Riddles 30

 Riddles 30 

By the Riddler

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  A letter in the following word has been replaced by a ‘z’.  pzrszvzrz, what is the word? 

No 2. A German has less than an Australian. An Irishman has one less than a Scotsman. A Welshman has four more than a Dane. How many does an Italian have?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

Hidden In Plain Sight

 Hidden In Plain Sight

By Jane Scoggins

The thing about driving a car is that you can get from A to B in one journey. The disadvantage is having to concentrate on the road ahead. The advantage of travelling by public transport is, you are free to view the unseen.

High up on the top deck of the coach to Stansted airport I could see the otherwise hidden. Despite the increase in housing estates, there is still plenty of countryside on the outskirts of towns, like my own, or so I thought. Within five minutes I could see from my eagles perch down into a hollow where previously there was field and wood, two enormous diggers scoured the land leaving it ravaged. A bit further, another dip behind old established high trees, a more progressive project was on its way, brutalising the land with tons of concrete vomiting from churning machines onto a factory size base. Cheerful men in high viz jackets without a care in the world, following instructions. Further still along the road a sign Beware Lorry Entrance heralded a hidden muddy track leading to a vast area of semi built houses, some with footprints for 4 or 5 bedroom dwellings for the elite. The fields, woods and wildlife habitat swept away. Where would they go? The tarmacked roads and drives, the tiny gardens not able to sustain pollinators and small country creatures. And then respite from the devastation of concrete, brick, mortar and steel. A field or two of grass and planted crops. Ironically sitting in the middle a low concrete Pillbox with sad eyes looking out across the hectares for the enemy. Not as before for invading soldiers from another country, but from our own coalition of local and national government invaders. Determined to sweep away our green and pleasant land in the name of progress..

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Uncle Thomas (300 Words)

 Uncle Thomas (300 Word Flash Fiction)

By Len Morgan 

I look down from above, “Is that me Dad?” I asked.

“Yes Son.” 

My face looked pale against the white sheets and pillow case, “Am I dead?”

“That’s up to you son.” 

I stood beside him and another man about my age, who looked vaguely familiar, “Who’s he?” I asked.

“That’s your Uncle Thomas.”

“Will I live?” 

“If you do, ask Mum about Uncle Thomas.” 

“You died Dad, so is he…” 

He nodded “Iraq war, 2004. He was buried same year Mum and I got married.” 

.-…-.

An alarm sounded! A defibrillator was placed on my chest and discharged three times. My eyes opened and I looked up into a pair of concerned brown eyes. 

“He’s back Doctor,” She smiled reassuringly, “you’re back with us Mr Quinell” 

“Can I speak to him?” It was mum’s voice.

“Be brief, he needs to rest,” said the nurse. 

“You really gave us a scare passing out, without warning, like that!”

“What happened mum?”

“The Doctor says you had a mild cardiac arrest. When it happened I called an ambulance and administered CPR, thank goodness I did my First Aid course, they say I saved your life…” 

“Thanks Mum. It may sound a strange question but, who was Uncle Thomas?”

She went pale, I thought she was going to cry, then she smiled, her face took on a far away look; she was remembering… 

“Thomas was your father’s younger brother. We were to be married, but he was a soldier and the Gulf war happened so he was posted to Iraq. I was pregnant at the time. We had planned to marry on his return but, he never came back. When I told Rick (Dad) he immediately proposed to me.” 

“What was your answer?” 

She smiled and slapped me on the back, “cheeky bugger!”

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 The Hit (Flash 300 words)

By Richard Banks

In less than two hours he would be away to La Paz where he was Jarvis, the real estate man. But for now he was Chapman, a coffee broker, and would remain so until his flight from Heathrow. He took a pride in his work, it was almost a craft, one he had perfected over many years. Each job a logistical puzzle; he relished the challenge, no problem too difficult to resolve.

         Weeks of meticulous planning had secured him this room with a view. On a Saturday afternoon it was empty of all those who worked there, as were the other offices in the block. The room was on the third floor, at his preferred elevation, the sun at his back. He unpacked his briefcase of the disconnected parts within, reassembling them with a quick fingered dexterity he often practised with eyes tight shut. He was in the zone, pulse beating at a steady fifty-five.

