Abbalar Tales ~ 25

Abbalar Tales ~ 25  Revisionists 2

By Len Morgan

   One moment, Genna was gazing into the portal the next she was falling into an endless void.   When she felt firm ground beneath her feet once more she opened her eyes, to find herself outside the walls of the city, gazing longingly across at the Poche Platzi.   She crossed the road without realising she was now alone.   There was a sign on the door: Artists Wanted, apply within.   She entered the house of ill repute, conscious that this had always been her childhood dream.   It was as though the past six months had never happened.   She was no longer a child and her inner desires were close to fulfilment.   Whether dream or reality, she was not concerned, this was what she had always wanted.    She could hear the music, Sexy and seductive, she moved into the light…

.-…-. 

  Skaa stepped through the portal and into full sunshine, the colour temperature totally unique to one place only to his certain knowledge.   He gazed around him, everything was as it should be, and two hundred feet below him he could see the family farm.  It was late summer and the Easterly facing slopes were overgrown with lush ripe red fruit.   He placed several of the small grapes between his lips drawing them into his mouth, testing their texture with his tongue and crushing them slowly against the roof of his mouth.   He smiled with approval as the sharp sweet juice burst forth into his mouth.   A taste and memory that cast him instantly back to his childhood.   His limbs were strong his muscles supple and springy the agues and aches from the many wounds, that had plagued him constantly, were gone from both his body and from his memory, he was home.  It seemed that fifty years were slewn away from him, in an instant; it was as though he had never left.   He looked at his hands with incredulity, he had been walking and the house was much closer now, he felt excitement charge his limbs, and broke into a run…

.-…-. 

   'Why did you bring them?   You must know that standards are not permitted here?' the voice in his head upbraided him.

Aldor gazed down at the two who had entered the portal with him; both lay unconscious on the floor of the chamber.

'Put them in the easy room they will be out of harm's way there.' A door opened, revealing a neat white room, bathed in a gentle pink light, containing two single cots.   He laid them both carefully down, and covered them, allowing the door to close as he left.

'Where are we' he asked.

'If you need to ask, you are not of this world or you are damaged in some way.'    He felt a sharp pain and experienced a bright spot expanding within his mind and with it, his memory returned.   In addition, as the brightness enveloped his mind it brought with it further enlightenment.

He knew Raelon was not his real name, but for the second time, in a matter of months, he had been renamed by the same young woman; the one he knew as Genna.

'All that I know, you now know' he thought the words and knew them to be true.

The fresh voice speaking in his mind was familiar and yet not the mind of a living entity.

'I have been inactive for longer than the creators intended.   I know that when last I was conscious humankind were trying valiantly to banish war, and all other forms of conflict, but ABBALAR had already been ravaged by centuries of excess.   Most of humanity elected to travel out to the stars seeking new worlds to inhabit; a new beginning in virgin pastures as yet untainted by man.   Aeons passed, and their migration disappeared from the memories of those who remained.   Of those, 99% elected to turn their backs on the technology and machines that had brought this world to the brink of ruin.   They returned to the more natural ways of farming and husbandry, living in harmony with nature.   In time they knew their planet would recover but they did not want future generations to be subject to the same temptations they had succumbed too.

So, when the last ships left their launch pads, the enormous circles of silica rock, became the foundation sites for new cities and towns.   But, the people were so disaffected with the old ways that, after building these new cities, they chose to desert them and favour the countryside and an agrarian way of life.   The cities fell into disuse and decay, as nature relentlessly reclaimed its own.   Just 1%, a tiny sect, chose to continue making use of computers and continue to perpetuate the discarded technologies that had once made man a power in the universe.   This sect was known as REVISIONISTS, they were reviled and persecuted by the majority, and learned to develop teach and practice in secrecy within their own groups.   They are the ones who continue to develop the questioning mind that is able to communicate with higher-level machines.   Within just a few thousand years the others - the STANDARDS - lost the ability altogether.   Most of the machines now exist either in sleeping, or sentinel mode, since the few occasional demands made of them are little more than routine operations.   AEONS passed and this place, together with many other similar complexes, was completely forgotten.'    The world ceased to have any real technology.  

