Bozmag #5

Bozmag #4

Bozmag #3

Bozmag #2

The Snake Pass Zapatistas.

“…If you could take your seats, boys, I’ll be putting her down shortly.”

Boz could see the Ladybower reservoir and stone built Derwent Dam ahead.   Woodland rushed by on either side as the Dornier Do X lost height and flew down the length of the lower reservoir.   Dark trees, scattered gorse, sheep grazed pasture interspersed with falls of scree clothed the steep sides.   The twelve Curtiss Conquerors roared as the flying boat pulled up and swept in low over the dam, between the towers, and set down on the Derwent Water.   The view through the portholes was obliterated by spray.   The movement slowed, the plane wallowed and the tortured, piston engine din subsided; a chain rattled.

Beryl emerged from the flight deck.   Ferdy came into the cabin from a stint in the Machine Centre and the Kronstadt Starshina also appeared, moving aft, to report, “Comrades, I’ve dropped the hook and a small craft already appears to be heading out towards us.   It’s moving too fast to be a boat.”

By the time they had stepped out onto the stub wing the silver, dart-like vessel was close, skimming just above the water.   As it neared they could hear it throttle back and watched it settle in the water only feet away.   There was a solid bump as it drifted alongside and the Do X gave a slight shudder.   The pilot emerged, blue striped t-shirt visible at the open neck of his soiled white boiler suit, black star prominent on a red beret, he lobbed a painter to one of the Kronstadt sailors who held the two craft together as the gang stepped aboard.   Before they had time to sit there was a wheeze from a dodgy looking ramjet engine, accompanied by some spluttering, a pulsing blast of orange-yellow flame and the craft hurtled towards the shore.   The pilot scowled over his shoulder and blew a smoke ring through a stub of clay pipe.   Beryl waved them away from the Dornier’s hatchway and the line of Kronstadt sailors broke into mournful song.

Over the hills and through the dales

The Division advances to battle.

Conquer the White Cats, tweak their tails.

Infiltrate the troglodyte castle.

With the dark blood of ancient wounds,

Their fluttering banners stained in red,

Brave partisans who know no bounds,

Swift and dashing, fierce and dread.

The fame of these days shall never dim.

Fade away it never will.

Of guerrilla units, sing their hymn.

They’ll take Mam Tor, the hollow hill.

On the shore Phoebles could see movement within a copse that topped the hillside and a large contingent of mounted irregulars moved into the sunlight, a wolf pack waiting, watching.   Black banners fluttered, there was the occasional glint of sunlight on gunmetal and one prominent figure on a tall grey raised binoculars to his eyes.

“That is Subcomandante Everyman of the Snake Pass Zapatistas.”

The ground effect craft skimmed across the mirror surface of the reservoir, skidded, engine still screaming, up a shingle beach and halted with a soft thud.   Something fell off the hull near the stern and the jet flame popped out.

The quintet clambered, barely shaken, out of the cockpit and onto the beach.   The ekranoplan sat at an awkward angle and an oily scar stretched from its tail back to the water’s edge.   Sensing an affinity between two pilots and offering a fill of Ginsbergbear’s Navy Catnip Shag Ferdy tried to engage their ferryman in conversation, none too successfully.   However, he did get a response.

“It’s not a plane, it’s a boat, just happens to be a plane shaped boat.   And I am a sailor.”   He glanced across the water to the great Dornier and almost smiled, “Still, I suppose that is a boat too.   Come on ‘comrade’ we have to walk as far as the road.”

On the hill a light horse drawn carriage detached itself from the Cossack group and careered down a farm track to meet the newcomers.   It arrived at the roadside as they did, its driver, wearing a Bolshevist budionovka, chosen for its pretty blue and red star, was slender, hyperactive and profoundly impressed.   She looked across the reservoir at the anchored, brightly glittering flying boat with its baroque tail icon depicting Trotsky slaying the counter revolutionary dragon; then down at the boys.

“Wow!”

Ferdy was the first to greet her.   “Hello Snowdrop.   What are you doing with this mob?”

”I’m M/C-Gunner Snowdrop these days.   D’yer want a lift?” she replied, “I’m sorry it’s a bit cluttered, we haven’t really got any suitable transport for guests.   You clamber up here with me,” to Boz, “and Ferdy, Phoebles and Mr Ginsbergbear, will you be OK in the back?”                               