         He raised the blind a few inches and pushed open the window, he would fire from within the building unseen by anyone looking up into the dazzle of the sun. All that was needed now was the correct alignment, the target to appear in the expected place, at the expected time. Due 2pm at the Embassy he would be leaving the hotel by the front entrance no later than 1.45, walking briskly across the wide pavement into the safety of a bullet proof car. There would be two, maybe three seconds in which to take aim and fire.

         Through the tinted glass doors of the hotel he could see dark shapes gathering for the off. Outside a limousine was gliding into place. The hotel door opened and out came the target with his minders. He aimed centre forehead. One shot only, and it was done.     

Copyright Richard Banks 

The end of war.

 The end of war.

By Christopher Mathews

(A love letter from Flanders)

My dearest, darling Florence,

It’s been so long I can hardly remember the shape of your face or the outline of your nose. The warmth of your skin in the sun on that day last summer, or the smell of oranges after you had been working in your father’s fruit stall all day. How your eyes twinkle when you smile at me.

The captain says, I’m not allowed to tell you where I am, somewhere in France in a trench, it’s a sort of ugly scar in the earth we all hide in. Do you know I haven’t seen or heard a bird singing since we got here. That’s because all the trees have been shredded to stumps, I suppose.

The morning mist mixed with the smoke from the guns hangs thick on the ground. We all live in terror of the Gas Rattles sounding, and Captain shouting Gas, gas, gas. Followed by “Mask up, lads”, as we all scramble before the green miasma comes.

Oh, for just a glimpse of your smile, to see you again. Sometimes I can’t remember what you look like. Do you remember that moment when your barley coloured hair flowed like ribbons in the summer breeze as I pushed you on a swing in the playground. Or the time when I gave you a ride home on the crossbar of my bike, your father was standing at the door looking cross. And you, trying to hide the oil stains on your dress from my bike chain. And he, with pocket watch in hand, tutting at the lateness of the hour. You were too afraid to kiss me goodnight in front of him, do you remember?

Where do all the rats come from. They seem to be everywhere and so big too. I swear, some are as big as the pigs on Mr Gregory’s farm. What do they live on? There’s hardly enough rations for me and the lads.

After it’s been raining, we’re wading through mud. How come the rats can get so big when there’s nothing to eat but mud?

My mate Frank says, they have found another food supply, out there, in the dark, among the bomb craters and barbed wire. But there’s nothing out there, so how did the rats get so big? Frank says they found a plentiful supply of meat. I don’t like to think of that.

Do you remember that day when we went tobogganing down Shooters Hill, we laughed. We couldn’t feel our fingers or toes, and your friend Betty cried all the way home on the bus. My dad made that sledge from an old bed frame and scraps of wood. I expect it’s gone now.

Lieutenant Graham says we should sleep sitting upright, with our hands tucked inside our trench coat pockets, otherwise the rats nibble your fingers or ears.

Rob and his brother Wil, didn’t come back after the last push. I wonder if they’re lying there, asleep out in the mud and cold. He still has my tobacco tin. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.

Oh Flo, I long for the day when we will be wed, and this nightmare will come to an end. We felt so brave me, Charly, Frank, Rob and his little brother Wil, when we set off. He wasn’t even old enough to join up. Do you remember all the girls came to wave us off on the train. But I only saw you my dearest Flo.

Over here, It’s nothing like the posters or the rousing songs back in the pub. Can’t say too much ‘cos they will only blot it out. Something to do with morale back home.

Will you come rowing on the Serpentine with me again, we can bring a bottle of ginger beer and a basket full of sandwiches. Your mum makes nice sandwiches, and my mum’s fruit cake too?

We just have spam here, it’s not too bad, you get to like it after a bit.

Do you remember auntie Charlotte giggling like a girl when she saw us kissing in your mum’s pantry last Christmas. You went so red in the face.

The captain says, it will soon be over boys, so hold fast. One last push men! But that was Christmas 1915, it’s now February. 

We could hear the Germans singing carols, not one hundred yards away that Christmas. We joined in too. Who would have thought it, maybe they're not so different from us after all.

I still remember your sweet voice, the first time I heard you sing in church; like an angel, it was.

