Continuing with Chapter Two, the ship is nearing Pompey. Read on to discover the fate of the rescued swallows. Ed
A couple of days passed down in the magazine, during which time only Whacker came down to see the birds. On the third day Whacker was accompanied by his Petty Officer, who sniffed around in a few corners, counted a few shells and left, saying, “Great that’s fine Whacker. Nice and clean down here. Funny smell though – I guess it must be that cordite. Always smells of birds’ nests doesn’t it?”
A few hours later Whacker came down to see the birds again, this time with a couple of his mates.
“Here they are boys,” he called out as he dragged the box from behind the locker. “I told you I had a couple of birds stashed away down my magazine, didn’t I.”
The swallows felt much stronger now after living on their special diet and, confident that further harm might not befall them after all, they flexed their wings as best they could in the tight confines of the box. To Whacker’s eyes it looked as if they were nodding and scratching as if to say they were well enough to get out of the box and fly away.
“Sree-sree-sree,” the birds called.
“You should have seen these the day I brought them down here. One died straight away, and the others were in a right old mess, covered in blood and looking like they wouldn’t make it through the night. But old Whacker knew they’d like a bit of peace and quiet down here, and some good grub. That soon got ’em back on their feet.”
The three sailors poked whole pieces of biscuit into the box, and the birds gratefully accepted them, even pecking some of the crumbs from Whacker’s outstretched fingers.
“There you are boys, look at this eh? These birds know who saved their lives all right. Don’t you eh?” he whispered, nodding his head and pulling a face like a swallow.
“Another few days and I think you’ll be as right as rain, and when we get back to Pompey I’ll let you go again, and you can fly back to Spain or Africa or wherever else it is you live.”
The birds’ appetite increased – and so did the mess they made in the box. Whacker now came down with a small bundle of clean rags and a fresh saucer of food every day. One day, he brought down something different in his pocket for the birds to try – a tin of NAAFI beer.
“Evening all. How are you two? Who wants a sip of Whacker’s beer to celebrate getting back into Pompey tomorrow?” The birds watched as he poured some of the light brown liquid into a clean saucer and placed it in the box. The veteran took the first smell, and then a quick beak-full.
“Mmmm this is good,” he said. “A bit like the stuff we used to drink from those glasses we found outside that bar.” The birds took a few beak-fulls each and the saucer was soon drained.
“Cor, bloomin’ hell,” cried Whacker. “You soon knocked that back didn’t you. Here, finish off the rest of the tin. I’ve got loads more up the mess.” The birds eagerly drained the second saucer, and then, not only was the ship moving about, but their heads were too.
“Hey – hick – hick,” burbled the veteran. “This is – hick – good stuff the man has – hick – given us. Much better than the sour – hick – stuff we drank outside that bar.”
Whacker was amazed that the birds liked the beer.
“Cor! Bloomin’ hell,” he uttered. “A couple of feathered birds drinking NAAFI beer down my magazine. Wait until the lads see this. They’ll never believe their eyes.”
Eager to reveal his new discovery, Whacker quickly wrapped the box in a large paper rubbish bag and smuggled it through the ship. As he uncovered it on the mess table, he proudly declared.
“Here we are lads. Meet your two new drinking partners, Dickie Bird and Mucky Duck.”
Whacker’s mess was lively that evening, because they were celebrating their last night at sea before getting back into Pompey the following morning. An ‘up channel’ night they called it. All the sailors sat around the mess drinking beer, singing raunchy songs, telling jokes and playing stupid party games. After four more saucers of beer, the birds could hardly cheep a word, and kept bumping into each other whenever they tried to walk around – just like the drunken sailors in the mess.
The sailors’ wild party carried on until the Gunnery Officer came round a few hours later and shouted, “Okay lads. Get that fridge shut and put the lights out. You know you shouldn’t be drinking after twenty three hundred hours.”
Once the Gunnery Officer had left however, the party carried on, and neither of the birds could remember being covered up and carried back down to the magazine. In the morning it seemed ages before Whacker appeared with fresh rags and food – but thankfully no more NAAFI beer. Whacker looked as rough as the first day they’d met. The birds feathers also looked rather ruffled and, strangely enough, they could again hear the sound of loud gunshots ringing in their ears.
