The Rise and Fall of HaupteFeldwebel Hans von Werner

By Bob French

My story begins in 1972 when Sergeant Alexander Johnston Hastings, AJ for short, and myself passed the All Arms Royal Marine Commando course at Lympstone.  AJ was an absolute head-case; quick-witted, very fit and exceptionally intelligent and what he didn’t know about combat communications wasn’t worth worrying about.

          AJ came from Kingston, Jamaica and was proud of it, and like all the men who attended these courses, if didn’t matter where you came from or what rank you were; the only thing that mattered was if you could pass the course. 

          Now Germany, being part of NATO, were permitted to send selected senior non-commissioned officers on the Commando courses and on our course we had Feldwebel Hans von Werner of the German Army Engineer Corps.  I suppose if there was a more arrogant, bombastic, racist man on the course, it had to be von Werner and it didn’t take those on the course long to recognise this.

          Like all arduous military courses where one had to work hard on your own stamina and physical fitness and excel as a team player, von Werner was the exception.  He was a year or two older than most of us and not as fit as he should have been, and as for working as a team member, he was abysmal to say the least.  He also seemed to dislike AJ, not because AJ shone at anything he did, but because he was a cocky Jamaican.

          Down the George Public House outside that camp one night Von Werner, who had had a little too much to drink tried to explain to our Royal Marine instructor that being a von, he was equivalent to our English Dukes and in the Germany Army he was held in great esteem.  Sadly this did little to impress our instructor, who already had his doubts whether von Werner would pass the course, but knew that his masters, to show willingness in embracing the brotherhood of NATO Special Forces, would pass him even if he failed at everything.

          At 0600 hours the next morning as the squad formed up outside the block, ready for our usual five Kilometre trot before breakfast, AJ was informed that for the next three days, he would be our Squad Leader.  We started gently and before long von Werner had begun to drift off the end of the pack and AJ had to keep going back to encourage him.  It was as we climbed up the dunes before heading off across the moors, AJ called a halt and turned and ran back down the dunes to drag our German colleague back up to the pack.  We waited for a good three or four minutes when suddenly von Werner came staggering over the ridge of the dunes, his nose bleeding, closely followed by AJ with a huge grin on his face.

          “What happened to you Werner?” Our instructor called out, but before he could answer, AJ explained that he had fallen over out of sheer exhaustion.

          During dinner that night AJ was asked to explain to our instructor what happened in the dunes.  All AJ said was that whilst trying to encourage von Werner, he had been met with some very foul language particularly about his colour.  At one point he was hysterical so I clouted him.  Our instructor nodded and the matter was forgotten.

          For the next few weeks, von Werner constantly snipped and criticised AJ outside earshot of the training staff, but AJ let it slide.  ‘The German’s behaviour is beneath me; not worth bothering about.’ he told me.

          A couple of weeks later AJ was nominated as Squad Leader again.  Now one of the tasks of the Squad Leader was to pin up Daily Routine Orders in every squad rooms.  What we didn’t know was that AJ had quietly spoken to one of the girls responsible for typing up Daily Routine Orders and explained what he wanted to do.  She was more than happy to assist.  So Friday afternoon a copy of Routine Orders were pinned up in every squad room declaring on the front page that AJ was the Orderly Sergeant the coming Saturday, when in fact it was Feldwebel von Werner.  The language von Werner used when he was dug out of his pit at 1000 hours on Saturday morning still hung-over from a serious nights drinking was unprintable.  The Orderly Officer, some Rodney from the Household Cavalry had walked into von Weber’s room and tipped him out of bed, then took down the Routine Order from the notice board and read it out. 

          “Are you Feldwebel von Werner?  If you are then I suggest you get your ass up and dressed and present yourself to the guardroom in double quick time or I shall recommend that you are returned to your unit in disgrace.” 

          What AJ had done was ask the secretary to produce a second front page to Routine Orders; this page declared AJ as the Orderly Sergeant on Saturday. Then at midnight on Friday, he had gone around and replaced all the fake front pages with the original, stating that the Order Sergeant for Saturday was von Werner.  No surprises when a very irate and hungover von Werner started to rant and rave in the Guardroom that the Daily Routine Orders were wrong.

          Out of the 48 officer and men who attended the Commando course, two officers and fourteen men were awarded the coveted Green Beret.  What didn’t surprise us was that von Werner’s name was amongst those names.

