For the enjoyment of the pastime of military appreciation you need to specialise - which means joining a clan whose business is to disagree sharply with all other clans specialising in different aspects of the hobby. The only qualifications needed are a degree of intolerance and an ability to spit venom. According to the Gauge & Maul Military Enthusiast's Almanac the longest-standing feud is currently that being fought between the Wargamers and the Military Modellers; enormous clans both, whose savagery towards each other sometimes rivals that in sectarian warfare.

In my philosophic moments I like to imagine a well meant attempt at arbitration actually succeeding, and uniting these two factions after which all would be sweetness and light. But I have little hope that such an attempt would succeed, or if it did, that the benefits would be long-lasting. But judge for yourself in..............

THE PUBLICAN'S TALE

Driving through a remote village I'd decided to drop in at a rustic establishment for a pint and a sandwich. The aim was a few brief moments of relaxation; instead y felt my nerve ends twitching. It wasn't just that my reception at the Old Buckled Bugle was as lukewarm as the ale they were serving. I'm not the sensitive type, but I've been around long enough to recognise an atmospheric undercurrent when I run slap bang into one.

Don't ask me why, but I felt certain a wargame had been played right there in the public bar fairly recently and the shock waves still hadn't subsided. If that were the case then I doubted whether I'd be able to extract any information about it out of the regulars - their mood of stifled excitement had drawn them closer together than surviving veterans of the Ypres Salient. Wargaming is a serious business and there's no place in it for laymen - which is how they would have regarded me. On top of that I was a total stranger: it was hardly surprising that my presence was about as welcome as a virulent epidemic of Yellow Bayonet!

Nevertheless, in my capacity as Roving reporter of 'Gauge & Maul' magazine ("All the World's Wargaming News brought to You the Day it Happens!") it was my job to probe. As the publican pulled another pint I seized my chance, and levelling my gaze tackled him direct:

"Held a wargame here not long ago, did you pal? Care to tell me about it, huh?"

The publican shot me a suspicious glance but made no reply. "It'll get you a spread," I wheedled, "Wargame in Village Hostelry. That's news. Could be page one stuff. We may sport a couple of pictures too. Shot of pub exterior showing thatched roof and brollies on the outside tables; that would look nice in colour. Maybe a close up of you and the wife and kids. All good for trade. What do you think, guv. Eh?"

"Which magazine?"

"Er....no..." That had caught me on the hop. "Not 'Which' Magazine guv. 'Gauge & Maul'.

"All the World's ------"

"OK, OK, no need for the blurb; you've answered my question". The publican polished a glass abstractedly. "Word got around that fast, did it?"

"You bet," I lied.

"And you want me to tell you all about it."

"That's the drift."

The publican continued polishing the glass. "Wargaming's a very minor activity in the Buckled Bugle," he said cautiously. "Suppose I tell you about the other people we get here. For example there's the skittlers, the darts players, the rugby club roisterers, the beer mat swappers, the wife swappers, the caged bird fanciers, the unfeathered bird fanciers---why don't you write about all them?"

"Yes, but----"

"Morris dancers, clog dancers, disco dancers, St Vitus dancers, head bangers, spoon benders, gender benders, punks, monks, drunks; you name it, I've either welcomed it in or booted it out at one time or another. You could write a book. So why all this dratted interest in one lousy wargame?" He gave me a stricken grimace; "Why?"

I'd seen that look before. I'd seen it yonks ago when as a cub reporter I was sent out to interview hard-nosed military modellers entering an exhibit for the umpteenth time, Humbrol still tacky on their shirtfronts and knowing they hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of ever earning a commendation. I'd seen it on shell-shocked wargamers fresh from being blitzkrieged into submission week after week at their local club. I'd even seen it on trigger-happy youngsters blowing their last sackful of 10p pieces on a single arcade game. I was seeing it now on the face of this publican. It was a look that spoke volumes. It told me that this man was a wargamer who'd been through the mill.

"Tough was it?" I said sympathetically.