 ‘In the back’ was indeed cluttered.   A heavy machine gun was mounted where the rear seats should have been, there were boxes of ammunition, a bundle of political pamphlets tied with string, a black umbrella, folding unicycle and a large number of crisp packets and empty soft drink cans.   Ginsbergbear cleared a space on the forward bench and sat with Ferdy, their backs to the horses.   Phoebles grabbed the machine gun and panned it around shouting “Ratatatata,” mowing down imaginary Chats Souterrains.   They turned away from the water and set off along the steady incline of a drovers’ road, followed by the company of Snake Pass Zapatistas and with Snowdrop chatting excitedly to an unusually quiet Boz.

Before long the mounted guerrillas had caught up and were trotting past on each side, rough riders on tall horses, in leather double-breasted reefer jackets, sheep skin jerkins, bandoliers, budionovka pixie hats, Breton caps, many in well-worn jungle-green combat fatigues, khaki open necked shirts, olive patch pocketed cargo trousers and fraying forage caps.   All wore ski masks.   There was a seemingly infinite variety of exotic weaponry with a definite preference for the AK-47 and, almost universally, each carried a three or four string guitar.  

As they passed by many of the brigands made jokey remarks to Snowdrop concerning her passengers’ discomfort.   Subcomandante Everyman trotted up alongside and adjusted his pace to match the tachanka.   He was flamboyantly dressed in a black, heavily frogged hussar jacket, open over his blue striped t-shirt, midnight blue jodhpurs sporting a Cossack crimson stripe down the leg and glistening patent leather knee-high boots, with spurs.   His face was hidden by a balaclava helmet topped by a Kronstadt peakless sailor’s cap with “CHAOS” emblazoned on the ribbon.   There were bandoliers of ammunition crossed loosely over his chest, a Mauser machine pistol and Dragoon Colt at his belt, he carried a Royal Navy pattern cutlass and, over his shoulder, an SMLE jungle carbine.   The racket from bells hung from the horse harness and on bangles at his mount’s fetlocks threatened to drown out any lengthy conversation.   Alongside him a young rider carried a black banner sporting a death’s-head of cat skull and crossed thighbones.   He acknowledged Snowdrop with a nod and then addressed Boz.

“We’ll talk properly when we’re camped, but welcome.   Is our machine-gunner looking after you?   He glanced at the crew in the back, who were bouncing about uncontrollably and hanging on tightly to anything that looked to be firmly bolted down.   “This is not the best of roads.”

“Thank you.”   Boz warmed to this imposing dandy.   “Your men look magnificent.”

“My…?”   Subcomandante Everyman laughed.   “Do they really look as if they belong to anyone?”

As the cavalryman prepared to move away Boz looked searchingly into the familiar eyes that smiled behind the balaclava.

“Slasher?”

Ginsbergbear's Poem - aboard the Do X

POEM

Our silver hull rends the sky

Propellers drilling tunnels through the atmosphere

Gautama floats cross-legged over cumulus fractus

Shiva rides the rainbow

Cthulhu calls down the waterspout

Yeshua walks on the waters

The elements are at war within this ethereal realm

Yet Blake’s angels buoy us up

and we luxuriate in Teutonic splendour

Phoebles don’t touch that it will break   …told you

Helios scorched Icarus falls

but the sons of Hermes sail on air

Pale felines of Duat quiver

For captain America comes

The brown dwarf Nemesis lurks beyond the Oort cloud

waiting on his rightful time

Dark Lords

the Merovingian Lizard Kings stir in the House of Snow

Furnaces roar and hammers clash

Titan’s chamber echoes to the clamour of industry

Fata Morgana fashioned in steel and rivets

Mass produced engines of doom

From the bowels of terra

And we…

A muscle-bound and fake-tanned Kronstadt sailor in neat air-stewardess uniform, pearl earrings, crew-cut and high heels enters at this moment, pushing a refreshment trolley.

“Coffee or tea?   Pork scratchings?”

“Tea, please, strong two sugars.”

“Have you got a latté?”

“Lapsang Souchong for the pilot?”

“Americana please, shaken not stirred.”

…few

we happy few

rush towards our weird

Do we wish to live forever?

In the name of all things felid, what are we getting ourselves into?

Pass the catnip

Enkidu formed of clay

saliva of Aruru

heed my words

Hold the Mayan Apocalypse – till another day

Ginsbergbear, beat poet

Mid air over Milton Keynes

2012

Forget the Fish!

“There’s stuff going on we don’t know about.” observed Boz.   “Now, what about those poor coleyfish?”

“Forget the fish.” Snapped McGoogs, “You heard; our Derbyshire venture is officially sanctioned.   We’re doing the caves.”

 Ferdy called up the Silvertown Airways control tower, situated in the Royal Docks, on his smart-phone and asked to speak to his chief pilot, Beryl Clutterbuck.   She was mid-channel, returning a Handley Page H.P. 42 from their aerodrome on Guernsey, but was able to be put through via the radio.

