THE LION SLEEPS
by 
BobCurby
|
Posted: 31 August 2007 Word Count: 2869 Summary: The scene is South Africa in the 1980's, the British Prime Minister is worried about continuing apartheid and lack of progress into majority rule. The gold and diamonds need to be secured, the decision is to help the native South Africans by a military action - Archie Mellor is sent in. |
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THE LION SLEEPS! By BOB CURBY
PROLOGUE
The 1980's were the worst years in the history of the last white stronghold in Africa - South Africa . . .
Following serious unrest and what was perceived as a risk to the gold and diamonds available to the Western commerce, it became evident that action was necessary. Action to preserve the assets of British and U.S. Millionaires with their huge shareholdings in major South African companies. Direct and open action would be risky, inflammatory and in the end, do nothing. Someone would have to take in a task force and deal with trouble - BEFORE it started......
Such a man was Archie Mellor..............
Chapter One THE DARKEST HOUR IS JUST BEFORE DAWN
There is a strange eerie sort of silence amid the cool misty air of an African night just before dawn. Even the crickets stop their seemingly endless song just about then. Stepping outside as the pink glow appears to the east and taking in a deep breath of fresh crisp air through the nostrils brings a delight of wonderful smells, from the acrid woody smell of the charcoal burners to the delicate fragrance of the night blossoms.
The whole continent seems to be waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, as if by some hidden signal, the birds in the trees lift their heads from under ruffled wings. The silence is broken by a cacophony of twittering and squawking such as can never be described in as graphic a manner as it actually sounds.
Africa is a huge continent, a strange landmass with such a vast area that almost every type of climate seems to be there. From tropical rain forest to seaside desert and from open savannah to snow-capped mountains - almost every sort of wonder can be seen. South Africa has its fair share of different climate types.
In the high savannah, the lion lives, King of all he surveys, kitten-like when he is asleep; yet an awakening hungry lion makes a formidable and fearsome sight. South Africa in the 80's was such a lion - - - - and it WOKE UP!....... Hungry. This is the story of a military activity by specially selected members of an elite squad that helped to feed that hungry lion.
At dawn the sun slowly begins to poke its head above the distant eastern horizon adding a pink glow to the savannah mists. There is almost a feeling of romance in the air.
Sitting with your back against a broad acacia tree with deep grassland stretching into the rising sun gives you a feeling of inner peace and joy to be alive. As the mists hang over the long grass like ghosts that have run out of steam, and the nearby stream seems to quicken its pace, no-one can be blamed for thinking that everything’s great.
That was how Marius Luyt felt on a lovely spring morning, August 15th 1982. As a 'Rifleman 1st-class' in the South African land forces, he had a reason to be joyful, that day was his eighteenth birthday, he was a man! The dawn mist was just clearing away from the tawny grass and the shadows retreating like frightened black worms from the golden rays when Marius stood up, yawned and stretched.
All six foot three inches of his body rippled as he flexed every muscle, pushing away the cramp of the night’s sit-out. He was slightly tanned; had light brown to almost blonde hair with dark brown eyes and a disarming smile. So fresh faced and young, recruited from school cadet training he had been sent out with other young men to the border areas.
It was becoming increasingly necessary to send such soldiers out to the remote watch points to give early warning of any so-called freedom fighters that might be mobilising in border areas. Throughout the night the radio was constantly crackling with static and commands as the point guards contacted each other.
Marius reached down, picked up the radio, increased its aerial to full length and then called in his code and position number. It took two or three attempts to receive an answer, and then he snapped off the switch and lowered the aerial once more. He gazed around him briefly as he kicked out at a couple of small termite towers that had appeared overnight.
He swapped the SRA-19 automatic rifle to his left hand as he clenched and un-clenched the fingers of his right to clear the cramp. He looked down at the rifle. Somehow he had gripped it and stared out into the black night for what seemed an eternity. Now it was over, his relief would be arriving within the next few minutes. Soon he'd be on his way back to base camp at Maricosdraai to the hot coffee and a generous helping of maize-meal porridge (sud’za) that Cookie would be stirring right now.