          I was posted to 42 Commando whilst AJ was posted to 3 Commando Brigade who were about to deploy to The Sinai Desert for a year, whilst von Werner was posted to the German Marine Kriege in Kiel, North Germany.

          After a delightful stint at the northernmost part of Norway on artic warfare training I received my orders to report to the NATO Commando Unit in Flensburg and who should be there but AJ with a load of Oppos from 3 Commando Brigade.  That night, once we had settled down with some of the other NATO Special Forces lads, the beers began to flow, followed by the rude jokes.  Suddenly the Mess fell into silence and some of the German sergeants stood.  Now in the British Armed Forces, you only stand when an officer enters the room, so the Brits and American just carried on talking.  AJ suddenly gave out a yell of laughter.

          “My God, they’ve made the turd a bloody Sergeant Major.”

          There standing in his pressed combat fatigues was no other than Hauptefeldwebel Hans von Werner. He ignored the gibes from AJ and after a sharp nod, the Germans’ quickly sat down.  I could see that if AJ wasn’t careful he could end up blotting his copybook, so a couple of us decided to go into Flensburg for a curry.

          Now unbeknown to most of us, AJ had a problem which materialised the following morning and when it did, one never forgot the experience.  AJ had a problem with flatulence, which occurred only when he ate curry.  The stench was so foul that those with a weak constitution would quickly retch or throw-up if they couldn’t vacate the vicinity quickly enough.

          August was approaching and Jim Henderson our Boss, knew that without a challenge or an incentive to keep the men sharp, we would rot and when the balloon went up, we’d not be fit or eager enough for the task, so he asked the Commandant of the NATO Commando Base if he could organise a two mile assault course and shooting competition, run over two days.  The Commandant was over the moon and instantly gave permission. 

          Now unbeknown to us low life, the Commandant had telephone The Deputy Supreme Allied Commander at NATO Headquarters, General Manfred von Clausendorff, the highest ranking German officer in their military and asked if he would present the trophy, thinking that his boys would win the competition. Then he had ordered Hauptefeldwebel von Werner to select the youngest and fittest men under his command and prepare them.  They were to be the best of the best; invincible even and with it the threat that if he failed, there would be consequences.  

          At our prep briefing a few days before the start of the competition, our Boss explained that the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander would be presenting the winning trophy then receive a briefing on the unit’s readiness before returning to Supreme Headquarters in Belgium.  I don’t know why, but I casually glanced sideways and caught that devious look on AJ’s face and I could see that he was planning some dastardly plan to bury von Werner for good.

          The day of the competition was hot; hardly any breeze, but we put up a good time on the assault course coming in second behind von Werner’s boys by four seconds.  The Boss was more than pleased with our efforts and he knew that tomorrow would be our day, as most of the lads held marksman’s badges including AJ who also had the snipper’s badge.  Boss’s last words before closing the team talk that evening was ‘stay in camp tonight and get an early night’.

          The next thing we all see is AJ walking in from the front door of our billet with several take-out tubs.

          “Who’s up for a Vindaloo then?”

          It was a night to remember.  We were joined by the lads from the French and Dutch teams including some of the German Navy girls. The jokes were thick and fast; the singing was totally disgraceful and the drink was plentiful

          The following morning, as expected, the British, French and Dutch teams looked a sorry state, but by the end of the day, we had beaten all-comers’ by a huge margin and according to the Umpires, the British Team had won the competition on points gained in the shoot-off, pushing von Werner’s team into second place.  As we received our crate of beer, I noticed that AJ was missing. 

          AJ was aware that von Werner was responsible for greeting visitors and giving the opening brief before handing over to the Commandant, and had gained access to the Operations Briefing Room before von Werner had time to set up.  When von Werner suddenly entered the room, AJ had just pulled across the curtains that covered the maps on the briefing wall.  AJ had stood there staring at von Werner until he heard voices coming down the corridor, then grinned at von Werner, he left the room via a back door though not before leaving a small present.

          The smell festered for about four seconds until its full and foul smell filled the room.  Von Werner turned as the door opened and then he smelt AJ’s passing gift and froze.  First through the door was General Manfred von Clausendorff, the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander, followed by the Commandant of the NATO Commando Base and his American Deputy plus a couple of senior staff officers.

