X - Stay at Home
The risk is as great in the countryside as in the towns.
The Battle of Felton was one of many such small engagements that plagued the mainland in the weeks and months after the attacks. A small Northumbrian village (twenty-four miles north of Newcastle) with a population of around 700 people, this place had been as quaint and unassuming as any other before the war. This, like everything else, changed after the attack.
H-hour itself was something of an anti-climax for the villagers - when the one hand-cranked siren atop the Northumberland Arms started to croak and whine its warning, they hid. For hours and hours they tensed up in the dark. They felt Heddon and they felt the Airport. Eventually, though, they came out - windows remained unbroken; colourful flowerboxes still rustled in the wind.
For a few days, the villagers did their best to carry on as normal. People walked their dogs and made conversation in the street. Some even bought stamps at the local Post Office. Like a family in a failing marriage, however, the cracks were clear beneath the act. Neighbours smiled at each other and revealed, inadvertently, the sleeplessness in their faces. Conversation was stilted and careful - the world outside theirs was treated like a recent bereavement and sidestepped. The phones don't work.
The Village Store has been emptied; it is not refilled, but the owner keeps it open just in case.
After three weeks, the illusion is shattered. A coachload of refugees from Darras Hall has made its way up the motorway towards the village. The bus, and its two man police escort finds the road into Felton blocked by an overturned tractor and trailer. The two policemen retreat after coming under shotgun fire from behind the barricade. A petrol bomb damages the refugee bus.
Sixteen hours later, an army munitions convoy on the A1 is ambushed and stripped bare. The assailants attempt to use surprise and numbers to shock the troops accompanying the convoy into surrender; nevertheless, a 15 year old cadet is fatally wounded trying to resist.
News of the unrest reaches as far as Whitelaw in Corsham - he demands that anyone resisting the rule of law recieve 'a short, sharp shock'.
Eshott Airfield, four miles to the south of Felton, is now busier than it has ever been. The staging post for Operation HEPHAESTUS, it plays host to as many soldiers and policemen as can be diverted from 'reconstruction' duties in the devestated areas (indeed, for the duration of the operation, the majority of soldiers in and around Newcastle are second-line; cadets or conscripts) Two Firefly training aircraft have been hastily armed with CS gas canisters and deployed to the strip (these will remain undeployed in this particular engagement)
One of these planes overflies Felton for forty-five minutes- through a tannoy system the residents are ordered to fly a white sheet from their windows or face retaliation.
Some do, but the more militant wing of the residents soon rip them down. They have no flag and no creed. This is not a revolution. The men and women simply want to live in peace. In the past.
It is 8:45 AM, March 10th, 1984. Cromwell, Cromwell, Cromwell.
*
In the plush seat of a tourist coach, the Constable had slept - truly slept - for the first time since the attack. He was wide awake now, though, as his Sergeant screamed at him to keep his head down. His squad finds itself behind a low wall looking across the Coquet - the one medieval bridge across the obstacle is uncrossable - a machine gun in the church-tower across the river has it zeroed.
There are soldiers in the pub behind the Constable. They are deafening him. Occasionaly he catches a figure sprinting across the road. He aims to miss. There is something of a stalemate unfolding.
Some of the pebbles by the Constables' hand start bouncing - the noise gets noisier. What on earth is that smell Oh christ that's a tank - the Constable buries his head in his chest and gets further into cover. He is vaguely surprised that he knows the tank is a Chieftain - long - forgotten memories of Eagle Annuals, no dou BAAAAANG
Ringing ringing ringing nose and eyes burn cordite; taste of fireworks.
Dragged up by his shoulder, running across the bridge - church spire gone - slam into a wall, smashes his shoulder. Shoot run shoot run shoot run TRIP fuck, fuck, fuck, hands and knees grazed and bleeding crawl down the wall.
The ground next to him bursts into flames; the Constable is winded. He stares at the sky and realises that he hasn't spoken a word since the war started. Snaps back into it; runs for the nearest open door.
The cool of the church hits him first - he chokes on dust second. As it clears, he recoils. Three armed men, all staring at him.
There's a fourth on the altar - most of him.
'We didn't mean for this to happen, son', said the Farmer, throwing his Sten gun down - 'we just coughcoughcough we just wanted to be left alone.'. The Farmer mops the brow of the boy writhing on the altar. He kisses him on the forehead.
The Constable nods towards the door. They are coming quietly.
The Constables' eyes are adjusting to the light when he realises that there are a good twenty soldiers with weapons trained on the church door. They do not look like they are fucking around. He turns round and looks the Farmer and friends in the eyes. Tears all round.
Choose the fucking cowboys. Especially when they've got a fucking tank.
Within two days, nine hundred refugees have moved into an empty Felton. Short and sharp, this small village's small war is repeated a dozen times up and down the land. This is Britain after a nuclear war.
