-hunched over the olivetti-

So there's these guys at the pub. In relish.

Temptin. I ask em if they know any sigs.
'Plenty,' they say. What's in it for me? oi askes, coyly like.
'Dunno. You get to fix radios in the service of Her Royal Majesty. You get to say "CP to Dragon One" and sh*t like that.'
But then, get to fix radios? Me fingers twitch.
'Yeah,' says dey. 'But you get shot at.'
Small drawback, thinks oi. 'Pay good?'
'Middlin'.'
'But oi get to fix radios.'
'Aye.'

another short ponder.

'Under fire.
'Aye.'
'Wif real bullets an everyfin. We goin to Russia?'
'Aye.'
'Sold.'

And since, mister publisher, you asked for a brief synops, there it is. It's a sight better story, in the end, than that bloody pulp Verne had out last week. Far better. Vasty better. How can you take some fanciful story about a 'time machine' over Real Life London Drama?

All right, then. Quite an innerestin development.

Key question: "Do I get to shoot back, and all that?" It isn't fun when you get to play the part of "pop-up target" and even though you have a black and shiney toy, you don't get to shoot back.


Good luck and all


Chas.

(newfoundland regiment replies)

If we doan get to shoot at sh*t then how goes the point? Are we fighting for her magesty, or what? do we get real ammo this time? Ships that ain't dummies?


(gods forbid, I love newfoundland AND CANNOT SPEAK ILL OF SAINT-JOHNS... ON HALLOWE'.........N NIGHT?.)