          Von Werner had nowhere to go and frantically looked around hoping to see AJ who, by this time, had left the Headquarters building un-noticed. That night in the Mess we were joined by one of the Master Sergeants of the US Seals Team who relayed with great detail how the Commandant berated von Werner in front of the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander for not only losing the competition but for the disgusting stench in the room.  We all laughed until he said that wasn’t the last straw.  When the Commandant pulled back the curtains to begin his brief, someone had created large photos of von Werner holding hands with General Clausendorf, with the wording, ‘I Love Manfred.’  That was it, the place fell into hysterics. AJ kept a straight face as though it had nothing to do with him.

          You know, we never saw or heard of Hauptefeldwebel von Werner again.  Some say he was working as a rations clerk down on the Turkish border.          

Copyright Bob French

Books I've Read: Hamnet

Hamnet

Jane Scoggins 

 No story from me today but I wanted to promote a wonderful book I have recently finished reading. Winner of The Women's Prize For Fiction 2020 it is such a good read and gives an idea of what life was like in 1596 and leads us to believe is the basis for Shakespeare's play Hamlet:

 

  

 Prince

By Janet Baldey

One hind leg cocked, Prince stood slumped against rough wood while large shapes shifted and swayed in the shadows.. Gradually, splinters of light pushed through the uneven planking and the dim light began to lift. There was a distant sound of clanking and Prince’s ears twitched as he opened his eyes. The other horses had heard it too and began to stamp their hooves. At last the stable door creaked open and Jim appeared with steaming buckets filled to the brim with bran mash.

‘Wake up boys.’ he called ‘Breakfast’. 

The sun was a flat orange line on the horizon when the horses were led into the yard. Prince stood patiently while Jim heaved the heavy collar over his head and threw the britching over his rump. The routine never varied and Prince knew exactly what to expect. As a foal, he’d trotted behind his mother, watching and learning. There was the winter ploughing when, muscles bunching, the horses leaned into their collars, drawing the heavy plough over a choppy sea of clay. They pulled the seed drill in the spring and the hot, heavy days of summer were spent heaving carts filled with hay and harvested wheat. Little had changed for centuries and the slow, even cycle of the farming year were ideally suited to the heavy horses’ placid and uncomplaining natures. 

But nothing lasts forever and gradually the atmosphere around the farm altered. Prince was not aware of this as his thoughts did not travel much beyond anticipating his next bucket of oats. If, however, he had been able to understand the sounds issuing from men’s mouths, maybe he would have worried. Their talk was all about war.  Gradually men who cared for the horses left never to be seen again. They were not replaced and fields were left fallow. Prince was aware that Jim no longer harnessed him up. This task had been taken over by a younger and more inexperienced man. Although he meant well, he was clumsy and sometimes let the collar fall heavily onto Prince’s neck. Prince would snort and toss his head but otherwise, he bore the rough treatment with fortitude until his whole life changed 

Early one morning the stable door swung opened and several different men entered.  Prince looked up, curiously. Flashlights gleamed in the darkness. The men stopped by Prince’s stall and one ran experienced hands over his body. 

‘This one’ll do’ he said.   

 Prince was taken out into the yard but instead of being harnessed up, a heavy linen cloth was wrapped around his eyes and he was suddenly plunged into darkness.  He lifted his head to protest and as he did so a thick rope was twisted around his neck and he was pulled forward. He tried to resist but several men heaved on the rope and he was forced to walk on. As he did, he noticed the ground under his hooves changed and began to slope.  Hard shoulders leaned on him from behind and he was propelled into a dark space that echoed under his stamping hooves. The space began to sway and Prince had to brace his body to keep upright. The lurching journey seemed to go on forever but at last it came to a juddering halt.  Prince was led back down the slope into the open air and to his great relief the bandage was taken off. He looked around him. He was in a large field together with several other horses; gratefully, Prince lowered his head and began to munch the sweet grass.    

Just before the sun rose the next morning, Prince and the other horses were rounded up. Again, they were forced to suffer the indignity of being blindfolded and were led in single file out of the field.  Prince put his mind into neutral and followed his handler uncomplainingly, his hooves clopping along a metalled road. As he walked, a salt-laden breeze began to blow towards him and Prince’s nostrils twitched at the unfamiliar smell. 

‘Whoa boy’. Again he was halted and to his surprise, he found that bands were being fastened around his middle.  Suddenly, he was hoisted into the air and he snorted with terror, cold air rushed past his body then with a sickening lurch he found himself dropping downwards into a fetid hold that smelled of sweat. This time the blindfolds were not removed and Prince had to endure two days in a rolling hell. Closely tethered, he was unable to move more than a few feet and as the ground beneath him heaved Prince’s flanks brushed against those of the other horses, their fear contaminating him. 

