The Lieutenant's Rump

What do you children know of Fear?

It was at the Captain's Easel down in Bungoshire Square that I first encountered Lieutenant Cobblestone Williamsby of the 33rd 22nd and 65th Brigades Carry the One. Well called him the Leften't' for short. I had been celebrating my freshly won prize pig blue ribbon for "Best Agricultural Essay" with a couple of the lads. Being schoolchildren, we were only permitted to drink paint thinner, but the Left-tenant, seeing our rosy cheeks and cheerful dispositions, sneaked us all a tot of Arrack and engaged us in conversation.

"Fear" he started, "Hrm hem. What do you children know of fear?" 


I replied that we had been speaking of pigs.


 "I'll tell you lot about fear alright. Left flank. Hrm hem. Battle of Garnishtapoor Grange. The Sun was so bright it was pitch black. I was leading my men over a hillock of the sweetest little flowers you ever did see. We never learned the true name. I came to call them "Bedlam Bettys" in good time. Ah yes. Well now boyos. What do you suppose was waiting for me at the top of the ol' hill, eh?" 


We looked at each other in suspense and giddiness. Fatty Thompson started to whimper. The Left-fennit polished his monocle and glared at us with a darksome eye.

 "What else, me bravos? What else, but the biggest, ugliest, nastiest wasp you ever did see. Oh by'm faith, boy! It was, hrm hem, at least the size of me shoe and no fibs" he started to wipe the sweat from off his brow. We looked at each other, this time in confusion.

What else but the biggest, ugliest, nastiest wasp you ever did see?

"Is that all?" Fatty Thompson asked with a snark in his gib.

"Oh aye, he'd make short work of a little bacon bit like you!" The Left-gannet snapped. "But come, children. Hrm hem. That's not all, no sir. Yes. Where was I? Battle of Wigglesby Tigglesby. Right flank. My men and I were ordered to take a gulley from the hands of the Bosch."

We all moved in closer.

"Cannon to the left of me. Cannon to the right. Hrm hem. Cannon from above, aye, and from below too. I believe t'was all cannon and no grass, that gulley. There grew there the loveliest little flowers, me boyos. I came in time to call them "Simpering Sallys" soon enough, aye. Well me laddies, what do you suppose was waiting for old Cobblestone at the bottom o'that hellish pit, eh?"

We started to bite our nails. "The Bosch! The Bosch!" I heard Knucklebones Jones whisper through his toffee-stained incisors.

The Lephtinnit's eyes narrowed. With a gnarled finger he tapped the table three times before replying "The Bosch? The Bosch were child's play. Oh me lads, what was waiting down there...The slimiest, ugliest, grossest snail you ever laid your tit-sucking eyes on! Why he even latched on to me boot, hrm hem! It was disgusting."

We exhaled in unison and bitterness. Fatty Tompson might have farted.

"Poor show!" Knucklebones said. "What, not even a single fight?"

"Fine bunch you know, rat-tooth! It would've wiggled its way into your pretty little white collar soon enough. Then we'd see how tough Mr. No-Fight is, eh!"

I was starting to doubt in the Leftintin's credentials as a role model. The boys and I were making ready to go play a round of Hoop'o'-the-Loch, when the Lephtrennt lit his old Meerschaum and began again, spellbinding us with his narrative vim.

"Oh aye, hrm hem. Go off then. And never you mind about the dreaded Siege of Tempura. Oh no. Nothing there to interest a pack of young lads, no, nothing but arms and heads flyin' in huge sprays of blood, gunshots and bombs, the screaming war-cry of our dreaded enemy as he mercilessly tore into our ranks with no regard for his own safety..."

We immediately ceased our bustle. Glancing somewhat suspiciously, I spoke for the group.

"Go on then, Sir. But no insects this time!"

And laying hand to heart, "You have my solemn promise. Now then. Ah yes. Tempura it was called, and Tempura it was indeed. The Heaven's quaked and the earth rained. Guns blistered and feet fired, rattatat! rattatat! Hrm. It was me and three of my surviving men. We were surrounded on the beach. There was a sandy dune to the side, and there, aye there we knew was the target. We pushed. I didn't know who was down until the next day. I had made it to the hill in a flurry of a sandstorm of bullets. And as I creeped over the ridge, my god, there it was, waiting like a beast of hell...The grumbliest, frothiest crab, the size of a mountain goat's plop it was! It pinched me right here, right in the schnoz!"

We shouted in triune consternation: "No insects! We said no insects!"

"The crab is no insect! T'is a very crustacean or I'll be a damned crawfish's uncle. And by gods it was awful..."

Later that evening I was discussed the campaigns of the Hlefftnt with my father. Turns out he was the retired gardener up at Rickshaw Manor, and had never been outside of Dingleshire a day in his life. I felt a sudden wave of pleasure and affection for the old fellow's cheek. The next day, when I saw him on the boulevard daintily snacking on a can of worms, I full-stop saluted. The man was a hero, after all.

The crab is no insect!