Reaching into his tunic he drew out a packet of filter tipped cigarettes, thoughtfully placing one between his lips as he struck a match on his boot. As the match flared and he brought it up to the cigarette, his mind wandered back to the time a few days before he had been told he was now one of the ever-growing South African Army.
Ah, how long ago it seemed that he had sung that school song at the end of term. It was like a dream, receiving his diploma - and that party afterwards who-wheee! And – Oh! The riotous weekend before he left for the training camp! All but a memory now - the tears and hugs of his 'mom', the firm hugs of his dad and the weeks of intense training at the camp.
Had he really been here only for three weeks? It seemed more like three months.
He drew a long drag on the cigarette and stood the SRA-19 down against the trunk of the acacia. He looked at the scene before him, some of the most beautiful land in the Southern hemi-sphere. He sighed, reached again for the rifle and almost mechanically ran through the systematic checks he had done a thousand times already. He raised the barrel and placed the small cross-like sight to his right eye, gently sweeping the landscape like a child might with a toy one. He smiled, not thinking for second of the quarry he was trained to kill. Rather of the fun he used to have back home with his father's .22 and old beer cans.
He drew the last drag from the cigarette, spat it to the ground and crushed its glowing head with the rifle butt. A sudden surge of anger had replaced his calm, happy nature. He turned to the tree behind him and shouted at it "What the hell am I doing here?! - I don't want to kill anyone! God made us all to live together on this Earth, why must we fight over it?" He hadn’t joined the army to actually kill anyone, that hadn’t entered his head at the time.
He came from a very religious family who interpreted the commandments literally. His father was disappointed in Marius' choice of the army instead of the shoe shop he had been running for twenty years. Marius smiled briefly as he remembered the day he told his father, what a day. Then something gave him the feeling that he was being watched and he was sharply returned to the present. He saw the glint in the sunlight, his hands moving swiftly, automatically, and before he even thought much about it, six leaden messengers were already on their way towards the glint.
Six small puffs of dust appeared 1,000 metres away in the next instant as they hit the earth. Marius raised his hand to his neck as if stung by something. His mouth opened to speak, but no sound came as he pitched forward. As darkness closed in on him he heard the strange echoing sound of the single rifle shot that he found its mark in his neck....
The waking lion had taken a bite.........
Chapter Two RECALL
Archie Mellor pulled up the collar of his bomber jacket as he stepped out of Charing Cross underground station into the Strand. The cold November wind was blowing the clingy fine rain into his weathered face. The passing traffic splashing his boots added to the insult. He cursed the City dwellers, and made his way up to Trafalgar Square, turning a corner as he glanced up with disdain at Lord Nelson above him.
He muttered under his breath between clenched teeth as he made his way through an archway. The telegram yesterday morning was not well received. It meant his leaving his quiet country public house in Perthshire in the sole hands of his wife. It meant having to take an overnight train to London. It meant bringing back floods of memories best forgotten. He was not a happy man!
The telegram was simple. All it contained was a simple message.
"++++ A D MELLOR +++ THE STAG + HIGHBRAY GLEN + Nr DUNDEE + PERTHSHIRE ++ STOP ++++++ URGENT ++ URGENT YOU REPORT ACORN HOUSE TOMORROW ++ STOP +++ NO FR + STOP +++ NO PD + STOP +++ ACT + SIR REG ++ STOP +++ REGARDS ++ HUGH +++++ END"
Archie knew that the code-name HUGH was used by an MI unit operator, linked to his past S.A.S. unit codings, and always when there was a need for his services. He had been summoned on more than one such occasion by the coded call. However "SIR REG" had got him stumped. This code meant nothing to him. Although slightly annoyed at being dragged away from his chosen retirement, he had to admit that it intrigued him a little.
What could any MI unit want with him at his age?