At last his ordeal ended and once again he found himself in fresh air. Prince stood still, feeling too miserable to move, his head was hanging, and he trembled with exhaustion. He was so steeped in misery that at first he failed to recognise a familiar voice. 

‘Prince. I thought it was you, old boy.’ 

Gentle hands removed the grubby bindings covering Prince’s eyes. The unaccustomed light dazzled him and he did not recognise the man standing before him. Then he gave a soft nicker of realisation. It was Jim. It was the man who had looked after him at the farm. 

Jim’s face was deeply lined and grey with exhaustion. He stared at the horse, and his face twisted with pity. 

‘It isn’t fair,’ he whispered. ‘Welcome to the Western Front’. As he spoke a distant flash illuminated the skyline and there was a low rumble as if of thunder. 

Now Prince had to get used to a new routine. At first light each morning, Jim would lead the big carthorse outside.  A heavy harness was strapped to his body and his eyes were shielded by thick leather blinkers. Urged on by Jim, Prince’s hooves squelched through rain-sodden ground as he hauled on his heavy load.  His nostrils flared, the sickly sweet stench of the mud-filled him with dread and if it wasn’t for the sound of Jim’s voice muttering quietly in his ear, he would have refused to budge.  But Prince trusted Jim. Jim looked after him and always had done. As much as any animal could, Prince loved Jim and would have followed him anywhere. 

 As the weeks passed, the strain began to tell on both man and animal.  Each laboured all day and far into the night and the work was gruelling.  Prince would frequently sink to his fetlocks in the glutinous mud and the effort of having to pull a heavy load in such terrain exhausted him. As he strained and heaved his legs out of the sucking mud day after day, Prince became an automaton, lost in a nightmare of darkness and noise. The low rumble of the guns in the distance was incessant and although his blinkers blocked out the sight of most of the carnage, it could not block it out entirely and often Prince caught glimpses of dead horses, their stiffened limbs jutting at unnatural angles, their wounds gaping scarlet against the mud.   

Gradually all his spirit drained away. He got little rest. During the short periods he spent in his stall, he would stand trembling, his ears constantly pricking this way and that, listening to the thunder of the guns and the shouts and screams of the soldiers. One day, just after they had delivered some supplies to the front line, the enemy cannons found their range. There was an ear-splitting explosion and a great gout of stinking mud fountained into the air, it rained down and spattered onto Prince who reared, screaming. With all his strength, Jim clung onto his bridle, doing his best to calm the animal but Prince had been temporarily deafened by the blast and was unable to hear Jim’s soothing voice. A red mist of fear descended upon him, he just wanted to get away, he forgot all about Jim, forgot that he was his friend. He shook his head madly trying to escape from his burden.  Jim, worn down by many months at the Front, could hold on no longer and with a despairing cry, he fell under the horse’s flailing iron-shod hooves.  Prince reared, beating at the air, then turning he careered back down the way that he had come, his cart lurching along behind him. 

When the men caught up with him he was standing exhausted, his flanks heaving. He was covered in sweat and streaked with mud and his eyes were red and rolling with insane panic.  

‘Poor brute’ one said.  

So far gone was Prince, that he didn’t feel the cold ring of steel against his poll and didn’t hear the explosion that ended his life.  He was just one of the eight million horses who died on the Western Front in the First World War. 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

e wasHeHH

 

 

 

 

 

The Old China Teapot 

By Sis Unsworth

 When there was trouble of some kind, and problems in excess,

my old mum and my aunties, had a way to sort the mess.

The china teapot would come out, and they would gather round,

and very often to their plight, solutions would be found.

It always was a ritual; the pot was warmed with care

while a cup and saucer would be placed for all who gathered there.

Sugar cubes and milk in jugs, no bottles on their table,

The kettle heated then by gas, no electric plug or cable.

A spoon of tea went in the pot, for each and every one,

with an extra spoonful for the pot, the job was almost done.

Then boiling water added, they made sure it did not stew,

it stood for just a little while, then they had their brew.

All the tea was strained, as they poured it in each cup.

Milk and sugar added, just before they drank it up.

It seemed just like therapy as, they all joined in the chat,

But I think the ritual of the pot, seemed to add to that.

