italian banknotes.
    The second crate was the same and the next and so on and so on. The trucks belonged to the Italian army pay corps and there was enough money to pay an entire army but to us, those millions of lira didn’t mean a thing. I found out later you could change them in Cairo at 600 to the pound but I would have swapped the whole lot for a few bottles of clean fresh water and some decent grub.
    I reported it and that was that. We threw a couple of crates onto the pick-up and forgot about them. Some of the lads used Italian money to light their fags, even taking handfuls off into the desert to wipe their backsides, enjoying the joke as they crouched. The Cairo exchange rate on those might have been a bit worse. We were more impressed with the rice and tomato purée we salvaged later. You could eat that.
    We waited for days to be relieved by another column coming down from the north. Eventually the order came to head up towards Benghazi to try and make contact with them en route. The crates of cash were still in the pick-up when we set off.
    It was a journey of seventy miles with glimpses of the sea from time to time to remind us the whole world wasn’t dusty. We came to a halt in a traffic jam in the outskirts of Benghazi. Then above the sound of exhausts and honking horns a shot rang out followed rapidly by another and the zinging sound of a bullet deflecting off something hard. There was a sniper on the loose. I spun the pickup around and retreated rapidly back down the road. I drove until the streets felt calmer and stopped outside a smart-looking bar.
    I wasn’t keen on the sherbet then, alcohol didn’t impress memuch at all, but with throats like cardboard, it was an easy choice. The five of us went in and we took a crate of lira with us.
    We walked into the most beautiful place I had seen since leaving Cairo, a cool and airy room at least a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide. The walls and ceiling were covered with elaborately etched glass mirrors. There was a long marble bar down one side and it was crowded.
    There was a muffled scream from one of the few women and a sharp intake of breath from the rest of the clientele. Everyone was watching us, and they were terrified. One glance at the wall of mirrors and I could see why. We were desert desperados, battle-stained and grimy, and we looked ready to shoot the place up.
    We didn’t hang about. Two of the lads went straight through to check out the kitchens and backrooms for anything suspicious. Someone had been taking shots at us just ten minutes before and the last thing we needed was any more surprises. When we were satisfied, we headed for a table and the occupants quickly made space for us. We sat down on the polished metal armchairs, keeping an eye on the doors.
    A small chap approached cautiously and said something I didn’t understand in Italian. He was aged about forty with a carefully trimmed black moustache and a white jacket. We guessed he was the owner.
    ‘Drinks all round,’ I said pointing to a glass and signalling around the room with my hand. He got the message, there was a snap of his fingers and a few words of Italian. Drinks started to appear, including beers for the lads, and the atmosphere eased a notch. The customers were never going to relax fully with a gang of enemy soldiers, fresh from battle, making jokes in the middle of the joint.
    The bar was filled mostly with