“Beryl, we need the flying boat for a trip up north.”

 Once Ferdinand was off the phone they finalised some of the minor details and Phoebles voiced the reservation of the majority.

“Well, I suppose that’s settled then, but...”

To toast the venture they all downed their tots of single malt and took long draughts from their pints.   Slasher performed an obscure ritual with his salt and lemon before slugging back the shot of tequila.   “I’ll be going up to Derbyshire in the Pontiac.   See you up there”

The 1938 Pontiac Silver Streak Sports Coupé, vibrant GPO red, upholstered in light tan mohair, white walled tyres, was parked, half on the pavement, opposite the Den.   It glistened colourfully against the backdrop of monochrome bonded warehouses and depositories along the narrow highway.   Slasher sauntered unnoticed, as if his Lycra one-piece rendered him invisible, through the growing crowd, drawn by the antics of Larry’s dirigible and its stunning tortoise-shell chauffeur.   Phoebles’ yellow, Multi spotted pantaloons, conversely, were drawing less than favourable remarks from pointing urchins with their noses pressed to the Catnip Den bay window.   A burbling roar of supercharged Pontiac echoed off the surrounding walls; the 8 cylinder flat-head bored out, souped-up and the tank full of jet fuel.

“That thing’s a bomb on wheels!”

 There was a grinding of gears, a high-pitched whine from under the bonnet and the Pontiac sprang forward.   McGoogs was away through the narrow, cobbled lanes of Limehousesailortown.

The remaining foursome returned to the bedsit to pack their kitbags whilst Dark Flo prepared sandwiches of Herrings In, nautically known as HITS, on white bread, piled on a blue and white Staffordshire Ironstone plate decorated with a Flying P windjammer under full sail.   She wrapped the lot – plate and all - in cling film and placed them in a small hamper along with a bottle of Pusser’s Rum and a packet of Russian Caravan tea.

As the boys came down she was adding a sealed tin of Soma Catnip to the supplies.

“How did you get that?” gasped Ginsbergbear, “That stuff’s rarer than rocking horse dung.   Never leaves India”

“The bell-hop in the Eden Hotel in Kathmandu bunged me a bit from under the counter in gratitude for a particular favour.   Cut it with your Black Alamout Catnip Shag or Phoebles’ stash of White Goddess.   There’s not much of it and it’s expensive.”

At this they became aware of the rhythmic thrub of a dozen unsynchronised piston engines.   The Dornier Do X was doing a circuit over Bozzy’s Catnip Den and the gang rushed out onto the balcony to watch it landing on the London River in a shower of spray like an obese drake on an oily duck pond.

The gigantic silver flugschiff had had the clapped out air-cooled Jupiter engines replaced with six pairs of only slightly second hand 610 hp Curtiss Conqueror water-cooled 12-cylinder inline engines and now sported an art deco Silvertown Airways logo below the portholes along the length of the hull.

Beryl’s voice crackled over the Marconi Marine Nautilus transceiver that sat behind the bar.

“Come aboard, when you are ready”

Waving goodbye to Dark Flo they dropped the kitbags into a dumpy clinker build skiff that was tied to a ladder at back of den.   The hamper and crew followed and an invigorating five minutes was spent tugging on a cord wound round the head of a recalcitrant Seagull outboard.   In a sudden cloud of blue smoke and with a tuc… tuc… hick, tuc… tuc-tuc-tuc-tuc-tuc the motor sprang into life and they were weaving their way out into the river, trailing a rainbow scar of two-stroke across the surface of the water.

Beryl met them at the starboard stub and deftly caught the thrown painter.   She was tall, slender and clad, somewhat incongruously, in a sheepskin-flying jacket over her flowered cotton frock.   Neither matched her sky blue fur-lined ankle-boots.   Inside the hull a small crew of Kronstadt sailors was lined up for inspection.   They saluted Boz as he came aboard and their  Starshina (Chief Petty Officer) piped a high-pitched whistle that hurt Phoebles’ ears.

“Commodore Desai, would you like to pilot the old girl for the first part of the trip?   I will operate the throttles in the machine centre,” suggested Beryl, addressing Ferdy, “And we can swap round once we’re over Rugby.”

