Your loving husband,
George
“’Ave you got some sort of problem, Perkins?”
“Don’t think so, Sarge.”
“Then why is your unit taking ninety seconds to reload when the rest of the battery’s taking less than a minute?”
“We’re doing our best, Sarge.”
“Your best isn’t good enough, Perkins, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Don’t ‘Yes, Sarge’ me, Perkins, just do something about it.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“And, Matthews.”
“Yes, sarge.”
“I’ll be inspecting your gun at twelve hundred hours, and if it doesn’t shine like the sun coming out of my arse, I’ll personally ram you down the barrel and fire you at the Hun. Do I make myself abundantly clear, lad?”
“Abundantly clear, Sarge.”
The buzzer sounded on the field telephone. George grabbed the receiver.
“There’s a heavy barrage coming from about a mile away, sir, eleven o’clock,” said one of the men manning the forward look-out post. “Could mean the Germans are planning an attack.” The line went dead.
“Sergeant Davies!” hollered George, struggling to make himself heard above the sound of gunfire.
“Sir!”
“One mile, eleven o’clock, Germans advancing.”
“Sir! Look lively, lads, we want to be sure to give the Hun a warm welcome. Let’s see who can be the first to land one right on top of Jerry’s tin helmet.”
George smiled as he walked up and down the line, checking on each gun, grateful that Sergeant Davies had been born in Swansea, and not on the other side of the Siegfried Line.
“Well done, Rodgers,” said Davies. “First into action again. Keep this up and you’ll be a lance corporal in no time.”
Even George couldn’t miss the less than subtle hint as to who he should be considering for the next promotion.
“Well done, Perkins, that’s more like it,” said Davies a few moments later. “Needn’t start unpicking your stripes just yet.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“And don’t ever thank me, Corporal. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m going soft.”
“No, Sarge!”
“Matthews, don’t tell me you’re going to be last again.”
“My loading spring’s busted, Sarge.”
“Oh I am so sorry to hear that, Matthews. Well then, why don’t you run along to the ammunition store and see if you can get yourself a nice shiny new one—sharpish, you bleedin’ halfwit.”