"Tough?" he replied. "You don't know how tough."

"I think I do." I turned back my jacket lapel so that he could catch a golden glimpse of the coveted Solo Wargamers Association Award for services rendered beyond the call of duty. The publican's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and his attitude towards me took a sudden U-turn.

"Are you one of those boys?" he said in admiration. "A real solo wargamer?"

"I might be", I said guardedly. "But keep it under your hat. SWA members are required to preserve their anonymity."

"Of course," said the publican, his tone now respectful. "Your secret's safe with me. And God bless you sir. It's a fine job you're doing in the cause of wargaming. This one's on me."

"Ta." I sucked the froth off the fresh pint reflectively. "Mind you," I added, "I'm only a very small cog in a big wheel. I belong to the SAS branch - Society of Ambitious Soloists. Earned my gong back in '77 for rescuing a back-of-a-postcard set of rules someone had accidentally flushed down the loo."

"Amazing!" The publican stared at me for a long time. "But how did you----"

"----Can't tell you that", I interrupted, tapping my nose. "Still hush hush. Official Secrets Act you know."

"Understood, naturally." The publican leaned on his elbows on the bar top. "Wasn't that a fantastic coup by the elite Soloist Special Forces when they solved the Milton Keynes Crisis of 1983? What actually happened after those terrorists from the Women's Anti-Wargaming League invaded the annual convention?"

"Textbook Soloist operation," I answered briskly. "A four man squad disguised as nuns with stun grenades tucked into their bras was sent through a second floor window. Got all the hostages out except one."

"What happened to him?"

"He was a She, actually," I corrected. "The only lady wargamer at the convention. Shows you should never trust a woman. Last we heard was this maiden got shacked up with one of the terrorists in a cosy little tent on Greenham Common. Takes all types....." I paused. What was it I wanted to ask the publican?

"You wanted to hear about our wargame," he prompted.

"I did. That's right." I fished for my notebook. "OK; fire away guv."

"Well," said the publican, "It was like no wargame you've ever seen. It happened this way......."

I licked my pencil and began to write: It happened this way......

"It happened this way!"

"No it didn't! It happened this way. Grouchy's corps was still pursuing the Prussians----"

"No it wasn't! By that time Blucher's army was moving towards Wellington's left flank----"

"Were they my buttocks! It happened this way----"

"No it ruddy well didn't! It happened this way----"

The argument raged on with neither man willing to give an inch. It was early evening in the Buckled Bugle and so far they had the public bar to themselves. Arguments like this between two military theorists of different persuasions rarely get anywhere, and so far this one seemed no exception to the rule. The discussion involved two well-known frequenters of the Buckled Bugle: on the right, Len Spooner, village traffic warden, and on the left, Nobby Brundage, local plumber.

Len Spooner's passion is military modelling. So proficient is he at his hobby that he had recently been elected President of the local Military Modelling Society. Len had only that day completed an immaculate 1/32 scale diorama of a Tiger tank poised at an unidentified snow-covered cross-roads. 'Somewhere In Europe' was the inscription on the mahogany base, and he had hurried along to the Buckled Bugle with it to unveil to his cronies in the Military Modelling Society that evening.

Nobby Brundage is also interested in modelling, though he is less proficient at it than Len. Nobby covers up his lack of artistry defensively, by claiming that he favours wargaming rather than static displays. That afternoon Nobby had acquired an extremely second-hand collection of Napoleonic soldiers, and since he was first in the village to achieve a complete army his chums were delighted to elect him chairman of their newly-formed Wargames Club. Nobby's prized collection; all jumbled up in an old paper carrier bag and resting on the bar top beside Len's sparkling snow-covered Tiger tank, was to be revealed to his cronies in the Wargames Club that evening.

The two items standing side by side on the bar top were to some extent responsible for the clash that had flared between Len and Nobby. Both men knew it; and both were wary of bringing it to the other's notice, preferring instead to skirt the subject and use a different topic with which to vent their jealousies of each other.

