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Go Again, Mrs?

Elstead Writers' Group

Kiki crawled over to Kitty Fisher and shook her.

“Not now Mam, I had a rough night.”

“What? Ow!” Scarlet DuBois was surfacing from under the freezer.

“Jump to it you two,” said Kiki as she retrieved her Bren from a heap of burst cornet cartons, “We’re missing all the action.”

“The van’s very buckled, isn’t the door jammed?” asked Kitty.

“Might well be, where ever it is. Flew off somewhere up the hill. We can get out, but keep your heads down.”

Outside the battle was at its height, the air thick with smoke and a cacophony of percussions, cries, whinnies and faltering mariachi filling their ears.

“Come on. We’re going to take out that eighty-eight.”

“Really?” They crawled on their bellies, snake like and unnoticed towards the far gun emplacement where a Krupp 8.8-cm Flugzeugabwehrkanone was pounding shell after shell into Aunty Stella’s cavalry. The Chat gun crew…

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The Hampshire Light Horse

Elstead Writers' Group

As Mad Jack Belvoir surveyed the scene, a small group, on foot, moved out in front of the barrier. One of their number waved a white flag.

“Time for a chat,” he said, handing the binoculars back to Aunty Stella and unfurling his own white pennant. She returned the bins to the case hanging from her saddle pommel and raised her right arm. The Hampshire Light Horse formed into three divisions, creating gaps for Snowdrop’s tachanka and the Vicecream van, topped with its gigantic jingle-horn, to move forward into view.

“Wait here,” she called back to her troops, and then to Mad Jack, “Lets get on with it.” They urged their mounts into a stately walk down the slope and halted some thirty yards short of the cluster of Chats Souterrains. After a brief pause the King Emperor Charles III, his Ronald McDonald costume faded and threadbare, face paint cracked…

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Observatory Ridge

Elstead Writers' Group

“Buccaneer it is then,” said Flo. “Everyone pile in while I operate the donkey winch.” With the gang settled in the launch Flo, “Lowering away!” controlled the steady descent. There was a bump as the sea came up to meet the pinnace. The placid ocean was as smooth as glass, mirroring the sky; a long, slow swell rising and falling like the heaving breasts of a slumbering, Rubenesque, strumpet. The lines went slack.

“Unshackle the stern line, Boz. I’m coming down.” Flo began to shin down the for’ard tackle, Boz let go aft and the launch swung lazily round. At the same time a deep throb set up within the bowels of the Überkatzen and the water abaft of her twin bronze, 22ft diameter screws began to churn. Flo landed on the fore deck of Buccaneer as the gigantic drone carrier surged forward. The line went taught, dragging the bow…

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Take the Piratey One

Elstead Writers' Group

Boz and Phoebles, Ginsbergbear and Flo more or less carried Augusta through the catering department and galleys enroute to the medical facilities, all glistening stainless steel ranges and work surfaces, rows of apprehensive, scrubbed clean pans and utensils waiting nervously for a crew to feed. Phoebles had a quick scout round and expressed his disappointment on discovering the pantries to be devoid of anything edible.

“I hope we’re not stuck here too long.”

There were however bandages and Germolene ointment in the surgery. The hospital block smelled strongly of disinfectant, equipment and bedding still wrapped in plastic, water dispenser blopping intermittent punctuations into the pervasive languor of the deserted chambers.

“The navy wasn’t anticipating another Trafalgar any time soon,” observed Flo, “One operating theatre and twelve beds.”

“She was built just before the revolution,” said Boz. “I don’t think the old government was planning on having that sort of war…

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SkyDive

Elstead Writers' Group

“It’s safe to come down now. I’ve spiked the guns.” The call eventually came after a tense twenty minutes of radio silence.

“Are you certain you know what to do, Mrs King?” asked Boz as they carefully strapped on their parachutes.

“Mostly,” replied Augusta. “I’m sure I can work the rest out on the way down. Let’s get on with it.” She stepped out onto the starboard float and was instantly sucked off by the slipstream. Boz went next; and then Phoebles.

“Geronimo!”

Ginsbergbear and Zelda, firmly strapped together, performed an inelegant and rather embarrassing waddle out to the hatch. Then Zelda tripped, failed to grab hold of anything, and they were airborne.

“Eeeaaaaaroooh!”

The carrier had looked tiny from the air, but it was coming up fast. Then the chutes opened with a whump and the harnesses bit deep, delivering the mother of all wedgies. Had the cats or…

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CSS Überkatzen

Elstead Writers' Group

Back inside they finalised their plan. Dark Flo had assumed command. “Ferdy, you’d better co-pilot Beryl, make sure she doesn’t drop out, turn on, or whatever it is she’s inclined to do. Once we’ve found the carrier I’ll go first and take out the defences. Then the rest of you parachute drop onto the deck.”

“Me? Parachute?” cried Zelda.

“It’s a buddy sky-dive for you,” continued Flo, “in tandem with the bear.”

“I might need a spot of that stuff Beryl’s on,” said Ginsbergbear.

“Me too,” said Lady Augusta, “What exactly does this para-thingying involve?”

“No one’s going to be on anything until this op’s over. It’s serious. You all heard the Analytical Engine. It’s a matter of life or death. Now, get kitted up and let’s be off.”

“I’d better get back to my regiment,” said Aunty Stella. “When Les Chats get wind of what you’re up to they’re…

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Beryl Flies High

Elstead Writers' Group

The sewer outlet, when they eventually reached it, was obstructed by heavy wrought-iron bars through which they could see the London River and on the far bank make out the Rotherhithe skyline.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed a heavily soiled Ferdy, “what do we do now?”

“Out the way,” growled Zelda, splashing to the fore. She flicked off the safety on her SPAS-15 and fired two rounds from the hip while everyone else waded for cover. Brick chippings and cement dust flew in all directions. There was silence for a moment and then three of the bars toppled outwards with a clang.

“Zelda!” protested Slasher. Yet the geek’s rash action had facilitated their egress.

The tide was out when the gang dropped down from the culvert onto a muddy foreshore strewn with plastic bottles, shopping trolleys and old car tyres. Gathering their bearings they turned up stream and trudged along the stinking…

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