We The Valiant.
It was obvious to me that the poor soul sitting in the Charge Room was paranoid, plain- and-simply paranoid.
It was two in the morning -a Saturday morning, may I add and the first wave of drunks had been processed.
This was my first 'Crazy' during the weekend shifts.
The heavily-stubbled man sat on the hard-boarded bench and watched me with tired-narrow eyes.
The weedkiller backpack lay at his booted-feet and if what Constable Jenkins had said was correct, the small pool
of liquid that had leaked from the badly-dented metal container was urine... human urine.
I breathed slowly through my nose and kept my hands behind my back, my schedule was already two hours behind
and when I had first arrested this guy, I had mentally accepted that my shift would be finish with me writing out reports
at the Station and my partner would travel our patrol-route alone.
"You're okay kid..." the man said softly "...ah' can see by your face that yer' not one of them" His raspy-voice offered the
idea that he was a heavy-smoker, but it could be that he was just exhausted.
I nodded kindly and moved my eyes back to the recruitment poster on the wall opposite, the Charge Room had started to
smell of whatever was in that strange container and the dark-grey hosepipe lay like a dead snake between his scuffed
knee-high desert boots.
I would say he was around fifty years-old, he sported a badly-shaved crewcut and his attire consisted of a filthy once-white
vest, military pants and the tightly-laced boots. He carried no identification and his only obvious markings were the tattoo
and the four large scars across his upper-chest.
It looked like he'd been mauled by a tiger.
'He looks like Bruce Willis from the Die Hard movies' I thought to myself and stifled the smirk at my lips.
Two-fifteen a.m and I can smell stale urine. Another tell-tale sign of a Saturday night shift except this guy wasn't drunk,
this man was intoxicated with something far-more mind-blowing, he had drank from the pool called the Internet.
"The Sergeant will be along in a moment" Sheila snapped as she passed by in the corridor, the pain-pinched face behind
the heavy-framed spectacles warned everyone that she-too, disliked this particular working period.
I had always been puzzled why the Station demanded that someone from Admin should work these terrible hours.
Sheila seemed to be always the one stuck with the shift and it seemed that her annoyance always joined her on this particular
time of the night. The man with the tired eyes just looked at the Weedkiller backpack and said nothing.
When Officer Jenkins and myself had turned into the small street that we had nicknamed 'The Shallows' we had expected to
see a couple of down-stairs lights on, maybe a smiling late-nighter walking a dog and if our luck was in, Mrs Kitchener with
two steaming mugs of coffee.
The community was quiet, there was no half-eaten automobile slumped like a dead cow on an oil-stained driveway, no chest
-pounding thudding of the latest rap music and no screaming housewife sobbing at the latest bruises from her drunken husband.
It was the Shallows and Mrs. Kitchener was there with a smile. A smile and two mugs of Java.
"How are my two boys enjoying their beat tonight?" the white-haired lady asked lightly. Looking over the hot brew, I told her that
everything was fine and my fellow Officer tipped her a kindly-wink.
The metal tray that the welcomed break had been served on lay beside the gate-post and showed a faded rendering of some
military battle of yore, I silently wagered that Mrs. Kitchener had a jigsaw puzzle somewhere in her little trim house with a similar
image adorning it's cardboard box.
"He'll be back tonight..." the lady whispered as she accepted the empty mugs back and glancing right-to-left she added "... they've
been all the way back to 1947, you know" Mrs. Kitchener's face showed that she was imparting a secret and with a small hope that
The Shallows hadn't fallen into the same world of craziness that seemed to be everywhere these days, I showed a puzzled brow.
"Bruce and his friends... the ones in the Ice Cream Van? They've been hunting aliens again and the internet told them that the
Roswell Incident was where it all began" she said softly and showed a serious gaze.
Jenkins breathed in deeply and shrugged, his quick glance told me that it was time to leave before we ruined our night-time break
and so, I nodded knowingly at Mrs. Kitchener and told her it was time to get back to our beat.
