A BIRD IN THE LIBRARY

By Bob French,  

Dedicated to the late Frederik Forsyth

Colonel Vladimir Milkovich of the State Office of Intelligence sat sipping his ice tea in room 3019 of the sub-basement of the east wing of the Kremlin.  The only sound in his sparsely furnished office was the ticking of an antique mantle clock, claimed to have belonged to the late Tsar Nicholas the second. Infront of him stood three members of the Politburo who, according to the head of department 22, had been suspected of spying.

Before he could speak to Voslott, the incompetent Ukraine, who had been head of department 22 for as long as he could remember, had  got himself killed by, according to witnesses, being very drunk and falling down the stairs in the opera house last Friday evening.

BezeIt, who headed up the security department of the Kremlin, had carried out one of the fastest investigations in history. Which, once Colonel Milkovich had read his report, decided it was time for the incompetent Bezelt to spend a little time out in the wastelands of Siberia and was contemplating asking Department three to eliminate the fool, when suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by one of the three men standing in front of him.

“Comrade Colonel Milkovich.  I demand to know why I’ve been publicly humiliated by being arrested in the State Library and dragged down here in front of hundreds of people? I am a deputy minister of the State Politburo and have an important meeting to attend to this morning, with the Comrade Deputy regarding the vote so.……”

Colonel Milkovich gently put down his ice tea, looked up and cut him short. “Listen, all of you.” His voice was calm and just audible above the ticking of the ancient clock.  “Your names have been brought to my attention in matters relating to a breach of state security. You were all seen at the Opera last Friday evening, and two of you were seen drinking with Comrade Vislott at the end of the first act.”

 Colonel Milkovich paused for a minute allowing the tension in the room to build.  “And you,” he nodded to the last man, whose complexion was starting to turn an unhealthy shade of grey. “You accompanied Vislott to the toilets. Where you spent fifteen minutes.” He paused. “Don’t you think that was a rather long time?” Implying that some sort of sexual activity had taken place.”

With fear in his eyes he started to explain, but the Colonel raised his hand demanding silence.

“I am not interested in your alibies. I shall wait until my men have had a chance to have a quiet chat with you.  Only then will I really understand why you were there with Comrade Vislott and why he died.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and a tall rugged looking man entered the room.  Came to attention, and briefly explained that they were ready.  The three men turned and looked at the intruder and couldn’t help noticing the blood stains on his shirt and his hands.

“Thank you, Gregor.  They will be ready for you in five minutes.”  The man turned, smiled at the three politburo officials, then left.

The grey faced man turned to Colonel Milkovich. “What evidence do you have to arrest us.  It is not a crime to attend the opera.”

“Simple.  I have known Comrade Vislott for many years.  I know for a fact that he never drinks, he hates, no he loathes the opera and every Friday evening, without fail he always visits is elderly mother. Yet for some reason, you three seemed to have lured him away.  Got him drunk, then pushed him down the stairs. Was it because he’d accused you of treason? To me, that is enough to arrest you.”

All three stood, stunned at the charges just laid against them. Then the door to his office opened and two guards carrying Kalashnacoff rifles entered the room.  Without a word, the three men were ushered out of the Colonel’s office.

Three stories up in the Kremlin, where floors had plush carpets and smart furniture, and expensive drapes covered every window, Comrade Dimitry Medvedev, President Putin’s deputy, relaxed as he  took another sip of his Jack Daniels Old Number 7 Whiskey.  His thoughts were interrupted by his secretary who informed him that Colonel Milkovich wished to see him.

Before he could answer her, The Colonel pushed open his office door and strolled in as though he owned the place,

“You still drinking that gut rot Dimitry?  You do know it makes you go blind.”

Dimitry stood and came to meet his friend of some twenty years and took his hand. “You look well.  And how is Mienya?

“She and the children are very well, thank you.  You must try and drag yourself away from your desk and come and stay for a weekend at our Dacha. I am sure you will be utterly spoilt by my three children.”

Dimitry returned to his seat and invited Milkovich to take the luxurious Chippendale armchair.

“So, what brings you up here from your dungeons? Have you come to tell me you have found who has been steeling toilet rolls from the politburo washrooms?”

“Sadly no, but let me give you an update on my investigation to track down where the leaking information about the President’s future special operational plans was coming from.”

“Was this part of one of your covert operations?”

