Nissen News - 15.12.1941, Blaðsíða 19

NISSEN NEWS
17
Our Secret Service Feature (by “Bertie”)-
l’m Telling You
A touching s'cene was witnessed in the
Sergeants’ Mess the other day, when the
Grand Order of the Whip was conferred
upon an H.Q. Coy. Sergeant. The Pres-
ident of the Slave-Drivers’ Association,
“Cracker”, announced that members would
shortly be issued with running-spikes,
snowshoes, parachutes and water-wings,
to assist them in rounding up swingers.
It was admitted by the Admiralty that
an Italian warship under the Command
of Rear Admiral Ricibaldi escaped from
the Mediterranean some time ago. A neut-
ral observer states that it is now anchor-
ed in the fjord between the Dental Centre
and H.Q. Company Stores.
There is no truth in the rumour Ihat
a eertain member of the Sanitary Squad
was a prominent figure in the photograph
of the Orderly Room staff.
As there are now so many hotels, rest-
aurants, etc. out of bounds to Other Ranks,
my friends Ptes. Cockings, Melville and
Sullivan wish to announce that their est-
ablishments are still open to all ranks.
In semi-official circles it is believed
that Icy will be appointed President of
a committee on “Birth Control in War-
time”.
They say tliat the padre Iiired a pony
to carry him on his daily tour of his
“parish”. After a week he was seen carry-
ing the pony.
By the way, there are definitely no
pegs for sale at “Gipsy Villa”, nor can
second-hand wireless sets be purchased
at the Officers’ Mess.
The fact that the Unit possesses a canoe
and a raft does not necessarily mean that
the camp is to be converted into a Naval
Base.
What? STILL browned off? Never
mind, cheer up, lads! You have the choice
of church or “on the roads” on Sunday.
The New Perception of Colour
Aiul I shall take as my example the
Raid on Swansea.)
I, that is XEBO7011 pass out in the
chill-blue-air and join XEBN559162, her
sack apron greening by the light of the
moon. I read around her lips, “BEST
CWT: CLARKS-COW-CAKES H.T. 5”. I
do not laugh because I love my peasant
friend. The night is clear, spacious, a
himmel blue, and the stars minute pin-
pricks. The elbow drone of jerries burden
the sky and our sailing planes tack in
and out with their fine metallic hum. “Oh,
look how lovely she is caught in those
lights!” “Oh!” From our high village
overlooking the Towy we can see straight
down the SouthWales coast. Every search-
light goes up, a glade of magnesium wan-
ing to a distant hill which we know to
be Swansea. “Swansea’s sure to be bad;
look at those flares like a swarm of or-
ange bees”. They fade and others return.
A collyrium sky, chemically washed Cu
(DH2). A blasting flash impels Swansea
to riot! Iligher, absurdly higher, the sul-
phuris clouds roll with their' stench of
ore, we breathe naphthalene air, the pil-
lars of smoke writhe, and the astringent
sky lies pale at her sides. A jerry over-
head drops two flares, the cows return-
ing to their sheds wear hides of cyanite
blue, their eyes GLINTING OPALS! we,
alarmed, stand puce beneath another flare,
our blood distilled, cylindricals of glass.
Bleached, Rosie turns to fetch in the
cows. I, lonely, return to my hearth, there
is a quiet clay with blue flames rising
that would bring solace to any heart.
(Extractetl from ‘Life and Letters
To-day’, with acknowledgments to
author and publishers.).
—Lynette Roberts.