To the right of Heavenly Estate, dawn is piling on the horizon like spilt jam. Sergeant Testosteroni is standing on top of his APC, arms akimbo, binoculars hanging on his chest. This is just how Rommel would have looked surveying Tobruk in 1942, if Tobruk had looked like a well tossed salad and if Rommel had sported a dangly beer gut and had possessed a face like a sausage breakfast.