Archie Mellor stood six foot one inch in his socks; at 14 stone he was very fit for his almost 50 years. He kept himself very active, starting each day with 1/2 litre of orange juice and a high fibre cereal or porridge. He ran 3 miles every morning, ate carefully and watched his cholesterol. His strength had diminished little over the years; he could still crush a man's neck with his right hand. He was exactly what the picture of a kilt swinging, caber-tossing Scotsman conjured up.
His file would read a little like a potted spy story. The facts it would include would be -
"MELLOR, Archibald Douglas
D.o.B Oct 7 1935, Aberdeen
Educated to BSc at Edinburgh University
Entered military service 1953, commission as Lieutenant in Black Watch
Service includes Malaysia, Singapore, Suez, Aden, and Cyprus.
Promoted to Captain, seconded to Special Unit, 1960.
(No further details would be held on his general military file in keeping with S.A.S. code of protection. S.A.S files would have all details of service from 1960 to retirement.)
Retired - June 22, 1975
Last known address - The Stag, Highbray Glen, Nr DUNDEE, Perthshire"
Retired as he was, he successfully ran a 'Free House' offering 'real ale' and most brands of whiskey to the connoisseurs. Along with his wife he entertained a moderately large group of regulars at The Stag. When not behind the bar, Archie enjoyed a round of golf at St. Andrews. He had planned such a round for today, another reason to be annoyed.
Suddenly he stopped. Glancing up, eyes squinting in the rain, he could make out the shape of the building he’d come to know very well in his last few years in service. He cursed as the rain ran down from his hair into his eyes and squinted once again at the front of the building. Above the single glass door was a stone lintel in which the words "ACORN HOUSE" were neatly chiselled. Taking the stone steps two at a time, he depressed the handle on the door and in two strides was inside.
Before him was a carpeted floor with a single desk next to a tall hat-stand. There was a faint smell of an inexpensive perfume, possibly mixed in with a recent take-away meal of some kind, a little nauseating. He could hear sounds of someone typing behind one of the closed doors that lead off this small reception area. His gaze swept the sparsely furnished room and stopped at the desk in front of him, behind which was smart young woman in a well-tailored pink suit. She looked straight at him and without any change of expression said, "YES?"
"I bet you say that to EVERY question!" muttered Archie.
He smiled, "Sir Reg", he said looking straight back at her.
"NAME?" she demanded
"MELLOR, ARCHIE"
The woman picked up a telephone receiver, punched a few numbers, placed it to her ear and after a few moments said "MIKE? - It's Mellor, now...."
She replaced the receiver.
"Go straight up - room 414 – use the lift over there."
"Thank you . . . " - at least HE was going to be polite!
Resisting the urge to pluck a loose hair that had settled precociously on the jacket just about where curve of her left breast was, he turned in the direction she was pointing, pulled open the heavy wooden door and stepped through the open lift door into the compartment. He punched the button labelled '4' and waited while the steel door slid across and the motor hummed up above somewhere.
With a soft squeak the lift stopped. Archie waited for the metal door to slide aside, pushed open the wooden outer door and stepped into a hallway. Immediately he came face to face with a huge mountain of a man, almost filling the passageway.
"Hi, I'm Mike, Mike Colwynne," the mountain said, thrusting out a hand like a dinner plate, grasping Archie’s extended hand as if it was a child’s and crushing it like an egg box.
"Hi" winced Archie as he massaged his hand. "I'm glad he's on OUR side!" he thought.
Mike ushered him to a door which bore the number 414, opened it, waived him through and followed on behind, closing the door as he did so. The two men stood looking towards the small swan-necked lamp that lit the room from its position on a leather set oak desk that occupied a large part of the room. The desk had only one other item on it; an A4 sized buff folder. Beyond the desk was a small window with a venetian blind in dark green suspended in front of it. There was a smell of leather, pipe tobacco and new carpets.
