11.59.35 hours

Boom!
The explosion was much louder than he'd anticipated.

He knew the effect though. The bullet from the Colt six-shooter made a satisfying splash as the sleeping man slumped in the chair in front of him, jerked, and exhaled his last breath.

He had no way of expecting that day would be any different from all the others, the sun was shining over his well-kept estate, such as it was. There was a stand of corn, some fruit bushes, and chickens scratching in the dirt in front of his cabin, searching for the last few grains scattered earlier that morning. His wife hugged him as he picked up his knapsack, which would, if he were lucky contain several rabbits for the pot when he returned in a few hours time. He tousled his son's hair fondly before striding off into the forest to check his snares.

11.59.40 hours

Boom!
Again the Colt leapt in his hand. Another satisfying thunk as the second bullet hit home. Once more a sleeping body jerked. This time it coughed and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of its mouth, to mingle with the few scattered hairs – the start of a blonde beard that would grow no more.

He'd checked several of his snares, but none of them contained game. This puzzled him; usually he would have at least two fine rabbits from these. He saw that one of them had been tripped, and its anchor torn from the ground. The snare was open though, so a very intelligent animal must have escaped from it, but more likely someone had beaten him to the snare.

His growing family needed food though, so he moved deeper into the forest checking his other traps as he went. At the same time he gathered herbs. Some to provide a hot tea-like drink; some to make healing solutions and creams; and some to provide deep relief in cases of severe pain.

His wife was from a family of healers, and the locals came to their cabin in times of need. He had picked up the rudiments of the use of some of the tinctures she made, but he preferred making tea and ale from them.

Disturbing reports had been circulating over the past few days of a gang of vicious criminals on the rampage. It was said that they had escaped, after murdering their guards, from the state prison a hundred miles away.

There was nothing for them round here though he mused. All the homesteaders were barely making a living, not even a decent horse between them in this valley. They'll just pass through to the more lucrative pickings of the townships over the mountains.

11.59.45 hours

Boom!
He managed to control the kick of the revolver better this time. The result was the same though. A man died. Strangely there was no blood this time. Perhaps because the man was over weight, or perhaps it oozed out of the hole in his back. It didn't matter; he'd joined his colleagues in another world.

His puzzlement changed to incredulity, then fear began to tug at him. All of his traps so far were empty. Three hours after he had begun checking them he'd still not had anything to put in his knapsack, apart from the herbs he'd been gathering along the way.

He was bending over one of his last remaining snares, noting that this had also been released, when they struck. Two pairs of strong arms grabbed him and forced him to the ground. He could hear laughter and heard talk of making an example. He could see a couple of rabbits swinging from the belt of one of his assailants before he was knocked unconscious.

He came to lying on a thin scattering of straw. He was in an old barn, in the company of five horses, all feeding on hay placed in racks near where they were tethered.

As he struggled to move he heard a shout, "He's awake!" He twisted his body to peer at his captor. It was an effort, as he was securely bound, but soon he saw a youngish man with a straggling blonde beard staring down at him. A well-aimed kick landed in his groin. A red haze filled his eyes; pain flooded the whole of his body. By the time he had started to recover there were five of them gazing down on him.

11.59.50 hours

Boom!
This time the bullet went straight through and embedded itself in the log wall behind the man, who gasped and reflexively raised his arms, which then fell to hang limply at his side. The sudden movement had masked the sound of any last breath escaping from his lungs.

They had dragged him outside, and tied an arm and a leg to each of four horses. The horses were skittish, and as they jerked trying to rid themselves of their human burden, they alternately tightened and loosened the ropes holding him. He was lifted from the rough ground and then flung back down again several times before the men brought the horses under control. "Now we can have fun!" The fat one cried out, and his companions laughed in agreement. They eased the horses apart until he was spread-eagled as if on a cross, but suspended three feet in the air.

