COLONEL BLASTER AND THE EIGHT OF CLUBS
After retrieving their baggage from the armoured support vehicle, Sapper X ( on attachment from the secret service ) detached his luggage from his tobacco infused hand and declared that he would pick it up on his return from action.
Fellow mercenaries, Dr Thelonious Royle, Private Jox, Washington Bruno and Hoss Smythe ignored his petulant behaviour and motioned for the inebriated colleague to return to collect his bedding and survival gear. Bowing to peer pressure Sapper X dutifully retried his kit and joined his fellow travellers at the immigration desk and passport control.
After successfully deceiving the border officials that all was in order, the squadron advanced to the bar and ordered some refreshments.
At the same time and in a different universe, Colonel Blaster was relieving himself within the semi comfort of his latrine located within his cramped hotel bed chambers, and successfully adding a further three blankets to his bed roll to alleviate his exposure to the semi life threatening Ibizan air temperature of seventy five degrees Fahrenheit.
The Colonel and his travelling companion had served in the armed forces during the siege of Mafeking during the Boer war and had served in the Sudan with Lord Kitchener fighting the Mad Mahdi. Indeed Colonel Blaster had been stationed in the Dardanelles during the first world conflict, although he was forced to return with chilblains and a touch of frost bite.
The air transport delivered the team to there destination in the early hours of the morning and shortly after disembarking the weary ensemble were imbibing in a salubrious establishment named the Playboy Club.
After a few snorters and a incredibly high intake of lager the shuffle footed team arrived at their barracks. The designated barracks were established to support retired officers and non commissioned officers. However, due to cuts in the military budget, our intrepid cavaliers were destined to bivouac with Colonel blaster and his platoon.
On entering the establishment it was immediately clear that the ambient temperature of the barracks was a climate normally associated with the tropics. The walls were plastered with ensigns, insignias, flags, spears , stirrups and emblems from the Sudanese, Cape and Afghan campaigns. All windows were sealed shut and the doors were set to close sharply, immediately you had entered through the portal and passed into the steaming vestibule of the building. The hot-house was staffed by unintelligent civilian's who had been recruited from the local semi literate and somnambulistic community, with a collective I.Q of approximately 12.
Meanwhile, unknown to Colonel Blaster et al, waiting silently and in pitch black, and locked in solitude behind a heavy wooden door, hung upon a drab whitewashed wall, was a huge portrait of the Eight of Clubs.
Waiting unforgivingly for its redemption and resurrection, it had its own evil presence and was aware that huddled below lay the key to its renewed existence. In the next room, awaiting revenge and an eagerly expected valedictory victory, was the recently arrived troops regimental mascot, a stuffed Spanish Donkey with a full brimmed sombrero named "Donkey".
All was not well.
The squad having acclimatised themselves to their squalid accommodation took leave of the premises after obtaining an open ended pass, and made their way to the localities hostelries, which although unsavoury were preferable to the barracks own mess hall. Unwinding with a copious selection of large shorts and aperitives, Sapper X soon noticed that the bars walls were smothered with undergarments of all manner and assortment, being male, female, soiled, new, old or other.
With this revelation, Washington Bruno swiftly removed his urine and skid marked gundies and after wearing them on his head for a short while, stuck them firmly to the wall above the blaring jukebox.
Sapper X retaliated by pumping the juke box with pesetas and soon Maggie May by Rod Stewart was blasting out of the rusting old speakers. Sapper X was swiftly followed by Orderly Dr Royle who ensured that the playlist included "Run around Sue" for the next dozen plays.
Boisterous behaviour followed for the remainder of the night, until the closure of the last bar meant that the battalion had to retreat to their sleeping quarters at the regimental barracks. After successfully cutting a way through the defensive barriers containing the outer perimeter of the barracks, the inebriated soldiers entered their bedrooms two by two, just like the animals entering Noah's ark.
Within minutes all was not quite as ear-splitting snoring filled the corridors of the establishment.
However, this state of affairs lasted no longer than five minutes, and Sapper X and Dr Royle had donned commandos black clothing and blackened their faces, so that they could assault and ransack the adjoining bedroom.
After skilfully abseiling from their balcony to the adjacent portal, they smashed a way through the closed doors and attempted to throw the furniture from the room in to the Majors personal swimming pool located six floors below. Indeed in there haste, they forgot to ensure that the bed that was enroute for an unscheduled high dive and swim, was still occupied by Sargent Hoss Smythe.