Archie looked down at the Wilton carpet, up at the print of Constable's 'Hay Wain' and across to the man seated behind the desk. He was turned away from them, peering through two strips of the blind, which he held apart with his fingers. He was middle to late 50's, smartly dressed, wearing a pin-stripe suit, immaculate shoes and Archie guessed that he probably had a matching tie and hankie.
The man turned, stood up and thrust out his hand.
"Mayhew, Reg - never mind the Sir bit" he smiled, "Sit down please".
He gestured to a cushioned chair to his right.
"We've a lot to talk about, I'm sorry to rush you down here"
Archie sat in the chair, Reg resumed his earlier posture, whilst Mike stayed where he was. Reg reached forward and picked up the buff folder from the leather inset. He looked at Archie over the top of it.
"How about three fingers of Malt?" he suddenly said.
Archie didn't need to speak; his face gave the answer.
Reg looked across at Mike - "Get our Scot a glass of the best, and pour a couple of small ones for me and you"
"Er- thanks" grinned Archie -"You've obviously summed ME up pretty quickly!"
"I must confess I do have an advantage", Reg replied, tapping the file in his right hand, "I've been reading up on you".
He raised his eyes heavenward and whistled, shaking his head as if there was some terrible secret within it. The label on the file read "MELLOR A.D. - 6780491/R. CAPTAIN S.A.S. >>>>CLASSIFIED <<<<"
"Of COURSE!!" Spluttered Archie on a mouthful of the whiskey - "You're not just another M.I. unit commander either! Not just 'Sir Reginald Mayhew' you're BRIGADIER GENERAL . . . . "
"That's right - RETIRED!"
Reg flicked open the file and took out a smaller A5 folder labelled "GOLDEN GOOSE".
Archie looked at him for a moment, guessing correctly that he was a few years older, noting too that he was a little heavier, and probably had a house in Chalfont St Giles or Seer Green or some other posh place in rural Buckinghamshire. He looked like a civil servant, yet Archie knew that Reg had been at the head of crack brigades of the finest soldiers that Britain had at her disposal. He had been one of the back room co-ordinators of the Falklands war and was obviously still very active, albeit mentally rather than physically.
Archie couldn’t help wondering just why he was sitting opposite this giant of the British armed forces…
PROLOGUE
The 1980's were the worst years in the history of the last white stronghold in Africa - South Africa . . .
Following serious unrest and what was perceived as a risk to the gold and diamonds available to the Western commerce, it became evident that action was necessary. Action to preserve the assets of British and U.S. Millionaires with their huge shareholdings in major South African companies. Direct and open action would be risky, inflammatory and in the end, do nothing. Someone would have to take in a task force and deal with trouble - BEFORE it started......
Such a man was Archie Mellor..............
Chapter One THE DARKEST HOUR IS JUST BEFORE DAWN
There is a strange eerie sort of silence amid the cool misty air of an African night just before dawn. Even the crickets stop their seemingly endless song just about then. Stepping outside as the pink glow appears to the east and taking in a deep breath of fresh crisp air through the nostrils brings a delight of wonderful smells, from the acrid woody smell of the charcoal burners to the delicate fragrance of the night blossoms.
The whole continent seems to be waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, as if by some hidden signal, the birds in the trees lift their heads from under ruffled wings. The silence is broken by a cacophony of twittering and squawking such as can never be described in as graphic a manner as it actually sounds.
Africa is a huge continent, a strange landmass with such a vast area that almost every type of climate seems to be there. From tropical rain forest to seaside desert and from open savannah to snow-capped mountains - almost every sort of wonder can be seen. South Africa has its fair share of different climate types.
In the high savannah, the lion lives, King of all he surveys, kitten-like when he is asleep; yet an awakening hungry lion makes a formidable and fearsome sight. South Africa in the 80's was such a lion - - - - and it WOKE UP!....... Hungry. This is the story of a military activity by specially selected members of an elite squad that helped to feed that hungry lion.