His arms and legs loosened in their sockets, but the men had no intention of pulling him apart. He was to be mutilated yes, but not killed. He was to be used as a warning to the local populace that these criminals' word was law, and anything they demanded was to be given to them. The wreck of a man they dumped in the valley would serve to warn others of their fate if they disobeyed.

Eventually they lowered him and undid the bindings. He couldn't move, it was as if knives were piercing his every muscle, he was screaming with agony – much to the delight of his torturers. They hadn't finished with him yet though, no, he was still almost whole.

He was stripped and moved into the cabin's small room that served as everything except bedroom.

Systematically they broke his bones, in his feet, in one of his hands, one of his legs and in one arm. The right side of his body was left hardly touched – he'd need those to drag himself back to his homestead when they had finished with him.

The 'coupe de grace' as far as they were concerned, was to ruin his manhood. This they did with gusto. A red-hot poker ended any chance he'd have of fathering more children.

The five men stood back and admired their handiwork. In front of them lay a ruined body, impossible to recognise as the handsome young man who had so recently set out cheerfully to check his snares and gather herbs for his lovely wife.

11.59.55 hours

Boom!
The effort of holding the revolver was almost too much for his pain-wracked body, but the fifth man bucked satisfactorily and expired. Almost done, he struggled to take in the results of his handiwork. Five men lay dead and the valley folk, his neighbours, would be able to live in peace raising both family and crops.

They'd left him writhing in terrible agony on the old chair to which they had finally bound him.

The old man had helped. He'd bathed his aching body with cold water, and fed him whiskey to ease some of the pain. All this as the men slept off their drunken stupor, their celebratory drinking session as they smelt victory over the valley's farmers and their families.

The old man had shuffled around, mixing the potion to the exact requirement of the injured man, following blindly the instructions given him. The gang had no need to fear him, since they had taken over his cabin and beaten him, he'd hardly been able to walk. He had cowered before them and seen to their every comfort, hoping to live a little longer.

The potion was made and was simmering gently on the cabin fire, ready to make the coffee for the gang when they finally shook off the effects of their drinking session. It was a clear and almost tasteless liquid, but its potency would achieve the desired results.

As the tortured man had predicted, they all gulped down their coffee greedily after being woken by their leader. The effects didn't take long to work, and soon they were all deeply unconscious, slumped in the chairs around the table.

12 midday

Boom!

The old man stared in horror. He'd thought it was all over. Five criminals lay dead in his cabin. He was grateful beyond measure for that, but the sixth bullet had killed the tortured man.

The agony he'd undergone, and the knowledge that he was no longer a man had convinced him to end it all.

The name of Russell was next on the list that morning. I drove along the country road and saw a weathered signboard almost hidden by tall purple-pink foxgloves and white lacy cow parsley. The farm lane was stony with overgrown hedges each side and when at last some outbuildings came into view I stopped and switched off the engine. Overhead, small swooping birds seized upon unsuspecting insects at great speed. I thought to myself that checking their number plates would be difficult, if they were cars. I walked around but saw no dwelling except a beige-coloured caravan set up on breezeblocks so I made my way towards it. I climbed onto the broken doorstep and knocked at the door. A voice came from within, `who`s there?`

`Police.` `What d`you want?`

`Can I come in please?` In actual fact, Mr. Russell could not deny me access.

`Door`s not locked.`

With some effort the warped door gave, just enough for me to get inside and I took a quick look around the confined space. It was unventilated and claustrophobic. I noted a lighted gas heater, a tall chest of drawers with bits and pieces of crockery on it, and a thin man was stretched out on a truckle bed.

`You`re a woman!` He brushed a bony hand over his head, disturbing a few wispy grey hairs; his chin was bristly. He indicated that I might sit down but there was only one small chair on which, gazing at me with slanted eyes, was a spotless white cat. I declined a seat and glanced out of the blotched window. Out there loomed a high ivy-infested brick wall and the whole area gave me the impression of a strange twilight zone. The old man shuffled in his cot, pushing a thin pillow about while struggling to sit up. `This is how we used to look,` he said with a toothless grin. His voice quavered and his hand shook as he showed me a faded photograph of a couple on their wedding day.