“Yes, Operation Cyanopsitta.”

“Ah yes I recall.”  Demitry’s expression slowly changed as his thoughts went back to the time when everyone was suspected of treason, even those on the top floor.  No one was safe in the Kremlin.” “God, I can never get the hang of your code-names.  What is a Cyanopsitta?”

Milkovich laughed.  “It’s a macaw, a parrot.”

Dimitry, with a smile on his face, shook his head.  “So the sudden disappearance of Voslott’s deputy and some of his staff was the work of you and Department three, am I right?”

The Colonel grinned. Yes, and with the coming release date of the invasion of Ukraine, I used a fake date to lure Voslott into my trap, and within three days my contacts in Poland, confirmed that the fake date had been received and was being circulated. 

“But his Deputy and some of his staff went missing, what, three weeks ago, why did you leave Voslott till last.? Did you have doubts about him being your spy?” 

Milcovich smiled. “I needed him alive until Last Friday so he could play his part in my rouse.” 

“Not sure what you mean?” 

“Do you recall last week you asked me to ensure that the important vote taking place this afternoon went in favour of the President? Well, I have temporarily arrested three of the deputies who were going to vote against the President, but I needed an excuse and the death of Comrade Voslott gave me the perfect reason.”  He paused to let his achievement sink in. “To my reconning, this gives you a clear two vote advantage, so the President will get his way.” 

Demitry suddenly pushed back his chair and rushed around his huge desk and dragged his friend up and hugged him. “How can I ever repay you for your dedication to the state?  I will make sure the President gets to hear of this.” 

“Not necessary my friend, but the decoration; the Hero of the Russian Federation would look good on my uniform. 

“Consider it done.  What about the tree deputies down in your cells.”

“Oh, I shall release them with a warning the day after the vote has been confirmed and formally ratified.” 

Dimitry quickly poured two glasses of his contraband Jack Daniels Old Number 7, passed one to his friend and raised his glass. “To your bird in the library.”

Copyright Bob French

EXTRACT CHAPTER TWO ‘WHEN THE BUGLES CALL’ (2 & Last)

 EXTRACT CHAPTER TWO ‘WHEN THE BUGLES CALL’  (1913 – Carlisle)

 By Bob French

At a special meeting of the officers and NCO's who commanded the various exercise platoons during the annual combat exercise, Colonel Wessex sat at the head of table and slowly shook his head and glanced down at the sheet of paper listing who had participated in the exercise.

“Second Lieutenant Sheridon.  You commanded the 12^th platoon. According to the umpires, you were disqualified for going outside the exercise area.  Please explain?”

Major Jack Wilberforce silently cringed as Lieutenant Nicholas Sheridon looked up in shock. Sheridon was a tall lanky young man with a mop of unruly fair hair and rimmed glasses which he wore on the end of his nose.  He was without doubt, an exceptionally intelligent young man and wondered what he was doing in the army.  He had been told on a number of occasions that his only interest was in ornithology. His platoon sergeant seemed to run the show.

“Yes Sir, most unfortunate. Sorry about that…… Sir”

“Would you like to tell me how you managed to wonder off into Scotland and nearly causing a diplomatic incident?”

Some of the men around the table started to titter until the 2IC called for silence.

“Well Sir, my platoon’s location was to be three miles south of Hadrian’s Wall.  According to my scouts, which I sent out once we had arrived, there was a platoon wearing green arm bands a mile or so to our east and blue, a couple of miles south of us.  An umpire arrived just before midnight and suggested that I move to a new location due to the possibility of serious flooding.  I took into consideration the morale of the men and decided to move.  The umpire agreed to lead us to a better location.  So, during the night the platoon followed me and the umpire for about two hours until we came to a perfect location where I quickly set up camp and posted sentries.  All seemed to be well until just after stand-too the next morning when out of the mist a gentleman in a kilt and holding a long staff, accompanied by three dogs appeared yelling at us.   I could not understand a word he was saying.”

The Colonel interrupted him. “That would be Lord Ayron McMillun.”

The room filled with laughter until the 2IC raised his hand, demanding silence.

“Yes Sir.  One of my men spoke Scottish and translated.  After I had apologized to the chap, sorry, his Lordship, and offered him a glass of whiskey, he seemed to settle down and we talked a while about the wild birds that nested in the region, very interesting chap Sir. Did you know that there are three sets of….”

