Private Atkins joins the French Foreign Legion and is stationed at a remote outpost in the North African desert. After several weeks in barracks he feels a yearning for female companionship.
He approaches the evil-looking, scar-faced sergeant, and asks him what the men do for sexual relief around here. "Zere eeez only ze camel, oui?" the sergeant tells him with a leer.
"I’m not desperate enough to brave that!" replies Atkins, and takes a brisk walk and another cold bath.
A week later he’s more desperate and asks the sergeant again. "Ze camel, I told you. Use ze camel!" comes the reply.
Atkins actually has a look at the camel this time. It’s a flea-ridden carpet full of coat-hangers with camel shit matted in the hair round its rump. Atkins doesn’t fancy it much.
A week later, delirious with unvented lust he goes to the sergeant again, only to be told, "Merde! Ze camel I tell you, ze camel!" That night Atkins creeps out to the camel. "At least its got a pulse," he tells himself as he climbs onto a hay-rack and proceeds to roger the camel to his satisfaction.
As he dismounts he sees the sergeant staring open-mouthed in horror and admiration. "How inventive and practical you Engleesh are. Ze other men, zey usually ride ze camel to ze brothel in town!"