`Very nice,` I said, eyeing a door I had not noticed before. I asked, `what`s in here, sir?`

`Lavatory.`

I opened the narrow door and sure enough the tiny smelly space contained a chemical toilet and a half-used loo roll and several empty cardboard tubes but not what I was looking for. He went on, `I was away for four years and when I come home Sybil my wife she was waiting and I had a lovely little daughter called Flora.`

`Where is your…` I began but he ignored my question and leaned forward, wafting body odour.

`Sybil my wife, she died but my Flora growed up and then d`you know what?`

`Have you…` I tried again but he launched into a diatribe and I put my handkerchief to my nose.

`Got in family way. The man what did it was a massive chap but he didn`t frighten me. I shouted at him, "you got to marry my daughter or I`ll kill you " and he bawled back, "you and whose army?" He ran across two fields to get away from me but I went after him with my shotgun. I tell you, during the war my rifle went everywhere with me and I`m a crack shot. He married her all right when he knew I had my gun pointing at him at the wedding in the registry. But he done wrong. He went off with somebody else after he did my daughter in and he took all my money.` The man went rambling on and I didn`t have the heart to break in on it. Meanwhile I was glancing into corners but then I heard rustling and I turned.

Looking into the barrel of a gun is a harrowing experience, especially when the thing is held in shaking hands. Now I knew where he kept his gun - under the bed. My mind was churning as well as my stomach. I saw the look of surprise on his haggard face; he had expected me to be scared. I stared at the end of the barrel and grabbed it and I jerked the gun away from him. His surprise turned to anger.

`Gimme it back.` He raged and then whined. `You can`t do that!`

`I have to do my duty, sir,` I told him as I scribbled a receipt and placed it at the foot of the bed.

Returning to my vehicle, I wrapped the gun in a cloth and placed it in the boot. In my record book I wrote that Mr. Russell`s firearm had been confiscated because it was not kept in a regulation gun cabinet. I made a three point turn under the swallows` nests and drove out onto the main road again. About a hundred yards farther along the road I saw a smartly painted board that announced "Higher Park Farm". I stopped. Were there two Higher Park Farms?

`Looking for somebody?` A young man with bright hair came up to the car window and it was not entirely routine for me to notice his clean white T-shirt and strong tanned arms.

`This is Higher Park Farm?`

`Yes, officer,` he smiled with eyes that might or might not be making fun of me, I couldn`t be sure.

`I`m checking out gun cabinets.` I told him in the most formal manner I could muster.

`You want Howard Russell, my father. I`m Tony. Come with me.`

Rather bemused, I got out of the car and followed him along a short, wide drive to a courtyard. With a flutter of wings white doves flew up above the roof of a farmhouse and settled on the sun-kissed tiles. Tony courteously led me into the house.

`The officer has come to check your gun cabinet, Dad.`

A massive fellow shook hands with me. (Where had I heard that description before?)

`Mr. Russell?` I enquired, totally bewildered.

He beckoned to me. `In here, my guns are here,` he pointed to a corner of an elegantly furnished room. He showed me a padlocked, metal cupboard bolted to an inner wall of the house, hidden from view of any window, exactly as required by law. I examined the cabinet and the guns and found that everything was in order. He seemed impatient. `Well, if that`s all, I`m late now. Good-day to you,` and he left his son and me together. I could have departed there and then but I needed to clear up the riddle of the man in the caravan.

`The other Mr. Russell? What do you mean?`

`He lives in a caravan.`

`You`ve been there?` Tony gasped. `His name`s not Russell, it`s Gaiter. How did you get on with him?`

I was circumspect. `It seems I went to the wrong address. `

`He`s rather a sad case but I feel sorry for the guy and I do what I can for him.`

`Did you know he had a firearm?`

`What?`

`He pointed it at me.`

`Really?` His eagerness made me tell him I had confiscated it.

`You took it away from him? You brave girl.`

`Don`t patronise me, Mr. Russell,` my hackles were up.