For when I have a problem it always seems a shame,

As a tea bag in a mug, somehow, just don’t seem the same.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 24

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 24 Revisionists 1 

By Len Morgan 

He smiled and bowed with flair.   "So, you are Genna?   Well met…" he said offering his hand.

"It’s a shame we could not meet under better circumstances,” she commented.

"Indeed, but here we are.   I am Skaa." He said.

"I know who you are," she replied in a dismissive manner, “I saw what you did to
Aldor out in the Western Desert,” she said watching his reaction.

"Oh that!  Just a job.  But you have the advantage of me," his rakish smile shone disarmingly.

"Remember I know what you are capable of," she added without smiling.

"Mayhap we should just concentrate on getting out of this place?" Wizomi interjected mildly, endeavouring to diffuse what looked to be a potentially dangerous situation.

Whilst Genna glared, Skaa continued to smile disarmingly with contrived innocence.

They moved on in silence, examining every square foot of the tunnel walls.

"Is this possibly what we are looking for?" he asked pointing out a single off-colour square tile on the outer wall.   So saying he reached out his hand as if to finger it…

"Don't touch!" Wizomi warned barging Skaa unceremoniously aside.   He had already espied the palm-sized tile, located at shoulder height.   He examined the adjacent tiles carefully and the border between them before turning his attention to the palm tile itself.   After minutes of inaction, he leaned forward and planted his left palm in the hand indentation.   Part of the wall turned black as if a door had opened.   Genna saw him frozen against the blackness for an instant; then both it and Wizomi were gone.

.-…-. 

'Aldor, you have to get to them immediately!   I have lost contact with Wizomi.'

He took a quick glance at Jazim, who still lay unmoving on her pallet.

'Head for the cellars but have a care; they will be guarded by Skaa's men,' Orden warned.

'That snake, if he has done anything to harm…'  

Throwing open the door he headed down through the levels of the house, paying scant attention to the shouting and movements around him.   Attackers came at him; he threw them aside like children.   Individuals were no match for him but, mans propensity is for coordinated group action.   He never saw the heavy net they dropped over him or felt the mortal hammer blows that smashed into his skull, in rapid succession, rendering him unconscious.   A normal man would have died, which explained the look of surprise on the face of the hammer wielder on checking his handiwork, "He still lives?"

They opened the nearest cell and dragged him inside, bound his wrists securely behind him and left, locking the door behind them.   Only then did they start to feel safe.

"Three dead and five injured," said Bodley, 

'What manner of creature is he,' Harby thought, why so hard to subdue?   "The mistress must be informed at once."

"What is this?”   Bodley demanded as they approached the rooms occupied by Jazim.  Harby and he, side by side, filled the door.   Glaring at the others suspiciously and denying them entry.

.-…-. 

He had inadvertently been housed in the cell which less than half an hour since had been occupied by Skaa.   The line of plates had been reshuffled and thrown around, brown-grey gloop coagulated in pools, suckling the cold hard granite floor.

Aldor lay unconscious for close to half an hour cold and ill-used.   His eyes opened, scaring a rat, which had been nibbling food remnants, just a hands length from his face.  It jumped and skittered putting distance between them, it was all he could do to calm its thoughts and coax it to gnaw through the rope binding his wrists.

.-…-. 

 Genna pounded the wall, slapping the palm tile repeatedly, willing the portal to open.

"You try!" she demanded of Skaa, forcing him to act.

He looked into her eyes and placed his hand exactly as Wizomi had done "nothing" he said, repeating the action, again and again, to illustrate the point.

"Nothing" she echoed in a flat hopeless voice, betraying her inner feelings.  "It isn't going to work" tears were now evident snaking their way down her cheeks.   She could not remember the last time she had cried; it must have been a long time ago.   She looked askance at the big man, who shook his head and said nothing.

"Noooo…!" She wailed.   He pulled her tenderly to him comforting her, like a child, thumping the wall periodically to signify he hadn’t given up.   Eventually, she stopped crying and they sat, side by side, with nothing to say.   After a while, even her occasional sobs petered out and she lay silent, using him as a backrest, dry-eyed and cried out.

"We have to move on," he said finally, "we can't stay here forever, we will be missed and they will come searching, believe me, they are not nice people."

.-…-. 

   'Where am I,' Aldor thought. 'What am I doing here, wh-- who am I?' 

