The Gun

The sun was more diffuse now, a gentle watery light that cast no shadows.    The woodland had thinned and a vista of river valley with small fields of meadow and pasture, bordered by ancient hedge rows and dotted with wild scrub opened to their view.   Their path did not depart from the wood, but followed its edge.   Our heroes were still pretty hungry and their conversation was of the continuing search for food.   It went like this:
"Potkin, I'm still pretty hungry."
"Yes Josie, we should continue to search for food."
After conversing and searching for a while they came across a mysterious hexagonal brick building mostly concealed in the hedgerow.   It had tiny slit windows and a Steel doorway, but was boarded up and neglected, silent and deserted.   However, not much further along the footpath they began to detect the scent of something edible.   This time they really did follow their noses.   The smell came from another strangely shaped, squat, brick-built structure.   In addition to the aroma there were clanking sounds and low conversation.   They peered round a wall and were staring into a gun emplacement. They knew it was a gun emplacement on account of the prominent olive green field gun in the middle of the room and the draughty slit in the far wall through which the barrel projected.   It was dim inside the bunker, but a guttering, hissing Tilly lamp illuminated a small group that huddled round the spare warmth of a primus.   The figures wore course khaki with brass buttons, small caps or steel helmets and puttees, like sludge coloured bandages on their legs.
“We might as well eat the lot.   If they come we won’t be putting up much of a fight.”
“Star-shells!   One box of bloody star-shells!”
“Hey, we’ve got visitors.”
Heads turned, Potkin stepped forward and Josie followed.   The little group looked down at them.   The gunners' faces were pale, eyes sunken and their uniforms seemed dusty. faded and a little threadbare. Everywhere was dusty, walls coated in stained and flaking lime-wash, fixtures pealing and cracked - only the 25 pounder field gun gleamed with fresh paint, polished brass and steel.   It smelled of oil.
“Well, come over here and let’s look at you.”
“Two very fine cats.” said the sergeant boisterously.
“Don’t scare them.” cut in a skinny young soldier.
“I don’t think we scare that easily anymore.” Josie muttered to Potkin.   They advanced into the circle. Potkin was stroked by two of the gunners as he went to rub against the sergeant’s worn boots.   Josie was picked up by a lance corporal with a nasty cough and sat stiffly on his knees.
“We’re doing bully-beef fritters.   I don’t suppose you’d refuse a bit.”
The troop seemed heartened by the presence of their visitors and the prospect of a hot meal made the cats purr loudly.   Josie jumped down and stretched up a leg of the soldier who was sharing out the bully beef into mess tins.   Josie and Potkin got a rectangular mess tin each, they had folding handles. As soon as the food was served up a billycan went on the primus.   By the time the palls had finished eating steaming enamel mugs of thick, black char were being passed round.   A mat of leaves floated on top of each drink.
“I’m not very fond of tea.” said Josie as he watched one of the soldiers pierce a tin of condensed milk with a bayonet and dribble it into the mugs.   Another gunner reached two chipped saucers down from a wooden shelf.   He poured a measure of the condensed milk into each of them and placed one in front of each cat.

Now this was how adventures really should be.   Replete and slightly bloated Potkin leapt into a canvas hammock that was slung low across one corner of the room.   Just time for a post-prandial nap.   Josie was back on a lap and curled up tightly, paw over his nose, while the lap’s owner wrote a postcard with a stub of pencil.   Some of the troopers played a game of draughts on the lid of the shell box while the sergeant leaned against the doorway, packed, lit and smoked a well-worn Peterson pipe.   The lance corporal had produced a harmonica and started to play a heart-rending medley of romantic ballads.     The sergeant was humming along, somewhat unhelpfully.   Eventually he turned.
“Back on duty, lads.”
The soldiers busied themselves around their field gun and no longer seemed aware of the two cats. Potkin jumped down from his bed and Josie, now lap-less, looked uneasy.   A cool drought rippled along his spine, forward from the base of his tail.   The fur above his collar stood erect.   The light was fading.
“I think it’s time to go.” said Potkin.

As they stepped outside the same chill breeze rustled the leaves, their surroundings folded imperceptibly and something indefinable in the world changed.   Walking away Josie looked back, just once.   The building appeared dark and deserted.   There was a sad silence.   He quickly caught up with Potkin then stopped, sniffed and ferreted in the bottom of his knapsack.   Potkin was watching, puzzled, head slightly cocked.   Triumphantly Josie emerged bearing a screwed up greaseproof paper bag aloft.
“Would you believe it?   All that time we were starving and I’ve still got a sandwich in my pack.”
“Probably best to give it a descent burial.” growled Potkin.
“No! It might still be all right.   Who can say when it might come in handy?”
Potkin turned and strolled off with a sigh.   Josie had repacked his bag and was running to catch up when he noticed a movement ahead of his companion.