`Sorry, please tell me how you did it.`

My guard fell. `I saw that the inside of the barrel was as rusty as an old tin can!`

We both fell about laughing and that was the beginning of a mutual understanding.

My mistaking Mr. Gaiter for Mr. Russell that day set several things in motion. First, we managed to persuade the old man to move to an old peoples` home and he lived his last days in comfort. And Tony Russell married me but without a shotgun at his head but we call it our shotgun wedding.

Visitors to the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle cannot fail to be impressed by the sheer bulk of a medieval siege cannon that faces north over Princes Street. Mons Meg, as the gun is affectionately known, has had a long and chequered career.

In 1449 a pair of massive siege guns called bombards were manufactured in Mons, a town now in modern-day Belgium, for Phillip the Good, Duke of Burgundy. In the same year Phillip's niece, Mary of Gueldres, married King James II of Scotland. The two events were not entirely unconnected for, in 1457, Phillip sent the two guns to Scotland as a gift to his nephew by marriage. Unfortunately only the one at Edinburgh Castle has survived to the present.

Mons Meg was a powerful lady in her prime, weighing in at something in excess of 6 tons. The powder charge of 120 lbs could apparently propel the 330 lbs 'gunstone' over 2½ miles. She had her limitations, however. It took over 100 men to handle her and was unlikely to be moved more than about 3 miles in a day. Added to that, a firing rate of only 8 shots in a day meant that she became obsolete as a weapon of war and was returned permanently to Edinburgh Castle in the 16th century for use on ceremonial occasions.

Although Mons Meg was a gift to James II, records of her use relate in the main to the reign of James IV. She was used by him against some of his rebellious nobles, including being in action at the surrender to the king of Dumbarton Castled by the Earl of Lennox in 1489 and, nine years later, she was in use against the English in Northumberland at the siege of Norham Castle.

In her ceremonial role Mons Meg was central to salutes fired from Edinburgh Castle on important state occasions. In 1558 she was fired as part of the celebrations on the marriage of Mary Queen of Scots to the French Dauphin, and it was said that the 'gunstone' was recovered almost 3 miles away. To celebrate the birthday in 1681 of the Duke of Albany, later to become James VII and II, Mons Meg was again fired but this time the barrel of the gun exploded. After these ceremonies she was dumped outside the Castle and lay there rusting until, in 1754, she was removed to the Royal Armouries in the Tower of London, along with other obsolete guns and weapons confiscated after the Battle of Culloden. At some point in the ensuing 75 years the barrel was repaired although the repair, towards the rear of the gun, is still noticeable.

The successful campaign to have Mons Meg returned to Edinburgh was a joint effort between Sir Walter Scott and the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, culminating in the great gun being landed at Leith on 9th March 1829. An escort of three troops of cavalry and the 78th Highlanders accompanied her through the city and into the Castle. Contemporary accounts record that “the Royal standard was raised, the bells in St Giles were rung and bands played to cheering crowds” . And there Mons Meg stood, near to St Margaret's Chapel, the highest point of the castle rock, for the next 150 years for visitors to wonder at. In 1980, however, prompted by fears at the deteriorating condition, she was removed to the castle vaults. Modern techniques of conservation in the ensuing two decades resulted in her being returned to her position on the ramparts, fully protected against the weather.

A small ceremony marked the occasion on 31st July, 2001. Representatives of the Scottish regiments guarded her, a three-gun salute was fired from the Half-Moon Battery, and there was a trumpet fanfare to welcome her return. In reply Mons Meg was 'fired, for possibly the last time, to acknowledge that she was back, not with the 330 lbs stone ball that she fired in her prime but with a small powder charge inside the barrel. As the Director of Historic Scotland, Graeme Munro, said on that day, “This ceremony hopes to symbolise Mons Meg's place in Scotland's story. We are delighted to be able to bring her back to the ramparts, where a sense of her great size and construction is best appreciated.” I will leave the last word to Edinburgh resident Malcolm Paterson, who said, “I used to come here as a kid and, now that she's back, I can bring my kids to see her. She's one of the great sights here for visitors” .