The Blue Chevy

The cabin interior was done out in a rather stern Teutonic Art Deco.   Ginsbergbear lounged in a chrome and leather chair, having returned to his taking of notes.   He jotted down snippets of conversation, descriptions of his surroundings and a few plot ideas.   The walls were painted in browns and creams to represent marquetry panelling.   There was an exclusive looking geometrically patterned rug on the floor with Phoebles kneeling on it.   He was trying to remove the catnip ash and disguise a small burn hole.
Up in the cockpit Boz was tapping several dials quite vigorously and looking concerned.   A significant number of engines had abandoned their purrrrrh and taken up variations on Clunk-clatter, chug-chug-cough-ch..., and phwwww.  One engine pair wailed, "scrscheeeough-plack!" followed it with a ping and then fell silent.
"I think we are going to land." said Ferdy, from the pilot's bucket chair.
"Where?   No, don't.   We can't!"   Boz was having some difficulty maintaining his calm exterior.
"No longer my decision, old comrade.   The bird is to become a boat... or an amorphous mass of twisted metal and squishy heroes if the ground down there is as hard as it looks."
The vault above with its carpet of stars and ribbon of Milky Way was as eternal as ever, but the landscape below was getting closer.   Black trees reached up towards them from the dark earth.   The forest grew aggressively close... then turned to sandy scrub... then a patch of obsidian blackness, peppered with stars - the sky again, below them.   A playful zephyr rippled cats' paws that made the stars dance and then break up as the Dornier touched down on the surface of a small lake at a considerably steeper angle than recommended in the flying manuals.   She dug in.   A bow wave curled back and drenched the cockpit windsceens, spray obscured everything outside, rhinestone teardrops plumed from prop blades or dribbled down the skin of leviathan.   Waggling flaps and throwing those engines which still functioned into reverse Ferdinand and Boris brought the craft under control.   It slowed, bobbed and eased its bow up a gently shelving beach at the far end of the pond.   Phoebus and Ginsbergbear appeared in the doorway.
"Did we miss something?"
Trousers rolled up and boots in hand the heroes disembarked and as they reached the strand yellowing twin headlamps flashed three times from the woodedge, a signal.
The transport awaiting them was an ageing Chevy pick-up with Strawberry at the wheel.   Boz and Phoebles piled into the cab whilst Ferdinand and Ginsbergbear scrambled over the tailgate and settled down amongst the sacks and boxes in the back.   It is possible that having three ginger cats in the driving cab of a blue Chevrolet truck is not ideal.   As they pulled away Boris decided to take command though he had no idea where they were.   Phoebles had a map that Ginsbergbear had lent him and elected to be navigator.   The map however covered the entire world in indifferent detail and was in a foreign language.   Strawberry had the wheel and managed to retain it despite a great deal of pushing and shoving and squabbling.   As they careered through the winding lanes with headlamps picking out fleeting detail in the gloom Ginsbergbear rang ahead on his shiny new i-Phone.   He and Ferdy sat braced with their backs to the cab from which came shrieks and thumps  and Rossini on a blaring car-radio.
After a hair raising half hour the truck pulled up outside Aunty Stella's house and Strawberry papped the horn.   Ginsbergbear banged on the roof of the cab to attract the attention of those within.   He shouted through the window, "I have rung the aerodrome.   They will have the Princess Aethelfleda fired up and ready for us."
Aunty Stella emerged, resplendent in pith helmet and tweeds and carrying a small overnight bag.   Ferdy jumped down, helped her up over the tailboard and they were off again, heading north.
"Slasher and Mouse may well follow tomorrow. they are still making sandwiches."

Outside the immense hangers, the Princess was tethered to a complex mast and was shimmering in the intense arc-lighting.   The enormous oval hull was humbug striped in liquorice and pearl with crimson tailplanes.   The gondola and propulsion units, constructed of the strongest and lightest of modern materials were finished to appear as brass and mahogany.   She had been designed as a thermal-dirigible and was in fact a hybrid hotairship; helium counteracted the weight of the construction whilst the burners heated air to provide lift and control.
With the Chevy neatly parked in front of a Keep Clear sign the sextet mounted the boarding ladder.   Ferdy was explaining the changed circumstances to Aunty Stella, "...rescue mission, way up north."
"Perhaps I can swap the pith helmet for something woollier when we get to The Land of Green Ginger."
"The Kittens are organising all sorts of cold weather provisions." Ferdy replied, with conviction.
Ground crew were already heaving on the mooring lines, manoeuvring the airship out into the field.   Ferdy took up position at the helm on the spartan "bridge" whilst the others looked agog at the pipes, valves, breakers, buttons and dials in the engine control room.   The burners not only controlled lift, but also provided steam to the propulsion units.   All this power and energy had to be directed to where it was needed.   In the waist of the gondola was the rather tight accommodation, a galley and mess, across the stern the saloon with large bow windows and a narrow walkway around the outside.   Those not occupied with the takeoff began to stow their gear.
The main burners had been roaring for a while and the vectored propellers set up a continuous "Vvvwwwww..." hum.   The dirigible rose and slowly turned its nose northwards.   It began to snow.