  “Yes, thank you Lieutenant Sheridon. Can you describe this umpire?”

“Not really Sir.  The weather was atrocious, to say the least and visibility was very poor.  But he did give his name Sir.”

“Well?”

“It was Captain Connaught-Simpson Sir.”

The Colonel glanced down the table to Connaught-Simpson, the son of the local Member of Parliament, who frowned and shook his head.

The Adjutant quietly whispered into the Colonel’s ear that Captain Connaught-Simpson was the battalion duty officer during this period and would not have left barracks.

“Have you ever met Captain Connaught-Simpson before?”

Lieutenant Sheridon seemed to frown then look sideways as though thinking. “No Sir, I don’t think I have had the pleasure.”

“Thank you. The Colonel took a deep breath and turned to his Chief Clerk.

“Mr. Perkins.  You were responsible for the conduct of the exercise, what is your opinion?”

“May I be frank Sir?”

“Please do.”

“The rules for the exercise were too vague and many of the events we, the umpires, observed were pitiful.”  Suddenly the room filled with accusations and angry protest.

Mr. Perkins raised his hands for silence, but no one took any notice until Major Jack Wilberforce stood up and thumped the table, bringing the room to silence.  He apologized to his Colonel, stared around the table, but he wasn’t finished.

“May I remind you that if the situation in Europe does not improve, we, gentlemen, will be at war with the Germans.  The German army comprises of mainly Prussian troops and probably out number us three to one. At least three officers around this table were invited to the German War games last year, and I can assure you that I for one was very impressed with the individual combat skills of not only the officers, but their SNCO’s and men.  If they attacked us today gentlemen, I’m sorry, but we would buckle within twenty-four hours, the annual camp isn’t some jolly for the men to enjoy, it is supposed to prepare them and the officers for war.  From what I have heard this afternoon, we collectively lack the understanding how war is fought.  There are no rules in war and the 13^th platoon were the only platoon who whilst playing just inside the rules, thought outside the box.  I will be honest with you all.  Had the exercise gone on for a week, the 13^th Platoon would have wiped the boards with you all.”  He nodded to his Colonel, then sat down.  No one spoke for a minute. Then Major Wilberforce turned to his Colonel.

“Sir, with your permission, I would like to sit down with Mr. Perkins and his umpires and Sergeant Bateman and go over in detail their findings and suggestions and then present to you a revised training program for the battalion with the view to preparing to fight in a European war, with no rules.”

His comments sent a silent shudder through the room. War, was something people spoke about, which took place a thousand miles away against savages who lived in mud huts and used antiquated weapons.

The Colonel stood, glanced around the room, and then spoke.

“Training Major, you have my blessing.  Please let me have your draft plan once it is ready.  In the mean time I know the CO of the Royal Irish, who are a crack infantry Regiment.  I shall ask him if he can lend me a couple of his SNCO’s to help you; Dismissed.”

As everyone rose, the 2IC discretely reminded the CO the purpose of the meeting.

“Yes, thank you Christopher.  Mr. Perkins, the winners of the annual combat exercise is to stand. The 13^th Platoon. Thank you, that is all.”

It took the Adjutant and the orderly room corporal a few minutes to clear the corridor outside the conference room, from those who had attended the meeting and now felt that they had not been heard and wanted to complain that the dregs of the battalion, the labour platoon, had defeated them by cheating during the combat exercise.

That evening, when most of the company officers had retired to their homes and the SNCO’s to their billets, Colonel Wessex called his Chief Clerk in.

“Mr. Perkins, please can you ask Major Wilberforce if he can spare a minute.”

Within a few minutes, Major Wilberforce, who had an inclination what the summons was about, knocked on his CO’s door and entered.

“Thank you for sparing me a few moments of your time Jack.  Please take a seat. I have to say that the meeting this afternoon was an eye opener.  Are we really that poor?”

Jack Wilberforce had served in the first and the second battalions of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers since being commissioned, and over the years seen the gradual decline of professionalism since the end of the Boer War. He knew what questions his CO would put to him, and more importantly, how to answer them.