'Is you Bernado?'
I did not have a clue what the Sergeant Major was on about and answered,
'No sir.' He was looking at me rather oddly and I wondered if he believed me.
'Can you drive?'
'Yes sir.'
'Good, then you can drive my jeep.'

I couldn't believe it - I shuddered; the prospect of sharing a vehicle with the Sergeant Major from Haifa in Palestine to Shaiba in Iraq, was daunting. The Company had been busy packing the Lorries ready for the move for days, and this development was entirely unexpected. I went looking for his jeep - I knew that from that point on it was my job to see it had petrol, oil and water.

The NCO in charge of transport, Sergeant Hackett, who had years of army experience was smiling. He always smiled, asleep or awake he smiled as he planned mayhem, pillage and massacres. I enquired about the Sergeant Major's jeep and told him I was his driver. His smile changed effortlessly into a wolfish snarl as he spat out,
'Ere stick this No.1 on the old sods jeep, he's first vehicle in the convoy I 'ope he gets shot, you too. If I had my way I'd do it for the pleasure.' He looked at me and asked, 'anything else?'
'One thing sergeant.'
'Yes?' I made ready for a quick exit and asked.
'Where is your esprit de corps sergeant?'

I ran as he made to grab a spanner which missed me by inches. I could hear him swearing and cursing from a long way off. I made certain our paths did not cross for the rest of the day. His assistant, a nervous Lance corporal, who stammered, knowing I needed to check the jeep for the journey, sought me out and pointed out the Sergeant Majors jeep which I retrieved when Hackett was otherwise occupied.

Sergeant Hackett's remark about being first vehicle in the convoy struck a chord; terrorists usually took a pot shot at the first target they saw and then disappeared. At seventeen, I was too young to die. The Sergeant Major was old – thirty five at least, and had fought in North Africa and Burma. I hoped some of his ability to survive would rub off on to me during our journey. I was busy checking the jeep when I heard the Company Runner calling for Bernado. I called him over.
'Are you Bernado - the Sergeant Major's driver?'
'I'm the Sergeant Major's driver but my name is not Bernado. Tell him will you?'
'YOU must be joking mate,' he gasped, 'he'd bloody kill me. You are to report right away as he wants to inspect the vehicle.' He sat down on an ammunition box then pulled out a cigarette and lit it. I saw him draw heavily on his cigarette as he collapsed coughing and wheezing, his head hidden in a cloud of smoke. I drove the jeep and parked a few yards outside the Sergeant Major's tent. Seeing me arrive he emerged, he walked around the vehicle and said,
'Check the oil, petrol and water.' I did so in his presence and he was satisfied. I had, unwittingly, left my old school world atlas which I had been looking at earlier, in the jeep. I used it to work out how far Iraq was from Haifa but without knowledge of the route we were to take, I only had a vague idea. He picked it up and asked,
'Is this yours?'
'Yes Sir.'
He opened the atlas and spread it on the jeep's dusty sun baked bonnet, and said,
'Wait there,' he went to his tent and came out with the instructions he'd received on the route we were to take. He studied the atlas and the route instructions for a while, and then suddenly he said.
'Stupid bastard,' I found later he was referring to Captain Wot! Wot! – so called as he ended each comment he made with, What! What! He turned to me and asked,
'May I keep this atlas for a while? You'll get it back don't worry.'

