Following on from last issue's cacophony of cak, we align the turnscrew on the cannon of truth to obliterate the target called reality (shut up, you've only got 700 words, ed).
OK, OK, the story so far: France, Chateauroux, Hussars, mad Frenchwoman, 71st rock, parade, and so to battle.
Saturday's battle was a great affair; we gave the dreaded French a good licking (oo-er!) and revelled in the sight of Captain Potts' horse suddenly deciding that this battle lark wasn't the done thing for a young, thrusting horse-about-town. It stopped, bang in the middle of a melee, refusing to move.
The first we knew of it was when we reformed back at the British lines to hear 'Rommel' of the first footguards saying 'I say, bad luck about the good Captain Potts, eh!' We looked up to see two units of French Chasseurs and the 7th Hussars all descending onto the hapless Geoff who was frantically turning the key in the ignition but the motor wasn't cranking . . . know wot I mean, John?
Muttering amongst ourselves: 'His arse is grass and here comes the lawnmower', we let him courageously sacrifice himself, as his final words: "Come on you bounders, one at a time or all at once, I don't care." Ow! That hurt' came wafting over the field of heroes. We all said a silent prayer for our gallant Captain: 'I bags the jacket', 'Oh, OK, but I want that sabre!'
That night we descended onto downtown Chateauroux for the time-honoured beer-up-on-the-town-in-kit and, as they are wont to do, things got a little loud -Oh God, the British abroad - so we moved to the pavement tables and chairs and serenaded the night. All was well, we were halfway tbrough the regimental song Sahagun when vans arrived, policemen advanced on our position, and heated words were spoken.
Even trumpeter Smerdon's calming words of 'de Gaulle, Maginot, wicky, wicky' did not help and, when Dragoon Martin informed us that these 'local bobbies' were in fact the CRS (French riot police). I had visions of naked Hussars, bent over, with a grinning policeman snapping a lubricated rubber glove over his hand! They informed us that we were creating a disturbance amd ordered us back into the hostelry. Fair enough, said we, and duly complied. It wasn't until later that I realised we had been thrown into a pub! Smart!
We shuffled back to camp, the worse for wear, and looking for all the world like Lady Butler's Return from Balaclava, when we happened upon a collection of French, well . . . er . . . hippies, really, who had a couple of guitars amd battery-powered amps. They told us we should be ashamed of glorifying war so, for the honour of the unit, I borrowed a guitar, 'turned the mutha up' and, outside the period camp, on a car bonnet, dressed in dolman and breeches, performed that Jimi Hendrix anti-war classic Hey Joe, followed by Purple Haze and, for the benefit of the by now cheering hippies, Plastic Bertrand's Ca Plane Pour Moi!
Even now, while writing, I still cam't believe I opined 'Goodnight Chateauroux . . . We love you!!!'
We stayed in a nearby sports hall for the last night and it was here that the full horror of Dragoon 'Bully's' nasal bagpipes was about to unfold! Picture the scene: man with penny whistle up each nostril, playing one while Dragoon Morton-Lowry stands behind him, hands passed under his armpits, playing the harmonies for The Skye Boat Song on the other and, for effect,
droning in bagpipe fashion! The 42nd Highlanders loved it.
Also, for the first time, two new superheroes hit the streets: I was modelling unfeasibly large and baggy Arab 'shawal' trousers (the only time my crotch will reach my knees!) and Bully (that man again!) his pelisse and rock star-approved shades 'n' headscarf. And lo, SHAWAL MAN and PELISSE BOY were born, dedicated to fighting tight trousers and sombre jackets wherever they may lurk. QUAKE, MERE MORTALS, AT THE BANALITY OF IT ALL! ! ! !
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