 

Copyright Bob French

Extract from Chapter 2 WHEN THE BUGLES CALL (part 1 of 2)

 Extract from Chapter 2 WHEN THE BUGLES CALL   

 (1913 – Carlisle) 

By Bob French

August quickly came to an end and September brought rain and cold winds from the north.  The up-roar about the Labour Platoon winning the combat trophy gradually faded away as something more important filled the minds of the men of the Second Battalion.  The news that half the men from B Company of the First Battalion of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers stationed out in India, had gone down with Cholera and, according to the Medical Officer’s report, many would not survive.  This meant that the Second Battalion, which existed to support the First Battalion should reinforcements be needed, had to step in and fill any gaps.  The responsibility of this task fell on the shoulders of the young Adjutant and with the Chief Clerk and his small staff, had studied the records of every available man fit enough to be posted to the First Battalion  

Towards the end of September, Sergeant Bateman, having had a lengthy meeting with Major Wilberforce, going over some of the tactics used by the labour platoon during battle camp, decided to call a meeting.

“Listen up lads.  Ah just had a meeting with the Training Officer, Major Wilberforce, like.  He’s very interested in what we did to win the combat trophy and wants to sit in on one of our training sessions.”

He waited for any response to the idea, but his men remained silent. 

“Ah knows how ye feels at how the rest o’ the battalion is treating you fer winning, but he thinks you can do some real good if we goes to war like.  What do you think lads?”  

What does he want to know Sarg?”

“Not sure.  We’ll just have ta wait an see, like.”

The battalion Chief Clerk, Warrant Officer Class 2 (WOII) Perkins, had informed those who commanded exercise platoons during the annual combat exercise that they were required to attend a meeting in the CO’s office at 1400 hours on Monday the 29^th September. He also held up the publication of battalion Daily Routine Orders, until after the meeting ended, in case there were any changes to the outcome of the battalion battle camp.

Colonel Wessex, accompanied by his Adjutant, Captain Farrington, entered the battalion conference room just after 1400 hours on Monday afternoon. Before he even sat down, everyone in the room knew something was amiss by the tone of his voice.

“Good afternoon gentlemen.  Now what the hell is all this nonsense about the wrong team winning the combat exercise?”  No one spoke for nearly a minute.  The silence was broken by Major Myers, the second in command (2IC).

“I have spoken to most of the platoon commanders Sir, and they feel that the winners, the 13^th platoon, cheated and therefore should forfeit the trophy.

He turned to the officer responsible for organizing the battalion annual camp; Major Jack Wilberforce DSO. “Just update me on how the exercise was conducted, please.”

Major Jack Wilberforce was, as well as being the Officer Commanding (OC) Headquarters Company, was also the Battalion Training Office.  A man blessed with a wealth of experience, having served in virtually every country occupied by British and Commonwealth forces and had medals to show for it. But this had cost him his wife and only child, who died of cholera out in India.

Major Wilberforce glanced down at his notes. “Sir, to ensure that each platoon was organized on a level playing field, the men from each rifle company were split up so each exercise platoon was filled with no more than three men from their original rifle company.  This ensured fairness throughout.  Each platoon was commanded by either a SNCO or a subaltern.  Their task was to initially defend their camp and the pendent from being captured by another platoon, and at the same time, use their battlefield skills, to raid another platoon and capture their pendent.  The team who captured the most enemy pendants would be declared the winner of the combat exercise.”

“So, what was the final tally of pendants captured by the various platoons?”

“Numbers 2^nd and 14^th platoons, Sir, took one pendent each, the 4^th and 6^th platoons, captured two pendants each. The 9^th platoon, three pendants and the winners with five pendants was the 13^th Platoon Sir.”

The Colonel turned to his Chief Clerk. “Mr. Perkins, you were in charge of the umpire team, did you or any of your team report any cheating to you during the exercise?”

Warrant Officer, Perkins, who had risen up through the ranks to be come the Orderly Room Quartermaster Sergeant (ORQMS) and the most respected man in the battalion, responsible, along side the Adjutant, for running the administration of the battalion, Stood, then glanced down at his notes.

“Sir, the answer is yes, and no?”  Instantly people around the table started to mutter. Please allow me to explain Sir. The rules governing the conduct of the annual combat exercise were simple and very clear.  ‘There was to be no violence, no discharge of weapons within thirty yards of any man, prisoners may be taken but treated with respect and every person involved in the exercise was to wear a coloured arm band.”

Just then Second Lieutenant Wilberforce jumped up from his seat and pointed an accusing finger at Mr. Perkins.  “The 13^th platoon kept changing their arm bands during the fight. That’s cheating!”

“Sit down Lieutenant Wilberforce!  Whatever next! If you cannot conduct yourself in the proper manner, then I must ask you to leave. Please carry on Mr. Perkins.”

The Adjutant smiled to himself.  Now he knew who would be ‘duty officer’ covering the two weeks over Christmas and the New Year period.

Mr. Perkins continued.  “The umpire team inspected the locations of the platoon’s camp for safety and emergency access routes, in the event of someone being seriously injured.”

“Who knew the location of the platoon camps?”

“No one Sir.  I was informed that Major Wilberforce only released the locations to Sergeant Smith of the transport section, on the morning of the exercise.  Each platoon had to map read their selves to their location and to be ready by mid-day. 

Colonel Wessex, the CO had asked Mr. Perkins, the Battalion Chief Clerk and chief umpire to the annual combat exercise of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers to comment on what he saw during the exercise during a special meeting called by the CO..

 “Who commanded the 13^th platoon?”

The Adjutant slipped a sheet of paper in front of his CO, who nodded his thanks.

“Sergeant Bateman.”  He looked up as Sergeant Bateman quickly stood, and came to attention.

“Sir.”

“Please sit-down Sergeant Bateman.  Kindly tell me what strategy you used to achieve such an outstanding result?

Geordy Bateman made it his business to listen to what was going on about him, but never getting involved or volunteer for anything.  He had survived this long in the battalion and saw no reason to change his approach on military life.

“Well Sir. The first thing I needed to do, was to find out where the other platoons were, see. That were easy cos the labour platoon was responsible for dropping off all the tentage and furniture for each platoon in the woods. Then I needed to know how each platoon was made up, so I detailed a couple of men to sit in the bushes around each of the camps. Within an hour I knew who were the strongest and who were not, see.  Our arm band was red Sir, but Jonesy, sorry Sir, Private Jones, was detailed to collect the arm bands for the exercise and deliver them to the training office.  Once we knew the colours, we asked Mrs. Hempworth, in the regimental tailor’s shop, if she could run up six of each colour, for the lads like, Sir.”

“Sorry Sergeant, you keep saying ‘we’.  Are you implying that the planning behind all this was a shared responsibility?”

“Ay Sir. Me and the lads sat down and talked it all through.  Once we’d decided how we were going to do something, we shared it with everyone.”

“So, there was no command structure at all.  You just sat down, talked about it, then got on and did it?”

“Ay Sir.  We took out those we felt were weak, then moved our location…..” He was interrupted by everyone in the room complaining that he had cheated but Bateman carried on.

“Look, there’s nothing in the rules to say we had to stay in one place Sir. So we hid until the exercise was over.  We captured five pendants and never lost our own Sir on account that we kept moving our camp.”

The room fell into total silence as those officers and SNCO around the table tried to understand the simplicity of what Sergeant Bateman and the 13^th Platoon had achieved.

The CO looked at Major Myers. “Christopher, can you see where the 13^th platoon has cheated?  It appears to me that this platoon has obviously read a different training manual on the conduct of modern infantry tactics.”

All Major Myers could do was to nod to his CO.

“Tell me Sergeant Hills, you commanded the first platoon.  Looking at the make up your platoon it consisted of men from the lead rifle platoons of B Company, yet you failed to capture any pendants, in fact you appear to have lost yours to the 13^th platoon.  Explain please.”

“They tricked us Sir. They positioned themselves in between us and the 2^nd platoon, then open fire on the both of us.  I thought we were under attack from a superior force and deployed the men accordingly.  It took nearly half an hour before we drove the 2^nd platoon off.  When we returned to our camp, we found that during the fire fight, the 13^th had withdrawn, then sneaked in behind us and took our pendant. Our camp guards were all tied up.  When I questioned them, they informed me that the invaders were all wearing blue arm bands, the same arm bands as my platoon. Sir.”

Colonel Wessex struggled to keep a stern face, as he glanced down at the sheet of paper, then looked up. “Lieutenant Wilberforce.  You commanded the 10^th platoon.  You appear to have lost your pendant early on in the exercise.  Please explain.”