"You-two take care and remember, they don't like pee on their skin!" Mrs. Kitchener had imparted to us as we moved away into the
night and Jenkins told me later that it had taken a tremendous amount of will-power not to burst out laughing at that point.
I never told him, but I was wrestling with the same demon too.
We left with a wave from the end of the street to the solitary figure of the old woman with the battle tray under her arm and I agreed
with Jenkins that it was a crying-shame what old age does to folk.
"That damn guidance-system played up again" the grizzled man in the Charge Room muttered and this brought me back from my
wool-gathering. He had said his name was Bruce when we had first encountered him racing through the alleyway nearer the town
centre, but you can never be sure when you're dealing with a crazy... well, you can never be sure at all these days.
"Sir, the Officer that will deal with you will be along shortly" I said with a slight tone of warning and was rewarded with an expression
of raised eyebrows, "Thanks" Bruce whispered softly and turned his resigned face towards the recruitment poster.
Five minutes passed without incident.
He hadn't resisted arrest, he hadn't attempted to explain his reason for running around at night with a tank-full of piss on his back and
he hadn't tried to reason with us, it was a unique Saturday shift that was as welcoming as Mrs. Kitchener's coffee.
"Maybe that was always our problem..." the man called Bruce said as he gazed at the poster opposite me "...we never recruited enough
soldiers for our cause" I rocked on my heels and steeled myself for the usual crazy talk.
It always came. It was inevitable, the drunks did it and the crazies did it. As the morning slowly rolled towards us, the people who sat where
this strange individual was seated -always attempted to dig their way out of the trouble they were in.
I was just surprised that he'd started so early.
"Don't worry son, I ain't one of those that you usually get in here" he hissed as it seemed he'd read my mind. "I'm just tired of the war"
he said so softly that I barely heard it.
Sergeant Gordon ran the paperwork ten minutes later and Bruce was required to come back to the Station the next day, he was warned
that the odorous container was to be stored away and never be used in that fashion again. Bruce had nodded throughout the interview and
answered in the correct places, I left to change back into my civilian clothes shortly after.
So the cold air came as a welcoming touch on my skin as I stepped out into the Police Station car-park on that Sunday morning.
I would sleep until 3.00pm and then get that lawn cut, I should have done it on my last day-off, but... well, but.
The gaudy-coloured Ice Cream van waited near the empty gatehouse at the far-end of the car-park. It idled there with it's exhaust fumes
pluming in the morning air like dragon's breath and my stride slowed as I neared it.
"Well, the internet told us to go to Rendlesham in 1980" the raspy-voice said from behind me, I whirled and readied myself for a assault.
"Easy fella... Ah'm just tellin' yer that I'll not be back this way fur a while" Bruce said with a easy-smile on his craggy face.
I thought it prudent not to debate or warn this guy who stood nonchalantly with the stinky-backpack on his shoulder, I was off-shift now
and sometimes this could be seen as a weakness.
"We could do with a fella like you, yer' know...?" he offered and looked from my eyes towards the extraordinary vehicle that rumbled and
growled near the exit. "...Yer'll be surprised how they hide in plain sight" he chided and smiled the saddest smile I have ever seen.
He left then, and opening the rear-door of the Ice Cream van, he tossed his peculiar baggage inside and then followed it.
I, being a law-enforcing Officer of the Crown, watched with a open mouth.
There were other human-shapes in the shadows of that van, but the wee-small voice inside me told me not to dwell on this insane moment
and get the hell out of there. I had reached the main road just past the gatehouse when the flash came and spinning around at the sudden
glare, I half-expected to see the Ice Cream van in flames or even worse, the Police Station.
It had gone... the vehicle that had proclaimed lavish-coloured ice cream and monkey's blood, the pink-and-yellow camper that offered
crushed-nuts and time-travel had vanished.
..................................
Somewhere out there is a war, it can straddle space and time and it lurks in plain sight.
No man can fight it alone and the only things it fears is faith and body fluids.
Will you take a ride in that Ice Cream truck?
It was obvious to me that the poor soul sitting in the Charge Room was paranoid, plain- and-simply paranoid.
It was two in the morning -a Saturday morning, may I add and the first wave of drunks had been processed.
This was my first 'Crazy' during the weekend shifts.
The heavily-stubbled man sat on the hard-boarded bench and watched me with tired-narrow eyes.
The weedkiller backpack lay at his booted-feet and if what Constable Jenkins had said was correct, the small pool
of liquid that had leaked from the badly-dented metal container was urine... human urine.
I breathed slowly through my nose and kept my hands behind my back, my schedule was already two hours behind
and when I had first arrested this guy, I had mentally accepted that my shift would be finish with me writing out reports
at the Station and my partner would travel our patrol-route alone.
"You're okay kid..." the man said softly "...ah' can see by your face that yer' not one of them" His raspy-voice offered the
idea that he was a heavy-smoker, but it could be that he was just exhausted.
I nodded kindly and moved my eyes back to the recruitment poster on the wall opposite, the Charge Room had started to
smell of whatever was in that strange container and the dark-grey hosepipe lay like a dead snake between his scuffed
knee-high desert boots.
I would say he was around fifty years-old, he sported a badly-shaved crewcut and his attire consisted of a filthy once-white
vest, military pants and the tightly-laced boots. He carried no identification and his only obvious markings were the tattoo
and the four large scars across his upper-chest.
It looked like he'd been mauled by a tiger.
'He looks like Bruce Willis from the Die Hard movies' I thought to myself and stifled the smirk at my lips.
Two-fifteen a.m and I can smell stale urine. Another tell-tale sign of a Saturday night shift except this guy wasn't drunk,
this man was intoxicated with something far-more mind-blowing, he had drank from the pool called the Internet.
"The Sergeant will be along in a moment" Sheila snapped as she passed by in the corridor, the pain-pinched face behind
the heavy-framed spectacles warned everyone that she-too, disliked this particular working period.
I had always been puzzled why the Station demanded that someone from Admin should work these terrible hours.
Sheila seemed to be always the one stuck with the shift and it seemed that her annoyance always joined her on this particular
time of the night. The man with the tired eyes just looked at the Weedkiller backpack and said nothing.
When Officer Jenkins and myself had turned into the small street that we had nicknamed 'The Shallows' we had expected to
see a couple of down-stairs lights on, maybe a smiling late-nighter walking a dog and if our luck was in, Mrs Kitchener with
two steaming mugs of coffee.
The community was quiet, there was no half-eaten automobile slumped like a dead cow on an oil-stained driveway, no chest
-pounding thudding of the latest rap music and no screaming housewife sobbing at the latest bruises from her drunken husband.
It was the Shallows and Mrs. Kitchener was there with a smile. A smile and two mugs of Java.
"How are my two boys enjoying their beat tonight?" the white-haired lady asked lightly. Looking over the hot brew, I told her that
everything was fine and my fellow Officer tipped her a kindly-wink.
The metal tray that the welcomed break had been served on lay beside the gate-post and showed a faded rendering of some
military battle of yore, I silently wagered that Mrs. Kitchener had a jigsaw puzzle somewhere in her little trim house with a similar
image adorning it's cardboard box.
"He'll be back tonight..." the lady whispered as she accepted the empty mugs back and glancing right-to-left she added "... they've
been all the way back to 1947, you know" Mrs. Kitchener's face showed that she was imparting a secret and with a small hope that
The Shallows hadn't fallen into the same world of craziness that seemed to be everywhere these days, I showed a puzzled brow.
"Bruce and his friends... the ones in the Ice Cream Van? They've been hunting aliens again and the internet told them that the
Roswell Incident was where it all began" she said softly and showed a serious gaze.
Jenkins breathed in deeply and shrugged, his quick glance told me that it was time to leave before we ruined our night-time break
and so, I nodded knowingly at Mrs. Kitchener and told her it was time to get back to our beat.