'Then the KARAXEN arrived.   The 'Standards' of course had no defences.  They had lost the mental capacity to use the existing defences, even if they had been able to access them.   Finding little resistance and, by their criteria, no intelligent life on Abbalar they deemed it ripe for exploitation.   Despite their technological superiority, the struggle (I hesitate to use the word War) lasted for centuries during which time humans became fugitives; living in caves and inhospitable environments where the Karaxen chose not to go.   Anywho became too prominent were hunted and exterminated like vermin, gassed, poisoned, shot and burnt out of any area capable of being inhabited by the Karaxen.  Throughout all this, the 'Revisionist' cult continued to exist and thrive, in small communities.  They maintained the computers and machines whilst keeping the old ways alive.   At the start of the invasion, when the Revisionists first became aware of the Karaxen, they sent out distress calls to the stars appealing for help from those who had left.   Some ships did eventually return disabling the then long-deserted Karaxen mother ship which had been abandoned in orbit.   They had adopted a policy of non-interference with races below a certain development level, and since the 'Standards' had degenerated below that level, and the Karaxen were not a race with whom they could coexist, they left.   The Karaxen were then effectively marooned on Abbalar.

 'Does that mean there are still Revisionists?   Of course; you do not allow ‘Standards’ to enter here so who maintains the place?'

'’Standards are not capable of comprehending the nature of this place, what they do not understand they will invariably destroy.   Yes, there are others like you "Revisionists" who do know and understand.'

'I need to find them, to enlist their help,' said Aldor.

'The larger communities live to the north, your friend Wizomi has gone in search of them.   He implores you to leave that task in his hands and continue with your own quest.   He will contact you when he has news.   He counsels you against revealing our existence, to non-revisionists and, especially Orden - he is not of this world.'

'Orden would never act against our interests,' Aldor assured.

'Orden is a good and loyal friend to Abbalar but, he cannot hide what you tell him from the Universal Network.'

'But, Wizomi and I both use the UN' Aldor said.

'Ah, but there is a difference, they are able to skim the surface of your mind but, they are not able to delve deeper unless you consciously give them consent to do so.   That is why secrecy is necessary, that is also why they are so interested in you.   You alone, of all the races, have the ability to shield your minds and deny them access to your innermost thoughts.   They can access only what you are prepared to reveal.'

'I knew he was hiding something from me,’ Aldor smiled with satisfaction, 'they fear us?'

'If so, you should hope they are not like men, who habitually destroy anything they fear or do not understand,' the voice replied.  

'If we are unique to them, what became of those who travelled to the stars?' he asked.

'All I can tell you is what I learned from the past, and what I learned from your mind at the moment you entered the portal.   At that instant past, present, and future, cease to have meaning.   Wizomi would say that you sing for your supper.'  Aldor grinned and pictured the machine smiling with him.

"Is there another way out of here?" he asked, clearing his throat.  

'Follow the blue line on the wall' it answered.

'How will my friends fare' he asked.

'They will sleep and dream happily enough for four days, and then they will hit a block.   You must return for them within four days or they may not survive.'

'How will I be able to return for them?' he asked.   Pictures and maps began forming in his mind.

'When you leave the sanctuary of this portal, you will be unable to commune with the outsider known as Orden.   This is necessary to protect the knowledge I have passed on to you.  I have buried it deep in the recesses of your mind; it must never be divulged to outsiders.  To ensure its security I have set up blocks in your unconscious memory, however, should you need access it will be instantly available.  Remember, if Orden knew, or even suspected, the existence of this place, he could not hide it from others in the UN.    On the table behind you, there are documents of introduction to Asba Dylon, first counsellor of Corvalen.'  

'He is a highly placed and respected official, at the palace, I know him well’ Aldor replied.

