“Hey lookee here, it’s Pilco, where’ve you been, what’ve you been doing and why did you do it?” asked Penthouse full of excitement.

“Been in Iraq, sitting behind a desk, nothing much to report really.”

“You must have some stories to tell to inspire the troops ’cause we’ve got a big game against Northchurch today, they dropped us four years ago because we were rubbish, they spanked us all over the place. It was embarrassing.”

“Really. I just sat behind a desk, in a compound, very boring, stories of which I don’t think will inspire.”

“Right then, you’ll keep wicket today just don’t dodge all their bullets, we badly need to win this one.”

Pilco looks up, brooding . . .

It’s a gloriously hot day, beautiful blue skies greet the Pilgrims as they arrive like a group of irregulars after a night of whoring in the town. “I feel a little tight,” remarks Kommander as he stretches his body after the long drive. Clarence looks on, a little anxious.

Penthouse sounds the bugle and the Pilgrims huddle. “Right, you ’orrible lot! This is a must-win situation, life on the line stuff, all right chaps, they don’t like it up ’em!”

And with those wondrous words of motivation we proceeded to do what we do every time we play the great game, we fielded first, in the height of the midday sun.

Pilco mutters something about tactics, taking the higher ground, that sort of thing, but Penthouse shrugs off any idea of adapting his tactics, simply saying that “that is what they would expect!” and “Whoever said, ‘It’s not whether you win or lose that counts,’ probably lost.”

Clarence and Omlette spearhead our two-pronged attack, Penthouse gnashes his teeth and the troops stand poised for the kill. Sadly the ‘enemy’ did not seem to want to oblige. It was not that our two chaps had lost their desire but rather the men that followed them; catches were dropped with gay abandon, fielding was sluggish and the wicket was fast as balls consistently found the boundary.

Field Marshall Penthouse was regretting inviting his kin to watch the bloody battle from on top a near hillside as he was beginning to think his arrogance might cost him his extended family. These brutes were not known for their mercy.

’Twixt Cossack and cannon we were. We threw everything at ’em, Clarence, Omlette, Boris, Kommander, Tipple and new squaddie Yorkie. Kommander was unlucky not to have an insurgent leg before, but it was Tipple who made the breakthrough taking two of their smiling heathens, bowled and bedamned! Clarence, coming in at the rear, caught and bowled on the final ball denying their man, grinning teeth an’ all, his 50. The figures weren’t pretty, morale was low and Penthouse was not to be cuddled.

Pilco had not been himself, quiet one minute babbling the next whilst trying valiantly to take the bullets for his men, yet somehow 22 extras passed his iron defence. Though it was without doubt a team effort in allowing the opposing force to amass 268 for three. “An army fights on its stomach!” shouts Pilco at tea. “Eat! All of you, that’s an order!”

We ate like kings, the Russian winter had taken it’s toll on the Pilgrims but, begad, we were full and happy men now and with stories of Pilco jumping over the wall and garrotting a sheep behind enemy lines, we returned to combat, renewed, refuelled and reprimanded.

It’s a desperate affair when one has to send injured men back to the front when rightly they should be convalescing, gently brought back to life, cradled in the soft caressing hands of Nursie. Yet there was nothing else for it, we were down to our last battalion and the campaign had turned sour.

The regal tenting which was placed to entertain the extended family and the accompanying assorted ghouls — those who relish in watching from a safe distance as they sip champers and devour canap’s — were being hurriedly taken down or worse, abandoned! Too close for comfort eh?

I digress. And I say for all that, I was not ashamed. Not ashamed to admit that I had a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye as we all watched on as Boris dragged his broken body out one last time, leaning on the shoulder of Fingers for support.

He knew. He knew that he wouldn’t be having a Barbie again and begad could he smell the charcoaled prawns in his nostrils! Fingers offered him some standard rations from his pack, but it just wasn’t the same.

Well they stood straight and tall, looked them in the eye and said: “COME ON! IS THAT ALL YE GOT?” and for a moment the natives looked in doubt. They fired thick and fast and Fingers took on early bullet for a duck and was stretchered off. Whilst Boris was hemmed right in and had nowhere to go!

It was horrible. HORRIBLE! Why do we have to throw lives away so cheaply and for WHAT! For the politickers to play cards over foie gras? It was a mess, no doubt about it.

Penthouse, dressed in all his fine regalia walked out to meet their envoy alone. It was quite a sight. Not as much of a sight though as his return to the bunker, caught behind for ten, a face like thunder and without even the slightest glance to the nearby hillside where the tents lay deserted.

Pilco emerged to replace his king. He had gone native, two bowie knives strapped to his chest and what looked like a shrunken head dangling from around his neck. He smelt awful. Omlette was noticeably shaken as he recounted Pilco rolling around in horse dung and rubbing it into his face for camouflage. From that moment on Omlette was never the same again. He lay in the heat of the mid afternoon sun, wrapped in what I can only describe was a grandmother’s blanket, with only the moonlike shape of his face protruding. I can only think that with his eyes tightly closed he received some manner of comfort from the said article. He never spoke again.

Suddenly, there was a shout! Confusion — panic even — as the opposing horse were dispersed, opened up like a can opener slicing into a tin of pilchards. Boris and Pilco stood shoulder to shoulder and tore into their cannon. Fours abounded and new guns where brought in to steady the buffs.