He looked towards the light, shining through the broken grill, and rolled towards it.   Wriggling through, into the corridor, he walked in the direction he was facing when he landed.   After a few tentative steps he began to run, putting as much distance between himself and that place as he could, he didn’t know why but sensed it was evil.   Ahead he could hear a young woman calling a name, "Wizomi, Wiz!"

.-…-. 

"We have waited long enough," Skaa told her, "they will realise we have escaped and come seeking us.   We have no weapons…"

"Quiet!   I can hear something," they went silent for a moment "somebody is coming," she said, hitting the palm tile again with no more success than before.

.-…-. 

   As he rounded the gentle curve they came into view.   He watched curiously as the big bear-like figure place his bulk defensively, between him and the young woman, squaring himself for action.

.-...-. 

   Skaa crouched low looking around, for something he could use as a weapon, without success.   The figure that came into sight was tall and lean; he had white hair and pale blue eyes just like Wizomi.   Initially, Genna thought it was Wizomi but his bearing was different.   He was more erect, like a warrior, like… she paused, surprised at the trick her mind was playing on her, it was absurd but for a moment she had thought the newcomer was Aldor.   But, his hair was white and his eyes were blue.

"I am lost.   Can you help me?"  He said as seemingly confused.

For moments they looked at each other, not a weapon between them.

"I know not how I came here…" he began.

"I've known comrades to take a blow, like that, to the skull and completely lose their memory," said Skaa sympathetically stepping forward to examine the open wound; he still managed to frisk the newcomer without his being aware.   He was clean, apart from the purse at his belt.   "There's a nasty bump and a clean-cut that has bled quite a bit before congealing.   He rubbed the side of the wounded face and flakes of dry blood fell away, "I'd say you have amnesia."

"Amnwhat…" said Genna.

"Amnesia, a temporary loss of memory," he explained.

 "Then why not just say that.   What caused it?" she asked.

"Obviously in this case it was the blow on the head." Skaa answered with certainty.   "It wasn't a sword cut, the wound is too uneven, it must have been done a week or so ago judging by the extent to which it has healed over.   There's no sign of infection and since it's unlikely to be permanent you will probably get your memory back gradually."

"Do you know what your name is?" she asked him.

"Name?" he said shaking his head, his confusion obvious.

"No matter boy, it will come, eventually it will return," Skaa said reassuringly.

"In the meantime, we have to call him something," Genna said.

"Why?" he asked.

"I think we should call you Raelon!" she said nodding.   "We've seen precious few of them in this strange place" she added.

"You are not from here?" he asked.

She laughed, amused, and he knew at once she would be the one he could trust.

"We are not here from choice," she said

"Raelon" he said trying it, "sounds good."

"It means sewer rat.   They are very intelligent, very resourceful, and they are survivors," said Skaa.

"Well, how do we get out of here?" Raelon asked.

Skaa hit the tile, "still not working," Genna also pushed it, without success.

"Allow me" said Raelon, touching the tile.

The portal opened.

 

(To Be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

Plastic Reality

by Rosemary Clarke

The world would be a better place
If Barbie could help Ken
And Ken was in a wheelchair
Oh, what would happen then?
Or if he were paraplegic
After coming from a war
And Barbie was a Carer
To help when he could take no more.
Then little girls and little boys
Would learn they need each other
And what a great new world for them
All children would discover.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

TIMEWALK (fifth and final part) 

by Richard Banks          

I get to the safe house, which is a shutdown café, and ring the bell. The door opens and Henderson greets me like a long lost brother. He claps me on the back and says the others are out back in the kitchen. I go in and look into their faces. Four of them are exuberant, pleased to see me, two stare back in disbelief. I put my back to the wall and draw my gun from its holster. There is, I say, something that some of them should know if they’re wanting to stay alive. I tell them about the lock on my door and the delayed explosion that wasn't. Cheshire says I'm lying, that I'm a Government agent, but everyone knows that's nonsense. If I was an agent there would be another ten behind me. I look at Renshaw and ask him why. He considers his answer calmly; he speaks in his usual, measured way.

         “I'm sorry, Adam, but it was necessary. You were a danger to us all. The Government was on to you. It would only have been a matter of time before they caught up with you. What then? A  drugged cigarette? I doubt it. They use torture, you know. How long would you have held out before telling them everything you know? There are millions of lives at stake. I couldn't take the risk.”

         I redirect the gun at Cheshire, ask her the same question. Her betrayal seems worse and I feel my finger tightening on the trigger.

         “Shoot me,” she says. “Do it! Our lives are unimportant. All that matters is the Cause.”