The first day it snowed it was so white, it seemed to wash away the war with all his ugly scars. It’s like God wanted to blot out the shame of it all. But it’s all grubby now, trampled under jack boots.

The chaplain says that God is on our side. I don't think he takes sides, do you?

Captain Graham does his best to reassure us all. He often walks along the trench just to cheer us up, you know, to check morale and bolster our spirits. He gave me a Cigarette once, when I’d run out. Yesterday he laid his hand on my shoulder,

“Take courage lads,” he said, but I could feel him trembling. He’s not much older than us.

I can still remember the first time you touched my arm, that made me tremble too, goosebumps all over, like electricity. Funny thing how both love and fear can make a man tremble.

I should really love a July wedding, shouldn’t you? We’ll have ginger beer and your mum‘s best cakes. I still keep the lucky rabbits foot you gave me when we parted, it’s the most precious thing I have, apart from your letters and my Bible.

Frank says, I’m stupid for trusting in such nonsense. He was shot the other day in the arm, they patched him up as best they could, but everything rots down here, I fear he may lose it to gangrene. He says it’s his lucky ticket home. I wish I had a ticket home.

I think I will ask my brother Donald to be best man, what do you think? You could ask your sister to be bridesmaid. I’m sending you ten-bob so you could start saving for our honeymoon. Southend, on the seafront, riding the dodgems or the helter-skelter, holding a big mop of candyfloss, glorious! And dancing too, at the Kursaal! I’m not very good at dancing. I know, you could teach me. Or if we can afford it, the Isle of Wight. No, don’t be silly Jack, we’re not millionaires are we.

The Big Bertha’s have started pounding again, so I’ll have to sign off.

Did your big sister have her baby yet? I hope it grows up with a dad. Every kid should have a dad.

Do write soon. I store up your letters and keep them in my Bible close to my heart.

I can’t sleep when the bombs are going off ‘cos the ground shakes. I wonder if my mates can see the fear in my eyes, I can see it in theirs. I think Norman has gone mad ‘shell shock’ they calls it. He wet himself on the first night of bombing, we found him huddled in a corner crying for his mother. Lack of morale fibre. They calls it, but I say, scared witless, like the rest of us.

“Our father who art in heaven… deliver us from this evil.” I never thought about that prayer much before now, but we all pray, every night, even Micki, who always said he didn’t believe in God. There are no atheists in the trenches.

Remember me in your prayers Flo, as I remember you. The captain has called orders down the line, so it’s tin hats on and rifles at the ready. When the whistle blows we’ll be up the ladder and over the top.

Think of me sometimes, if I don’t come back.

All my love, Jack

 

                                                                                               Copyright Christopher Mathews - November 2025

 

Keir Starmers student days

By Barbara Thomas 

Did you know that our Prime Minister at the age of 23 ended up in Communist spy files after joining a Czechoslovakian work camp during the height of the Cold War (the newspaper “The Mail” revealed) that he was one of 17, mostly students from around the globe in a 1986 scheme behind the Iron Curtain to restore a memorial to victims of a Nazi Atrocity. Whilst the volunteers had noble intentions unbeknown to them the event was being monitored by those with a far more sinister motive. Sir Keir Starmer’s full name date and place of birth plus his passport number photo and family address are listed among other International work camp participants in a dossier discovered by the Mail in the “Foreign Intelligence main Directorates Operation Files” section of the Czechoslovakian Secret Police Archives the young Starma’s visa application, including a passport photo and hand-written personal details, are kept in a separate section of the Czech Cold War State security service archives.

Youthful idealism could be exploited by the Communists, it was an error, although a forgivable one given his age.

According to Professor Anthony Glees an Intelligence and Security expert from the University of Buckingham, Starmer wanted to commemorate victims of the sadistic Nazi atrocity in Lidice.

 

My question here is why wasn’t this important information added to Sir Keir Starmer’s Wikepidea,

 

He owns up to selling ice cream illegally, as a teenager abroad.

 

What other secrets has he withheld?

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

 THE END OF THE WAR 

By Bob French  

After a ferocious four-day attack and some fierce hand-to-hand fighting during the night and into the dawn of Thursday the 24^th of December 1914, the men of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers staggered to a halt. They had broken through the front line and pushed the Germans’ back a couple of miles to the remains of the village of Zonnebeke, east of the town of Ypres.