If this were a motion picture where the heroes, outnumbered and outgunned stood bravely against adversity, no doubt there would have been a happy ending. Hollywood likes its happy endings, with wife on one arm and a brazen mistress on t’other, sun setting and all that. But this was not some celluloid fantasy but real life. And as we watched Pilco scramble for safety just to be skittled by a boy no older than the sheep he had earlier dispatched in Iraq, he fell lifeless but happy that he’d given all, his 18 runs will be remembered.

New recruit Rob advanced. He did look wet behind the ears but maybe that naivety is the only way one should go to war. That way you have no expectations, and maybe mumsy will be tucking little Johnny up tonight after all.

New cannon in place, Boris finding his stride and Rob with the innocence of a child, hit their gunners to kingdom come.

“HURRAH!” yelled the remaining six. “We may as well go out in style, eh lads?!”

Rob, cavalier he was, played the same shot again and again, changed ends with Boris and played the same shot again. The gunning rascals had little clue how to set the field, which was a mystery to the rest of us, but sadly one last swing o’ the cutlass was one to many and Rob was gone, stumps asunder for 26 and two sixes.

Flymo, unnerved by Omlette’s demeanour and fearing the inevitable joined Boris at the front. Boris, showed little or no sign of his injuries, he was on about 48 at this stage and was going nowhere.

Bullets were flying and sabres where flashing as Flymo gallantly parried a lunge from one of the brutes for one glorious run, but as his did so opened his body, providing his bare breast to receive a second thrust from a blood thirsty accomplice who pinned him to the deck. Surprised, he was caught out.

Kommander, our beloved number two joined Boris in a stand that was akin to the Spartans fighting off the Persians on the bridge. One-by-one they came, and one-by-one they were repelled, runs amassing and a hint of Victory was in the air! The natives were restless.

Though nothing lasts forever, that at least was what my mistress used to say, and Kommander was caught for 22 as he tried to take out a gun placement.

It was desperate stuff. With Clarence attempting to prise Omlette from his blanket there was nothing for it but to send in another new recruit, Yorkie. It was too soon for him, all fresh faced and eager like. Fearless though he was it was horrifying to look, as his legs were taken clean away and out for one. The tide had indeed turned once more. Sabres glinting in the sunlight, as the enemy rushed our position.

But Boris stood firm and with Tipple beside him they sent ’em flying! HA HA! Penthouse was right! They don’t like it up ’em!

Boris ticking nicely over into the 60’s accompanied by the resolute Tipple — they looked unstoppable. I pitied the enemy, teeth gnashing and eyes blazing, they were being torn to pieces and with Boris looking ever more like the Messiah, the poor fellows looked about to desert.

A bayonet came right at Boris, he feinted, side stepped and hit him for a magnificent four! Tipple yelled his approval, which was barely audible above the cries of battle, and Boris for the first time that day allowed himself a smile. It was one of those moments that are always captured in slow motion in motion pictures. The Hero, beating back the barbarian horde, reaches a moment of perfection and invulnerability and when his eyes meet that of his comrade, a moment passes between them that can only be experienced between men. Between men who have fought and have fought well, knowing that, as they die, they die happy and content and with no regret.

As the onrush of light horse and the remaining infantry overwhelmed Boris (72), he crumpled to the ground. Tipple was shouting which seemed like an age; “Ye did good man, ye did great. Ye held them off the longest of all of us and they’ll think twice afore they decide ta come knocking at our door again . . . Boris you were hurt before, but now you are broken. Gad Bless ye, t’was a pleasure ta serve with ya.”

As Tipple saluted his fallen comrade, he was being hacked to pieces by the godforsaken heathen, his eyes closed for the last time, his last words disappearing into the wind . . . “That hand of mine, which I’d thought was sprained, but which in fact was badly broken, should have kept me flat on my bed for days anywhere else, bleating for sympathy; in Northchurch I was batting and bowling with it within a few hours, suffering damnably, but with no choice but to endure it . . .”

That is the sort of place this was; if you’d had both legs blown off you were rated fit for normal duties according to Pilco.

Clarence had done a good job with Omlette; he had even managed to get him dressed before he sent him out to make his final stand. He was clearly shell shocked as he deflected the bullets with such ease; it was almost as though he was playing a game of cricket in a sleepy English village somewhere in the countryside. 20 he got before the rabble horde dismembered him head to foot, he didn’t seem to notice, the poor lad, he was that far gone.

Clarence, dressed in full splendour walked slowly out to join Tipple knowing that this was it. 65 runs behind and nothing but the wind behind them! Tipple knocked the fodder away as it deserved but Clarence found himself standing face to face with their elite spin sabre and was dispatched like there was no tomorrow, for two.

Tipple finished on 23 and due to the fact that they threw him into some dank gulag somewhere to rot, it would only seem fair to deem him not out.

If anyone finds these letters and too much time has not yet passed, try to find him and put him out of his misery. He is the last example of the few who can say stoutly, “Stand up! Stand up and say NO, we will not move aside. You shall not pass easily. You will have to go through each and everyone of us if you hope prevail and you will pay a heavy price indeed for that!”

Northchurch were victorious. However, the Pilgrims, those who stood that day, will be remembered for a courageous 212 all out.

As the sun fell behind the hill and the lights went out, the shrunken head clasped tightly against Pilco’s chest was a lesson to us all.

To conclude: What it is like with the adventure over, only the memories, old scars and a king’s ransom in loot for company, so often it’s like that, when the most vivid chapters end; the storm of war and action hurtles you along in blood and thunder, while seeking vainly for a hold to cling to, and then the wind drops, and in a moment you’re at peace and dog-tired, with your back to a gun-wheel at Northchurch.