         “Is there anyone else who wants me dead?” My question is unanswered but everyone, apart from Renshaw and Cheshire, are visibly shocked at what I have said. Clearly, they were never told, were never meant to know.

         I put my trust in them and return my gun to its holster. There is silence, then Renshaw speaks. I tell him to shut up, that nothing he says can be trusted, then I realise it's him who is going to save me. He's thinking the same as me but I say it first. “Use Timewalk to send me back to where no one will find me. Do that and we're all safe. Problem over.”

         “Very well,” says Renshaw, “are we all agreed?” He looks at everyone in turn as they respond with a terse “yes” or a nod of the head. He proposes that the two of us go directly to Timewalk before the evening patrols begin, but I want someone there who's on my side so I insist that Henderson goes too. We set off and reach the Timewalk building without encountering anything more threatening than a stray cat. Renshaw lets us in and we go directly to the transmissions room.

         “When and where?” He asks.

         I tell him Bath, England, early 1800s, and he starts fiddling with the controls in a way that suggests that standard transmissions have long ceased to be part of his job description. While he's sorting himself out I help myself to some clothing from the props room. I put on something labelled 'Regency, gentleman's formal' and hurry back to the transmissions room where the usual lights are flickering on the control panel. I take up my position. Henderson bids me good luck and I'm on my way.

                                                  ***   

         It's a bad trip, I'm down on my knees and there's a pain in my head like someone's taken a drill to it. What's worse, if things can get worse, is that I am not in Bath, and unless Margate Beach has got a whole lot bigger, there's no way this is England. I'm close to passing out but if I do there might be no waking up. I fall forward onto hot sand and, as it burns my hands and head, the drilling stops. I find the strength to get back onto my knees and through eyes dazzled by sunlight, stare out at a vast desert in which the only living thing is me. My hat is nowhere to be found, so I take off the tailcoat I'm wearing and hang it over my head. I need water, proper shade and if there's a place where these things can be found that's where I’ve got to be. I stand up, pick a direction and start walking. Two hours later I'm still going. I'm desperate to be seeing something that isn't sand, but when I do it’s the bleached bones of a human skeleton. This is what happens when you stop, I tell myself, you must not, but that's easier said than done. It's mind over matter time; my body wants to shut down but I won't let it, not after everything I've been through.

         Ahead of me is a long ridge of sand, over which a small bird appears and is joined by another. They tumble and turn in the air before dipping down out of sight. I keep walking, knowing that whatever is beyond the ridge will either save me or see me dead. The birds reappear, soar upwards, circle and are lost in the glare of the sun. Out of sight, they may already be too distant to see but logic tells me they are still near. They need water just as much as I do and small birds don't fly far … or do they?

         I look down at my feet and make them climb the slope to the top of the ridge. Every step must make a foothold capable of supporting the weight of my body. A moment's carelessness will send me sliding down, but my mind commands my body and my body continues to climb. We triumph! and I step up onto a narrow plateau. Beyond it, the desert continues to the horizon but I don't care, I'm not looking that far. Down below, no further than one hundred metres, a cluster of palm trees tremble in a breeze that blows only there. I roll down the other side of the ridge and start walking again. This could be a mirage, a hallucination, me seeing only what I want to see, but maybe, just maybe, it exists. I stagger up to the nearest tree, hug it and know it's real. Ten more steps and I'm within the dappled shade of an oasis. A lion and a lamb are grazing on the grassy bank of a lake, on where a swan is swimming with her cygnets. The scene is tranquil, unworldly, but, like me, it exists. I splash down into the clear, cool water and drink from a stream that flows into it. In moments I am restored, made well again, the cares and troubles of another life forever gone.

         A crocodile glides towards me and on finding I am doing nothing more interesting than washing the sand from my face turns away towards a spur of land on which it has made a nest. Could life be better? I think not, then a question proves me wrong. 

          “What animal are you?”

         I turn in the direction of the voice and find myself looking at a young woman who has allowed nothing to come between her and the perfect tan.

         “Human,” I reply. “I am, as you are, human.”

         She sits up from the grassy embankment where she has been lying and dangles a foot in the water, sending an unhurried ripple through her reflection. “A human?” She laughs and instantly dismisses the idea as nonsense. “No, you are different. No human has skin like yours.”

         I explain that I am wearing clothes and that without them I am definitely human. To prove the point I wade over to her and open my shirt so she can see my chest.