‘I think you have changed a little since last he saw you.   There is also something you do not know about him; he is a ‘Revisionist’ and, therefore a friend.  You will have sore need of friends in the near future.’ 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

THINKING OF YOU 

By Peter Woodgate 

Thinking of you today

the burden of mediocrity

slipped from my shoulders

and was trampled underfoot.

 

Thinking of you today

I rose above the senseless attitude

of self-pity

and looked down on the real world.

 

Thinking of you today

made me weep,

tears that cleansed my heart

preparing for your love.

 

Thinking of you today

saved my life;

I’m beginning to understand

why I love you.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 A NEW YEAR’S WISH (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks

The problem with wishes is that people seldom, if ever, wish for the right thing. This is only to be expected. Well, after all, they are only people and will never, as people, achieve true wisdom. Better that the wish goes to the shepherd rather than the sheep, and that’s the way it use to be. Yes, I know that was a long time ago, but sometimes the old ways are best. The trouble is that too few of ‘us’ -and I use that word loosely - are old enough to remember anything before the Great Flood. If they could, they would know, as I know, that wishes are best made and implemented by a properly constituted body of Guardians.

         The evidence for this can be found in the records, if anyone can be bothered to look. Not that anyone should need to. Think about it! How can the judgement of Guardians, possessing as we do many millenniums of all-knowingness, fail to come up with better wishes than mortal beings whose time on Earth is come and gone in the blinking of an archangel’s eyes.  “What could be more obvious,” you say, and you will never be more right but apparently, that’s not the point any more. Since the Ethics Committee invented Free Will all wishes relating to the well-being of the human race have to be made by the little blighters themselves. How else will they learn appears to be the current wisdom? When will they ever learn is what I say.

         I mean, look at what happened last year. I am sent below to Betty who has been selected to make the one and only wish granted to the human race on New Year’s Day. And who is Betty you are thinking? Why has she been chosen. Is she a leader of church or country, a philosopher, a great benefactor, a seeker after truth, the righter of wrongs? No! She is Betty, the barmaid at the Dog and Bucket who otherwise spends her time being wife and housekeeper to Harold, a benefits fraudster. No one is less endowed with the virtues and skills needed to benefit the world, she even pilfers money from the til! She is one of an underclass of semi-criminal dullards that the Celestial Focus Group have decided should be entrusted with this year’s wish. Who, they reason, knows their needs better than one of their own who with a single, insightful wish might instantly raise the fortunes of an entire strata of society. That’s the theory. Will it work? In a word, no! but who’s listening to me. I’m just the messenger. My job is to deliver the good tidings to the wisher, note what he or she wants and then inform the Implementation Team who make it happen. Fortunately all this takes less than a day, which is indeed fortunate as the whole charade is a complete waste of my time and everybody else’s.

         I arrive in Betty’s bedroom in the early hours of an earthly night to find her asleep in a double bed alongside Harold whose head is hidden from sight beneath a large pillow. This he has placed there in a desperate but unavailing attempt to escape the reverberating shrieks emanating from her open mouth. If he had a wish I have no doubt what it would be but it’s Betty who has to choose. Woken by the stardust Betty stares up at me and says, “blimey, who are you?”

         I ignore this and make the usual announcement that I have come with glad tidings of great joy. She reaches out to Harold to wake him but before she does I quickly draw her up into the beam. While she is within it she is in another dimension, a micro-world unseen from Earth, a world that will be remembered only by myself once she returns to the mortal realm.

         “So I’ve got a wish,” she says, once she has cleared her head sufficiently to take in what I’m saying. “Is there a cash limit?” She asks.

         I reply that we don’t do cash wishes.

         “And does that apply to gold and silver bullion?”

         I confirm that it does.

         “What do you think I should ask for?”

         I should be seizing the moment and telling her that the wish can be used to bring peace to the world, end hunger and disease, but I’m not allowed to. The wish must be entirely hers and when I tell her this the expression on her face indicates that the thoughts in her head are unlikely to benefit anyone in the world beyond herself. She looks about her at the objects in the room as if willing them to provide the inspiration for her wish.

