1.0 The Brussels Cramps
We lived in constant fear of famine during The First British Potato War. It was always there, our inedible shadow. The slogan “Get War Done!” kept us going. Kept spirits high when the bellies were aching, and there was endless bellyaching.
My men would whisper in the black fondant nights, “When will the proper British potatoes run out?”
I could not answer them.
“Believe in British potatoes!” I would cry, and they would nod and return to their work. Good men. Men who valued freedom of speech.
Of course, no one knew back then if it were even possible to eat a root vegetable that didn’t come in a packet with a Union Jack on it? There were rumours that in the dark years (before parliament became sovereign) that people did eat all manner of forrin foods. But I did not believe it. Patriots would never do that.
[Ed. It is possible to eat a non-flagged root vegetable, but it causes a psychosomatic digestive disorder called by physicians The Brussels Cramps.]
“Control Our Fish!” was another slogan that kept spirits high. It was my personal favourite. It was pure Brexit. I would shout “Control Our Fish!” whenever my unit failed to find or receive supplies. Especially when we lacked pork scratchings and correct curvature bananas. And of course it was the only slogan to cry when launching an attack against the traitors.
The good women of Raylee and Wick River Crossing, where my regiment was raised, were loyal and sent us what food they could spare.
“Starve yourself so that I may eat!” I had implored my wife on the day we passed out of town, headed for London. “Victory will see us feast!”
It was late in the afternoon on that glorious day. The sun low, but still its rays reflected off the plastic buttons of my replica TA uniform. Sparkling reflections that stung the eyes.
My wife stood there, a tissue pushed into her nose, her chubby face flushed in the stoutest of colours. Gammon red.
“Get War Done!” I shouted at her, some spittle flying with the proud words.
She did not reply. I suspect she couldn’t trust herself to speak. I had urged her to only speak in three word sentences, but sometimes she had so much to say, she couldn’t and remained mute.
I was going to fulfil the will of the people and she was there to see me off. It was enough.
“Don’t miss me,” she finally muttered.
“I won’t! I am going to look after myself.”
I was following my destiny.
Destiny is all.
And with courage, and Union Jack branded munitions, I could not fail.
1.1 In The Land of The Blind
There was an offensive barricade ringing Raylee at the start of hostilities. It was constructed from discarded lightwood pallets, the kind that were once used to deliver building supplies, and fastened together with hope.
The choice of pallets was symbolic. Who doesn’t recognise one and think of the vanished British tradition of house building?
The gaps in the pallets made it easy to see through them, take aim and fire. Although this had yet to be tested in anything but drills at the time I marched to war (I was injured in a drill, but I remained upbeat throughout my recovery and shook hands with everyone in the infirmary).
Due to a shortage of men the barricade was manned by dummies, similar to those that used to stand in the display windows of department stores. Before the stores all closed to help the war effort.
The offensive dummies were nicknamed affectionately The Plastic Patriots. Every allied town and village had them. Plastic for weatherproofing. Union Jack pattern from top to toe for patriotism.
Wonderful statues. It is said they broke the moulds after pouring them, and on the continent they were now collector’s items.
I saluted The Plastic Patriots as we drew near, and would have cried “Control Our Fish!” but just at that moment a small boy broke from a hedge and ran at me.
I was not alarmed. Although I did immediately lie down and cover my head with my hands.
“Private French! Private French!”
I remained motionless. Perfectly demonstrating the art of battlefield camouflage regardless of the terrain. In this case the West Road that led out of Raylee.
“Mark French!”
The boy grabbed my elbow.
“It’s Cyclops. Private French? Why won’t you talk to me? Why are you shivering?”
Cyclops, a neighbour’s son. We called him Cyclops because he’d lost an eye as a baby. I don’t recall his actual name. It is not important.
“I’m not shivering Cyclops,” I retorted as I sat up. “I am perfectly mimicking the vibrations of hundreds of marching feet through the road.”
“Gosh! Did you learn how to do that in basic training?”
“He learned how to tremble like a leaf all on his own,” a woman muttered nearby, but I didn’t dignify the insult by looking in my wife’s, I mean, by looking in the stranger’s direction.
I wasn’t sure it was good for the men’s morale to interact with her, even if she may, or may not, have been my wife, when we were doing such a good job of marching proudly. Eyes fixed like bayonets on the horizon.
And I am convinced my wife went mad in the build up to the war. In some ways being drafted into the People’s Army was a relief.
She looked sane to passersby.
Union Jack blouse. Union Jack scarf tied around her head. Union Jack paint on her legs, in place of Union Jack pantyhose – lack of nylon. Once again it was needed for parachutes. But even though she had put Union Jack lipstick on and was wearing her Union Jack sunglasses, I could see an instability in her eyes.
“You look good enough to eat,” she shouted next.
“While we’re in the mood, cold jelly and mustard!” she added before collapsing into giggles and air guitar/carving up an imaginary roast.
I got up. We needed to keep moving or we would be late for the war.
I sprung to my feet.
“What can I do for you Cyclops?” I turned my back to the mad woman and walked Cyclops along a little.
He was holding something tight in his little fist. I could not see what it was at first. It could have been a root vegetable or a rock. Either way it was presumably his patriotic lunch.
Abruptly he snapped to attention and saluted.
“Private Marcus Aurelius French,” he said solemnly. “I want you to take my lucky potato with you to war. It was given me by my godmother on the day of my birth. May it bring you luck too.”
He thrust the vegetable at me.
“I will wait for the new potatoes to arrive,” he continued.
“Field Marshall Wetherspoons has sent a convoy to Jersey for them. They will arrive any day now. If we just believe hard enough. If we ignore the naysayers.”
I took the potato. I did not need to be asked twice.
“What will you do when the new potatoes arrive?”
“Fry them in cat fat!” Cyclops beamed. He was a little off his rocker, perhaps.
I ruffled his red hair and tucked his lucky potato inside my coat.
“Crush a fifth columnist, liberal elite, snowflake saboteur for me!” Cyclops grinned. A smile so broad I could see he was missing the back teeth on his left side.
“What happened to your molars?”
“I lost them wrestling with a spaniel over a chicken wing.”
Cyclops shrugged.
“It was worth it. I got half the wing.”
“Where’s your half now?”
“I ate it so Mum didn’t have to open another can of General Trumpet’s chlorine soaked pig’s testicles. They’re my pa’s favourites. He can have them when he comes home from his secret mission.”
His father would never come home from his mission. To the best of my knowledge Cyclops’ father was in a re-education camp. But Cyclops didn’t need to know that, yet.
“I’ve got to go,” I told him.
I made a show of wrestling him for fun and managed to retrieve a Mint Humbug from one of his coat pockets without him noticing.
“Get War Done!” Cyclops shouted.
“Control Our Fish!” I replied and marched on.
We were going to war. We were done waiting for the German car industry to save us. We were going to do it for ourselves.
I was just a plucky Private that day, but not for long, the opportunities of disaster lay just ahead of me. I enjoyed that Mint Humbug, lint and all.