At dawn the sun slowly begins to poke its head above the distant eastern horizon adding a pink glow to the savannah mists. There is almost a feeling of romance in the air.
Sitting with your back against a broad acacia tree with deep grassland stretching into the rising sun gives you a feeling of inner peace and joy to be alive. As the mists hang over the long grass like ghosts that have run out of steam, and the nearby stream seems to quicken its pace, no-one can be blamed for thinking that everything’s great.
That was how Marius Luyt felt on a lovely spring morning, August 15th 1982. As a 'Rifleman 1st-class' in the South African land forces, he had a reason to be joyful, that day was his eighteenth birthday, he was a man! The dawn mist was just clearing away from the tawny grass and the shadows retreating like frightened black worms from the golden rays when Marius stood up, yawned and stretched.
All six foot three inches of his body rippled as he flexed every muscle, pushing away the cramp of the night’s sit-out. He was slightly tanned; had light brown to almost blonde hair with dark brown eyes and a disarming smile. So fresh faced and young, recruited from school cadet training he had been sent out with other young men to the border areas.
It was becoming increasingly necessary to send such soldiers out to the remote watch points to give early warning of any so-called freedom fighters that might be mobilising in border areas. Throughout the night the radio was constantly crackling with static and commands as the point guards contacted each other.
Marius reached down, picked up the radio, increased its aerial to full length and then called in his code and position number. It took two or three attempts to receive an answer, and then he snapped off the switch and lowered the aerial once more. He gazed around him briefly as he kicked out at a couple of small termite towers that had appeared overnight.
He swapped the SRA-19 automatic rifle to his left hand as he clenched and un-clenched the fingers of his right to clear the cramp. He looked down at the rifle. Somehow he had gripped it and stared out into the black night for what seemed an eternity. Now it was over, his relief would be arriving within the next few minutes. Soon he'd be on his way back to base camp at Maricosdraai to the hot coffee and a generous helping of maize-meal porridge (sud’za) that Cookie would be stirring right now.
Reaching into his tunic he drew out a packet of filter tipped cigarettes, thoughtfully placing one between his lips as he struck a match on his boot. As the match flared and he brought it up to the cigarette, his mind wandered back to the time a few days before he had been told he was now one of the ever-growing South African Army.
Ah, how long ago it seemed that he had sung that school song at the end of term. It was like a dream, receiving his diploma - and that party afterwards who-wheee! And – Oh! The riotous weekend before he left for the training camp! All but a memory now - the tears and hugs of his 'mom', the firm hugs of his dad and the weeks of intense training at the camp.
Had he really been here only for three weeks? It seemed more like three months.
He drew a long drag on the cigarette and stood the SRA-19 down against the trunk of the acacia. He looked at the scene before him, some of the most beautiful land in the Southern hemi-sphere. He sighed, reached again for the rifle and almost mechanically ran through the systematic checks he had done a thousand times already. He raised the barrel and placed the small cross-like sight to his right eye, gently sweeping the landscape like a child might with a toy one. He smiled, not thinking for second of the quarry he was trained to kill. Rather of the fun he used to have back home with his father's .22 and old beer cans.
He drew the last drag from the cigarette, spat it to the ground and crushed its glowing head with the rifle butt. A sudden surge of anger had replaced his calm, happy nature. He turned to the tree behind him and shouted at it "What the hell am I doing here?! - I don't want to kill anyone! God made us all to live together on this Earth, why must we fight over it?" He hadn’t joined the army to actually kill anyone, that hadn’t entered his head at the time.
He came from a very religious family who interpreted the commandments literally. His father was disappointed in Marius' choice of the army instead of the shoe shop he had been running for twenty years. Marius smiled briefly as he remembered the day he told his father, what a day. Then something gave him the feeling that he was being watched and he was sharply returned to the present. He saw the glint in the sunlight, his hands moving swiftly, automatically, and before he even thought much about it, six leaden messengers were already on their way towards the glint.
