by Ray Timms
Looking back up the road at the red-bearded mob now just thirty yards away, fearing for his life, Humpy shouted. ‘Danny, if them crazies get their hands on us we are dead and I do not want to end up as a zombie, so get us the hell out of here.’
A brick smacking the side of his truck was all the encouragement that Danny needed to get moving. Straight on seemed a sensible idea.
‘You were supposed to be watching that side of the truck you plank.’ Danny barked at his co-driver.
Reversing the lorry back a couple of yards so that he could straighten up the wheels he pulled a face at the sound of crunching stone.
Humpy snapped back, ‘I was watching my side. It was you who steered into the bloody thing. Now get moving will you?’
‘Oh God!’ Danny had seen someone back there point a shotgun at them. Next instant, there was a bang and Danny saw his wing mirror disappear.
‘Shit!’ Humpy yelled, when a missile thrown by one of the baying mob landed on the roof of the cab making them shrink their heads back into their shoulders like turtles.
‘Move!’ Humpy said pointing straight ahead.
In straightening up the articulated lorry the gun turret swing about so that it now faced front again.
Danny stamped on the accelerator and the low-loader shot off. They were now racing down the High Street, reaching 40 MPH in a 20 MPH zone. Rattling over the speed bumps and ignoring the flashing speed cameras, Danny saw in his mirror that the mob was falling back. When they went round a bend in the road and he could no longer see the mob, he settled back in his seat and sighed. He turned his head and faced front again.
‘Shiiit!’
When Danny slammed on the brakes, Humpy, flew off his seat as if he was a human cannonball, and hit the windscreen.
‘Daneeeee!’ Humpy cried out from the floor of the cab. ‘Why the hell did you stop? Jeez, I think you just broke my neck.’
Danny had more to worry about than Humpy’s exaggerated complaints. He pointed through the windscreen. ‘Jesus. We are in dead trouble Humpy.’
‘Wassup now?’
‘Look.’
Rubbing his sore head and wincing at a pain in his neck, Sapper Humphries looked to where Danny was pointing. They were on an unlit country lane and straight ahead of them; illuminated in the headlights he could see an old hump-backed bridge.
‘What’s that sign say?’ Danny said pointing out the window Humpy’s side.
Humpy wound down his window. ‘There are two signs. Which one?’
‘Both of them.’ Danny snapped.
‘Erm, one says: “Fragile Bridge: Weight limit 12 tonnes.”
‘Great, we are carrying close on a hundred tonnes! What does the other one say, the brown one?’
‘Erm that one says,’ Humpy had to squint his eyes to read the smaller print. “Bonnie Bridge. Historic monument. This was the site where Bonnie Prince Charlie addressed his troops before he led them into the battle of Culloden.”
‘Terrific, ‘Danny said. We just smashed to smithereens the town’s stone cross and now we’re stuck. We can’t turn around and we can’t go forwards.’ Looking round at Humpy rubbing his sore head. Danny said.’ Sorry Humpy, looks like we are both about to be eaten alive!’
‘No way, Danny,’ Humpy pleaded. ‘Drive on, just… just drive over the bloody bridge.’
‘It won’t take our weight Humpy, we are done for.’
‘Look. ‘Humpy said above the sound of another brick landing on the cab’s roof. ‘If you take a run at it, get up to speed, it’s only about thirty feet wide, that river, we can leap across it. Then the minute the front wheels touch down you hit the gas and bobs you uncle, we’ll be away.’
When the glass window right behind their head exploded showering them with glass fragments, Danny decided that right now wasn’t the time to point out the illogical physics of Humpy’s suggestion.
‘Jeezus! Get going you Wally. ‘Humpy cried dropping down into the well of the cab.
‘We don’t have a choice Danny. We have to go over that bridge. It’s that, or we get eaten alive. You want that?’
Danny shook his head. Gritting his teeth he slammed the gearstick into first and then stamped on the gas pedal. With the gun turret swinging about as if it was seeking a target to demolish, the truck shot off.
Humpy kept his head in his hands when the truck bore down on the ancient bridge that these days, was rarely crossed by anything mechanical.
