The Fighting Beagles And the Attack at Dawn Or: Get that Hat A Battlefield Hero’s Adventure   By Nick Cole          “Ears,” murmured Sergeant Major Pepper, which was how the Sergeant Major pronounced ‘yes’ in the Queen’s proper English when acknowledging Private Potts’ question on whether the Sergeant Major had fought at Schweinhaven.  As in: “Ears, I was there.” Amid the broken brick of what had once been picturesque Wienerfurt Marketplatz, a pyramid of melons remained the only display that had survived the market’s complete destruction.  They could still be purchased three for a Casper, the basic unit of Nationalist funny money. Sergeant Major Pepper stabbed at the topmost melon with his bayonet and removed it neatly from the stack before continuing on with his story of the attack on Schweinhaven by The Fighting Beagles, an elite commando unit the Sergeant Major had once been attached to for a brief period.      “We formed up near the river which ran south of the village,” began Sergeant Major Pepper as he recalled the battle for Schweinhaven.  “We were acting in support of a ‘command-o’ team called The Fighting Beagles.” Sergeant Major Pepper liked to denote Commando teams by accentuating the ‘o’ as he felt it paid verbal homage to the snap and crispness those commando teams carried in their swagger.  ‘Swagger’ was something Sergeant Major Pepper felt every soldier should have.  At times, as though he were in the midst of a weekend foxhunt instead of a brutal firefight with the Nationalists, he would remind us “We may be beaten lads but we don’t have to look as though we are actually being beaten, do we boys... you there, crawl a bit more proudly.”  I must admit I found it quite heartening, as it did wonders for one’s morale in the thick of overwhelming enemy machinegun fire to hear these reminders on conduct and bearing. “The commandos were designated as ‘The Fighting Beagles’” continued the Sergeant Major as he sectioned the skewered melon neatly.  Not a drop touched his freshly pressed trousers or his ever starched khaki hunting jacket.  “Clerical had stuck the name to them like marmalade on the Queen’s morning scone.  Their leader, Major Duke Hazard, a fighting man if there ever was one, confided to me that he’d intended to call the unit the ‘Fighting Eagles’ rather than ‘Fighting Beagles’.  But typos and a certain PFC Wintergreen had conspired against him.  Still, he assured me ‘Beagles’ perhaps as much as ‘Eagles’ were also to be greatly feared.  If not altogether feared, at least one should be severely cautious of the feral beasts. “Major Hazard had shown up to the battle rather late in a spitting, blast-marked tank that did little to inspire confidence to my lads as it rumbled and smoked tremulously in the field near the river.  Thus, we were forced to start the attack well past dawn.  “He accounted for his lateness by claiming to have pursued a target of opportunity code-named ‘Delilah’, in a nearby village.  Obviously my security clearance did not grant me access to any information regarding Nationalist operatives known as ‘Delilah’, but from the smirk on Major Hazard’s face, I could see it was worth it.  When I asked him this specifically, he answered, “She... er, I mean, it was,” and then muttered something about the attack, and about needing to obtain “that hat”.   “I assured him my lads were ready for the scrap and we commenced the belated attack on the village of Schweinhaven.”  Sergeant Major Pepper chewed the melon lustily, making slurping noises as juice ran into his horseshoe mustache. “Major Hazard assured me that the other two members of his elite team - a gunner named Corporal Eggers and a Sniper by the name of Private McZap, Irish I believe - were already in play.  His plan was to attack with all haste so that we might ‘Get that Hat’ as he called it.  Although I noticed he wore no hat, I assumed this was some sort of jocularity in reference to our attempting to wrest control of the Radar Base from the Nationalists, and had no idea that he literally meant to obtain haberdashery. “In retrospect, it was rather sporting of us to allow our enemy a chance to get up on his feet.  Those bloody Nationalists love to sing first thing in the morning.  Wind up the old phonograph and make with Otto Von Matic’s wretched ‘Nationalist Uber Alles’ anthem, and they’re spoiling for a fight.”  