Six small puffs of dust appeared 1,000 metres away in the next instant as they hit the earth. Marius raised his hand to his neck as if stung by something. His mouth opened to speak, but no sound came as he pitched forward. As darkness closed in on him he heard the strange echoing sound of the single rifle shot that he found its mark in his neck....
The waking lion had taken a bite.........
Chapter Two RECALL
Archie Mellor pulled up the collar of his bomber jacket as he stepped out of Charing Cross underground station into the Strand. The cold November wind was blowing the clingy fine rain into his weathered face. The passing traffic splashing his boots added to the insult. He cursed the City dwellers, and made his way up to Trafalgar Square, turning a corner as he glanced up with disdain at Lord Nelson above him.
He muttered under his breath between clenched teeth as he made his way through an archway. The telegram yesterday morning was not well received. It meant his leaving his quiet country public house in Perthshire in the sole hands of his wife. It meant having to take an overnight train to London. It meant bringing back floods of memories best forgotten. He was not a happy man!
The telegram was simple. All it contained was a simple message.
"++++ A D MELLOR +++ THE STAG + HIGHBRAY GLEN + Nr DUNDEE + PERTHSHIRE ++ STOP ++++++ URGENT ++ URGENT YOU REPORT ACORN HOUSE TOMORROW ++ STOP +++ NO FR + STOP +++ NO PD + STOP +++ ACT + SIR REG ++ STOP +++ REGARDS ++ HUGH +++++ END"
Archie knew that the code-name HUGH was used by an MI unit operator, linked to his past S.A.S. unit codings, and always when there was a need for his services. He had been summoned on more than one such occasion by the coded call. However "SIR REG" had got him stumped. This code meant nothing to him. Although slightly annoyed at being dragged away from his chosen retirement, he had to admit that it intrigued him a little.
What could any MI unit want with him at his age?
Archie Mellor stood six foot one inch in his socks; at 14 stone he was very fit for his almost 50 years. He kept himself very active, starting each day with 1/2 litre of orange juice and a high fibre cereal or porridge. He ran 3 miles every morning, ate carefully and watched his cholesterol. His strength had diminished little over the years; he could still crush a man's neck with his right hand. He was exactly what the picture of a kilt swinging, caber-tossing Scotsman conjured up.
His file would read a little like a potted spy story. The facts it would include would be -
"MELLOR, Archibald Douglas
D.o.B Oct 7 1935, Aberdeen
Educated to BSc at Edinburgh University
Entered military service 1953, commission as Lieutenant in Black Watch
Service includes Malaysia, Singapore, Suez, Aden, and Cyprus.
Promoted to Captain, seconded to Special Unit, 1960.
(No further details would be held on his general military file in keeping with S.A.S. code of protection. S.A.S files would have all details of service from 1960 to retirement.)
Retired - June 22, 1975
Last known address - The Stag, Highbray Glen, Nr DUNDEE, Perthshire"
Retired as he was, he successfully ran a 'Free House' offering 'real ale' and most brands of whiskey to the connoisseurs. Along with his wife he entertained a moderately large group of regulars at The Stag. When not behind the bar, Archie enjoyed a round of golf at St. Andrews. He had planned such a round for today, another reason to be annoyed.
Suddenly he stopped. Glancing up, eyes squinting in the rain, he could make out the shape of the building he’d come to know very well in his last few years in service. He cursed as the rain ran down from his hair into his eyes and squinted once again at the front of the building. Above the single glass door was a stone lintel in which the words "ACORN HOUSE" were neatly chiselled. Taking the stone steps two at a time, he depressed the handle on the door and in two strides was inside.
Before him was a carpeted floor with a single desk next to a tall hat-stand. There was a faint smell of an inexpensive perfume, possibly mixed in with a recent take-away meal of some kind, a little nauseating. He could hear sounds of someone typing behind one of the closed doors that lead off this small reception area. His gaze swept the sparsely furnished room and stopped at the desk in front of him, behind which was smart young woman in a well-tailored pink suit. She looked straight at him and without any change of expression said, "YES?"