         “Perhaps,” I say, “there is something missing from your life, and others, something that will make them better, give them new meaning.” This is as far as I can go in guiding her, perhaps I have gone too far, but at least I seem to have inspired a light bulb moment.

         “Blimey, yes, of course, why didn’t I think of it before. I need a new freezer.”

         “A new …!” I can’t even bring myself to say it. She can have almost anything she wants, but she chooses a freezer. She can’t be serious, but serious she is and even if she isn’t she’s said it now and there’s no going back. At least she’s done better than the idiot man who said he only wished he knew what to wish for and when this was made known to him had to be told that he wasn’t allowed a second wish. Unlike him, Betty seems fully satisfied with her choice, especially when I assure her that it will be a top of the range machine with a ten year, all faults guarantee. I release her from the  beam and she falls gently back onto the double bed where she resumes her snoring.

         The granting of her wish is, of course, an administrative detail that the Delivery Team take care of with immediate effect. By the time Betty gets up in the morning the machine is waiting for her in the middle of her kitchen floor. Is she pleased? In a word, No! Not having any recollection of our meeting she is totally at a loss to understand how it’s got there. “There’s been a break-in,” she tells Harold; “how else could it have got indoors?” Harold knows that break-ins don’t usually result in the delivery of expensive merchandise but has no logical explanation as to what has happened, so Betty phones the police who, after several long conversations, prosecute her for wasting their time. Change your locks is their only advice and when Betty and Harold do this it costs them more than the retail price of the freezer.

         So, that’s the story of Betty’s wish, but not, I’m afraid, the whole story. Gone are the days when wishes were granted and I was able to hurry back to the celestial realm and forget the whole thing ever happened. Now I am expected to go back and conduct a six monthly review.

         “What’s the point, I say, “it’s got a ten year guarantee. What can possibly go wrong!”

         But it’s not the going wrong the Focus Group are concerned about, they want to know what went right, particularly the socio-spiritual benefits for Betty and the wider community. When words fail me they give me a thirty page questionnaire and book me a ticket on the next stardust beam to Earth.

         I arrive and immediately make my way to the kitchen where I come across Betty on bended knees about to open the freezer door. While most people consider it necessary only to tug the handle Betty is engaged in a strange ritual that involves her throwing up her arms while lowering her chin to the floor. Once she has done this several times she opens the door and to the accompaniment of martial music a large man of Oriental appearance emerges and after stepping awkwardly around Betty exits the kitchen through an exterior door. Before he leaves, he tosses a thick wad of banknotes in her direction which she stuffs into the pocket of her pinny. She shuts the freezer and rises stiffly to her feet.

         It’s time to take her into my beam and have a good chat. “How do you like the freezer?” I ask.

         Betty replies that she likes it very much, although it’s not quite what she was expecting.

         “Yes,” I say, “I did notice the man. Is he often in there?”

         She thinks not. There’s a bell that rings and when it does she opens the door and a man gets out but it’s probably not the same man because some of the feet she sees seem larger than others. She explains that owing to her prostrate positioning when greeting them she seldom glimpses much above the ankles.

         “Is that strictly necessary?” I say. “I mean to say they’re only men.”

         “Wouldn’t be too sure about that, dear. All I know is that once you look them in the eyes you don’t want to do it again. Shakes you up something rotten it does. No, best to do what they say.  After all they don’t ask much. All they want is that you help them through the freezer and do a bit of grovelling so you don’t see their faces. Nothing to it really, and in return they give me all this money.”

         “And, that’s all for you?”

         “No Sir, gawd blimey no. It’s for the downtrodden masses of the proletariat struggling to free themselves from the yoke of capitalist oppression.”

         “So they get the lot.”

         “Well, not exactly. I mean, we got to cover our expenses, don’t we. And then it’s only right that we pay ourselves a proper salary for all the work we’re doing. It wouldn’t be a proper charity if we didn’t do that.”

         “That rather depends on your cut.”

         “On what, sir?”