Ten yards from the bridge, with the engine screaming and the wheels burning rubber, now nudging seventy miles per hour, too late to do anything about it, Danny, saw the sign on his side of the road that said: ”FORD. To be used by all motorized vehicles.”
All Danny could do was shut his eyes and pray.
Curled up on the cab floor Humpy heard Danny yell out.
‘Geronimo.’
When the truck hit the bridge and took out the side walls, for a moment there, Danny thought that Humpy’s suggestion might actually pay off. For a fleeting second, moments before gravity intervened, the tank and its transporter were airborne. Could they actually fly across this shallow river? Such ambitions were quickly dispelled when the whole kit and caboodle, the tank, the low loader and two helpless Sappers dropped like a stone into the river and landed squarely amidst the ruins of the ancient bridge
With the low-loader and the tank, now settled on the riverbed, standing in a foot of water that was being turned to steam by the heat of the engine, Danny agreed with Humpy that they should abandon the tank and make a run for it.
When the armed menfolk of the town came around the bend they came to a halt at the slope that led down to the ford, that had Danny seen in time he could have used and got away, they saw in the river, among the demolished remains of their famous bridge, the low-loader with the tank’s gun pointing menacingly back at the village.
A shout went up. Fingers pointed out two fleeing soldiers, lit in the moonlight, being chased across a field by a herd of bullocks.
Chapter Thirteen
That same night, out in the North Sea a second unfortunate incident, arose out of the UK’s rush to defend its resources.
A short time after the events in the town of Bonnie, just before dawn, HMS Primrose, a type 42 destroyer that should have been scrapped ten years ago, had just arrived at an area in the North Sea where there were a number of oil platforms. Captain David Wenham-Cox had been given orders to be on the lookout for any Scottish vessels that might pose a threat to the UK oil facilities.
Daybreak came and the ship’s radar pinged on a vessel set on a course for one of the BP installations.
When the vessel failed to respond to the radio operator’s demands that the boat must alter course, Captain Wenham-Cox ordered his men to battle stations. With growing unease the Captain, up on the bridge watched the trawler “The Merry Boson” flying the Scottish ensign closing in on the oilrig.
‘It could be a floating bomb.’ His Number-Two suggested.
‘I had already thought of that Parsons.’
Turning to his radio operator Wenham-Cox said, ‘is there still no reply from the Merry Boson?’
No sir.’
‘What the hell! Are they all dead on that boat? Keep trying.’
Watching the progress of the fishing boat Wenham-Cox knew that HMS Primrose hadn’t the speed to intercept the trawler before it struck the oil platform.
‘The Merry Boson is not responding sir.’ The radio operator called out.
Captain Wenham-Cox could do without this. What the hell was the skipper of the trawler playing at defying a British warship? Two weeks off his retirement and with his wife Rebecca planning to use his retirement money to buy a holiday home in Cornwall he didn’t need this. Wenham-Cox also didn’t need to be on this rust bucket that ought to have been decommissioned years ago.
Wenham-Cox turned to his radio operator. ‘Are you sure that the radio is working? Are you certain you fixed it?’
‘Sir, you know what it’s like, it
’s very temperamental, one minute it works, the next minute…’
‘Just keep trying.’ Wenham-Cox snapped focusing his binoculars on the trawler that was now too close for comfort and had to be a floating bomb. The captain yelled into the ship’s intercom.
‘Gunner Bloosharp, on my order you are to fire a shot across the bow of that trawler. But for Christ’s sake don’t you touch a thing until I tell you to. I do not want a repeat of the bloody time you almost sank that American aircraft carrier.’
‘No sir.’ Bloosharp yelled down the mouthpiece. He was keeping his hands well
away from the temperamental fire button. Two months ago while on NATO exercises out in the Med, this very gun had shot a hole in the US carrier Roosevelt.
Wearing his white flash protection outfit, gunner Bloosharp kept the sights of the 4.5-inch gun with 55-calibre barrel aimed way over to the left of the bow of the trawler that was on course to hit the oil platform. Through his headphones he heard the Captain say.
‘Stand by Bloosharp and don’t touch the bloody firing button until I give the order.’
