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'When a day that you happen to know is Wednesday starts off
by sounding like Sunday, there is something seriously wrong
somewhere.'
"Will you naffin well shurrup! I've got something on the
bloody radio," Harry Scunthorpe bellowed.
"Now, now 'arry, you'll get your knickers in a knot again,
and we can't have gunner first class Harry Scunthorpe unable to
twiddle his knobs now can we?" Arthur Tweesden said laughing.
Two men of not dissimilar backgrounds, Arthur and Harry’s
friendship had remained strong after the end of World War II. A
friendship forged on the battlefields of Nth Africa, amidst the
scorching days and freezing nights. Now the two again stood side
by side in the pock marked landscape of their homeland.
Tracer flares lit the night sky as the two men huddled in their
cave, chiselled out of the side of the mud filled trench they'd
called home for the past three weeks. "Besides,"
continued Arthur. "All I was trying to do was to enlighten
your evening with a reading from Whyndams' new book."
"Yeh well bloody shurrup, and listen" retorted Harry.
The radio crackled and hissed as Harry tuned in to the BBC news,
the commentator his voice emotionless as he introduced the coming
speech.
'It is with a grave and decidedly painful heart that I make
this speech. As you know, we have been in continual talks with the
British government, but these talks have proven fruitless and it
is my sad duty as President of these United States, to inform you,
the peoples of the world that at nine thirty pm, this October the
twenty first nineteen hundred and fifty one the United States has
formally declared war on Great Britain and her sovereignties.'
"Bugger me, if he hadn't said, I sure as hell wouldn't
have known, I thought all them bangs were fireworks," Harry
said, a fear filled tinge of sarcasm in his voice.
Arthur laughed at Harry's comment but knew, within himself,
that just a mere six years after World War II, the United States
would attempt to annex Great Britain.
"You know 'arry, I used to stand down near the bottom
fence of the farm, and just stare over the hills and wonder when
they'd try it on. It used to start a regular punch up down at the
Pigs 'ead."
"Yes I know, I often said to my Mavis that one day soon
we'd be scrappin' with the yanks but she just called me a dozy ol'
bugger" Harry replied, the fear in his voice now replaced
with melancholy.
The two men jockeyed for position in their cramped quarters.
Harry opened his cigarette tin and handed one to Arthur who
graciously accepted it saying he'd save it for Ron -- later on.
More tracers lit the star filled night sky, their blueing hue
leant the entire battleground a surreal feel. Smoke, rising from
shell holes took on a life form of its own in mock battles with
cordite-smattered corpses, as pregnant bombers flew high overhead.
"I wonder if Nobby Greene made it through to the
coast?" Arthur asked no one. Harry shrugged his shoulders and
took a deep drag on his wafer thin fag, savouring its flavour as
one does a Cuban cigar, even though they both knew they tasted
like rotting cow dung.
"'ere Arthur, you know when you look across that field,
what do you see?" Harry asked.
"Cor Harry, that's a bleedin' tough question that one,
hang on and I'll try and paint a naffin' picture for you!"
Arthur replied angrily.
"What the hell else do you expect me to bloody see? War
that's all I can see!"
Arthur stood up in their slit trench, lit his cigarette and put
his hands on his hips and gazed across the mud sodden field at a
firefight in the distance. Harry soon followed him up and both men
stood silently until Harry coughed.
"Arthur me old mate, is this war?" Harry asked.
"Nah me ol' son, this ain't war no more. What this is, is
a bloody crime and you and me are witnesses -- witnesses to the
crime of the century.
Copyright ©2001 Carl Bratcher. All Rights Reserved
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