          As the Company Sergeant Major called for the men to stop and take up defensive positions, silence fell over the battle field. For the first time, the men of the Fusiliers stood in silence as the realization of their victory gradually sunk in.  Their exhausted breath tore from their lungs in ragged plumes, ghosting white in the ice-cold dawn, each exhale a burst of heat against the biting air. No one spoke for a while.  Then gradually the voices of the corporals and sergeants started giving out orders; “weapons check in five minutes. Wounded men to the Regimental Aid Post, Roll call at O four hundred hours.”

          After the roll call had been taken, a peace and normality seemed to settle around the men. The Regimental Sergeant Major, who normally never left the Commanding Officers’ side, had been asked to discreetly observe the new Company Commander of B Company, Major Charles Alderidge, who had joined the Fusiliers just before the Regiment had set sail for France and in the eyes of the officers and men of B Company, he had yet to prove himself.    

          He took the list from the clerk of the company, then quietly wondered over to a derelict cottage, sat down on a low brick wall next to the Adjutant, Captain Farington.  After a while he took a deep breath and shook his head slowly.

          Captain Farrington gently took the Butchers Bill from him and quickly scanned the scribbled names. “Don’t worry Sir, you will get used to it in time, trust me.”  They didn’t speak for a minute then Major Alderidge asked the Adjutant “who were we fighting against?”

          “We won’t know that until our forward recce platoon returns Sir.”

          The company clerk of B Company had already set up the company headquarters in the back of a partly derelict cottage and within minutes had a brew of tea on the go.  Once the Adjutant had taken the information he needed from the casualty list, he told the company clerk that if the telephone line was still buggerd to get a runner to take the dispatches back to the C.O. at Regimental Headquarters in Ypres. Hopefully They would sort out some reinforcements before the enemy could counter attack.

          Around him, the men of B Company started to clean their weapons, check their ammunition and brew up some tea. No one noticed the Medical Section quietly moved back over the ground they had fought and started to pick up those who had been wounded, or take identity disks from those that did not make it.

          As the casualties were brought in, Company Sergeant Major Jim Travis called for Sergeant Bateman who commanded the 13^th Platoon. A close friend.

          “Hi Geordie.  Your lads alright?”

          Geordie Bateman DSM had joined the Fusiliers and had fought in the first and second Boer Wars and proved himself beyond doubt, an asset to the regiment, winning the Distinguished Service Medal. Now, too old to be part of a rifle company, he was given command of the labour platoon. Then, against all odds, he had trained, then led the bunch of misfits, drunks, deserters, and wasters to victory by winning the annual combat exercise cup in July before the regiment was deployed to face the Hun.  To honour him and his men, the Commanding Officer granted them the title of the ‘13^th Platoon instead of the labour platoon.’

          “I just want to thank you and your lads for watching over young Everet.  I know he isn’t a natural soldier and it doesn’t help with his buggered-up right ankle,”

          “Not a problem Jim, I told McAllistair to look out for him. As we covered our left flank.  If he learns nothing from McAlistair then I give up on him.”

          They laughed. Then Travis leant forward so he was a few inches away from his friend.  “Thank you for watching over the lad anyway. “    “Can you get your lads to start on the latrines, then once the medics have brought in the wounded and dead, can your lads start digging the graves please. Don’t forget to let the Adjutant know which graves belong to which man.”

          Without being told, the men of the rifle companies had begun setting up a security perimeter around their position, and digging trenches.

           Sergeant Black had formed up his recce platoon only to realise that he was down three men, and asked Sergeant Major Travis if he could borrow a couple of men from the 13^th Platoon.

          “Square it away with Geordie, then let the Adjutant know.”  Black knew instantly who he would take; Jonsey, McAllistair and Devereaux. If he was ever in a scrap, he would rely on these three men to back him up.    

          Black grinned as the three men joined the forward recce platoon’s briefing.  One of the recce platoon corporals asked Jonsey what type of rifle he was carrying”

          “It’s a ‘Gewher 98’ high villosity hunting rifle with a Mauser scope, Boyo.  I can bring down a Hun officer at three hundred and fifty paces.”