         She points at my trousers. “And the begatting? How do you do that?”

         I reply that the trousers also come off but that I will keep them on in case anyone from her tribe should come by.

         “Tribe?”

         “Yes, other humans, your father, mother, a mate. Do you have a mate?”

         She lies back on the ground, cradling her head in her hands. The word seems unfamiliar to her and she repeats it several times while considering its possible meaning. She decides to respond with a certain knowledge of her existence. “I have Eric. He is my man and I am Eve, his wife, who was once his rib. And this place is our home, Eden.”

         This is all very odd but at the same time strangely familiar. “Would I be correct in saying that Eric is the first man and you his woman?”

         Eve confirms that my supposition is indeed correct. She turns over onto her front and says that if I want to make myself useful I can rub coconut oil onto her back. She points to a coconut in which a woodpecker is making a small incision.

         “Is this what Eric does when he's around?”

         Eve heaves a deep sigh of discontent. “You mean when he's not naming the animals?”

         “Is that what he's doing now?” 

         “It sure is. It's the old chap's orders, him upstairs. Go name the animals, he said, and while you're doing that be fruitful and multiply. But oh no. Eric can't do two things at once so he decides to name the animals first and leave the fruitful, begatting stuff to later. So off he goes into the desert to name the meerkats and I've not seen him since. Meanwhile, all the animals are begatting like mad and we ain't even got started. He'd better come back soon or the old chap will be putting the rabbits in charge.”

         There is no good way of breaking bad news, so I tell her about the skeleton in the desert and how it can only be Eric. “He is dead,” I say. There is an irrefutable logic about this but the concept of death is one she is totally unable to grasp. In the end, I say that another of Eric's ribs has also become a woman and he is doing his begatting with her. This she does understand and having never been told a lie believes every word. When she has finished sobbing I tell her the good news.

         “What's that?” she says.

         “I have been sent to take his place.”

         “What, by the old chap?”

         I think he might be listening so I say it's fate, our fate, and that it is written in the stars. This is a line I once tried on a girl I met in a singles’ bar. It didn't work then and it doesn't work now, owing to the need to explain writing. By the time that is done the romantic possibilities are thinner than air. I try another line.

         “Try and see it this way, the future belongs to us. It's a new story, the story of Adam and Eve. Don't that have a sweet ring? We'll be starting a dynasty that will change the world, no wars, no hunger, a world full of happy, contented people. We can do it sugar, you and me together.”

         Eve says she doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about but if it has anything to do with begatting I will need to do something about the trousers.

         I finish the rear side oiling and tickle the flats of her feet; she lets out a high pitched shriek which startles a sleeping leopard. Eve rolls over onto her back and draws up her knees so that each foot is placed firmly on the ground. While she's deciding whether she likes or dislikes being tickled I spread more oil onto her feet and shins. This is like the best beach holiday ever and providing I can keep her off the forbidden fruit that's the way it's going to stay.

         It's time to explain about trouser buttons and having done so she demonstrates an aptitude for problem-solving that will come in very useful when we start making stone implements. But that comes later. For now, we have other things to do.

                                                                 ***

This is both the end of the story and the beginning. This time we will get it right. 

Copyright Richard Banks

                                                        

 

Wanted

by Rosemary Clarke

WANTED
People who care
WANTED
Folks who'll be there
WANTED
Ones who'll befriend
WANTED
The time they will lend
NOT WANTED
People who use
NOT WANTED
The system abuse
NOT WANTED
One's who'll take need
NOT WANTED
And turn it to greed
WANTED
People who smile
WANTED
To go the extra mile.

These are the ones blessed under the sun
These make our day in every way.
KEEP BEING WANTED HOPE NEEDS US ALL TO CARE.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

 

FOETUS 

By Peter Woodgate 

Run child,

Whilst scented breezes weave their fingers through your hair,

Run child,

Whilst youthful looks show that you have but not one care.

Dance child,

Whilst steps, so gay, are music to your ears,

Dance child,

Whilst laughter seals the dam that holds back all the tears.

Walk child,

With innocence and not with guile,

Walk child,

Walk tall and wear a sunbeam for a smile.

Kneel child,

And think of all the gifts inherited and free,

Kneel child,

And try to picture things you cannot see.

Pray child,

With honesty, and all the love you can,

Pray child,

For you will realize you’re not a man.

Trust child,

Trust in him to make it clear,

Faith child,

Faith in him, your birthday is so near.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate