The death of an emporer

The GCI is pleasantly cool, a necessary pre requisite where aircraft are closing at several thousand miles per hour. Gratefully he sat himself in front of the terminal , glad to be out of the burning heat .On the balcony above: the soft tones of Squadron Leader Burgess and Flight Lieutenant Smyth as they discussed the coming air exercise.

"20000 feet, try not to go below that with the Tornados, the navy will be coming in from the direction off Crete and they will be on the deck."

"Yes not good on the deck for our chaps, no maneuverability at all down there is there, no none at all."

The air conditioning buzzed contentedly, teletypes clacked away, the radar dish turned with a soft hum on its mounting situated high overhead on the baking black top. He looked at the wall clock. Three o clock exactly. It reminded him of his dream .A bright blue wave lined ocean seen from a great height. Upon the waters a double line of ancient sailing craft, the line slowly turning until it faced the shore. A ship bursting into flames and  going down in smoky a funeral pyre.

The qualifying squad is lined upon the range in the prone position, sandbags under the right wrist, hand clutching the stock of the personal infantry rifle, elbow resting upon the hard gravel, the rifle barrel lined up with the small targets at the end of the one hundred yard shooting range.

A man dressed in khaki wearing, boots, puttees, and a green webbing belt around his waist presides over his charges      laying prone in front.

 "Now when 'ah' say load take the right hand away from the small of the but, flip open a pouch and take out a mag'. Place the mag' in the magazine port and then wait for my word of command .D' yees all get that? Good. When 'ah' say, ready, grab the cocking handle and pull back on the cocking lever. When 'ah' say, fire, push the change lever forward and at your target in front carry on with single shot application fire in your own time, d' ye get it? Good."
As he repeated the mantra he thought, 'this GDT is a good go, no bullshit parades, no bullshit inspections and most of all none of that getting out of bed at Christ knows when in order to be flown to god knows where in order to be part of a combined services exercise or to put down a fuckin'riot. Still I do miss being on a squadron. I swear if I hang around these penguins for much longer I'll go strange.'

" At your target in front, in your own time, carry on."

There is a ragged volley of shots. He counts to twenty.

"Detail un-load."

There is a clacking of cocking handles and a soft whoosh as the actions move forward under the weapons wooden sheathing.
"Go and collect your targets," he orders needlessly as he already knows the results. One wash out, two first class shots, one qualifier and one marksman, the army re-enlistment.

He moves the binoculars away from the blue square targets towards the almost painfully blue Mediterranean Sea. Grey glints upon the horizon. A  turn on the focus wheel. Elongated tear drop shapes and raised tail planes. He further adjusted the wheel. A large ace of  spades on the front fuselage just below the cockpit.

Eighteen miles inland LAC Chattoway hauled on the handle of the squat blue painted bomb handling dolly .His brown naked back trickles sweat down his spine and then onto the tops of the KD shorts.