         “Oh don’t be coy with me Betty. You know perfectly well what I mean. How much for you and how much for the downtrodden masses?”

         At this point her equivocation gives way to a genuine inability to answer the question.

         “Well, it’s like this, sir. It’s all depends on the cupboards. When they’re full up of banknotes because we can’t spend them quick enough Harold puts the left overs in a handcart and takes them over to the food bank at the Sally Ann. They’re ever so grateful. No one goes hungry around here I can tell you, nor homeless and I’m not talking about the old doss house they use to run. They’re brought up all the old council flats that went private and charge the people that live there only what they can afford to pay.”      

         “And they do all that on the money you give them?”

         “Well, sometimes we give them a bit extra. I mean, how can you not when they name their new HQ after you. The Betty and Harold Centre they call it. If you came along the Nags Head Road you would have gone right by it.”

         I reply that I came down not along, and that there is someone outside the kitchen door wanting to come in.

        

[To be continued]

Copyright Richard Banks

THE EXPLORERS

To Peter Woodgate

Edward had wandered off whilst studying a creature that resembled a red squirrel. It couldn’t have been one, of course, because he was in the middle of a jungle in Myanma, not the Scottish highlands. A sudden monsoon-like storm had caused him to become separated from the rest of the group and he had started to panic.

    The exploration party were from Oxford sent to explore the indigenous flora and fauna and, in particular, to locate the elusive carnivorous plant nick-named “The Trumpet of Terror”. Only one person, other than the local tribespeople had ever seen this plant and that person was Martin Hardwick.

    Martin, an explorer from Swindon, had visited the area shortly after the second world war. Soldiers returning from The Burma Campaign had relayed stories they had heard from the native Burmese. The accounts spoke of a massive carnivorous plant some seven feet tall. These frightening plants, it was said,

ate not only insects but birds and bats as well. It was even claimed that small monkeys too had suffered the same fate if swallowed by the leathery trumpets, ending up in the gastric acids lurking at the base of the plants.

    It was said that they grew in the Kabaw Valley (translated as death) and Martin Hardwick had visited the area in 1947. He successfully located the plants, logged the details and took samples to study on his return to England. Unfortunately, preservation techniques at that time were inadequate and the samples were completely useless by the time he arrived back home. He did re-visit the area some five years later but sadly it had been de-forested and up to the present, no further sightings of this truly mystical plant had been made.

    Right now, however, Edward had other things on his mind and his main concern was to join up with the rest of the party. He was in the middle of the Kabaw Valley, there were poisonous snakes and giant spiders, huge stinging insects and he had no food and little water. On top of that statistics had shown that tropical diseases had either killed or incapacitated up to twenty five thousand allied and Japanese troops during the conflict in 1945.

    Yes, they were well equipped on this expedition but, supplies were with the group and alone he was in grave danger. Sight was pretty much useless here as the jungle was dense and the rainstorm had left a thick hazy mist that blocked out anything more than fifteen feet away. He had shouted, of course, but the myriad of bird and insect noises had drowned out his frantic cries.

    “Think logically,” he thought, as he started to shake, “don’t panic.” Edward fumbled in his pocket and took out his compass. He knew that they had been travelling east before the storm broke and, logically, if he headed in that direction, sooner or later, he would meet up with them.

    After about thirty minutes of hacking his way eastward, he heard the sound of running water, quite faint at first but becoming louder as he pushed forward. Suddenly, he found himself clear of the jungle and looking at a very deep ravine. Opposite a waterfall, the source of the sound he had heard, gushed from an opening to plunge some 200 or so feet into a pool at the bottom of the ravine.

    Laughter broke out and turning to his left Edward was relieved to see the other members of the group. Instead of worried-looking faces, they were all smiling. Apparently, they had bets between themselves on how long it would take Edward to catch up with them. Obviously, he thought to himself, they have more faith in my navigational skills than I do.

    After hugs and shaking of hands the rest of the party explained to Edward that they had met a couple of natives and, after stumbling through a conversation of semi-Burmese and sign language, they had obtained some wonderful news. The natives had explained that there was a colony of The Trumpets of Terror about a mile to the north and on the floor of the ravine.