"You-two take care and remember, they don't like pee on their skin!" Mrs. Kitchener had imparted to us as we moved away into the
night and Jenkins told me later that it had taken a tremendous amount of will-power not to burst out laughing at that point.
I never told him, but I was wrestling with the same demon too.
We left with a wave from the end of the street to the solitary figure of the old woman with the battle tray under her arm and I agreed
with Jenkins that it was a crying-shame what old age does to folk.
"That damn guidance-system played up again" the grizzled man in the Charge Room muttered and this brought me back from my
wool-gathering. He had said his name was Bruce when we had first encountered him racing through the alleyway nearer the town
centre, but you can never be sure when you're dealing with a crazy... well, you can never be sure at all these days.
"Sir, the Officer that will deal with you will be along shortly" I said with a slight tone of warning and was rewarded with an expression
of raised eyebrows, "Thanks" Bruce whispered softly and turned his resigned face towards the recruitment poster.
Five minutes passed without incident.
He hadn't resisted arrest, he hadn't attempted to explain his reason for running around at night with a tank-full of piss on his back and
he hadn't tried to reason with us, it was a unique Saturday shift that was as welcoming as Mrs. Kitchener's coffee.
"Maybe that was always our problem..." the man called Bruce said as he gazed at the poster opposite me "...we never recruited enough
soldiers for our cause" I rocked on my heels and steeled myself for the usual crazy talk.
It always came. It was inevitable, the drunks did it and the crazies did it. As the morning slowly rolled towards us, the people who sat where
this strange individual was seated -always attempted to dig their way out of the trouble they were in.
I was just surprised that he'd started so early.
"Don't worry son, I ain't one of those that you usually get in here" he hissed as it seemed he'd read my mind. "I'm just tired of the war"
he said so softly that I barely heard it.
Sergeant Gordon ran the paperwork ten minutes later and Bruce was required to come back to the Station the next day, he was warned
that the odorous container was to be stored away and never be used in that fashion again. Bruce had nodded throughout the interview and
answered in the correct places, I left to change back into my civilian clothes shortly after.
So the cold air came as a welcoming touch on my skin as I stepped out into the Police Station car-park on that Sunday morning.
I would sleep until 3.00pm and then get that lawn cut, I should have done it on my last day-off, but... well, but.
The gaudy-coloured Ice Cream van waited near the empty gatehouse at the far-end of the car-park. It idled there with it's exhaust fumes
pluming in the morning air like dragon's breath and my stride slowed as I neared it.
"Well, the internet told us to go to Rendlesham in 1980" the raspy-voice said from behind me, I whirled and readied myself for a assault.
"Easy fella... Ah'm just tellin' yer that I'll not be back this way fur a while" Bruce said with a easy-smile on his craggy face.
I thought it prudent not to debate or warn this guy who stood nonchalantly with the stinky-backpack on his shoulder, I was off-shift now
and sometimes this could be seen as a weakness.
"We could do with a fella like you, yer' know...?" he offered and looked from my eyes towards the extraordinary vehicle that rumbled and
growled near the exit. "...Yer'll be surprised how they hide in plain sight" he chided and smiled the saddest smile I have ever seen.
He left then, and opening the rear-door of the Ice Cream van, he tossed his peculiar baggage inside and then followed it.
I, being a law-enforcing Officer of the Crown, watched with a open mouth.
There were other human-shapes in the shadows of that van, but the wee-small voice inside me told me not to dwell on this insane moment
and get the hell out of there. I had reached the main road just past the gatehouse when the flash came and spinning around at the sudden
glare, I half-expected to see the Ice Cream van in flames or even worse, the Police Station.
It had gone... the vehicle that had proclaimed lavish-coloured ice cream and monkey's blood, the pink-and-yellow camper that offered
crushed-nuts and time-travel had vanished.
..................................
Somewhere out there is a war, it can straddle space and time and it lurks in plain sight.
No man can fight it alone and the only things it fears is faith and body fluids.
Will you take a ride in that Ice Cream truck?
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.