We passed through Dar'a in what was then called Trans-Jordan and our third night's stop was at Damascus, one of the oldest continuously occupied cities in the world and here things were much more civilised. On the forth leg we crossed over the mountain range into Beirut. The road was serpentine; when we started out it was quite a hot day and we were in tropical kit, we were told that at the crest, some nine thousand feet up, we would feel the cold; I was a little doubtful about this but at the higher points snow lay on the roadsides and I certainly did. Mount Hermon was pointed out to us in the distance as we drove. Descending from the crest Beirut and the curve of the Mediterranean spread out before us, it was a wonderful sight, the beautiful blue sweep of the sea contrasting with the brilliant white of the houses set in the green of the trees. However our attention was soon drawn away from this scene as we realised that instead of changing down to negotiate the winding road our driver either from ignorance or inability stayed in top gear and drove on his brakes, and no amount of shouting or banging on his cab persuaded him to pay any attention to us. We got in to Beirut without any further incident but I guess his drums and linings were in a bit of a state. Until this time right from the beginning of the war we had never been allowed to wear civilian clothes or go about untidily dressed, there had never been any respite from the feeling of being controlled, but now within the camp we were allowed to spend the day in swimming trunks even when going into the mess tent for meals though of course we dressed to go into the city. What a feeling of relief, we were human again. It was a wonderful two weeks, thoroughly refreshing; most of the days were spent on the beach swimming and breasting the breakers but we went into the city as well. It is sad to compare the beautiful Beirut of those days, a most civilised place, with the devastated Beirut of the 1980's. Civilised it was but they were also prepared for the influx of rowdy soldiery; in one bar a wide shelf about seven feet off the floor was fronted with chicken wire and on this shelf behind the chicken wire a three piece band played away, protected from missiles hurled by inebriated pongos. This was the life; we could have got used to it but the day came when we had to board the lorries again and head back to the desert. The trip, otherwise uneventful, was marred by an accident; one of the lorries in the convoy carrying the cooks and their utensils took a corner too fast and overturned. Two Indian cooks were killed.