    The group moved on looking for the path that would lead them to the foot of the ravine and, literally, into The Jaws of Death.

 

 

 

The group arrived at the bottom of the ravine negotiating, somewhat precariously, the very narrow path that led them to an area that appeared somewhat alien against the rest of the landscape. They approached a huge pile of rocks that were obviously the result of a previous landslide and cursed their luck when realizing it blocked their path. The rocks and soil protruded out from the side of the ravine wall and ended about 20 yards into the fast-flowing river that gurgled loudly as it raged past them on its unstoppable journey, before emptying its self invisibly into a vast expanse of lifeblood.

     Mick, the leader of the group turned to the rest and swore before asking, politely for any ideas they may have. In truth, if they were to continue their journey, they had just two options. One, they would have to climb over the huge mound and two, they would have to wade or swim around the mini headland. After a short debate, it was decided that the swim around was probably the safest one.

    There was substantial vegetation all around and after assembling some flimsy rafts, these were used to float essentials that hopefully would stay dry, they made their way slowly around the barrier that stood before them. Luckily they found they could just about wade up to their shoulders and, sensibly roping themselves together, they reached the other side safely. As they scrambled ashore each member of the group gasped in disbelief.

    The scene before them was like something out of a sci-fi magazine. Stretched out for as far as the eye could see were hundreds upon hundreds of the mystical plants, The Trumpets of Terror. It was thought that descriptions of these plants had been exaggerated, but, if anything, they appeared even more majestic.

They stood, some as much as ten feet high, line after line on the gentle slopes at the base of the ravine.

Excited as they were the group were professional and quickly sprang into action.

    A suitable site for the camp was found and after a celebration drink, just coffee, they set about the tasks vital to the success of this exploration. The group were all aware of the dangers that some plants could exert upon humans and, as beautiful as these plants were, they would be handled with care.

    The group would log as much information as possible on such things as soil samples, daily temperatures, other flora within their colony if any and, if possible, how they propagated. On top of this, they would hope to take away some junior plants for examination upon their arrival back home. Soil samples, unsurprisingly, showed very high acidity, but surprisingly, and more so on the largest plants, it was found that root structures were very shallow. Deep rooting would have been expected but it found that approx. 80% of the roots extended above ground. The soil was extremely soft and this begged questions on how they were able to grow to such heights.

    Edward and Jack, the youngest member of the group, had been assigned soil examination and sampling. This task complete Edward, in particular, had turned his attention to the root depth anomaly applicable to the larger plants. Before returning to the camp on the second day he took it upon himself to mark the positioning of a few of the largest plants with the idea of checking them the following morning.

    After the usual breakfast of cereal, he made his way to the area where he had marked a certain number of “the trumpets.” What he discovered was difficult to digest. Yes, they had moved, approx. six feet down the slope and Edward expected slide marks to show that the soft soil could not stabilize the plant.

However, the marks made in the soil showed more like footprints, ie, one in front of the other. He reported this back to the group who thought he must have been dreaming but, when investigated by other members, they agreed that it seemed some of the plants had walked. However, knowing that this was an impossibility, the leader simply logged the strange phenomena to be investigated upon the return to England.

                                          #############

Back in Oxford, England, Edward’s son began reading a book. “What rubbish are you looking at now?”

Tom’s mother asked as she continued watching East Enders on the box. “You know it’s your bedtime and you have an exam tomorrow”

“But it’s a great book mum, Day of The Triffids by John Wyndham, and besides, I want to stay awake to watch the meteor storm that will light up our skies at about 10pm tonight.

“I don’t know” his mum replied “that science fiction rubbish ain't gonna happen. You’d be better off watching Phil Mitchell beat the hell out of Ian Beal.” She turned her attention back to the television as Tom made his way upstairs eager to read another couple of chapters before “the fireworks began.

   

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 

 

 

                                         

 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

 

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