This argument had become so familiar that regulars in the Buckled Bugle often referred to it as the 'Waterloo Syndrome'. Usually it was quite harmless, but this evening Nobby Brundage found glorious spectacle of his rival's Tiger tank a little too hard to bear. He turned his blood shot eyes towards it and muttered disparagingly: "Wassat? A ruddy Christmas cake?" Not to be outdone, Len Spooner poked a finger gingerly at Nobby's carrier bag and nosed a solitary lancer on a three-legged horse out of a frayed corner, whence, like the last heroic and badly-mauled returnee from the Valley of Death it slid across the bar and toppled tiredly to destruction on the floor. There was silence as Len steered the cavalryman aside with his foot, showing distaste.

"I see the dog's bin at yer toy box", he said. "Pity. Yer might have got 25p for that little lot down at the car boot sale."

Like a Laurel and Hardy film, Nobby bent down slowly and deliberately to pick up the stricken lancer. "Watch it cock," he warned. "These aint toys. They're model soldiers what is used for wargaming purposes."

"Blimey, I must be goin' deaf," said Len sarcastically. "I thought for a minute you said they was soldiers." Then casting a pointed glance at Nobby's stained boiler suit, added theatrically: "Oh, I get it - you mean you melts 'em down as 'solder' to patch up some poor berk's dodgy central heating!" Len cackled loudly at his own poor joke. "Gawd 'elp us," he roared, "Playin' wiv toy soldiers at your age. I ask yer."

"No worse than wasting your spare time turning out plastic snowballs," said Nobby, indicating Len's model tank disparagingly. "Why that thing of yours is so tarted up under its pound and a half of icing sugar that you can't see its a pansy."

Len's cackling ceased abruptly. "The word you're looking for is 'Panzer'", he corrected coldly.

"In fact I wouldn't be at all surprised," continued Nobby, ignoring the interjection, "If there weren't no ruddy pansy under there at all."

"I tell you it's not a ruddy pansy," bawled Len, "It's a bleedin' PANZER!!! Don't you know a tank when you sees one?"

"Course I know a tank," said Nobby triumphantly, "that's me home ground innit? Tanks is those wosanames what you keeps in the loft full of stagnant water, all draped up with spider's webs and bird's doings". He moved closer to Len's model and inspected it minutely. "No, cock. What you got there aint no tank," he said emphatically, "It's a soddin' pansy. Like its owner."

Len was now beside himself with rage. "You aint got no right to say things like that to me!" he yelled. "I'm a government official. Look," he tapped the traffic warden's yellow armband on his sleeve. "See that, sunshine?" he muttered dangerously. "It means next time I catch your van on a yellow line you're for it!"

"Get stuffed!" snorted Nobby in disgust. "Ark at yer. Yer new Narzi tank goes well wiv yer Narzi armband and yer Narzi peaked cap, don't it? Proper little Adolf now, aintcha?"

"Buzz orf or I'll lay into yer!"

"Who? You and Rommel's army?"

"Orl right. Put 'em up." With splayed feet and upraised fists Len shuffled in sedate circles like a 19th century pugalist, keeping well clear of any possible retaliation by Nobby. Nobby was forced into a similar stance, and the pair of military specialists yawed about on diverging courses like a couple of two-masters struggling to make port in an off-shore wind......

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I interrupted the publican's account at this point to ask him what he was doing while this pantomime was taking place. After all, few publicans in my acquaintance would have allowed things to get this far out of hand in their own public bar.

"I swear I didn't know what was happening," he declared. "I was upstairs on the phone while they were arguing."

"On the phone? All that time?" I asked.

"Well---until the coach load of American tourists arrived, anyway."

"The what?"

"The coach load of American tourists."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Before either of the two gladiators could land a punch - if indeed this was ever their intention - they were interrupted by a babble of voices outside. A luxury coach had pulled into the car park and was disgorging a party of aged American tourists. These worthies tottered purposefully towards the pub doorway like a platoon of geriatric marines disembarking from a landing barge at Iwo Jima. Inside, the scene in the public bar, where Len and Nobby were still cavorting in exaggeratedly macho antics, brought the party up short, and caused flaccid mouths to gape, lengthy fat cigars to drop on the floor, and pink-framed diamante spectacles to slide down noses.