'Later I discovered he'd held a hurried conference of all the NCOs' when the route was changed. Section sergeants, hurriedly got to grips with their sections and told us the time of departure had been brought forward to 07.00hours the following morning. Thankfully all the Officers had opted to fly from Lydda to Shaiba. I was cleaning the sand and dust from the inside of the jeep when I was joined by Russel, a friend and the only other Welshman in the Company. Russel had a first in Law from Aberystwyth but had sworn me to secrecy. His one ambition was to be sent home and in one piece – he hated the army.
'Just imagine,' he once said, ' if I were commissioned - I would have use the same Mess as Wot Wot and that bloated hysteric of a Padre. What could be worse, especially as I'm a strict Baptist?'
Russel had successfully managed to convey the impression he was semi - literate and had been allocated menial work as an assistant to the Armourer.
He told me, 'I enjoy the work, and it's not strenuous. Think of the plusses, I'll be the only solicitor in the whole of Cardigan who is an authority on firearms – it will help me defend poachers, gun runners from Aberaeron – not to mention Methodists Ministers slapped with paternity orders and threatened with shotguns; queuing up they'll be for my services,'
'Which Lorry are you travelling in tomorrow Russ?'
'Lorry! I'm travelling with you boy, by special request I'll have you understand; we'll be able to speak in Welsh all the way to Sodom and bloody Gomorrah.'
'You've forgotten the Sergeant Major, this is his vehicle.'
'Not any more it isn't. He has converted the first Lorry into a Command Post vehicle and is busy studying Geography. The bad news is we are to travel a mile or so ahead of the main convoy – out riders so to speak, like the American 7 th Cavalry in cowboy films - a decoy.'
'Jesus!'
'Not to worry; we Cardies are the thirteenth and the lost tribe of Israel - but just in case, I'll have my Bren gun.' Russ loved his Bren gun and was considered a crack shot at five hundred yards.

Russel's information proved to be correct – I was called to the Command Post vehicle and handed a typed list of the route we were to take, where to stop for a rest, meals, and our daily destination. The duty sergeant picked up my Atlas and asked,
'Is this your Atlas lad?'
'Yes sergeant.'
'Thank God you had it - otherwise we would be heading for Syria and Turkey tomorrow. That bloody Wot Wot... Too bad you have to be in the leading vehicle - if you think you're in danger, get in first and shoot the bastards – make sure they are dead. Here take this Sten gun it's better suited to the terrain.' I thanked him and left. I told Russ what had transpired and showed him our new route.
'According to this,' Russ said, 'we are to make Tiberias by 12.00 hours tomorrow, via Nazareth and Cana – unless we stop at the wedding for photographs. How far is Tiberias?'
'About seventy the duty sergeant said. He had no idea what the road was like. He also told me we'd have military police motor- cycle escort the first few a miles to see us on the right road.'
'What a way to run an army, with an out of date 'third form' Atlas.'
'Hang on Russ; I got distinction in Geog., using that.'
'We'll end up in China like Marco Polo– mark my word boy.'

         At seven o'clock the following morning we were ready to set off. Sergeant Hacket, came over – he wasn't smiling for once- 'Get going lad, your leading this death march, and you,' looking at Russ and his Bren gun; 'shoot every bloody thing in sight lad , once the MP's have gone - the more the merrier, I'll cover up for you.' He smiled at us as he strode off to get the Convoy on the road; things were returning to normal. The Military Police Corporal stopped along side. He smiled, removed his goggles to clean the glass, and said,
'We'll lead you for the first few miles to make sure you're on the right road and then good luck.'
'How far is Tiberias, Corporal?' Russ asked.
'About seventy – give or take a few miles.' We both thanked him. He waved us on. At long last we were on our way. It was a glorious day. The sun was not yet at its hottest and there were no flies. Russ and I were looking forward to the trip. We had been travelling for maybe ten minutes and were thoroughly enjoying ourselves when we were overtaken and flagged down by the second Military Policeman. I stopped. He came over and said.
'They can't find the Padre. The bastard is missing. Wait here until the convoy catches up. My mate has gone back to look for him.' He said to Russ, 'mount that Bren on its stand, you're sitting targets stopped here.'
Neither Russ nor I knew that the Padre had changed his mind the last minute about flying to Shaiba, saying he wished to see the route Abraham once took to the Promised Land, albeit in reverse.

Ten minutes later the Convoy arrived. The Sergeant Major was frothing at the mouth and literally speechless. We had never seen him in such a state. Sergeant Hacket, characteristically, wanted the Padre crucified and sent to his maker, then added, 'I'll drive the nails in.'

