Captain Cook’s Diary – Part One

The walls seem to close in on us. How long we’ve been down here I could not say. Time holds no meaning. Our orders from General Clarke are clear. We are to advance on the enemy at 1100 hours. The atmosphere is cloying, the claustrophobia almost unbearable. Tick tock. Tick tock.

I’m aware that my sense of foreboding is shared by the older men, though they would not admit it. I look across at Mr Anderson. His expression has been unchanged since the battle of Headingley. The eyes are glassy and sightless, the lips twisted into an agonised snarl as he rocks endlessly backwards and forwards, shining his cricket ball.

This is what conflict can do to a man. For years we’ve lurched from one colonial war to another, spending many months away from our families. Our victories have been notable but the defeats have taken a heavy toll, not least our recent foray into the antipodes.

We’d set out with such hope. We’ll be back by Christmas, we’d said. Oh, such innocent folly! The Australians, whom we’d dismissed as uncouth barbarians, had a new weapon, the like of which we’d never seen before. They called it the Mitch Mark II, a crude and guileless missile with deadly black bristles at one end. Its previous carnation tended to malfunction at the merest hint of duress, veering wildly to the left and the right. But this one was different. Despite operating with no discernible intelligence, it was unerringly accurate, bulldozing through our brittle defences, dropping our men like dominoes.

I am still haunted by their screams.

General Clarke, in his infinite wisdom, insisted that the true blame lay not with our technical deficiencies against this lethal warhead but with the treacherous South African in our ranks. Since we rooted him out, the spirit in the camp has improved beyond measure and the division now bubbles with vitality and optimism. Mr Stokes in particular seems primed for action, attacking any inanimate object he sees. Oh, to be young again!

Another of our rookies, Mr Robson, is wielding his trusty club in precise, robotic movements. Since rescuing him from the savages down under, we have painstakingly civilised him, educating him exclusively from the MCC book of military technique. I am filled with pride as I observe the impenetrable forward defensive pose he now demonstrates before us.

As usual, our mascot, Private Root is happily reading one of his Kipper The Champion Cricket Dog stories. In these intolerable circumstances it really is heart-warming to see a young man immersing himself in literature. His angelic features occasionally erupt into a falsetto giggle at the adventures of his canine hero. The positive impact this joyous, tinkling laughter has on our more grizzled veterans simply cannot be overstated.

Others seek solace in technology, tapping vigorously on their new-fangled tablets or mobile gizmos, no doubt dispatching stiff-upper-lip communiqués to their loved ones back home. To my right, our team scribe Lieutenant Broad beats his keypad with trademark ferocity, giving form to the endless poetry which courses through him. I glance surreptitiously at his screen, for he is oddly protective of his prose.

#AtTheBridge #RaringToGo! #FiveDaysOfCooky!! #Argghhh! #Bantz!!!

I can’t pretend to know what it means and nor should I, for this is surely encrypted communication designed to confound the enemy.

My thoughts shift to this unseen foe. Popular opinion is that these young men lack the stomach for the fight. They don’t travel well, so they say, content to gorge on the bounteous fruits offered by the all-powerful Lord Srinny back in their homeland.

But they too have a secret weapon – the one they call Ishant. Few have ever laid eyes on this fearsome predator, but those who have tell tale of a terrible beast with the head of a suave and incredibly handsome man and the body of a ferocious bird of prey. They say he begins his charge on the ground, tearing up the earth at a fearful speed. Then he takes to the skies, gliding gracefully on the thermals while seeking out his victim, his luxuriant mane flapping behind him like a cape. Then he swoops, grabbing the poor soul in his deadly talons before lifting once more and tailing away across the city.

My body quivers involuntarily at the thought but, as leader, I must suppress all fear from my countenance. For the sake of morale I must make light of such fancy, for the youthful mind is fertile ground for wild conjecture.

A bell chimes outside and I am arrested by that familiar feeling of sick dread.

It is time.

Then, as if summoned by the Gods, an apparition of the great knight Obe Wan Strauss appears before me. His beautiful, all-seeing eyes gaze benevolently upon me as I bathe in his liquid tones.

“This is a new dawn, young Alastair, and you must seize the moment. No more stationing your men as far from the action as possible. This is your time. Now do your duty.”

I typically recoil in the presence of such intense charisma, but this time I cannot help but emit a spontaneous yip of delight, at once shattering the sombre mood. That long dormant feeling of bloodlust is once again with me. The field of battle opens out in my mind. I can foresee clearly the conflict ahead, the tactical masterstrokes that will bring us victory.

Gripped by reckless spontaneity, I rise and launch the battle cry.

“Men, the game’s afoot!  Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint Giles!’”

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