"Hey lookee here, Elmer," shrieked a lady, in a voice like grade six glasspaper, "Aint that a Morris dance?" her leather-faced companion shook his head wonderingly. "Aint like nuthin' I ever seed before", he replied. Then his face lit up as he espied the model tank on the bar top.

"Say what you got there, son?" he said delightedly.

"Less of the 'son'", said Len tartly.

"Dang my breeches if that aint a spittin' image of a Mark II in miniature. I should know; I've bin a little too close for comfort to one of them things. Ardennes, " he explained modestly.

"Is that so," said Len in more interested tones, dropping his guard.

Nobby saw his chance and was about to send a haymaker in the direction of Len's slack jawline when the American said: "And whaddya know - Napoleonic wargaming figures, too. My, my, don't they fashion these things well. Look at this Mabel - a perfect little lancer. I'd say he was a Prussian, not French, wouldn't you agree sir? Judging by the colour of the jacket."

"Well-----" Nobby lowered his fists, "I haven't had a proper chance to look 'em over, like, but-----"

"And what were you two gentlemen doing just now?" the American's mild blue eyes rested on each in turn. "Looked to me like you wuz demonstrating some kind of early military manoeuvre." In the silence that followed both Nobby and Len turned a bright shade of pink in their embarrassment. "Was it a cavalry drill, mebbe?" volunteered the American helpfully.

"Er---yes, that was it," blurted Nobby hurriedly. "I was showin' him what the Scots Greys got up to at Waterloo."

"And I was parrying with the later, improved Crimean method," added Len, not to be out-manoeuvred at this late stage.

"I bet you're the modeller," said the American, turning to Len, "You've got fine hands - a surgeon's hands. And you, sir--" looking at Nobby, "You're the wargamer I can see; natural military bearing. Well now aint that really something. A modeller and a wargamer getting together and comparing notes. Makes sense - you each conduct research in different fields, you can pool resources. By the way, I belong to the US Wargames/Military Modelling Society. Here's my card. Keep in touch------"

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Is that it?" I asked the publican after a long pause. "That's the story of the 'Wargame' at the Buckled Bugle?"

"Except for the happy ending," said the publican. "Len and Nobby are now firm friends since they set up the new 'Buckled Bugle Wargaming & Military Modelling Society'. You ought to put that in your article."

"Oh I will," I said, "I most certainly will. And just to set the record straight, how did Colonel Pretzel happen to chance by just at the right moment?"

"Colonel who?"

"Pretzel. Colonel Elmer 'Butch' Pretzel, retired head of the SWA International Cadre." The publican regarded me as though I'd just climbed down his chimney off a flying saucer. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Come now," I said. "You're a wargamer. You told me you were on the phone the whole time the argument was going on in the public bar. It doesn't take Einstein to figure out that, seeing the way things were going you decided to make an emergency call for assistance from SWA HQ. And that they sent you the nearest available man - which happened to be old Elmer Pretzel, over here on a quiet vacation, celebrating his retirement from active service." I shook my head, smiling. "Who'd have believed it? Good old Elmer; he just couldn't bear to switch off his early warning apparatus for the last time."

The publican breathed out a long sigh. "You certainly put two and two together well," he said admiringly.

"It's my job," I said. "And I'd recognise an Elmer Pretzel operation a mile off. Pity I missed him - we have a lot of good yarns to swap. Never mind; this'll be a nice story for him to tell his grandchildren when he gets home. Flourishing end to his career."

"Er--you won't mention this last bit - about Colonel Pretzel - in your article, will you?" begged the publican. "I mean, it wouldn't go down too well if Nobby and Len got to hear how they were duped."

I'm a journalist, not a peacemaker. I flashed my disarming 'gentlemen of the Press' smile and said reassuringly: "Now would I do a thing like that?"