Twenty wasted minutes later the first Military Policeman returned with the Padre as pillion passenger. We all stared with disbelief as a pink, floppy body dressed in short shorts, a silk cravat in his old school colours around his neck and sporting a Panama hat struggled to get off the motorcycle. He limped over to the Sergeant Major and said in a peeved sulky sort of voice,
'It's not fair - you left while I was in the latrines.' He strode off without even an apology and went to his place in the convoy. The Military Policeman added that Nazareth was straight ahead and that from that point they would return to base. I think they were glad to see the back of us. I switched the engine on and told to move off - it was 08.45 hours; for the second time that morning we were on our way. It was getting progressively hotter.

Russ was checking the route plan. He glanced at his watch and said, 'another ten minutes and we stop for a rest, it says so here.' Ten minutes later in accordance with our instructions we pulled in on to the road side. As we waited for the Convoy to arrive, we gazed at the hot blistered landscape with its occasional shrub that defied death and managed, somehow, to survive without water. Eventually the Convoy arrived, the Sergeant Major got out and asked, 'problems?'
'No sir, the route plan says we are to stop and rest at 10.00. It's now 10.00, Sir.'
The Sergeant Major was not amused, he shouted,
'To hell with the bloody route plan, between you and that daft sod of a Padre we'll never get there. Get moving or I'll put you on a charge of malingering you useless individual.'
Russ came smartly to attention and said, 'Yes Sir.' He was fuming. When we got under way, he said, 'If we hadn't stopped he would have ranted about our agreed route plan, you can't win with a man like that- he's irrational. I'll have my own back, on that you may rest assured. Drive on boy I hope the whole convoy gets lost.'

We travelled at a steady twenty miles an hour. The road had a reasonable surface but had incredibly sharp bends and it was getting steeper. We had been climbing gradually for several miles, all-around us were the barren hills of Galilee. Suddenly Russ said, 'Stop here for a moment.'
'What's up Russ,' I asked.
'We're in the Galilean hills my boy – one day when I'm Chairman of the Baptist Union of Wales, I will be able to tell our Minister, that I girded my loins, whatever the hell that means, and went up into the mountains of Galilee. You see my boy, unlike you, I'm cursed and blinkered by a chapel upbringing, it's a damned liability.'
He climbed a small hillock; he came down and said, 'there's no sign of them, you can see the road snaking down for miles from up there.' Later we both climbed the hillock for another look - there was still no sign of the Convoy.
'What do you think we should do Russ?
'Nothing boy, you heard him tell me to forget the route plan, well, I've forgotten it. We'll stay here for a while and rest.' He immediately put a magazine in the Bren, cocked it ready for action and waited. We waited and waited; suddenly Russ stood up and said,
'Let's have your Sten - I'll have another look from that hill again.' Within minutes he returned and said, 'there's a motor bike coming up. Be on your guard just in case … you never know- keep your Sten gun pointed at him from that side of the road. I'll stop him and ask if he has any news. Any funny business let him have it.' It took ages for the motorcyclist to arrive, when he saw our jeep he stopped and struggled to get his motorbike on its stand. The motorcyclist was dressed in long black cloak – on his head he had a small black cap like a sailor and a bushy beard. He smiled and said,
'Hello, I'm Brother Francis; I've been asked to tell you the Convoy has had breakdowns - they should be along in an hour or so.' He turned and looked at me then his gaze went to my Sten, I grinned; 'Just being careful.'
Brother Francis was perspiring - Russ handed him his water bottle which he accepted with alacrity
'Thanks, I needed that.'
'How far are we from Nazareth Brother Francis?' I asked.
'Fifteen miles or so I'd say. Where are you all going to?'
'To Shaiba in Iraq, with a little luck.' As we chatted, we found he was Greek Orthodox and lived in a monastery in Nazareth. He asked us the time, and then decided to be on his way. We shook hands, he kicked life into his motor bike and with a wave of his hand, he was off.
Russ said, 'let's move on and find a more congenial spot than this to wait.'