           Sergeant Black caught the look on his corporal’s face and before he could ask if the recce platoon could have such rifles, he informed him that as far as the company is concerned, the men of the 13^th platoon do not have designated weapons. In fact they have nothing, so they improvise.

          “Right lads, you all know the drill.  ‘Who was facing us? who is replacing them and when? how many of their dead were left behind? And lastly if they were using weapons that you’ve never seen before so carefully bring one in? OK”

          “What about prisoners Sarge?”

          “Only officers or senior NCOs.  Anyone else, remove their weapons and webbing and send them back to where they came from. Now the wind is at our back, so no threat of a gas attack.  By the speed of their retreat, I’m guessing that their departure was not planned, but be careful anyway.

          The men started to move forward when the harsh voice of Sergeant Black, cut through the stillness of the battle field again.

          “Remember. Do not be tempted to loot or go trophy hunting, unless you want your loved ones to receive just bits and pieces of what remained of your body.  If the booby traps don’t get you, be assured that I bloody well will.  Is that understood?”

          The men replied in chorus, some joked about those of the platoon who had ignored the advice a few weeks earlier and were no longer a member of the human race.

          As the sun slowly broke through the dawn clouds, so the bodies of those who had fallen during the four days of bitter combat started to warm.  The putrid smell of rotting flesh and the sound of the flies soon forced the men to hold rags over their noses.

          Once the latrines and graves had been dug, Sergeant Bateman called his platoon together.

          “Well done lads.  Davey Brown, can you see if you can scrounge some tea and milk from the cookhouse.  The rest of you start digging your trench now, then clean your weapons and let me know if you need any more ammo.”  As a last-minute thought, he raised his voice. “And no bloody trophy hunting either, got it!”

          The Recce platoon had carefully moved forward over the field which was now scattered with the dead and the moaning wounded. Jonsey stopped first and raised his hand, then pointed down at a body. It was a man from the second rifle platoon, B Company.  No one spoke as Sergeant Black carefully made his way over, knelt-down and identified the man then carefully tied a piece of white tape to his uniform so that the men, could return and carefully check for booby traps, then take him back to their lines ready for burial.

          As they moved forward, McAllistair saw movement and without thinking, leapt forward and hit the man before he had time to defend himself.  It was a young Lieutenant who Sergeant Black helped to his feet then told McAllistair to take him back to Sergeant Waynwright, of the intelligence section for questioning.

          It took most of the day to put together the facts of the report of the battle. for the Company Commander and his report to RHQ. After that the men were detailed for sentry duty or stood down.

          Then just as the men of B company started to settle down for the night, the sentries reported that they could hear people singing Silen Night in German.  The guard commander called out the support troop and slowly approached the sound of singing.  To his surprise the German’s had got up out of their trenches and were drinking wine and singing.  When the men of the support troop approached the Germans’ they stopped singing and staired at the Fusiliers.  Then the guard commander laughed.

          “Bloody hell lads, it’s Christmas day. Then the Germans’ slowly started shouting “Merry Christmas Tommy.” Within a matter of minutes, men from B Company had left their trenches and joined in with the men of the  218^th Saxon Jager Regiment and were mingling and laughing together, shaking hands and swopping cap badges, cigarettes and showing pictures of their loved ones.

          Sergeant Black took young Everet aside. “’Ear lad, go and get the young German lieutenant and bring him here.  After nearly ten minutes of stumbling around in the dark, Everet found the prisoner and dragged him back to Sergeant Black.

          Black caught the eye of what he thought was their commander and beckoned him over.  The elderly man slowly made his way through the celebrations and up to face Black.

          Black saluted the officer and held out his hand.  The German commander smiled then saluted him and took his hand.

          “I think this young lad belongs to you Sir.”  The German commander smiled then said in English, “Thank you sergeant, “and turned to the young lieutenant and said something to him.  The young officer burst into tears and shook Black and Everet’s hand. Then they tuned and left to join in the celebrations. Just then it started to snow.

          Everet turned to Black. “Do you know Sarge, My Mum said that the war would end by Christmas, I think she was right.”

Copyright Bob French