‘Sir, I’m telling you, the gun bloody gun fired on its own accord.’
For eighteen months now, Wenham-Cox had been complaining to the admiral that his guns were a liability.
‘Just be careful Bloosharp,’ The captain said.’
‘Aye aye sir…’
The next instant the gun fired off a shell.
‘Sir,’ the gunner cried into his microphone. ‘I swear, I never touched the fire button. The bloody thing has a mind of it’s own.’
Below decks on the Merry Boson, its skipper and the crew of five, having spent the last eight hours celebrating Scotland’s Independence were comatose in their bunks and blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding up on deck. In the deep ocean swell empty whiskey bottles rolling around the floor were banging against the metal hull. A few minutes ago Willy Taggart thought that he heard a loudhailer ordering them to heave-to. He shook his head. That wasn’t a good idea. He groaned and with his head rested on the belly of ship’s cook Tam Wallace, he closed his eyes. Moments later a massive bang followed by the boat rocking violently sobered up the crew. Before they could get out of their bunks the trawler keeled to one side spilling the crew onto the floor that was very quickly filling up with seawater.
‘What the hell was that?’ Taggart yelled getting to his feet and finding he was knee-deep in icy seawater.
‘Tam,’ Taggart called out just as the lights went out. ‘Did you see any weather reports of icebergs being out here?’
Concluding the Merry Boson was headed for Davy Jones Locker, the Scottish fishermen slammed into each other in the rush to climb the stairs.
Standing in four feet of water the crew was now sobered up.
‘Skipper, what are you going to do? You going down with your ship?’ Tam yelled above the roar of water filling the boat, now listing at forty-five degrees.
Hamish McAllister had no intention of doing any such thing. He said, ‘put on your life jacket Tam, looks like we are going for a swim.’
With all his men safely bobbing about in the North Sea, Hamish watched the Merry Boson slide under the water making a gurgling sound that he was to later describe as a death rattle. Just before it disappeared he noticed the blackened, twelve inches hole in the hull. A shout from a loudhailer made him swing about. A hundred yards away a British destroyer had launched its lifeboats. Choking on seawater Hamish shouted out to his crew… ‘The buggers… They sank us. Why’d they do that?’
On the bridge, the dismayed Wenham–Cox watched as his men pulled the five fishermen out of the water. Having just heard on the Scottish news what had happened in the town of Bonnie, this second disaster was sure to be reported as another attack on Scotland, which meant, in all likelihood he would be scapegoated. He would be forced to take early retirement with his Naval pension taking a massive hit. The upshot of that would mean he and Alice couldn’t buy that Cornish cottage. Damn and blast! And it wasn’t even his fault.
Wenham-Cox had gunner Bloosharp brought to his cabin.
‘Bloosharp, what the hell happened, you were only meant to fire across its bow.’
The way the captain said it reminded the gunner of the film the Italian Job and the scene where Michael Caine said. “You were only meant to blow the bloody doors off.”
An hour after the inflatable dinghy from HMS Primrose dropped off the frozen fishermen on the Aberdeen quayside, Wenham–Cox received an urgent message from the Admiralty in London.
“With immediate effect, you are to sail HMS Primrose into Portsmouth harbour and then report straight to Admiralty House”.
After paying the cabbie that dropped him right outside Admiralty House, Wenham-Cox straightened his tie and brushed down his uniform. At the doors he muttered. ‘Oh well let’s get it over with.’ He had already decided that he was going to lay the blame for the destruction of the trawler at the door of the MOD who should have scrapped HMS Primrose years ago.
Standing to attention and facing the disciplinary panel that consisted of mostly top Naval brass, Wenham -Cox noted the two men who were not wearing a uniform. These men he guessed had to be top civil servants here to present the case for the Government. One had a face like a weasel and the other one, oddly, that of a Giraffe.
Listening to the alleged offences being read out, Wenham –Cox became aware of his fists clenching up. The slit mouth of the weasely one seemed to be smirking. Only a few of the key words got through the rage boiling up inside him. Words such as: “Dereliction of duty – failure to follow orders – acting impulsively – reckless decisions.“ What really stuck like a fishbone in his throat was the charge, “creating an international incident that potentially could lead to a war!”