“Sir, we were attacked at dawn and of course, I stood the men to.  Then the enemy seemed to change their approach and seem to be coming at us from all sides.  Half way through the attack, the left flank of my defence line seemed to fall back without my orders.  Shortly after that, the men on my flank turned and joined the men of the left flank and charge off into the bush.  I thought they were chasing the enemy away. Once the shooting had stopped, I managed to get the situation under control and started to question the men about their conduct.  It would appear a man wearing a second lieutenant’s jacket and wearing one of our arm bands had strolled into my lines prior to the attack, then during the fire fight, ordered the men to leave their positions and chase the enemy away to the west.  Whilst the men were chasing this mysterious enemy, this so-called officer had strolled into my headquarters (HQ), ordered the guard to hand over the pendant, claiming that I needed it as a rallying flag for the men, then left, Sir.”

“How did you know this person was not an officer?”

Second Lieutenant Wilberforce grinned at his colonel. “Well Sir, when I questioned the men.  One told me that the officer was wearing an officer’s tunic that was too small for him and a dirty pair of plimsoles, and another thought he had seen the man before working as part of the kitchen fatigue party back at barracks.  I made the assumption that this imposter was from the labour platoon Sir.” 

The Colonel shook his head slowly as he looked down at the sheet of paper. “So Lieutenant Wilberforce, let me understand what happened. Your sentries failed to pick up the dawn intruder.”

“No Sir, the sentry did confront him and was satisfied that he was one of our platoon and let him pass.”

“Did your sentry ask him for the password, which should have been in use from the start of the exercise?”

Wilberforce stared at his Colonel, but said nothing.

“And once the attack had started, you then stood-too your men, not before, which is the customary way of protecting your position?”

“Yes Sir.”  The grin on Lieutenant Wilberforce’s face was slowly changing to fear.

“Then it would appear your left and rear flank all charged off into the woods, leaving no one to protect your rear?”

Wilberforce hung his head and said nothing.

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Bob French

 SAINT PATRICK’S DAY STORM

By Bob French

It was six o’clock in the evening on Saint Patrick’s Day and those who partied their lives away were already heading into town for the festivities, but the Gods that controlled the weather had taken offense at something, and storm clouds were gathering out into the wild Atlantic.  Low pressure deepened, dark clouds coiled and swelled, pulling winds into a frenzy and setting great waves rising and crashing into each other.

Those who lived off the sea, knew about such changes in the weather and realised that this was no normal storm.  The old fishermen who made their living on the west coast of Ireland had no need for such things as weather forecasts. Their senses told them what they needed to know; whether to launch or beach their ancient fishing boats.

Kelly O’Hara and Jean O’Connell were walking arm in arm towards the bus stop.  They had become best friends since infant school, and been inseparable since the day they left The Holy Cross Roman Catholic Senior School for Girls in County Cork. Everyone thought it normal when they turned up without a boy on their arm for the end of school dance.

Kelly looked up at the dark clouds that had formed on the distant horizon, they were still a long way off and frowned.

“God! will you look at those clouds. I’m thinking it’s going to be a bad night, Jean.”

Jean, wondered if the buses would be running if the storm hit that evening, but discarded her concerns in favour of what the party held for them; after that, who cared. “Och it a long way off.”

Then, with no warning, the early evening skies lit up with bright lightning forks that scarred the dark distant clouds. Both girls screamed as the sound of earth-shattering thunder crashed around them, sending them into a race up towards the bus shelter.

Kelly laughed at Jean and yelled at the top of her voice,

“I thought you said it was a long way off?” But Jean never heard her.

The storm unleashed its fury on the west coast of Ireland. Within seconds, fierce winds and ice-cold rain lashed at the girls, forcing them to sprint the last twenty yards up to the bus shelter.  By now, the puddles that occupied most of the streets earlier that day had gradually turned into shallow ruts and streams of rubbish, dragging and cleansing the gutters and grassy banks both sides of the street, pushing the rubbish that had been discarded by the town’s folk along like a wave, it moved down towards the coast road.

Kelly screamed as she lunged for Jean’s hand, frantically dragging her towards the entrance of the bus shelter.

“My God, that was close.  Another second and I’m sure you would have been dragged down the street, so you would.”

          Even though they clowned around during the last few years at school, they both gained distinction in their final maths exams and were quickly accepted by the manager of the Bank of America in Cork.  Both had understanding parents who readily agreed they could flat share and had put down the deposit for a nice flat on the outskirts of Cork for them.

