He took her hand, but did it without squeezing too damned hard; he wasn't the bodybuilder sort, after all. 

It was true that Saul didn't look the part of a fighter in the sense that the movies, especially American ones, liked to show -- tall, lantern-jawed GI's with drawls, big beefy fellows that looked like they could fight a heavyweight match. Saul was of only average height, dark of hair and with deep-set eyes, but there was perhaps a bit of the man in the jaw there, and a wiry toughness

"I escaped with the Free Polish forces, but they stuck me in an orphanage in East London. I lied to enlist, but I wasn't Free Polish forces, I was 1st Parachute Brigade, British." That, of course, was painful, because there were other paras there on the other side, occupying for the British. They were here in Palestine, but under different auspices. The enemy here were some of the men he'd fought alongside, though a lot of them had since demobilized back to civilian life and a lot of the men were youngsters doing their national service. But it was still a source of conflict for him.

His tone implied that the particulars were a long story; the truth was that he'd run off from an orphanage in East London and hooked up with a local boy, learning English as he went. The two of them conspired to enlist in the Guards, mostly because Bobby Parr wanted to and Saul had no intention of being with the Free Polish, who had a bit of that reputation for antisemitism, and then volunteered for the paras when they were established -- no action and the prospect of extra pay and a flashy red beret, the allure of being airborne troops seemed so lustrous then; he and Bobby were peas in a pod and they did everything together. The thought of it was a passing stormcloud over the sun for him, a painful upsurge of memory that he struggled to put back in its place. He was in the Holy Land, surrounded by others who had lost, but it was impossible to explain that Bobby Parr was his brother, blood in the mud together, and that his death shook him the most, because he'd been right there, and Bobby still took it.

Bobby Parr died in his arms in some farmhouse outside of Oosterbeek, saying something about his little Mary, the daughter he'd left behind in England. But the other bit of the girl's conversation was something to change the subject with.

"Bomb went off in downtown Nazareth. We were headed into it when some fellow in robes waved us off. I suppose that happens quite a bit?"

The countryside was stark, but reminiscent of Sicily to him; a dry place of citrus and olive groves, of sparse grass on high rocky hills. The kibbutz itself was a fortified position, with a stockade and towers, fighting positions clearly set up just in case the farmers had to fend off an attack, and they looked, to his eye, like they were set up pretty well. "Warmer welcome from the Arabs, it looks like." he commented off-handedly as he swept up his bag and let her steer him toward the communal lodgings; men and women separately, but otherwise it was a barracks arrangement. That was nothing new to anyone involved, camp survivor, refugee camp veteran or otherwise, in the Jewish community, but everyone looked healthier than in some of the DP camps he'd seen. It was the sun and the work, and perhaps, despite the conditions, the freedom, the sense that they were home. 

"So, we till the fields by day, guard them by night?"