Victory in Wellingtons

A ripple of phuts was followed by a ground shaking kerump.   Josie was thinking that he should perhaps be following his nose in some other direction when the grass beneath his feet shook again. Leaves quivered on the hedge ahead and white smoke billowed above it.   Two large black and white birds fluttered into the air above an elegant wooden squeezer stile at a gap in the hawthorne barrier and then resettled on its posts.   Potkin thrust his head through the gap to see an open field falling away from his vantage point.   The smoke was just settling out in the hollow like an autumn mist, spreading layers of white and greys, when another crash made his ears ring.   A jet of orange fire and curls of smoke streamed from the confusion and some dry grass flared up.
There came another volley of pops and several cracks.   Beyond the smoke, on raised ground he could make out a small crowd of spectators. The children, who made up the majority, were crying bitterly.   With each new boom they jumped, quivering, and the weeping increased.   Mothers tutted and consoled.   Fathers in baseball caps and summer shorts sucked on their 99's, licking the ice cream before chomping on the flake.
“You are witnessing,” said one of the magpies, “or would be, if you could see anything but the fug of war, one of the great moments in British history; and it is happening right here in our Whitebottom Meadow,   An English general, haughty and beaky, inventor of the vulcanised rubber galosh, and the chip butty, over all commander of the British red coats and a small contingent of Prussians or Belgians or something like that, is about to defeat the diminutive emperor of France, along with his feared Vieille Guarde and the French Foreign Legion.   It will be forever known as the Battle of White Bottom. “
“I think we’ll give history a wide berth.” suggested Potkin.
The magpies looked a little crestfallen, but Josie was in full agreement. Passing quickly through the stile and keeping close beneath the hedge they skulked round the edge of the field, as far from the action as they could contrive.   Every time the smoke started to settle out into undulating sheets another explosion would send new clouds rolling outwards. Volleys of musket fire added to the noise and fog.   Cries and shouts and curses echoed across the field.   Someone knew some very rude expressions.   A small group of horsemen  emerged into the light, cuirassiers akin to the one they had met earlier and lancers with mortar board helmets like woefully inadequate bird tables balanced precariously on their heads.   They were followed by scarlet clad cavalry, with tall, black bear skins, riding heavy, matching greys; who charged in pursuit, line abreast, knee to knee.   Pursued and pursuer did a turn around the field and then wheeled back into the smog.   A roar went up, the musketry rattled once more and the wailing of  infants transended any morally acceptable norm.   Somewhere a shrill fife was piping out O'er the Hills and Far Away.
By the time our heroes reached the far side of the meadow they were shivering from terror and an excess of adrenalin.   Passing through a kissing gate, fiddly for a cat even at the best of times, they found themselves in a long straight grassy avenue lined with trees.   To left and right it stretched away as far as the two cats could see.   The noise of battle faded and was gone.   Heart rates settled to something close to normal.   Josie was the first to decide they had reached another nice spot.   It was, he felt, the ideal place for their second sandwich stop.

Eventually replete with shrimp paste sandwiches it was time for an afternoon nap.   Josie soon began to drift into sleep where he was pursued by an angry jay.   Joined by the two magpies, they dive-bombed his head while he careered down a grassy bank to lose his footing on the moss-covered wood of a narrow bridge.   He was looking helplessly up into the malevolent eyes of the birds as the mermaid caught him.
Meanwhile Potkin was barely disturbed by the twitching, mewing tabby bundle beside him.   He lay with his feet tidily tucked under his body and gazed meditatively along the length of the avenue. Quietly he composed a seascape with gulls, tan sailed fishing craft and a walrus.   The holiday sun warmed through his fur.   He had just made the walrus rise into the air and turn a long, slow, tail flapping summersault when Josie awoke.
“I’m exhausted, Potkin.   Do you want to hear about my dream?”
The walrus fell and Potkin’s creation dissolved.
“Time to go on.” He snapped.