After the panel had had their say, damning him to hell as it were, it was Admiral Hardcastle who having summed up the charges concluded.
‘Before the panel retires to agree on your punishment is there anything you wish to say in your defence?’
On an impulse, Wenham-Cox wondered, if he could split the panel, say, get his Naval bosses pitted against the Civil Servants he may yet get off this?
‘For the past ten years I have been requesting a refit for HMS Primrose. That information is on my record. Successive Governments, with muddle-headed thinking have consistently cut the defence budget, leaving the Navy in particular short of money.’
‘It is not the Government that is on trial here today.’ Interjected William Miller, the head of Naval Procurement. ‘I don’t think we need to hear anymore gentlemen.’ Miller said getting ready to rise up from his chair.
‘I think Captain Wenham-Cox has a valid argument,’ Admiral Hughes said looking daggers at Miller. ‘It is disgraceful how this Government in particular has treated the Navy. We have aircraft carriers with no bloody planes, We have ships that hardly hold water and guns that couldn’t hit a barn door.’ The Admiral was up on his soapbox now. ‘I insist that we hear the Captain out.’
Wenham-Cox tore into the Civil Servants and soon got the Naval brass backing up his complaints. After that, it was all plain sailing. (Excuse the pun). All the charges against Wenham-Cox were dismissed and his Naval record left unblemished. And to cap it all, Gunner Bloosharp was exonerated too.
There was a smile on his face when outside Admiralty Arch he rang his wife Alice to give her the good news his pension was intact.
Chapter Fourteen
Edinburgh.
By the break of dawn, Scottish news programmes were reporting on the story of how a convoy of British tanks had attacked and destroyed the historic town of Bonnie.
One of the first newsmen on the scene, with a camera crew, was Kelvin Boyd, a reporter with Scotland One TV.
Boyd had the town’s mayor wearing his mayoral chain stand on the rubble of the stone cross. Kelvin then told his camera operator.
‘Make sure you get a few weeping women and children in the shot.’
Facing the camera, immacula
tely dressed for seven in the morning, having been woken at five, Kelvin spoke to the camera.
‘This is a sad day for Scotland. Last night under cover of darkness, with the UK forces pulling out of Scotland, in a vengeful attack on a this sleepy village, a convoy of British tanks wreaked havoc on this helpless community that witnessed the destruction of two of its famous landmarks.’ The camera swung about to show the rubble that was once an ancient Celtic cross. A few women and children that had been recruited to pose were laying flowers at the scene. The camera moved back to Kelvin Boyd who now held up a picture postcard. ‘This is how the town centre once looked. The ancient Celtic stone cross that was destroyed last night by English tanks had stood on this spot for over nine hundred years.’ At a nod from Boyd, the cameraman zoomed in on the newsman’s grim expression. ‘I have with me Angus McClusky, the mayor of Bonnie who witnessed this barbaric attack.’ Shoving a microphone under the mayor’s bushy red beard Boyd said. ‘Mayor McClusky, tell the viewers in your own words what you saw.’
‘Around two in the morning,’ the mayor said looking shifty, ‘the town was woken by the sound of rumbling.’
‘And this was the tanks rumbling into town?’ Kelvin interrupted the mayor.
‘Indeed it was. There had to be at least a dozen of them English tanks firing their guns terrifying the women and the children. It’s a miracle that no one was killed.’
Facing the camera again Boyd pointed down the road. ‘Just around that bend, just a few hours ago, stood the bridge made famous by Bonnie Prince Charlie, the town’s namesake. Upon that bridge on April twelfth, seventeen forty-six, the Prince addressed his troops before leading them into the Battle of Culloden. Last night,’ Boyd said, his face grim.’ Those same English tanks set about its destruction.’ Turning back to the mayor, Kelvin Boyd said. ‘I understand the townsfolk, with little more than, hoes and pitchforks drove off the attackers and captured one of their tanks, can you tell us where the crew of that tank is now?’ Kelvin shoved the microphone back in the mayor’s bushy beard.