The sun rose, blood red and looming, topping the minarets on the skyline with a rosy glow. Atop Episkopi Hill, some ten miles to the west of Limassol, huddled two of Scotland's finest. Outside the roofed entrenchment, Rab was hunched over the wireless set checking calibrations; dials and gauges being easily read through the windows, already losing their luminosity in the rapidly lightening dawn. Inside, I had been no less busy. "Brew's up". I handed Rab his mug, accepting the fag and lighter in return. "Right. We'll finish these fags, then check in; just in case they think we're lost".
Lords of all we surveyed, our orders were clear: 'Set up, check in every hour. Other than that, well, just keep your eyes open, and call in if anything happens'. That's one thing about our sergeant - explicit. Every detail planned to minutia by a brain honed to perfection on Haig's dimple!
"Right Rab, better check in".
"Hello Three-two, this is Three-two-charlie, radio check over".
"Three-two, OK, out".
Time to relax. What'll we have for breakfast? BANG. "Whit the Hell was that"?
"Sounded like a shot".
"I know that but from where"?
"Over there I think".
Quick, grab binoculars, follow Rab's outstretched arm. Aye, puff of smoke about a mile away - maybe. Grab the map grid. Grid seven, seven, one; no, better make that two. "Get back on that set". Seven, seven, two, five, nine, one. Right. "Right Rab, phone that in. At least it'll let them see that we're no' sleepin' up here".
"Hello Three-two, this is Three-two-charlie; shotrep, over".
"Three-two, send grid, over".
"Three-two-charlie. Shots at grid seven, seven, two, five, niner, one; over".
Good God, no' another wan. Seven, six. "Hell's Bells, there's about a dozen of them noo. They're gaun daft doon there".
"Hello Three-two, this is Three-two-charlie. Report more shots, about a dozen. Impossible to give specific grids, but they're all roughly in the same area as the first one. Aw naw! There's mair, scattered all over the bloody map by the sounds o' it".
"OK. Three-two-charlie, keep your head down, don't panic; we're on the other net to Battalion HQ, things'll soon be moving. Ask Joe if he can make out whether they are Turks or Greeks, over".
How the blazes am I supposed to know the difference from up here? It's all Greek to me. Heh-heh, some joke, eh? And he says no' tae panic! "Tell him that General Custer hasnae a bloody clue, and you can tell him that he'd better get some of the boys up here A.S.A.P. It sounds like a war's breaking oot doon there, and if he thinks we're going to hang about, wae just ten stupid bullets each, tae take on the whole of bluidy Cyprus; well he can just think again".
"Ah cannae say that"!
"Dae it".
"Hello Three-two, this is Thre-two-charlie. Request back-up, A.S.A. Bloody P, over".
"Three-two. OK, OK, the reserve section's already on the way; until they arrive, just keep your heads down, and try and keep track of any concentration of shots or movement. Out".
How can you keep your head down, and be up there observing at the same time? Easy! Rest the old binos on top of the sandbags, and stretch up just enough to peep through. Whit are they shootin' fur anyway? Why spoil a perfect Sunday morning with all that racket? Anyway, we're supposed to be the referees, the good old United Nations, and we've got the sky blue bunnets tae prove it. Maybe that's the problem; maybe they're all colour blind. Now don't be daft, Joe. Just cool it. Take it easy.
"Here come the cavalry, Joe".
Sure enough, tearing up the track in his customised formula-one landrover, gallant platoon commander hanging on for grim death, comes the fanciful Fusilier Fangio. As the scourge of Silverstone screeches to a tyre-burning halt, Second Lieutenant Superman leaps out and over the sandbags like a speeding bullet.
"Right chaps. What's the problem, then"?
"Just a coupla hundred fuzzie-wuzzies ready tae attack us. Sur".
That's oor Rab. Quick as a flash with the tongue; though the brain sometimes takes a wee while to catch up!
"Sir". The landrover spoke. "Company Commander's on the line". Whoosh.
Leaping tall sandbags in a single bound. Two minutes later - crunch; Krypton's favourite son was back.
"OK chaps, you can relax now". Arms akimbo, legs apart - Action Man on one of his better days. "Seems like there's been a bit of a muddle". Pregnant pause. "It would appear that this is the start of the local shooting season".
"I thought they had that all the year round sir; using each other for targets".
"Ha-ha. Good one that. Must remember it for the Mess".
Oh God, thinks I. Now I'm script writer for the Officers' Mess comic!
"Unfortunately, Bn HQ forgot to pass the message down the line. Bloody typical. Still you did the right thing. Good show. Soon as your message came through we crashed the battalion net, and then the balloon went up. We all thought it was the real thing". Thank God it wasn't, thinks I, else we'd be up to our arm pits in Sandhurst action men by now. "Well then. Anything else? Good. Be off then. Well done. Glad to see you're on your toes. Keep it up". Whoosh, crunch, thump, grind, screech. I honestly expected to hear a "High-ho Silver" coming from the landrover as it sped back down the track.
"Well Rab. That's the excitement over for the day. Get the burner on, your turn for the tea"
by Cpl Joe Frame - 1st Battalion The Royal Highland Fusiliers