Now the Sergeant Major, finished with the melon, turned his attention to his pipe.  He was quiet for some minutes as he worked, huffing, to get it lit in the cool morning air.  Its smoke competed with our discharged gunpowder and the burning timber of the recently liberated village of Wienerfurt. “And a fight is what Duke Hazard and his team of undisciplined commandos gave them.  As I was saying, we were going up against the ‘Eins Unter Kugel’, a crack team of elite nationalists led by Colonel Von Killington, a one-eyed cigar-smoking nationalist party member with a penchant for heavy machine guns and pirate hats. “Well, the first few minutes were rough going; the lads and I got pinned down behind a haystack.  A sniper, a Latin chap working for the Nationalists, handy with a scope, had done the trick and managed to shoot one of my best lads, Corporal Willoughby, right between the eyes.  I believe the sniper’s name was El Mano Muerto or something such.  Duke was supposed to lead us into the village proper, but he soon tore off in another direction across the southern fields, away from the axis of our advance, again screaming something about ‘getting that hat’.  Another ‘Delilah’ no doubt, or at least so I thought at the time.  “I must confess this had me suspicious of their mustard from the start.  But the lads and I were tasked with clearing the village, and so we sallied forth, our upper lips if not stiff, then mostly rigid. “Duke’s gunner, Private Eggers or the ‘Ham and Egger’ as he preferred, arrived in due time.  Now there was a lion tamer of a man.  Literally.  He wore a red ringmaster’s jacket and a top hat; quite dashing, though wholly unacceptable for the battlefield.  He asked after Duke, and then started off into the village alone, seemingly undaunted by El Mano Muerto and his splendid shooting.  “The lads and I picked up our rifles and moved from cover to cover, dodging the sniper’s bullets.  I kept calling out to the Ham and Egger to get down or seek cover, but he ignored me.  Secretly I admired his gait and bearing as he strode into the village lanes, bravely shooting down The Nationalists as they came at him in wave after wave.”      “In a small country lane near the outskirts of the village, the lads and I, backs against the wall of a farmhouse, watched the Ham and Egger as he took out a squad of Nationalists whose field wagon burst into flames under the glare of the Ham and Egger’s rattling automatic weapon.  It careened off into a chicken coop and exploded amongst an especially surly lot of already rueful chickens.  “The Nationalists ran both screaming and alight from the wreckage.  It wasn’t anything a bit of rolling around in the dirt wouldn’t solve, but still the message had been sent.  “Now The Nationalists would concentrate their roving forces in an attempt to stop our assault on the Radar Base.  The Ham and Egger turned his attention to a recently arrived enemy tank lugging itself up the lane, one of the first to arrive.  Behind it, Nationalist infantry clustered in, crouching in groups, seeking a shot with little exposure.      “Not even the Ham and Egger could stand up to such a rude beast alone.  So, I ordered the lads to form up the Field Manual’s ‘Queen’s Rifles defensive position’ around Major Hazard’s heroic gunner, as the Nationalists tried for match and game.”  For a long moment, Sergeant Major Pepper seemed to consider the memory, unsure if it had happened to him or to someone in a movie he’d once seen.       “And it worked, I tell you!” he said with a burst of enthusiasm.   “By the Duke of Notwitty’s blushing chambermaid Helene, we pushed them back.  It was as if the bravery of the Ham and Egger deflected the enemy’s attacks on our person and soon the square was ours as the Nationalist tank exploded like a Saint Tubbin’s Day firecracker.      “But where were Duke and his belching tank?  If we were ever going to capture the Nationalist Radar Base at the end of town and put paid to Colonel Von Killington, we’d need that smoking brute.      “The Nationalists seemed to have scented a good fight and were throwing everything they had at the lads.   There wasn’t one of those boys, if they were alive today mind you, who wouldn’t be grateful for the Ham and Egger and his actions that day as we closed the noose on Colonel Von Killington’s ‘Eins Unter Kugel’.      “Ah, the Ham and Egger, there’s a soldier for you lads.  Not much for military discipline or tactics, he often opted to face the enemy in the open without the slightest concern for personal safety, as he chose not to duck or move in the slightest.  Unless the enemy refused to properly present themselves; in that case he would trudge forward, find their lair, and continue shooting them.  The man was a walking fortress of endless artillery.  To see him striding the lanes, mowing down the Nationalists like the weeds of Crumbworthy Gardens was an inspiring sight.  “The Nationalists fought like cornered tigers, trying to prevent us from taking the fight to the very barricades of the last redoubt: The Radar Base.      “Now came their air support.  Wicked, gray, low-winged Nationalist fighters began to shoot up the last road leading to their gate.  Danger was close, and there for a few moments, as we all sought cover amidst the sirens and bleating Nationalist call to arms, it seemed as though our advance had halted. Thankfully, El Mano Muerto had stopped shooting at us and I wondered about the unseen Private McZap and his efforts to date. “On the water tower used by the Nationalists as an observation post within the Radar Base, I could see Colonel Von Killington directing the attack, his long black trenchcoat flapping in the wind.  In my mind, amid the flying bullets and grit of exploding masonry, I fancied smelling his cigar which wisped gray in the clear air of the day.  Even now I can tell it was an El Fumo Grande.  Rather expensive indeed.      “For a moment the battle seemed to turn as two of our lads, flyboys, jumped The Nationalist Fighters from above.  Even though our two pilots were outnumbered, they knew this was the big one, the one command had been pushing for: The Radar Base at Schweinhaven.  We would fight them in the streets and in the air, and the time for every good man to defeat evil was now.  But within moments the Nationalists had picked off the wingman and began concentrating their efforts on the lead pilot, three to one.  “At one point our boy had his plane right down the middle of Schweinhaven’s main street, a wingtip almost taking off Bottleby’s helmet and head to boot.  But sooner than later there were two Nationalist planes down and the remaining two pilots circled out across the fields, each seeking an advantage over the other.      “In the meantime we recommenced the attack.  But even the Ham and Egger couldn’t get through the gate.  Colonel Von Killington’s machine gun and crack troops were too much for us.      “The lads began to fall, and soon even the Ham and Egger was down.  Where was Major Hazard? I wondered.      “Now The Nationalists swarmed out of the Gate and what had once been an attack would become a defeat, of this I was now certain.  My rifle empty, I drew my sidearm and prepared to defend my wounded and dying lads, as The Nationalists, who were not known for their polite post-battle tea service, advanced.      “Colonel Von Killington, whom I had only seen in intelligence photographs, led his personal guard, Die Spätzlehunden, out the main gate.  But suddenly came the echo of two reports from a large caliber rifle, and both bodyguards were down in a trice.  I looked to my rear and there was the third member of Duke Hazard’s Fighting Beagles: Private McZap, the Irish sniper.  As he raced forward reloading his immense sniper rifle, I thought it odd a sniper would choose to wear a green Homburg and bomber jacket, but with shooting like that I ceased objection.  The two of us took opposite sides of a cart I had been using as a firing position and prepared to meet Colonel Von Killington with both lead and resolve.      “Von Killington’s chain gun opened up and reduced the cart and our hope of cover to splinters.  We rolled to the right and dashed behind a creamery which also quickly began to disintegrate as wall plaster splintered and came to pieces at the invitation of Von Killington’s - and I use the term respectfully - weapon.  While Von Killington reloaded, Private McZap tried for a hip shot.  But as we all know, snipers trying for hip shots are like the Prince’s polo skills: valiant but ineffective for the most part.      “Now we dashed across an open lane and I was knocked down by a slug from Von Killington’s auto-cannon.  