They had planned on going down to the Blacksmith Arms, their local pub for the celebrations, but had received a personal invite from the manager of the bank to a posh do at the Royal Hotel in Cork. This meant, that instead of jeans and a pullover and their comfortable Dock Martins, a suitable smart cocktail dress, new matching evening bags and shoes, and a hair do to die for was now required.

          They stumbled into the darkened bus shelter panting for breath before unceremoniously landing on the cold stone bench in fits of laughter. The tattered and worn advertisements that stared down at them from the walls of the shelter, boasting that if you applied this cream or ate that food, it would provide a miracle cure.

It was Kelly who had to raise her voice above the noise.  “Jesus, will you look at our clothes, they’re ruined!”

“I’m not bothered about our clothes; will you just look at our hair. We spent the last of our wages on a posh hair-do down at McGinty’s for this party.  Now look at us.  We look like a couple of Kyle Street scrubbers.”

But Kelly wasn’t listening.  She’d got up and moved carefully towards the opening of the shelter. The ice-cold wind had turned the horizontal rain into a hail storm and the sheer force of it nearly sucked her out of the shelter into the path of certain death.

Jean, who had been shivering in the corner of the shelter suddenly lunged towards Kelly, yelling at her as she grabbed her around the waist and dragged her forcibly back into the shelter.

“God Kelly! what are you trying to do?”

As Kelly stumbled back and fell, she screamed as she felt the ice-cold water instantly penetrate her clothes, sending a shock-wave through her body and taking her breath away.

Jean spun around and looked down at her best friend, who was now floundering in knee-high ice-cold swirling water, then screamed at her.

“Kelly! get up, get up or it will drag you out.” 

With extreme effort, Kelly managed to crawl onto the bench and bring her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her hands.

“Be-Jesus Jean.  This looks bad.  Really bad!”

Jean stared out of the shelter and noticed that it had turned very dark and the water level had risen, sucking the litter out of the shelter and into the river that now rushed past the shelter opening and down toward the sea.

Kelly started to shiver, then cry.

“What are we going to do? We can’t walk out of here; we’ll be swept away.”

Jean sloshed her way through the swirling dark murky water and climbed up onto the bench next to Kelly and put her arm around her and pulled her into an embraced, trying to keep her warm.

“So much for attending the Bosses party.  Still, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have enjoyed it as I hardly know anyone.”

“You know me, you silly cow. We would have had a few dances, then sat in the corner and got drunk, don’t you think?”  This assumption brought laughter between them, until the cold and fear of what might become of them brought silence.

After a period of contemplation Jean tried to speak with confidence.  “Don’t you worry none. We’ll get out of here, just you wait un see.”

In between bouts of shivering and chattering teeth, Kelly stared at her friend.  “Do you think we are going to die then?”

“Na, don’t be silly, someone will notice we are missing and come and get us.”

“Pity, I fancied Malcolm from CHAPs department.”

Jean forced a smile as she looked at her best friend.

“Really.  When did you have a crush on him?”

“I’ve spoken to him loads of times when he gets a cup of water from the water cooler.”

“You’re a dark horse, so you are Kelly O’Hara.  Did you ever pluck up the courage to ask him out then?”

“No!  Didn’t need to.  But you can talk.  I’ve never seen you take an interest in any of the lads down at the Blacksmith Arms or the bank. Kelley took a quick deep breath as the flowing ice-cold water came over the lip of stone bench in the shelter. then reached out to hold Jean’s hand.

“No, I didn’t need to. I always had my best friend, didn’t I?”

Jean took Kelly’s hand and kissed it gently. “If we aren’t going to make it, I think we should leave something behind to show people we were here.”

“Oh God, do you think we are going to die then?”

No one spoke for a moment, then, with shivering hands, they took off their crucifix and chains and hung them on a nail above their heads.

They clung to each other in the darkness, amidst the heavy volleys of thunder, lightning and howling wind, and the rising raging and sucking ice-cold water that slowly penetrated their young bodies.

No one came looking for them during the night, nor the following day. A wide search party was organised a day later but never found them.  The police sergeant who led the search spoke to the press.

“Though we have not found the girls, we found a crucifix and chain hanging on a nail in the bus shelter on Drombridge Road which has been identified by Mrs O’Connell as belonging to her daughter. The only thing I can think of is they, the young women, sought safety in the shelter but were overcome by the elements, rendered too weak, then sucked out of the shelter and probably down into the Atlantic. I have contacted the Coastguard but there is little hope.

Copyright Bob French