Desperate to survive this violent assault, Smythe held on to one leg of the bed whilst trying to repel the invaders with the other. As the struggle continued, the table lamp and side table were collateral damage in the explosive struggle, and were jettisoned in to the dark waters below the balcony. Soon an incessant knock at the rooms door brought the struggle to an abrupt if surprising end. The violent intrusion event swiftly abated and the intruders retreated towards their own territorial space.
The now fully alert Pte Washington Bruno moved to the door and sheepishly open to enquire as to who was knocking with so much aggression. Standing in the portal was the Barracks red faced Commandant, dressed in full battledress and with a military drill cane in his hand. Two Military policemen stood at his shoulders as he demanded that all noise ceased forthwith and that lights were immediately extinguished. Having spoken, the commander wheeled about face and stormed to the stairwell to complete his retreat towards his own quarters.
With this, a note was pushed under the door by his military guards, with instructions for all personnel to assemble before the Commanders Headquarters at precisely eight hundred hours a.m. Meanwhile, six stories above, the portrait of the eight of clubs shone it its frame, allowing its image to permeate the darkness of the room, as if to acknowledge the feast of discomfort and angst about to embrace the inebriated and unaware troops now sleeping below.
The following morning came and went without any movement from the adjoining rooms where the miscreant troops slept a troubled sleep.
As mid day approached Dr Royle suddenly arose and quickly collected his weary colleagues for roll call. With the 8 hundred hour's meeting missed, it was unanimously thought wise to assemble as quickly as possible outside the Commanders office located on the ground floor.
Awaiting the sad ensemble were a cohort of old timers seated in their deep leather armchairs, headed by a red faced and corpulent Colonel Blaster. They sat in front of a blazing log fire, oblivious to the fact that the temperature outside was at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
Facing a barrage of abuse from the bloated old guard, the tired soldiers filed into the commandants intimidating office.
It was immediately apparent that in the eyes of the officials, a serious breech of protocol had taken place, and that each member of the squad was to be disciplined for misconduct. Indeed, without delay the team were moved from there existing rooms and transferred to the misconduct wing located on the top floor of the building.
The new rooms had minimal furnishings, no blankets and no balconies. This move was to be a final chance to behave, or matters would be taken before a court marshal in Aldershot, England before the months end. Unknown to the sad ensemble, further along the top floor corridor, located in an unlit and genuinely cold wing, lay the entrance to a sealed chamber within which the malevolent portrait of the eight of clubs was nailed to its walls.
The portraits features were now glowing brightly as a putrid essence, exhuming from the very oils that had created the art work, pervaded the stale static air.
Meanwhile, outside the premises, the Majors swimming pool had been emptied, and the detritus thrown from the balcony the previous evening retrieved. A large grey tarpaulin had been fixed over the pool, with a number of bricks strategically placed to stop the wind weakening the retaining straps. These were to be needed, as a mighty storm was brewing out to sea, and dark black clouds were engulfing the coast, enhanced by a gale force howling wind.
The beaches were strewn with stinking seaweed ripped from the rocks deep below the surface of the dark swelling sea. Rain began to fall and was soon torrential, reducing visibility to a few feet. It was in to this inclement weather that the troop of disillusioned squaddies slowly marched to a familiar bar so that they could settle their fetid thoughts and stomachs.
Soon copious amounts of lager and spirits were being consumed, and as before undergarments were removed and stuck to what spare space was available on the nicotine stained walls and ceiling. With the juke box playing never ending renditions of Maggie May and Run-around Sue, the team were now feeling much happier and indeed, inebriated. More top shelf beverages followed together with Sapper X giving a fine rendition of the Irish National Anthem.
Back at the barracks, ensconced in its top floor attic, the Spanish Donkey began to flex its straw muscles and creep slowly across the darkened rooms dusty floor boards. It head began slowly growing in stature and grace, as life giving air began to be drawn into its's flaring nostrils. After a few minutes, the now sentient animal had reached the door and was actively pushing the wooden doorway so as to force an exit.
Back at the bar, the disgraced soldiers were oblivious to the happenings back at the barracks and continued their march towards total inebriation. Sapper X having removed all items of clothing above his waist, swung a pool cue about him as if it was his extended microphone, as he heartedly sang spurious renditions of juke box favourites.
Meanwhile Dr Royal was amassing a huge quantity of Tequila, and Southern Comfort in an array of shot and wine glasses so that a huge "Death too … ? " salute may take place, accompanied by the sloshing down in one, of the various brands of fiery intoxicating liquid.
To be continued........