Private McZap reloaded, muttering specific revenges behind a nearby cobblestone wall.  Von Killington advanced, a walking skeleton of a man if ever there was one.      “Von Killington jerked his weapon upright, taking careful aim at me as I lay prone in the lane where I had fallen.  I would not close my eyes and ignore my demise.  I had soldiered for the Queen lo’ these twenty years and I would meet my end bravely.  It was both my place and duty.      “In the haze of battle, I was aware that it was a summer’s late morning.  The bees buzzed lazily in the heavy air.  The grass smelled freshly cut and earthy.  In the lane beyond my enemy, the dust began to erupt into the air in plumes racing towards Von Killington and me.      “Our pilot had finished off The Nationalist boy and returned to the battlefield.  It was our finest hour.  Bullets walked down the lane closing in on Colonel Von Killington, who turned to meet his avenging angel of death.      “There are moments, moments on the Battlefield lads.  Maybe you will see them, maybe you won’t.  Maybe you’ll get yours in the back from a sneaky commando like Private McZap.  Or maybe the Nationalist version of the Ham and Egger - the Eier and Schinkenmeister or some such - will met it out to you in full as you look him in the eye whilst trying to reload.  I don’t know where or how lads, but when that day comes, keep your eyes open, wide open; because on the Battlefield there are heroes and there are the moments that make a hero.      “Von Killington waived his rifle wildly as if to signal my pilot, who then, confused I can only assume, jerked his plane into a high climb breaking off what had only moments before been an assured kill of our enemy.  I, who had been spared an invitation to death, was once more invited to high tea by the Grim Reaper.      “Von Killington, grinning death, smiling death, returned to our unfinished business.  Nearby I heard McZap load the last shell into his elephant gun of a sniper rifle.  Taking aim he would have enough time for one shot.      “Von Killington’s gun reduced the cobblestone wall to pebbles as McZap rose and took aim.  McZap’s weapon dry-fired.  Click, click, click lads.  Click, Click, Click.      “As I said lads, there are moments.  A battle is made up of many of them; some great, some heroic and some simply hilarious, at least to your enemy.  Von Killington standing near the village stable a few feet away raised his arms in victory and cheered though his cigar clamped mouth.  I commented, inwardly, on his poor dental hygiene.      “McZap cursed and jostled the malfunctioning rifle, but any reform to its bad behavior would be too late in coming as Colonel Von Killington raised his slug-spitting dragon and drew a bead on us both.      “Bravely now!” I urged McZap who seemed angrier with his weapon than at Von Killington.  “Bravely now, face your death as the Queen would have you!”      “A single bead of sweat drew a line down the dust that caked Von Killington’s shiny skull.      “Then the stable exploded as Major Hazard’s tank, too big for the narrow lane, found another entrance into our final act.  Someone’s dream of an equine contribution to an agrarian economy disintegrated into so much rubble and dust.  “Moving fast and loud, the tank thundered through the ancient brick and mortar of the stable. It barely touched the ground as it vaulted at top speed across the lane where Von Killington stood, weapon raised in his moment of final victory.    “In the summer sun, lazy and mindless of man’s eternal struggle, the bees buzzed, a cow lowed, and some chickens continued their myopic complaints.  But Von Killington was gone.    “Major Duke Hazard with his sunglasses, blond hair, bomber jacket, and newly acquired Nationalist Field Commandant’s Saucer Cap, complete with scrambled eggs and braid resting atop his square head, was also gone.  His tank, rumbling, smoking and spitting fire had passed on, seeking its next battle. He had finally ‘gotten that hat’ it seemed. “Ears,” sighed Sergeant Major Pepper. “Ears, I was there.”  Sergeant Major Pepper tapped out his pipe against the warped metal flower of a destroyed AA gun, the reason we had come to Wienerfurt, and issued the order to form up for the next march, the next battle.  Soon it would be our turn.   The End