We got into the jeep and drove off towards Nazareth. Neither of us gave a thought for the stranded convoy. On our right, rugged scorched hills loomed ahead - apart from an occasional lizard or a bird that seemed to have lost its way nothing moved. Further on we saw a few trees, the highest about fifteen feet in height grouped together a few yards from the roadside.
'Stop near to those trees, it looks like a shaded spot to wait.'
I stopped. Russ jumped out and walked towards the trees. Suddenly he tiptoed back and whispered,
'Let's get out of here quick, can you see that?'
He pointed to a large round cone like object, it must have been at least five feet long hanging from one of the branches - then we saw several large wasps flying around the nest.
'It's a wasp's nest.' I said.
'Hornets my boy, and thousands of them; nasty when they're upset, so I'm told.'
'Let's move on then, for God sake, before they see us.'
Russ was smiling. He patted his beloved Bren.
'I'm certain there are better vantage points to wait than where we are now,' he said. About two hundred yards further on we came to a wider part on a bend in the road from where we could see both the hornet's nest and the road for a mile or more immediately before the trees. I stopped the jeep and we waited.
'This, my boy, is where we get even with the Sergeant Bloody Major; put me on a charge for malingering – a useless individual - he said – and for following his stupid written orders.' It never occurred to me ask Russ what he had in mind and he did not offer an explanation.
We sat staring at the road waiting for the Convoy to appear – we waited for ages. It was very hot. Russ said he was hungry. According to the route plan, if it still applied, we were scheduled to have Tiffin somewhere around Tiberias. With the un-scheduled stops there was no saying when we would eat. Russ suddenly shouted.
'Here they are at last, get ready. Drive off when I tell you and don't stop whatever you do.' Russ was holding a running commentary, 'nearly a mile, just a little more, that's it. Come on Sergeant Major Sir. Switch on, ready.' I jumped in fright when Russ fired a burst from his Bren gun. He shouted, 'Off boy, off to Nazareth.'
'What happened, did you see any terrorists?'
'Yes. Now get going.'

Miles later we descended a long hill, from where we could see the panorama of the entire Jezreel valley ahead. We parked on the outskirts of Nazareth on a levelled out section on the slopes to wait. Nazareth itself was a surprise; we had no idea it was as large as it turned out to be. Russ wandered into a nearby Arab cafe and came out with two cups of tea, very sweet and no milk. 'Ugh,' I said, 'it's like army tea,' – but I drank it. Within minutes an old Arab appeared with a tray hanging around his neck, like cinema usherettes have – he was selling slivers of wood attached to a hand decorated card, claiming their authenticity as being part of the True Cross.
'Here is a Cardie in the making,' Russ said. He bought one and posted it to his Chapel Minister, suitably inscribed with pious comments. He said, 'the silly bastard is daft enough to believe it as well. He's never been further than Swansea in his life.
'Come on let's make for Tiberias.'

An hour later we entered Tiberias on the Western shore of the lake and waited. Tiberias, what we saw of the town, was situated on a tree dotted mountain slope facing over the Golan Heights on the other side of the lake. Staring at the clear cool waters of the lake and hoping, later on, we'd be allowed to bathe - Russ said,
'My boy, we are truly privileged. In a short while, you and I will witness the second “Walking upon the Waters” by our Risen Lord Sergeant Major. In the meantime man the Bren gun in case the locals have never heard of turning the other cheek.'

Two hours later the Convoy arrived, as no one stirred from the vehicles, we walked over to greet them. When the Sergeant Major and the rest of the men got out we were shocked. Russ asked, 'What happened?' He looked genuinely concerned. 'What happened?' he asked again as we stared at the Sergeant Major and the men's swollen arms and faces - to be told, haltingly, by a soldier who had suffered less stings than the others how the convoy had disturbed a swarm of hornets up in the hills. He added, with some relish, that the Padre had suffered more than most.