"I bet you say that to EVERY question!" muttered Archie.
He smiled, "Sir Reg", he said looking straight back at her.
"NAME?" she demanded
"MELLOR, ARCHIE"
The woman picked up a telephone receiver, punched a few numbers, placed it to her ear and after a few moments said "MIKE? - It's Mellor, now...."
She replaced the receiver.
"Go straight up - room 414 – use the lift over there."
"Thank you . . . " - at least HE was going to be polite!
Resisting the urge to pluck a loose hair that had settled precociously on the jacket just about where curve of her left breast was, he turned in the direction she was pointing, pulled open the heavy wooden door and stepped through the open lift door into the compartment. He punched the button labelled '4' and waited while the steel door slid across and the motor hummed up above somewhere.
With a soft squeak the lift stopped. Archie waited for the metal door to slide aside, pushed open the wooden outer door and stepped into a hallway. Immediately he came face to face with a huge mountain of a man, almost filling the passageway.
"Hi, I'm Mike, Mike Colwynne," the mountain said, thrusting out a hand like a dinner plate, grasping Archie’s extended hand as if it was a child’s and crushing it like an egg box.
"Hi" winced Archie as he massaged his hand. "I'm glad he's on OUR side!" he thought.
Mike ushered him to a door which bore the number 414, opened it, waived him through and followed on behind, closing the door as he did so. The two men stood looking towards the small swan-necked lamp that lit the room from its position on a leather set oak desk that occupied a large part of the room. The desk had only one other item on it; an A4 sized buff folder. Beyond the desk was a small window with a venetian blind in dark green suspended in front of it. There was a smell of leather, pipe tobacco and new carpets.
Archie looked down at the Wilton carpet, up at the print of Constable's 'Hay Wain' and across to the man seated behind the desk. He was turned away from them, peering through two strips of the blind, which he held apart with his fingers. He was middle to late 50's, smartly dressed, wearing a pin-stripe suit, immaculate shoes and Archie guessed that he probably had a matching tie and hankie.
The man turned, stood up and thrust out his hand.
"Mayhew, Reg - never mind the Sir bit" he smiled, "Sit down please".
He gestured to a cushioned chair to his right.
"We've a lot to talk about, I'm sorry to rush you down here"
Archie sat in the chair, Reg resumed his earlier posture, whilst Mike stayed where he was. Reg reached forward and picked up the buff folder from the leather inset. He looked at Archie over the top of it.
"How about three fingers of Malt?" he suddenly said.
Archie didn't need to speak; his face gave the answer.
Reg looked across at Mike - "Get our Scot a glass of the best, and pour a couple of small ones for me and you"
"Er- thanks" grinned Archie -"You've obviously summed ME up pretty quickly!"
"I must confess I do have an advantage", Reg replied, tapping the file in his right hand, "I've been reading up on you".
He raised his eyes heavenward and whistled, shaking his head as if there was some terrible secret within it. The label on the file read "MELLOR A.D. - 6780491/R. CAPTAIN S.A.S. >>>>CLASSIFIED <<<<"
"Of COURSE!!" Spluttered Archie on a mouthful of the whiskey - "You're not just another M.I. unit commander either! Not just 'Sir Reginald Mayhew' you're BRIGADIER GENERAL . . . . "
"That's right - RETIRED!"
Reg flicked open the file and took out a smaller A5 folder labelled "GOLDEN GOOSE".
Archie looked at him for a moment, guessing correctly that he was a few years older, noting too that he was a little heavier, and probably had a house in Chalfont St Giles or Seer Green or some other posh place in rural Buckinghamshire. He looked like a civil servant, yet Archie knew that Reg had been at the head of crack brigades of the finest soldiers that Britain had at her disposal. He had been one of the back room co-ordinators of the Falklands war and was obviously still very active, albeit mentally rather than physically.
Archie couldn’t help wondering just why he was sitting opposite this giant of the British armed forces…
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