lamberhurstlayjune1585

Lamberhurst man's role in glorious defeat

This account has just reached us from the front line in the Italian War, from Our Foreign Correspondent

By Keith Rottiserie

Pavia, Italy. Wednesday, February 25: The fog of war has barely cleared when I espy a familiar figure trudging across the erstwhile battlefield whence the villainous French King, Francis, has departed in chains.

The French and their mercenaries have been routed by a ragtag army of Germans and Spaniards. The event took all by surprise - the only time those two nations meet normally is when in dispute over the laying on of towels.

Well Blow me Down, I think, humming a sea shanty, as my attention is caught by a figure ambling across the field of death. 'Tis Fogg of Lamberhurst. Master P. Fogg, cannoneer, latterly of The Forge, School Hill. And here he trudges, towing one of his metal mates.

"Well if it isn't the Fogg of war," says I, and he barely cracks a smile

"By rights you should be either dead or celebrating victory in the local version of the Chequers. Since you plainly aren't ensuring that a little bit of an Italian field remains for ever Kent, why so glum, chum?"

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A Hun Horseman

Crafty Kraut Charles the Vth

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He carefully picks his way round a few of the 8,700 bodies scattered here and there by the victorious forces of the Holy Roman Emperor, Chaz V, no less, pausing occasionally to partake in the traditional after battle pastime of looting the stiffs.

He finds a crust of bread, sniffs it, throws it away and lays down the towbar of his weapon.

"Bloody French," says he. "They'll go to any lengths to avoid paying a fellow. I'm off to offer my services to His Imperial Maj" (the aforesaid Chaz).

"This cannon of yours has emerged in pretty good shape," says I. "A tribute to Lamberhurst workmanship and the the quality of iron and coal found in our part of the country"

"Nope, never fired," says he looking at me as if I was an idiot. "Every time you fire the bugger the closer it gets to the moment where you get hoist by your own petard" his eyes describing a arc from foot to sky.

Changing the subject abruptly he asks what I thought of the four-hour battle he's just survived, on account of if you're in the thick of things or, preferably, so far from the thick of things it's nigh on impossible to get the big picture. A bit like when you can't see the Medway from the Teise.

"Well it all come to a rather premature end, says I, " on account of a freakish, Frankish accident. The Holy Rom Emp was quite content to sit it out for a few decades. After all, it was the fashion, the 15th Century had its Hundred Years War, and it felt like he was trying to break the record.

"And then last night, would you believe, some pisshead mercenary from Goudhurst, fighting on the German side, trips over his own feet on the way to the privy, spills his candle and sets fire to the Imperial Army's tents. All they could do was rescue the booze before it all got completely mulled. They invited a few of the frogs over for a noggin, them being temporary neighbours like and before you knew it the towels were flying.

"But you can read the full story in the next edition of the Lamberhurst Lay. I'm just about to send my dispatch by pigeon, Par Pigeonne as they call it." says I. "The Italian War is over, mark my words. My advice is to get yourself back to Blighty with that . thing (pointing at the cannon) or you'll be late for our glorious invasion of France."

"The King (May God Preserve Him) is still planning to invade?" says he. "You betcha," says I. "He has that villain Wolsey out bleeding us dry for taxes to pay for his war."

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While we have been talking Phineas has been carefully sticking two arrows plucked from an adjacent porpentine like Frenchman into the ground and has grasped a third.

I reach for my last pigeon to send my dispatch, and all I find is a few feathers.

Thanks for the pigeon," says Fogg, as he skewers my onetime feathered friend and lays the laden arrow over the other two. "War certainly gives a man an appetite. Got a light?"